Tao Upanishad #61

Lao Tzu is against every use of force. Whoever stands with Nature will also stand against force. Coercion, of any kind whatsoever, is contrary to Nature. If this is understood rightly, then this sutra becomes easy to understand.

Look at Nature—leaving man aside. Trees are growing, rivers are flowing, the moon and stars are revolving; such an immense orchestration is on the move. Yet nowhere does one sense any compulsion, as if all is happening of itself, as if in this entire happening no force is being applied, no one is pushing. The river flows by itself, the tree grows by itself, the stars move by themselves.

If man were not, the world would be very silent. If man were not, there would be no contention in the world, no conflict. There would be a simple ease, a spontaneity.

Lao Tzu holds that unless man becomes just as simple, just as spontaneous—within and without—religion is not attained. Because dharma can have only one meaning: naturalness, spontaneity. And only when one is natural does bliss become available. Wherever there is struggle, wherever there is duality, wherever there is compulsion, pressure, force—there will be suffering.

This has many dimensions. First: the very moment we begin to coerce, we begin to impose our belief upon the world. The moment I begin to coerce, I have begun to declare that I am against the way this world is. And whomever I coerce, I have begun to murder his soul. I am robbing him of his freedom, I am robbing him of his nature. I do not allow him to move according to himself; I am trying to make him move according to me. Whether it be a father, a mother, a guru, a king—whoever uses force to make another move according to his own wish is committing violence. Because violence has only one meaning: we are using a human being as a means, not as an end.

The German thinker Immanuel Kant added precisely this sutra to his definition of ethics. Kant said, I know only this one ethics: never treat any human being as a means. Every human being is an end. No human being is anyone’s means. Because when we use a human being as a means, that very moment we reduce him to a thing. He is no longer a person. We have denied his soul.

For countless centuries men have taken woman as property. That is unethical. No soul can be anyone’s property. Because she was considered property, Yudhishthira could stake Draupadi in a gamble. Only property can be staked; a human being cannot be staked. To take a human being as an object is sin. And when we coerce, we have begun to take the other as an object.

Second: the moment I coerce, use force, I am losing my own power. I become impoverished, I become weak. And by my impoverishment no other becomes enriched. Because my coercion puts the other into pain too; it forces him too into coercion. He will also vainly waste his energy. The more violence there is, the more life’s opportunity is wasted in vain. The less violence there is, the more life-energy is saved. And only the saved energy can be used for the inward journey.

Remember, the violent person always journeys outward. Because the violent must always keep the other in mind. The one who commits violence will also be afraid of violence. The one ready to strike will also fear the other’s strike. He will always remain entangled with the other. Whether he loses or wins, his eyes will stay fixed on the other. And the same ladders upon which we travel are the ladders upon which others travel. When I use violence to sit upon another’s chest, then I must remain afraid. It may happen that the person upon whose chest I sit attains rest; but it cannot happen that I attain rest. I must remain afraid that the very devices by which I have kept him down may at any moment be turned against me. Any moment of slackness—and I may be under and the enemy above. The violent person’s attention remains stuck on the other. And the violent can never attain fearlessness. No inner journey is possible for the mind that is entangled with the other.

It is a waste of power; an entanglement in the other. A waste of the opportunity of one’s life. In vain—nothing creative will come of it. I will only lose, become empty, and be finished. He who tries to finish the other is, in that very effort, finishing himself. Whether the other will be finished or not cannot be said; but that I am finishing myself in finishing the other is certain.

Then keep a third thing in mind: the violent vision is that of destruction, of erasing. Violence means an eagerness to erase. And the one who becomes very keen on erasing forgets the art of creating. His creative personality becomes crippled; only a destructive personality remains. It is a strange fact that in this world the people who are very violent could have been very creative—that is precisely why they are violent. And the very nonviolent ones who were born in this world—they too could have been very violent—that is precisely why they are nonviolent.

Psychologists have studied Hitler’s life in depth. It is necessary; because if people like Hitler keep appearing upon the earth, man’s very being will not remain possible for long. Hitler wanted to be a painter; he could not become one. He wanted to sculpt beautiful statues, to paint beautiful pictures; he could not. Psychologists say that his urge to create turned into destruction. Then all his power was poured into breaking, erasing, and annihilating human beings. Power is one—whether you destroy with it, or create with it. The one who cannot create will set about destroying. The one who gets busy destroying will not even think of creating.

Also remember: when someone busies himself with erasing the other, he is erasing himself as well. Time is lost, energy is lost, life is draining away. And he who is engrossed in erasing the other learns only erasing. He becomes suicidal for himself too. Hitler killed so many—and in the end killed himself. That event is perfectly logical; precisely that is the end. Because the destroyer knows only one logic—destruction. So long as he has the other to be against, he will destroy the other. The day he finds there is no other left to destroy—he knows only one thing, destruction—he will destroy himself. Therefore the violent becomes, in the end, suicidal.

Creation is a totally different journey.

