Tao Upanishad #59

To understand the psyche of woman and man is an indispensable role in sadhana.

As I said yesterday, woman is non-aggressive; she is an invitation, not an attack. Man is aggressive, assaulting. Therefore the male mind is always on a journey, in active search of the other. And because the mind is aggressive, man wants to be known, to be recognized; people should know him, there should be prestige, fame, respect. The longing for fame is part of aggression. And the day fame is no longer desired by someone, that very day aggression becomes zero.

Aggression can take many forms. Someone sets out with a sword—to conquer the other. Another can do the very same thing through renunciation. Another through knowledge. Someone may paint; someone may learn music; someone may wield the sword. But the longing is one—that others should know me, that I be known, recognized, honored.

This means the center of man is the ego. If the ego is not known, it does not even get constructed. The more people know me, the more the ego is built. The wider the reach of my influence, the larger its domain, the denser my ego becomes. Woman is non-aggressive, that is, surrender.

Understand this a little rightly. If aggression wants to be known, surrender will want not to be known, not to be recognized. Even if it does, it would prefer that it not be known that it did. Surrender wants to hide; surrender wants to remain unknown. Surrender seeks the nameless. The deepest longing of surrender is the opposite of aggression. If surrender also wants to be known, wants fame, wants the news to spread that ‘I have surrendered,’ then know that it is only the word surrender; inside it is aggression. To have my influence upon another’s mind is violence, is aggression. To live so that no one even knows of me—that very way of living is surrender.

A woman’s love—if it is truly a woman’s love—will be unknown. That is why a woman does not take the initiative. Even if she loves someone, she cannot say, ‘I love you.’ She will wait for the man to say to her one day, ‘I love you.’ Initiative—taking the first step—is a part of aggression. Woman will not declare. From her whole being the tones of declaration will be audible. From her eyes, from her lips, from her very presence, from each breath, the declaration will be there; but it will be unexpressed. Only one who has dissolved into such subtlety, such love, will be able to understand it; otherwise it will not even be seen.

Keep this dimension of the feminine mind in your awareness, and then entry into this sutra will become easy.

‘One who is acquainted with honor and glory, yet remains like the unknown, becomes the valley of the world. And becoming the valley of the world, he attains that eternal power which is sufficient unto itself.’

Lao Tzu’s vision runs contrary to the common. Ordinarily we understand that power lies in aggression. Lao Tzu says, power lies in surrender. And the power of aggression can be broken, can be cut—because there can be a bigger aggression than aggression. But there can be no ‘bigger’ surrender than surrender. Surrender as such is the last word—beyond it nothing remains. So you cannot say this surrender is smaller and that surrender is bigger. Surrender means total. As you cannot say this circle is incomplete and that circle complete. Circle means, if it is, it is complete; otherwise it is not. There is no incomplete circle; if it is a circle, it is whole.

So too, no love is incomplete. Either it is, or it is not. It is not a matter of more or less. Either it is, or it is not. There are no measures.

Surrender is whole. You cannot say to someone, ‘I surrender halfway.’ What would half-surrender mean? Half-surrender has no meaning. In truth, you have not understood; you are not surrendering at all. Therefore you say, ‘I surrender halfway.’ You are keeping yourself back. That which is held back—that alone is the obstruction in surrender. Surrender means total. Surrender happens only as totality.

Therefore there can be a greater aggression than aggression; and aggression can be defeated. There is no greater surrender than surrender—hence surrender knows no defeat. But we think power lies in aggression. Such is the male mind.

Lao Tzu says, power is in surrender. And he has many reasons for saying so.

First, there can be no greater surrender than surrender. Second, if power is indeed power, it cannot be aggressive. Only the weak attack. In fact weakness alone leans on power as a means. The powerful do not attack. Mahavira has said, the powerful become nonviolent. The weak can never be nonviolent; the weak will always have to rely on aggression.

Machiavelli, who has gone deep into the science of aggression, says that aggression is essentially a means of security. He is right. He says, if you want your security, then before anyone attacks you, you attack. Do not wait for the moment when someone attacks and you will then defend—because then you are already a step behind. And the attacker’s possibility of winning will increase. So he says, attack is the only means of security.

But who wants security? The weak want security. Hence the weak are aggressive. If we look into our own lives, if you look within yourself, you will see—those moments in which you are weak are the moments in which you are angry. The moments in which you are not weak, you are not angry. The moments in which you are afraid, in those very moments—lest fear become evident—you try to show great stiffness, swagger. That swagger is your arrangement so that your fear is not exposed. One who is not afraid is also not stiff. One who is not weak is also not angry. Truly powerful men have never been seen as angry. The weaker the person, the more angry he is.