Lao Tzu trusts in supreme nonviolence. But the grounds of his nonviolence are very different. He does not say, “Do not hurt the other because the other will suffer.” He does not say that. He says: in erasing the other you are being erased; in finishing the other you are finishing yourself. And the very life in which the flowers of bliss could have bloomed will be filled only with thorns.

Here is a small point to ponder. Usually, the apostles of nonviolence say: do not cause pain to the other, because causing pain to the other is bad. Lao Tzu does not say this. Lao Tzu says: do not cause pain to the other because in that way you are losing the occasion for your own happiness, your own bliss. Lao Tzu will seem utterly selfish.

But remember: Lao Tzu says that if a person becomes truly, precisely selfish, he cannot do a single bad act. This will seem very upside-down. We teach people to be altruistic, philanthropic. Drop self-interest and hold on to the welfare of others. But Lao Tzu says: the one who does not even know what self-interest is will not know what the welfare of others is either. And the one who is not yet capable of securing his own good—do not fall into the madness of thinking he will secure the good of others. The truth is that the one who secures his own good, in that very securing the good of others is secured. Because the one who has caught hold of his own bliss becomes unable to cause pain to anyone—because thereby his own bliss is destroyed.

Religion is the ultimate self-interest; yet from it the ultimate altruism happens. Ethics talks of altruism, and nothing happens. Neither altruism happens, nor self-interest happens.

Lao Tzu says: if a person takes total care of his own being, nothing bad can happen in this world from him. In that very care his goodwill toward life and his compassion will deepen. In truth, only the one who has learned to have compassion on himself can have compassion on others. And the one who does not know how to be compassionate toward himself—this only means he has no inkling yet of compassion for himself either.

Someone hurled a stone at Buddha and struck him. Ananda, his disciple, became angry and said, “Give me the order and I will set this man on the right path.” Buddha said, “He has erred; will you punish yourself? Long ago this sutra became clear to me: we punish ourselves for the foolishness of others. He threw the stone—that was his act. If in the chain of that stone we now do something too, then that man has won and has trapped us in a circle. He has become our master. He threw the stone and provoked a reaction within us; he became our lord. He has won; we have lost. And if I become angry, then his throwing of the stone has succeeded. No,” Buddha said, “I am supremely selfish—I safeguard my happiness. Even if he throws a stone, I do not allow my happiness to shatter; I protect my bliss.”

And once a man learns how to protect his bliss, nothing bad can ever come from him for anyone in this world. Because doing harm to another turns out, at depth, to be digging a pit for oneself—according not to some moral scripture, but according to the unbroken experience of man himself. This is Lao Tzu’s outlook—for the individual and for society. This sutra is an indication toward society.

Lao Tzu says, ‘He who counsels the king according to Tao will oppose victory by armed force.’

He who counsels according to Tao will oppose the use of arms. In truth, he will oppose the very use of force. He will wish that work be accomplished without force. And the more skilled a person is, the more he gets things done without force. The unskilled compensates for his lack with force.

Watch a skilled person—at any work—and you will find he uses next to no force. Watch a skilled person drive a car—you will find he is not using force at all; he is not applying strength. Watch a novice drive a car: all his energy is being expended, he is drenched in sweat. What is the difference? A car does not move by force—it moves by skill. But where skill is lacking, man wishes to make it up by force. We apply force precisely where our skill wanes, falls short.

Notice: that is why new work tires you, and old work does not. Old work has become skill. In new work, you apply strength. Watch little children writing—their whole body is stiff just to hold the pen. They are not yet skilled; pouring all their strength, they are trying to compensate for lack of skill. Children even tear the paper, writing with so much force. There is no need to apply force. Many old people too write this way—expending all their strength. Strength has nothing to do with writing; but within there is a lack of skill.

There was a Zen fakir, Lin-chi. He taught his disciples the art of painting. He used to say: if you feel even a little labor, know that you are not yet an artist. If you feel even a little labor while creating anything, know there is still a gap. And when there is no labor at all, when you do not feel you did anything—yet the painting has appeared on the canvas—know that then you have become skilled.

Skill does not ask for force—whatever dimension of life. Unskill asks for force. One who advises according to Tao will oppose armed force, because he sees it as a sign of lack of skill.

‘For such victory brings evil consequences even to the victor.’

And then victory—of course it brings evil to the defeated; but it brings evil to the victor as well.

After many battles, Napoleon wrote in a letter: the one who loses weeps—that is obvious—but the one who wins also weeps. Because destruction spreads on all sides and nothing of substance is gained. Everything is broken, distorted—and nothing is gained.

And remember, the one you defeat and thus win over—life is complex—the enemy whom you had not yet defeated used to give you strength. This is a little difficult, but try to understand. The day you defeat the enemy, that day the enemy stops giving you strength—you also are broken.