Ordinarily people say, ‘So-and-so is weak; that is why he gets angry.’ They are saying the reverse. No one becomes weak because of anger; people are angry because they are weak. But naturally the result will be—when he is angry he becomes even weaker, because energy is being wasted. And the weaker he becomes, the more he will go on becoming angry. Anger is a storm poured into a cup. There is no real power there. Whatever little there is, there is no way but to show it. By showing it perhaps some way opens—someone becomes frightened—and the real testing of our strength does not take place; anger arranges that avoidance.

Lao Tzu says, surrender is power. He says, when there is power, you need not prove it by attacking the other. Power is self-evident. The very wish to prove to the other is itself a form of self-doubt.

This is what ordinarily happens. You hold a view, you have faith in some doctrine; you have a belief. If someone contradicts that belief, you at once become angry. That anger shows you are afraid your belief may actually get broken. From that fear anger arises. If this belief is your experience, anger will not arise. Because then you are certain there is no way to break it. It is your experience. Whenever you exert force to convince another of your idea, remember—you are not convincing the other; you are convincing yourself by using the other as an excuse. You are afraid, you are scared. You yourself are not convinced that what you hold is true.

Hence the so-called believers are unwilling even to listen to the other’s word. Their gurus have taught them—close your ears if anyone says the opposite. Because they themselves are not sure. The opposing word can uproot their certainty. The more intensely you strive to convince the other, the more intensely you are informing that you are not sure of yourself.

One who trusts himself will not be eager to influence others. And one who trusts himself—others get influenced by him. There is no need to influence; they are influenced. And one who does not trust himself has to make great efforts to influence others; yet no one is influenced by him. Self-trust is a magnet. If your own experience is deep and complete, it is supremely powerful. Others are drawn to it. The very effort to attract the other is a sign of inner weakness.

So Lao Tzu says, surrender is power; aggression is weakness.

He says it for yet another reason. Only one who trusts himself can surrender. Anyone can attack. And, in truth, those who attack are precisely those who do not trust themselves. Only one who trusts himself can surrender. It is a question of giving oneself totally. Who can give himself totally? Only he whose trust in himself is total can give himself totally.

People come to me. They say, ‘We want to surrender, but we have no trust in ourselves.’ Then how will surrender happen? One who does not trust himself has no trust that the surrender he made in this moment will remain in the next moment. He has no trust for tomorrow. Even now he is not certain whether he truly wants to do it or not.

The very happening of surrender is the news that the person has absolute trust in himself; he can give himself wholly. He is the master of the whole.

Attack can be done even by the incomplete. To attack you need not be whole. And often when you attack, you are not whole. Even when you are angry, inside some part of you is saying, ‘What are you doing! It would have been better not to do it.’ The moment anger happens you repent. That part which was not with the anger—that part repents, ‘What have I done; this should not have been done.’ In aggression you are never whole.

It is a very interesting thing—that even the greatest warrior is afraid—the greatest warrior! In England it is said that Lord Nelson never knew fear in his life. He was a great commander; he defeated Napoleon. He never knew fear. But a psychologist, analyzing Nelson’s mental state, has written something very valuable. He writes—it is impossible that Nelson never knew fear; because without fear a man cannot be aggressive. One who cannot be made afraid cannot be made angry. One who cannot be made afraid cannot be persuaded to fight. One who is not afraid will not go to frighten others. In fact, to escape our own fear we frighten others. When the other becomes afraid, we feel our fear has vanished. If the other does not become afraid, our fear increases.

That psychologist has also written—if it is true that Nelson never knew fear, then our notion of Nelson being a great warrior also comes to an end. For what does it mean to be a great warrior? That Nelson, fearful like us, stood in the battlefield as if there were no fear. Only then does it have meaning. A man stands in the street; a bus comes—and he does not fear and keeps standing, and is crushed to death. We will not call such a man brave; we will call him a fool. Bravery is proportionate to fear. If there is no fear, bravery disappears. Then the man is a fool—or a supreme knower, where fearlessness is. But one who has attained fearlessness—some Mahavira, some Buddha—has no taste left for war. War means an effort to frighten the other. And one who knows no fear has no relish in frightening another. To frighten another is only a device to escape one’s own fear.

The greater the fear, the more man often displays bravery outwardly. That bravery balances the inner fear. It balances; it is a covering. It is his armor; it is his protection. Inside there is fear, therefore outside there is protection. If there is no inner fear, there is no reason to display bravery.

Lao Tzu says, surrender is power—because there is no intention to display. Aggression is weakness—because aggression depends on display.

‘One who is acquainted with honor and glory...’

Remember, this is necessary to know. A small child has no experience of honor and glory. If at that stage he remains unknown, there is no glory in it, no virtue in it. The one acquainted with honor and glory—if he remains unknown—then there is virtue, then there is glory, then there is dignity.

Whatever happens without experience, happens in ignorance. What happens with experience, happens in knowing.

One who is acquainted with honor and glory, yet remains like the unknown. One who knows what the juice of glory is; who knows the experience of glory; who knows what the sensation is when people know you, there is fame, prestige, respect—one who knows that—he remains unknown. Understand this for two reasons.

First—one who remains unknown without experience, his unknown-ness is not unknown-ness. He has no idea yet of what it is to be known; therefore he cannot have any idea of the unknown either. Our experiences are by way of duality. One who has not known happiness cannot have experience of suffering. So a very interesting phenomenon happens: often those who have known happiness think that people who are not getting such happiness are very miserable. This is an illusion. A sheer illusion.

If you live in a palace, it will seem to you that the man living in a hut is suffering greatly. Your feeling is right. If you had to live in a hut you would suffer—that is also true. But the one who is living in a hut, who has never lived in a palace—do not fall into the illusion that he is suffering because he is not in a palace. He cannot suffer so. Suffering can be felt only after the experience of happiness. The absence of that which has been enjoyed as happiness alone gives suffering. Therefore suffering in the world has gone on increasing, because things and experiences have increased. Ten thousand years ago, there was less suffering in the world. Do not think people were happy. For if people were happy, there would be suffering. There was less suffering because there was less happiness. With the experience of happiness, suffering grows.

Ten thousand years ago no one could suffer from not having a car—could he? Today he will. The absence of a car today is a reality of suffering—because the having of a car is a reality of pleasure. Ten thousand years ago there was no way to suffer from lacking a car, because there was no way to enjoy having a car. Happiness comes first; suffering follows. Suffering is the shadow.

Only when honor, prestige, fame, respect are known can one enter the experience of the unknown. Many live namelessly. Do not think thereby that they have attained that ultimate state of which Lao Tzu speaks. Many live namelessly, but remember—their namelessness is not meaningful until they have known the experience of name. After the experience of name, one who is ready to live without a name—he has known the duality and he has cut the duality. When duality is cut, the non-dual mind attains supreme bliss. But to cut duality one must pass through duality.

Therefore Lao Tzu is not against the world. And Lao Tzu is not against name, not against honor. He is saying only this—that with the experience of honor, if the experience of the nameless and the unknown is also joined, then you go beyond the world—into that which we call moksha, liberation.

Another point is also to be remembered. One who has rightly known the experience of honor will certainly become eager for the experience of the unknown. And one who has not known the experience of honor—however much he may try for the experience of the unknown—his effort will go in vain.

There is a reason. Many renounce palaces in which they have never lived. Many kick aside positions they have never reached. How will you kick a throne on which you have never sat? You are doing nothing but saying—the grapes are sour. They are beyond your reach! You are consoling yourself. And then such a person will make this very consolation a basis for name. This is a very interesting and intricate thing. Such a man who says, ‘I need no honor, no name, no position’—he will make his not-needing position and prestige itself into a reason for prestige. He will! Those whom we call renunciates—what are they doing? They are using renunciation also as a kind of wealth. Renunciation too becomes a cause for their prestige.

Now this is very amusing—that renunciation means only one thing: that prestige has been left. But if you create a prestige out of renunciation, all is futile. Yet such is the case. I went to the ashram of a sadhu. They have left everything—whatever they had—not much perhaps, but whatever it was—left all and gone. On the walls of their ashram I saw some very amusing sayings. On the very wall of the room where he sat, it was written: ‘Renunciation is supreme, because even the emperor bows his head at the feet of the renunciate.’ I asked him—what does this aphorism mean? Even the superiority of renunciation is because an emperor bows? Then the meaning becomes—renunciation is worth doing, because the prestige that even an emperor does not get is obtained by the renunciate.

If renunciation too becomes prestige, then it is no renunciation. Renunciation means only this—that prestige has lost all meaning. But look at the renunciate. He relishes prestige more than the enjoyer does. The renunciate’s whole twenty-four-hour business is one—prestige. The enjoyer relishes prestige sometimes; he has other work too. The renunciate has no other work. From morning to evening he has only one work—prestige. And if he renounces for the sake of prestige, then that renunciation is futile.