Consider: if your enemy dies today, a gap appears in your life as great as when a friend dies. Therefore the wise have said: to find a good enemy is a great fortune. Because the tension he creates in you, the bridge he keeps taut, the continual stretch—can become creative. The moment the enemy collapses…

Understand it this way: if America were to collapse today—what would happen to Russia’s momentum, to its growth? It would all fall to zero. Or if Russia collapsed today—what would happen to America’s entire development? It would fall to zero. That whole development runs under the sustained tension of duality. And I think today both Russia and America understand well that fighting is not in their interest—maintaining the posture of fighting is in their interest. Fighting itself is not in their interest at all, but to maintain a fighting stance is in their interest. Relaxation of that stance could be dangerous.

Erase the enemy—and you too are erased. Because all that had been created through competition with the enemy collapses and withers. The defeated one suffers—yes; but the victor too receives evil consequences.

‘Where armies stand, thorns grow. And when armies are raised, the very next year famine’s shadow falls.’ Therefore a good general, having achieved his purpose, stops.

Lao Tzu is saying that compulsion can arise sometimes for a state, for society; for the individual—never. Keep this too in mind. For the individual there is never any compulsion; but for society and the nation there can be compulsion. Because it is not the question of one person; it is the question of millions. The nation may sometimes have to descend into war. So first, one who follows Tao will not advise war, will not advise military power. And even if compulsion arises, if the general is wise he will stop by giving a threat. To plunge into war is the act of foolish generals. The wise stop at that boundary where there is only the show of force but not the clash of force.

Yesterday I told you: among animals there is only a display of force, not a fight. They seem more intelligent. Perhaps Nature has given them a deeper insight. A display is sufficient—but the actual use rarely occurs. Before danger becomes real, animals stop. As soon as it becomes clear who is weaker and who is stronger, the confrontation ends.

‘The general achieves his end and stops. He never trusts in force.’

Commonly we think that the general trusts force, that the state depends upon force. But Lao Tzu’s counsel—if ever a society were run according to Tao—is this: the trust should not be in armed force. It is the last compulsion, a necessary evil. An illness that may arise which cannot be avoided—but there should be no reliance upon it. One who trusts in it will use it at the first opportunity. And the unwise will not stop even when the need has been met.

In the last world war this happened. There was no need whatsoever to drop the atom bomb on Japan. Germany was on its knees; Japan’s legs were breaking. Two or four days, seven days at the most, and Japan would have dissolved. But America had its trust in armed force. For the first time man had the atom in his hand; they wanted to use it. There was absolutely no need. There was not the slightest necessity for one hundred thousand people to die in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But when power is in hand, the unwise will want to use it.

Therefore America’s crime cannot be forgiven. There remained no need of war. Japan was already losing. To throw the atom on a vanquished one was not compulsion—it was a luxury. Unnecessary. If Japan had been winning, if American troops had been on their knees in New York and they had to throw the atom bomb—then that would have been compulsion, not trust in arms. But America was in no danger. The American army had already entered deep into Japan’s chest. Japan was broken, devastated. Yet even such a great power takes a week to collapse; nothing happens so quickly. The atom was utterly unnecessary.

Hence the wise call this sin a grave sin. Because it was like thrusting a dagger into the chest of an enemy who had already fallen to the ground, who lay with folded hands asking for mercy. It was like thrusting a dagger into his chest. This is not forgivable. But why did it happen?

There is a reason. America’s civilization and culture are not old—only three hundred years! If ever a society can be childish, it is America. Three hundred years—what age is that for a people? Those whose history is three hundred years cannot have very deep understanding. They may have information, but not understanding. There will be a lack of wisdom. Today America has enormous information—that is why the atom could be made—but not wisdom. In the lack of wisdom, its use happened.

Lao Tzu says: a general who trusts in Tao, a religious general, a religious state, never trusts in force. He fulfills only his duty and stops; he does not take pride in it. He fulfills only his duty and does not brag. He fulfills only his duty and does not become arrogant. He wages war as a regretful necessity. ‘Effects his purpose as a regretable necessity.’ As a regretful necessity—a compulsion, an evil that must be done, which is hard to avoid. But he does not love violence.

‘Things, upon touching their peak, move toward decline.’

To love violence is one thing; violence under compulsion is quite another. Those who do not know this distinction entangle societies in great trouble. Let us look at this a little. On one side are those who are crazy for violence, who are waiting for a chance. If a chance comes, they will be violent; then they will not see how far was necessary—they will go as far as they can. Necessity is not the question. Violence becomes a game for them, a sport of blood.

On the other side are those who will go to the other extreme—who will become mad for nonviolence, and who, even when violence is a regretful necessity, will become slack in doing it.

We did exactly this in this land. We touched the other extreme. Even violence that was a regretful necessity—we said we would not do that either. But there is no reason to suppose that if you do not do it, the other will also refrain. The truth is: your refraining becomes an invitation to the other to do it.

Therefore after the influence of Jains and Buddhists, India’s downfall began. Because the extremism of nonviolence—that in any situation we will not be violent—naturally became an invitation from all sides to invaders. Those who wished to attack found no country more convenient than India. Therefore very petty powers defeated India. India’s story is unique. In truth, it is the story of an excessive experiment in spirituality. Unique in many respects.