The real thing is—if the experience of honor is not there, there will be no experience of the pain of honor either. If the experience of honor is not there, there will be no experience of the futility of honor. If the experience of honor is not there, there will be no experience of the stupidity of honor. After full experience, the person who dissolves into the unknown—he will not make the sinking into the unknown into a cause for respect. This unknown now becomes an opposite dimension to honor.

We can deceive ourselves. Suppose you have no experience of wealth and you become a renunciate. Then in the unconscious, the longing for wealth will continue to function. It will continue to function absolutely. There will be no difference. It will find new ways and mint new coins. Those coins will be more deceptive. The coins of the world are not so deceptive; they are straight and clear. To be worldly is straight and clear. But to become a sannyasin without mature experience of the world is a great calamity. Because then a man remains worldly by distorted means. Only the routes have changed; they have become more deceptive and more clever. But there is no freedom from the world.

If you have no experience of wealth, you cannot enjoy the flavor of poverty. You can only suffer from being poor. Or, under the name of poverty, you can create prestige and be gratified. But then you are using poverty the way others use wealth. Some use wealth for prestige; you use poverty for prestige. Your routes may differ, but your goal is one.

After the experience of wealth, when someone is poor, he does not use that poverty for anything. That poverty is only his inner experience. Because of it he does not collect any prestige from the outer world. It never again becomes wealth for him; because wealth has become meaningless for him.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: ‘One who is acquainted with honor and glory, yet remains like the unknown.’

To be acquainted with honor and glory is not bad. To travel in honor and glory is not bad. But it is necessary to remember—it is not the destination. And it is necessary to wait for that day, that moment, when it becomes futile. Therefore I say to you: the journey of wealth is not bad; but it is necessary to wait, to pray, and to practice also, for that day when wealth becomes futile. There is no necessity to run away leaving it. Let it become futile—let it become your inner experience.

We do the reverse.

I was staying in a home. The son of the house was somewhat obstreperous—as boys are. He was discourteous. So the father found a good chance to scold him in my presence. Often fathers enjoy tormenting their sons before others. So the son was called before me. The father said, ‘This is my worthy son!’—meaning, unworthy, he has no courtesy at all. Then he preached to the boy: ‘Only the humble receive respect.’

I asked him, what are you saying? You are trying to make this boy a hypocrite. What are you saying? You are saying—only the humble receive respect. You are arousing relish for respect and making humility the instrument of respect. You are making him a hypocrite. He will display humility and wait for respect. He will show—‘I am humble’—and hope that people will touch his feet. He will say, ‘No, no, do not touch my feet,’ and from his whole soul saliva will drip—‘Hurry, touch them!’ What are you teaching him?

He said, ‘What are you saying in front of him? He is already unruly!’

I said, his unruliness is still straight and clear. And the humility you are speaking of is a matter of greater cunningness. Let him be unruly. He will get the suffering of being unruly. Help him to be even more unruly—so that he may pass through the experience. Let him bear the pain of being unruly. Because no one can give experience to another. Words can be given, not experience. Let him taste the ‘pleasure’ he thinks is in unruliness. And you think he will get pain—let him get it. The day he sees through his own experience that unruliness is stupidity, then the humility that will arise will not be your humility, for the sake of respect. I think you yourself have not suffered the pain of being unruly. Therefore the desire for honor is chasing you. Then even in becoming humble, there is a desire for honor. Then even in renunciation, there is a desire for honor. If the desire for honor is indulgence, then what will the desire for honor be in renunciation? Then even in becoming poor you will be minting wealth.

Man can create such a disturbance for himself. This is called hypocrisy. And our entire lives have become filled with hypocrisy. Filled—because the goal is one thing and the means the opposite. The desire is to feed my ego—and the veil is such that I am egoless. If someone says there is someone more egoless than you, it hurts. How can the egoless be hurt by the news that there is someone more egoless than him? Only the egoist will be hurt.

If someone comes to me and I say, ‘I am absolutely egoless,’ and he says, ‘What egoless! In our neighborhood there is a man more egoless than you’—I will be hurt. Why? Yes—if I am egoistic and there is someone more egoistic than me, I should be hurt. But the ‘egoless’ too is hurt that there is someone more egoless than him. Say to the renunciate—‘What is your renunciation? There is someone who has renounced more than you!’—watch, a darkness will spread over his face. Is the renunciate also hurt by this?

Then somewhere there is deception. The truly egoless will be delighted—how wonderful that there is someone more egoless than I! A great joy. The renunciate will be happy—there is someone who has renounced more than I; what great joy that there is a greater renunciation in the world. But the renunciate too becomes unhappy. The ‘knower’ too becomes unhappy—tell him that there is someone more knowing than you. The knower becomes unhappy. If the ignorant is unhappy, it is forgivable; but the knower becomes unhappy! Then what is the difference between the ignorant and the knower?

As long as you are unhappy before the greater, know that whatever the name, the ego is inside. You may be seeking any pretext to feed the ego; you may feed it anything—be it placed upon pure milk—whether you have given it meat or milk or green vegetables—still you are feeding the ego. Whether you feed it renunciation or prestige, whether you take it on the journey of ego or ‘non-ego’—it is the ego alone that is journeying.

Lao Tzu is very balanced toward life. He says—one who, along with experience, remains like the unknown—he becomes the valley for the world. And attaining that, he receives that eternal power which is sufficient unto itself.

Understand this a little. What power is sufficient unto itself?

Consider this—Arjuna is a very great warrior. But if there were no one in the world, all Arjuna’s prowess would end. For Arjuna’s being a warrior, someone must be defeated, someone must die; someone else’s defeat is necessary. For Arjuna’s victory, someone else’s defeat is necessary. His victory depends upon another’s defeat.

It is very amusing—your victory depends on another’s defeat. Without that, you cannot even win. Without that you cannot even win. What victory is that—which depends on the other? Your wealth depends on poverty. If there are no poor around, the charm of wealth is gone. If you were made emperor of the whole world—but there was no one else in the world, you were all alone—you would say, ‘To hell with this empire; all the joy is gone.’ Because the joy depended on others. No matter how big a palace you live in—until there is a hut next door, you do not taste the joy of the palace. The joy of the palace is dependent upon the hut. It is dependent upon someone else; while the true joy lies precisely in being dependent upon no one.

This is reverse. Your entire pleasure is dependent on others. Your entire personality is dependent on others. You are a great scholar—you need some fools, otherwise you are not a scholar. Meaning, scholarship depends on foolishness. If there are no fools in the world, the scholar is useless. If there are no ignorant, the knowing are worth two pennies. If there are no ugly people, the beautiful have no standing. How beautiful is that beauty which rests upon ugliness? And what is that wealth which stands upon the chest of the poor? And what purity can there be in that virtue which is built between sins?

This means—the beautiful, knowingly or unknowingly, desires that others remain ugly. Whether he knows it or not is another matter. But that which depends upon the ugliness of others will inevitably desire that others remain ugly. If beauty desires the ugly—how much beauty is there in it?

Lao Tzu says—one who, amidst dualities, attains equanimity; who does not choose, who does not waver; who joins the dualities and cuts through them and goes beyond both—he attains that power which is sufficient unto itself.

Buddha is silent. His silence does not depend on the restlessness of the restless. Understand. If there were not a single restless person in the world, Buddha’s silence would remain untouched. Or would it? Buddha sits silently beneath the bodhi tree. Is his silence a silence because of the restlessness of restless people? If—Buddha’s eyes are closed—this whole world were to vanish; Buddha opened his eyes and saw no restless person anywhere—would the inner silence end? No—there is no reason. That silence did not depend on anyone’s restlessness.

If it depended on someone’s restlessness, then Buddha should persuade people to be restless, not to be silent. Because if people become silent, what will happen to Buddha? He is persuading them to commit suicide! He tells people—be silent! Buddha’s silence is self-dependent. It is not a device to become silent by making others restless. It is a device to make oneself silent and become silent.

Does Buddha’s knowing depend upon the ignorant?

Take this as a criterion. If your knowing depends upon the ignorant, then it is information, not wisdom. If your knowing depends upon you—and even if there is not a single ignorant person left in the world, there is no difference in your knowing—then understand that it is experience. Experience is always sufficient unto itself. What Buddha has known has no relation to your not knowing. Even if there were no one on this earth, that knowing would still happen just the same.

But a film actress is beautiful. If there were no one on this earth, she would no longer be beautiful. Her beauty depended on the eyes of others. A politician exists. If there were no one on this earth, he would no longer be a politician. His being a leader depended on followers. A Buddha will remain a Buddha. It makes no difference whether the earth remains or disappears. Even if this entire world disappears, not a grain’s worth of difference will occur.

That state which does not depend on the other—that is the self-state. That which depends upon the other is other-state; it is not the self-state. Keep watch within yourself whether you have even something that does not depend on anyone. If yes, know that you have Atman. If not, know that you still have no inkling of Atman. Atman means precisely this—that which is sufficient unto itself.

This sutra is precious. Lao Tzu says, ‘Such a person attains that eternal power which is sufficient unto itself. And he returns to the natural wholeness like uncarved wood.’

‘He returns to the natural wholeness like uncarved wood.’