First: such a vast land—at the very peak of a proud civilization! In relation to science, at that time no one on earth was so developed as India. Those who today are developed in science were utterly primitive then; they had no understanding. We touched heights in mathematics, astronomy, and dharma. We touched heights in music, art, literature. A golden summit! And suddenly we were leveled to the ground. And those who defeated us were very petty. No one would have even known their names. If they had not conquered India, history would never have mentioned them. What happened? Extremes sometimes become very dangerous. India descended to the opposite extreme.

One extreme is: to commit violence where it is not needed—to take violence as a game, bloodshed as a delight. The other extreme is: to become so frightened, so timid, that when it becomes necessary you also withdraw.

Remember: India discovered surgery first. Sushruta clearly wrote the sutras of what today is the latest surgery—even about plastic surgery. But then what happened? Under the influence of Buddhists and Jains, surgery appeared as violence. “That too should not be done. To cut someone’s bone, to cut the hand, to cut the belly—that cannot be done.” And then if one has to cut the body, to know its structure, its skeleton, one has to cut corpses. And some animals must also be dissected to gain knowledge. All that could not be done. So diseases were to be endured—terrible diseases—but surgery could not be done. What Sushruta had discovered—had we followed those sutras for three thousand years—then today the West’s surgery would be childish. But there remained no way to proceed; because surgery, the very act of operating, came to be seen as violence. It could not be done.

The Jains carried it to an extreme—they even abandoned agriculture. Because there is violence in it! Therefore no Jain will do farming. Because trees must be uprooted, plants pulled out, cut. And plants too have life.

Understand: cutting a plant is a regretful violence. No one desires it. If we could live without cutting plants, there would be no need to cut them. And if I do not cut, someone else will cut for me. Where is the difference? The Jain will still eat wheat. Someone else will grow it, someone else will cut it. So only this has happened: we are having violence done by others—for us, through our agents. But when I take food, so long as I am taking it, whatever violence is implicated, the responsibility is mine.

So the Jains withdrew. Hence they all became shopkeepers; there was no other way left. They were originally Kshatriyas, because Mahavira and all twenty-four Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas. The sword belonged to their hands; they were born that way. Certainly, if the twenty-four Tirthankaras were Kshatriyas, then most of their followers would be Kshatriyas. There remained no way to remain Kshatriya—violence could not be done. There was no door to become Brahmin—because one is a Brahmin by birth. No one wished to be Shudra. So there remained no way except to become Vaishya. Farming could not be done; one would not become a Shudra; so only the shop remained.

Such extremism leads from one danger into another. We avoid the well and fall into the ditch. Touching a peak, India suddenly fell low. Therefore in the Indian mind the wound is still green. We feel as if once there was a golden summit in the past which we touched and then moved away. So our mind keeps turning backward. There is some truth in it—we did touch a summit. But danger comes precisely when a summit is touched. Let me give an example.

When we were on such a peak of civilization and there was the luxury—even this luxury—that if we wished we could go to the extremity of nonviolence—that too is possible only when people are very prosperous. To think so finely, so subtly, about nonviolence—then we withdrew.

Today America is in exactly such a condition. Today America is rich, affluent. Today its youth want to withdraw from war. Nowhere has such opposition to war been seen as in America—that a country is fighting and within the country such massive protest. Imagine in India: India is fighting Pakistan and in all the universities, colleges, in all the youth—there is protest: “No, this war is wrong.” Such a thing has never happened anywhere. Because when a country fights, the whole country becomes mad, and the one who does not become mad seems a traitor, a renegade.

In America this is happening for the first time. There is a reason. Only in extreme affluence is there the facility to move to the other extreme. This happened in India. In the time of Buddha and Mahavira we reached a summit. There was a height. And then we said: we will not fight—we will die, but we will not fight. Then we offered the other a chance. If today America listens to its boys, America will fall just as India once fell. And it may be that the boys will prevail. If not today, tomorrow power will be in their hands; if not today, tomorrow they will be in office. And for the mind to move from one extreme to the other is very easy.

Lao Tzu is not advocating moving to the other extreme. Lao Tzu says: a true general fights as a regretful necessity. He fights, but he does not love violence.

It is very difficult—to fight and not to love violence. But those who followed Tao in China and Japan crafted a great experiment: to create a kind of soldier who fights but does not love violence. If you have heard the name samurai—the samurai formed a great order in Japan; it is the name of a special kind of soldier. A samurai is he who fights, but does not love violence. Then the entire training of a samurai is unique. Before he is taught the sword, he is taught meditation. Before he is sent to war, he must go within himself. And before he goes to cut another, he must pass through the experience where he knows that the soul cannot be cut.

It is very difficult. To be a sannyasin is one thing—easy. To be a soldier is easy too. But to be sannyasin and soldier together is very difficult. The samurai is a sannyasin and a soldier together.