We are all carved wood—cultivated, cultured. Consider—an infant is born in your home. He is uncarved wood. As yet that child is neither Hindu, nor Christian, nor Jain, nor Buddhist. Now the uncarved wood—you begin to carve. If you are a Jain, you start chiseling the boy to make him a Jain. You call some muni maharaj for blessings; or you take him to church for baptism. You begin to cut and trim the boy. The journey starts. The wood is no longer uncarved. Now furniture will be made. You will make him a chair, a table, something. Uncarved, natural wood is not accepted. You will make something of it—only then it is useful; otherwise the boy will prove useless. You will make him useful at any cost.

Then the boy becomes fifty years old. Now he thinks, ‘I am Hindu, Christian, Jain.’ This is untrue. This is an imposition. This is a fabrication. It is an idea given from above. It is sanskar. He knows, ‘I am an engineer, a doctor, a shopkeeper, a clerk, a teacher.’ These too are sanskars. He knows, ‘My name is Rama, Krishna, or Mohammed.’ That too is sanskar. He thinks, ‘I am successful, I am a failure’—that too is sanskar. All this has been given by others.

Remember—sanskars come from others; swabhava arises from oneself. Therefore to be free of sanskar is liberation; to fall into swabhava is liberation. Swabhava is uncarved, unmade. Sanskar is carved. Sanskar is bondage. To be a Hindu is bondage; to be a Jain is bondage; to be a Muslim is bondage. To be Rama, to be Krishna, to be Buddha is bondage. Name is bondage. Trade, profession, rank, title—these are bondages. But all that is necessary—because without it life cannot run. It is necessary. Even if it be a ‘bad’ thing, it is necessary. Parents will give something to the child anyway. If they try not to give, even in that effort they will give. There is no way out.

It happened—a pharaoh of Egypt got an idea that whatever language we teach children is given. So he kept a child in the palace right after birth, and arranged that the child should get no chance to hear any language at all—so it might be known what the natural language of man is.

That child proved simply dumb. He did not speak—because there is no natural language; all language is sanskar. Nature is silence. Remember, language is sanskar. Since he was given no language, he remained mute.

But remember—his muteness is not Mahavira’s silence, because he never knew speech. One who has not known speech—how will he become acquainted with silence? He is only mute, only mute. Muteness is not silence. He who has known speech, and having known it has found it futile and fallen silent—that is silence. That boy remained only mute. He had no language. Language must be taught. We will have to teach everything.

But if, along with that, this remains in awareness—that whatever is being taught is coming from outside; it is necessary, not ultimate. It is necessary, useful; it is not truth. Truth is that uncarved nature, untouched, virgin, unhandled—that where the other has never reached—that alone is my Atman.

So Lao Tzu says, such a person who goes beyond duality—he returns to the natural wholeness like uncarved wood.

He becomes uncarved wood again. He is no longer a table or a chair, no longer a Hindu or a Muslim. He sinks to that depth where there are no sanskars. He becomes again uncultured, natural, spontaneous. The name of that swabhava is Tao. The Vedas have called that swabhava Rit. Mahavira calls that swabhava the Atman. Buddha calls that swabhava Nirvana. These are differences of words. Understand rightly—one form of yours is name, structure, given from the outside. And one you are—whom no one has given to you—you are; the ungiven within you.

For this very reason Mahavira and Buddha, who entered the ultimate state of knowing, denied God. And why did they? Because if God is the maker, then no swabhava remains within. That would mean—something is made by God, something by the parents, something by the school teacher, something by society—everything made—then where is swabhava within? Therefore Mahavira said—there is no creator of the world.

This is of great significance. It is not ordinary atheism; it is supreme theism. For in Mahavira’s vision, if my swabhava too is made by someone, then it is no longer my swabhava. What difference does it make whether the father made it or the big Father in the sky made it? What difference does it make? Someone made it. Then I am not. Then all is fiction; there is no truth. If everything has come from outside—then what is there within? Therefore Mahavira said—religion must deny a creator. There is no creator.

And yet, Mahavira says, a person can become God. And God is no one. Then it becomes very intricate. Mahavira says, there is no God as creator who made the world, who made man, who made the soul. Because if the soul too is made—no matter in some celestial factory—then it is a thing; it is not Atman. Mahavira says—what cannot be made at all, unmade, and yet is—that alone is Atman.

Therefore Lao Tzu too speaks not at all of God—as creator.

But Mahavira says—the day one knows this unmade, he becomes God. So in Mahavira’s view God, and the God of others, are fundamentally different. The God of others is only a big superintendent of a big factory—and you are being made and unmade like objects. Mahavira says—if there is a God who makes, then there is no way for religion in the world; for then there is no possibility of soul. Therefore in Mahavira’s view, the existence of God as creator destroys religion. Then there is no way of religion. Then all is futile. Only if I have some swabhava—unmade, not made by anyone—only then words like freedom, liberation are meaningful; otherwise meaningless.

Lao Tzu too does not speak of God at all. Yet, what he speaks will make you divine. So remember another amusing point. Therefore Mahavira says—as many souls, so many Gods can be. Because the day each soul knows its swabhava, it attains godliness.

To be God is the name of the experience of swabhava within you. Like uncarved wood you immediately slide down—into your nature. That nature is present within you—now, even at this very moment. But you are tightly clutching your structure. As a man in a river clutches at a root hanging from the bank, so you clutch your name, your form, your status, your prestige, your religion, your caste—with force. And that very clutching does not allow you to fall into swabhava.

And the wonder is—even if ordinary people cling, understandable; but those whom you call mahatmas also—are Hindus, are Jains, are Muslims, are Christians. Those whom you call mahatmas also have caste, structure, sanskar. They too are clinging to sanskar. Then it means we have utterly forgotten the process of falling into swabhava. What is the process?

Lao Tzu says—between dualities, make no choice. Accept both together. If honor comes, then neither the desire to cling to it, nor the desire to throw it away. If honor comes, let there be neither the desire to hold nor to reject. Let honor go on happening—and within, remain standing in the unknown, as if you are not. Then, Lao Tzu says, in that instant you will fall into nature. Why? Because the arrangement of clutching at structure belongs to duality.

We tell a man—be successful; if you remain unsuccessful, life is futile. So he clings to success. Then he drops failure and clings to success. Then there are also people in the world who cling to failure—there is a reason for that too. Because they are afraid of success; there is trouble in success—struggle, disturbance. And there is one more pleasure—that in trying for success there is also the fear of failing. So they cling to failure. They say—‘My health is never okay—how can I be successful?’ They say—‘I was born in a home where there is not a penny—how can I be successful?’ They say—‘I got no proper education—how can I be successful?’ They find some excuse and cling to failure. Even if you try to make them successful, they will not budge. They will not move; for it is their very life. And what is the fear? They talk so much of failure, but there is only one fear—‘If I try to be successful and fail?’ So, better to find excuses and remain right here; this cannot be done by me.

A gentleman came to me. He says, ‘I know everything, I understand everything.’ He is properly educated, but going to sit for an interview for any job makes him restless. So no job happens; because without interview how will a job happen? And he says, ‘Whatever is asked, I know. There is nothing I do not know.’ For six years he has been wandering, but the interview... I asked him, ‘You have tightly clutched at failure; now you are afraid.’ What is the fear of the interview? That you may not get the job. For six years you do not have the job anyway. What worse can happen than this?

But there is one advantage—so far he has not failed in any interview. He has never given one—there is no occasion to fail. So there is still a haughtiness. Now that haughtiness is troubling him—‘If I give it and fail somewhere!’ Thus he will clutch failure his whole life.

Many people cling to failure. Many people cling to success. These are dualities. Some cling to fame. Some cling to infamy—because even if infamous, it is still some kind of name. It makes no difference. If you go to a jail and listen to people’s talks, they tell one another whose infamy is greater. ‘What about yours? Nothing at all.’ There too the old hands and the new hands; the seasoned criminal and the novice. The new criminal has no respect in jail. ‘First time, eh?’—nobody particularly inquires. ‘How many times have you been in?’

Man will clutch at something within duality. But without clutching there seems no way—otherwise he will sink below.

Lao Tzu says—do not clutch at anything within duality. Do not clutch duality itself; neither clutch name nor the nameless; neither the world nor renunciation. Do not clutch—this is renunciation. Do not clutch at all. And slowly, slowly, drop choosing within the dualities—become choiceless. Do not make options. Do not say—I will clutch the bad or the good, I will clutch virtue or sin, I will clutch enjoyment or renunciation. Understand all dualities; do not clutch. Then in that instant one falls into oneself. And that falling into oneself is the supreme experience.

‘Carve or cut the uncarved wood—and it becomes vessels.’

It is very interesting. Lao Tzu says—one who enters the supreme spirituality becomes totally unfit for the world. ‘Unfit’—the word is not very pleasant. Even hearing ‘unfit’ makes the mind afraid—unfit! There should be some fitness somewhere. Lao Tzu says—like uncarved wood, he who dissolves into the ultimate becomes unfit. He has no use.