Krishna too tried to make Arjuna a samurai in the Gita. It is an attempt to make a samurai—a soldier and a sannyasin together. He says, Fight! Because not to fight would be an extreme. Nor does he say: take fighting as the end of life—that would be the other extreme. It would have been easy for Arjuna if Krishna had said, Cut! There is no soul, no God, man is only body. The Gita need not have gone further. Arjuna would have been utterly convinced that man is only body; there is no harm in cutting and striking; he would have cut people like rows of trees. If someone had convinced him of materialism, there would have been no hindrance—he would have become a pure soldier. Or if someone had convinced him that in every situation violence is sin—Run away!—he was ready to run. He would have become a sannyasin.

But he met a very strange man. The charioteer who sat holding the reins—more strange a man would be hard to find. He said both things. He spoke like Mahavira: the soul is immortal; the supreme goal of life is to attain the Supreme; liberation… He spoke this way.

Had Krishna spoken like Marx, Arjuna would have understood—Arjuna would have cut as merrily as Stalin cut down millions. There would have been no inner obstacle. If it is fixed in your mind that on the other side there is no soul, only body, only a mechanism—what difficulty is there in breaking a mechanism? There is no inner guilt, no pang of conscience. Had he met Marx, Arjuna would have found peace and plunged into war. Or had he met Mahavira, he would have dropped his sword and gone to the forest.

But the man he met—Krishna—placed him in difficulty. He said: in conduct, act as though there is no soul in the world—cut! And know well that whom you cut cannot be cut. This middle path between two extremes—stand centered in it—this was difficult for Arjuna. And who knows how he managed to find his balance in this predicament.

India has not managed till now. Krishna’s Gita is much recited; many read it—but India has no relation to the Gita. In India either there are extremists of nonviolence or extremists of violence. But a personality like Arjuna could not be born here. The Gita has gone over India’s head. It has not touched India’s heart. Though this will seem reversed; the Gita is read in every home—nothing is read as much. People know it by heart, but it has not touched. It cannot touch, because it is a very difficult thing. Soldier and sannyasin together—there is nothing more difficult in the world. It is the most delicate path.

Lao Tzu too agrees exactly with Krishna. Lao Tzu says, ‘He fights, but he does not love violence.’

And then he says something of great import: ‘Things, upon touching their peak, move toward decline.’

Lao Tzu says: if you attain victory, soon you will be defeated. Therefore do not attain victory; do not drag victory to its peak. Do not stretch anything so far that there remains no way to move upward; then only the descent remains. Lao Tzu says: always stop in the middle.

The extremist never stops in the middle; he keeps stretching. And a point comes from where there remains no way except to go down. From every peak there must be a descent. Yet no one has ever listened to Lao Tzu. All civilizations go to extremes; they reach a summit—and then they fall. How many civilizations have touched the peak and fallen! Still the race does not stop. Babylon, Assyria, Egypt—where are they now? They touched a great summit, then fell.

Even today scientists say: the stones in Egypt’s pyramids are so huge—how they were lifted is still not understood. Some stones in the Pyramid of Giza are so large that even our biggest cranes cannot lift them up there. Astonishing! Then how did Egypt, six or seven thousand years ago, raise them? Until now it was assumed it was done by manpower. But to raise such a stone would require twenty-three thousand men at once. Their hands could not even reach the stone. How would twenty-three thousand men lift one stone? What secret was there? How were those stones raised?

Ancient Egyptian books say Egypt had found the alchemy of sound. And with a particular sound the stone would lose its gravitation; its weight would drop away. Today it is hard to say how true this is. But there is no other way left except to assume they discovered some mantra, some sonic device. With a special sound all around, anti-gravitation—a state opposite to gravity—was created, and the stone could be lifted.

Near Poona, some fifty miles away, at Sirpur, there is a stone lying near a mosque. At the tomb of a fakir: if nine or eleven men place their finger-tips under the stone and loudly take the name of the saint, then with just the fingers that big stone rises above the head. Without the name, eleven men try as they may, the stone does not budge. For a moment the stone loses its gravitation. Scientists have studied it, but to this day nothing has become clear—what is the matter? Some vibration in the saint’s name arises around the stone, and the stone lifts.

But those who could raise such stones upon pyramids by sound—where are they today? They are lost. A peak was touched. Today the pyramids still stand, but nothing remains of their makers. Assyria, Babylon—all lost—the very places where civilization was born.

Plato wrote in his memoirs that a person returning from Egypt told him: the high priest of an Egyptian temple, Solon, had told him that once a great continent attained supreme civilization. Atlantis was the name of that continent. Then, with its entire civilization, it sank into the sea. Why, no one has yet been able to discover. But whatever man can know—Atlantis had known. People ponder why it vanished. Thousands of books have been written on Atlantis. Most conclude that Atlantis attained so much scientific capacity that from the peak of its own science there remained no way but to fall. It drowned under the weight of its own knowledge. Either it triggered some explosion from its very knowledge, just as we can today.

Today some fifty thousand hydrogen bombs lie amassed in the vaults of America and Russia. If even a small error occurs and they explode, not Atlantis alone—the entire earth will scatter. Therefore where atomic weapons are stored, there are three keys—because if one man’s mind goes a little off, he gets angry, quarrels with his wife, and thinks, “Finish the world”—three keys have been kept so that until three men agree, nothing can be done. But three men can also agree. If three agree, the whole earth can be erased.

Atlantis drowned after touching the summit. It seems its knowledge itself became the cause of its death.

Now stones of this kind are being found all over the world. Until now the carvings on those stones could not be interpreted. But now they can. The masks and garments your astronauts wear—such garments and masks are carved on stones across the corners of the world.

Until now we did not even know what they were. But now there is a difficulty. Those who carved these images—if they had not seen space travelers, they could not have carved them. And if these carvings on stone are ten thousand years old, if they too saw astronauts, then civilizations before us also made many journeys—touched summits.

In Mexico, on a mountain range twenty miles across, images are carved. They are such that they cannot be seen from below; their expanse is too vast. Within twenty miles these images are carved, one image stretching for miles. From the ground there is no way to see them; except from the air there is no way. And they are fifteen thousand years old.

So now there is a difficulty: either those who carved them carved them for the eyes of air travelers; and if there were no aircraft fifteen thousand years ago, then the carving of these images is itself difficult—the purpose cannot be explained. Because no one could see them from the ground. They can be seen only from high above. So scientists are in a bind: if we admit there were aircraft fifteen thousand years ago, we must drop the illusion that we have built aircraft for the first time. If there were aircraft then, civilizations before us also touched the summit.

Where are those civilizations today? Today there is not even a namesake. Not even a trace remains. These are all our conjectures. Nothing can be said for certain about them.

Lao Tzu says: everything, upon reaching its peak, falls. Everything! Victory reaches its peak and falls. Success reaches its peak and falls. Fame reaches its peak and falls.

Therefore the wise never pull anything to its peak. That is the way to fall. It is arranging by your own hands your descent.

‘Violence is contrary to Tao. And what is contrary to Tao perishes quickly.’

Violence is excess; destructive excess. And the one who goes to excess will be destroyed. Lao Tzu says: violence is contrary to Tao, contrary to Nature. Let us try to understand this.

If someone does violence to you, it does not feel good. To whom does it not feel good? To your nature. When you do violence to anyone, it does not feel good to him either. To whom does it not feel good? To his nature. In this world, violence is dear to no one. No one’s nature desires violence. Yet we commit violence. What we do to the other, we do not want anyone to do to us. The other too does not want it. And when the nature within everyone does not want violence, one thing is certain: violence is contrary to Nature. And what is contrary to Nature, says Lao Tzu, perishes.

It will perish. There is no way to be contrary to Nature. We may attempt it, but we cannot be contrary to Nature in our very being. In attempting it we will break and perish. Why? Because our being is a limb of Nature. This is my hand—how can it go against me? If it is my limb, how can it go against me? There is only one way for it to go against me—that it be paralyzed, diseased. I say, “Rise,” and it cannot. Only if it becomes ill can it go against me. If it is healthy, it cannot go against me. But in becoming ill it is not only going against me; it is destroying itself too.

Therefore whenever a person is healthy, he is not contrary to Nature—he cannot be. And when he is ill, he is contrary to Nature. We can invert it: the one who goes contrary to Nature becomes ill. Hence when one moves contrary to Nature, by one’s own hand one becomes feeble, breaks, and is destroyed. In no direction is there a way to go against Nature. Only in being attuned is there health and life; and only in being attuned is there bliss and peace. And he who becomes supremely attuned attains liberation. If we understand the meaning of supreme attunement, contrariness will also be understood.

Supreme attunement means: there remains not even the thought that “I am.” There is only Nature. So long as I feel “I am,” there will remain some opposition. The sense of “I” cannot be without opposition; some opposition will remain. I will go on doing something or other. But when I am not—when there is only Nature within and without—then all opposition is at peace.

It is said of Buddha: he comes as the wind comes; he goes as the wind goes. His coming is not seen, his going is not seen. Therefore one of Buddha’s names is Tathagata: the one who thus comes and thus goes, in whose coming and going no mark is left. Tathagata means: one who comes in such a way that it is not even noticed; one who goes in such a way that it is not even noticed. Of all Buddha’s beautiful names, Tathagata is most dear. Thousands of names were given to Buddha, but the beauty of Tathagata is unique. He came, he went—and we did not even come to know.

When one becomes so one with Nature that it is Nature that rises in him, Nature that sits, Nature that sleeps, Nature that walks—then supreme freedom. This is why there is so much opposition to ego; ego is the only obstacle to your liberation. The more you feel “I am,” the more your bliss is distant. The more you feel “I am not,” the nearer bliss comes. The day you feel “I am not at all”…

Therefore Buddha says: the one who is extinguished—like a lamp going out—the one whose ego is extinguished, who disappears like a drop dissolving into the ocean, only he is free.