What use will you make of Lao Tzu? Tell me. He is good for nothing—no use. Is there any use? What use will you make of Mahavira? What use will you make of him? He will not get involved in any work; completely ‘useless.’

But this is precisely his use. Because this person who stands wholly beyond use attains the supreme power. He then does not go to attack for the sake of use. Those who come to him, who are drawn to him like a magnet—thousands of uses come to them. But he does not go from his side. He does nothing. He becomes utterly inactive.

Yet in his inaction great revolutions happen. Coming near him, countless lamps are lit. And he does not light them; but his fire is enough. If the lamp comes near, it catches the flame. Coming near him, countless people attain infinite beauty. But he does not chisel them into beauty. His presence, his contact, his breeze—just his being—his being gives them so much.

Lao Tzu is passing by a mountain. The whole forest is being cut. This is a very delightful story, and I have told it many times. Only one tree is not being cut. Lao Tzu tells his disciples—go and ask these woodcutters—why are you not cutting this tree?

They went and asked. They said—this tree is absolutely useless. All its branches are crooked and twisted—nothing can be made of it. Doors cannot be made, tables cannot be made, chairs cannot be made. And this tree is such that if you burn it, there is only smoke; the fire does not catch. Even its leaves are of no use—no animal is willing to eat them. So why should we cut it? The whole forest is being cut; this alone remains.

When the disciples returned, Lao Tzu said—like this tree becomes the person who attains Tao. See—this tree cannot be cut because, essentially, it is not eager to receive respect. Not a single branch is straight; had there been a longing for honor, it would have kept something straight at least. Everything is askew. This tree has no eagerness to influence others; otherwise, would it only emit smoke? This tree has no relish even to make animals its followers; otherwise at least it would have put some flavor in its leaves. But see—this alone is not being cut; all the rest are being cut.

Lao Tzu said—if you try to be straight, you will be cut. Furniture will be made of you. Whether you fit into a throne or the chair of a common clerk is another matter; but furniture will be made of you. And those who are eager to make furniture of you will explain to you—‘Keep straight, otherwise you will prove useless.’ If you listen to them, you will end up as firewood somewhere.

Everyone is being burned as fuel. Ask people—what are you doing? They say—‘We are living for our children.’ Their fathers were living for them. Their children will live for their children. Are you fuel? Are you burning for someone else?

Lao Tzu said—drop this worry. Do not become fuel.

And Lao Tzu said—look, under this tree a thousand bullock-carts can take shelter. This tree calls no one, but its dense shade—thousands rest beneath it. Completely useless—yet thousands of the weary find rest beneath it. This tree does not even intend to give shade. It seems to have made only one rule—that I will remain in the natural; I will not meddle with anything.

The person who attains Tao becomes just like this. Thousands find shade beneath him. He does not ‘give’ shade; the shade is beneath him.

Cut and trim wood—and it becomes vessels. In the hands of the ‘wise’ people too others are fashioned into vessels; they attain aristocracy; they become rulers.

‘In the hands of the sage, they become the officials and the magistrates.’

If you fall into the hands of ‘knowers,’ into the hands of teachers, you will get the chance to become doctor, engineer, minister, prime minister, president. They will make you vessels—capable vessels which can be of some use.

But Lao Tzu says, ‘But the great ruler does not cut up.’

But the great shasta—the Mahavira, the Buddha, the Krishna-like great shasta—the one who is truly a ruler (not a king, but a master)—in whose shadow governance blossoms, who does nothing; whose presence becomes governance; who gives no orders, but whose very being, whose manner, becomes order; whose posture, whose slightest movement, becomes command—such a great master does not cut, does not beat, does not chisel. In truth, such a great master takes away your chiseledness. He removes your fragmentation and arranges for you to fall into the unfragmented.

Unfragmented means uncarved, unrefined. These will sound very contrary things. Lao Tzu is against the refined, and in favor of the unrefined. Against carving, and in favor of the uncarved. Against sanskar, and in favor of sanskar-lessness.

But sanskar-lessness comes only when sanskar has happened.

Therefore there are two kinds of teachers in this world. We have given them different names. One we call shikshak, teacher; the other we call guru. The teacher carves; the guru sends you back into the uncarved. The West has no two words—because in the West there is only teacher—carving, cultivating, making you a vessel—that alone is education.

In the East we have known another education too, the ultimate education. When all the teachers’ work is finished, the ultimate teacher’s work, the guru’s work, begins. He then un-carves you. He re-joins the broken. He unmakes what has been made. He molds the vessel back into uncarved wood. And by taking away all the sanskars, all the society, he immerses you again into nature.

To drown in that nature is Nirvana.

Enough for today. Wait five minutes; let us do kirtan.