So people come and ask Buddha, “How will my liberation happen?” Buddha says, “There is no way to liberate you. There can be liberation from you, not your liberation.” A precious statement. Buddha says: there can be liberation from you, but not your liberation. So do not ask, “How may I be liberated?” Ask, “How may I be liberated from me?”

All the trouble is of my ‘I,’ because my ‘I’ separates me. If I am attuned, then there remains no violence. Then whatever happens, I am consented.

Someone drove spikes into Mahavira’s ears; his ears were bloodied. It is a very sweet story. Indra came and begged Mahavira, “Let me arrange your protection. It is unseemly, and it pains us that someone should drive nails into your ears.” Mahavira said, “I am consented—whatsoever happens, I am consented. Because if I am not consented, whether I commit violence or not, violence will arise in the mind. If I am not consented, violence has already happened. Not to be consented is violence. So I am consented. And the one who drove nails into my ears—great is his grace. Because he gave me an occasion I had not experienced before. He gave me a chance to see whether, when someone is driving nails into my ears, I am still consented or not. Even then I was consented. He gave me an amazing taste of liberation by driving nails into my ears. Now no one can make me miserable—even by driving nails. I have come to know this truth. Now even if someone kills me, he cannot make me miserable. I am free—I am free of others.”

But one becomes free of others only when one becomes free of oneself. The one who is bound to himself will remain bound to others. In fact, we are bound to others because we are bound to ourselves.

People come to me and say, “How will liberation be? There is a wife, there are children, there is a house, there is a shop.” They are saying: until we leave these and run away—the wife, the children, the shop—there can be no liberation. They are saying as if these are binding them.

Who binds whom? When someone comes to me like this, I ask, “Suppose you die right now—will these people be able to stop you?” “No.” “Then if they cannot stop you at death, how can they stop you in liberation? How much power do they have?” They have none. You are making excuses, saying, “Because of the wife I am stuck.” And the wife thinks she is stuck because of the husband. Neither is stuck because of someone else; each is stuck because of oneself. This man cannot live without the wife—that is why he is stuck. But he says the wife is holding him. And it is true: if this man runs away somewhere else, he will find another wife—he cannot escape. Then he will say, “Another net has been cast.”

No one else is casting the net; the net is within. The net is born with the ‘I.’ So if today he leaves the shop, it makes no difference; tomorrow he will become the priest of a temple, or the owner of an ashram, and the same net will start.

I know a friend—I saw him in two states. Once I went to his village; he was building a house. By chance I passed by his home and stopped. He stood in the sun with an umbrella, having the house built. He said, “What a trouble, but what to do—there are children, I must do it for them. Once this house is built, I will be freed from this hassle. Let the wife and children live here; my mind is inclined toward renunciation.” I listened; nothing to say.

Ten years later he left home and became a sannyasin. Then I passed by a village where he was building an ashram. The same man stood with an umbrella; an ashram was rising. He said—he did not even recall that ten years before he had told me the same—“What to do? Now these disciples, this gathering has collected; on their account I must do this trouble. Once this ashram is built, there will be release.” I said, “Ten years ago you were building a house, and thought once it was built there would be release; now you are building an ashram and think once it is built there will be release. What do you plan to build next? You will build—surely—and you will stand here with an umbrella in the sun. What difference is there between building a house for the children, and building an ashram for the disciples? If liberation was to happen, you could have been liberated even after building the house. If it is not to happen, you will not be liberated even after building the ashram.”

Man believes others bind him, someone else holds him. No, no one else holds you. We hold ourselves—and to protect ourselves we clutch others. So that a line of people around us makes us feel safe. It seems there is no fear—there are companions, friends, loved ones. But man is simply trying to save himself.

‘Violence is contrary to Tao.’

Why does violence arise at all?

I try to protect myself—and in that very effort violence arises. The day one drops the very idea of protecting oneself—who can drop it? Only he who has come to know: I am already saved; even if someone cuts me, he will not be able to cut me; even if someone erases me, he will not be able to erase me; even if someone burns me, the fire will not burn me. “Weapons cannot cleave me,” says Krishna, “fire cannot burn me.” When this realization becomes dense, one becomes without fear. And the one who becomes without fear becomes without violence. The fearful cannot be nonviolent.

Therefore I said: an individual can be perfectly nonviolent; societies and nations cannot be perfectly nonviolent. Because “nation” already means property, means a device for security, means boundary and guard. An individual can be free; nations cannot—until there are so many free individuals that nations are no longer needed. The state will be violent. Those who think the state can be made nonviolent are in error. The individual can be nonviolent. If the state begins to treat violence as compulsion, that is enough.

Understand it well. If the state does not love violence and treats it as compulsion, that is enough. But it is very difficult. Recently we sent our armies into Bangladesh; then on return we distributed Padma Shri, Padma Bhushan, Maha Vir Chakra. The more violence someone committed, the bigger the medal we pinned on him. This does not seem like mere compulsion; it seems there was relish in it.

Had it been compulsion, we would have said: come, those who have committed more violence should go on pilgrimage to wash their sin. If it had been compulsion, we would have said: now you go, spend some days in Kashi, sit in meditation, and pray to God that what happened happened under compulsion—we had no relish in it. We should have given Manekshaw some leave for pilgrimage—go to Kedarnath or Badrinath, sit somewhere, and atone for what had to be done. But we are distributing decorations and titles. There seems a relish. This violence does not seem like compulsion; not like a necessary evil—there appears a certain glory in it.

If the state does only this much—treats violence as compulsion—it is much. The individual can be nonviolent; the state will remain violent. But if it becomes violent only under compulsion, Lao Tzu says, that state has become religious.

Remember, much debate goes on: what does it mean for the state to be religious? If a state is Muslim, it thinks it is religious; if a state is Christian, it thinks it is Christian. A state like ours—calling itself “secular”—thinks it has nothing to do with religion. Neither Christian, nor Hindu, nor Muslim states are religious. A religious state has only one meaning: violence is a compulsion for that state. Then whether it is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian—no difference.

But a state that enjoys violence and waits to commit it—to attack in the name of attack, or in the name of defense… And history is strange: whenever two fight, both believe they are defending. No one agrees he is attacking. Not once in human history has anyone said, “We attacked.” Therefore every country’s ministry of war is called Defense. It is amusing: there is no army anywhere—only departments of defense, doing only defense. Then who attacks? No one attacks—everyone defends. How then does war happen? The situation seems reversed. It seems both attack. And nowhere in the world is there a ministry of defense—everywhere it is a ministry of attack. But dishonesty hides itself.

According to Lao Tzu, if a state understands violence as compulsion, does not take glory in it—considers it blameworthy, feels remorse, repents—goes only when it must, when no other way opens, and stops where the purpose is achieved; and even then feels that a bad thing had to be done—that state is religious. Otherwise, all states are irreligious.

‘And what is contrary to Tao perishes quickly.’

In truth, “perishing” means being contrary to dharma. What is contrary to dharma perishes. But how? You will not even think so—things appear reversed. Those who are contrary to dharma seem quite prosperous. Those contrary to dharma seem to flourish; and the religious appear poor and beaten. Lao Tzu—and all the scriptures of the world—say: the one who is contrary to dharma is destroyed, and the one who is in accord with dharma goes on increasing. But we see the opposite.

People come and tell me daily: such-and-such a man—dishonest, lying, corrupt in every way—and he is succeeding. And they also say: “I have been walking honestly, truthfully, and I am failing. Where is justice?”

There are explainers too; they say: in God’s court there is delay but no injustice—wait a little. How long to wait? And the injustice seems certain; and if there is delay, it is so long that in this life there is no hope. The next life is not certain. And what is happening now was happening before, and before that too. Because this complaint is old—thousands of years old. Since the beginning man has complained that the bad man is succeeding and the good man is perishing. And these Lao Tzus and Krishnas and Mahaviras and Buddhas say the religious do not perish and the irreligious perish. Then we must think again. Either they are wrong, or our analysis is wrong somewhere.

What we call “religious” is not religious—that is one point. And the one who says “I speak the truth, I am honest”—he is not honest and does not speak truth either. Perhaps he is speaking truth—as a fact he might be. But everything depends upon the reason and intention. You may be speaking truth because you are such a frightened person that if you lied, you fear being caught. If there were no fear you would lie. If you were given a firm assurance that no court would catch you, no law punish you, that in God’s court too you would be warmly welcomed—would you still speak truth? The one who would still speak—that one alone is speaking truth. And if it were said, “The truth-speaker will rot in hell and be burned in fire—and wherever you speak truth you will suffer”—if even then he speaks truth, that man alone speaks truth.

Those who come saying, “I speak truth, and have not succeeded”—their relish is in success, not in truth. That is why they are troubled. They see that the liar succeeds. Their relish too is in success—but they are cowards, fearful; they cannot lie—and yet they desire the same success the liar attains.

But why does the liar succeed? Understand: the one who is lying and succeeding—something else is also in him—courage. Courage is a virtue. Lying is a vice, but courage is a virtue. And courage is such a great virtue that even with a vice like lying, courage still succeeds. And lack of courage is such a great vice that even with truth it sinks truth. If we analyze closely, anyone who seems to succeed will show some virtue that supports him. And one who seems to fail—no matter how honest—will show some vice that drowns him.

Dharma is the sum of all virtues. Adharma is the sum of all vices. It depends on measure. But one thing is certain: adharma loses, breaks, scatters—because it is contrary to Nature.

Many times you find a bad man laughing and a good man weeping. What kind of goodness is that from which only tears arise? And even in such badness there is some grace from which laughter arises! When you find a good man laughing—even if he has lost—rejoicing in loss—know that there is a religious man. The religious does not even know how to lose—because even in loss he sees victory. The religious does not recognize failure—because all failures, when they come to his door, begin to look like successes. The religious is not acquainted with discontent—because he has the art by which whatever touches him becomes contentment.

And the irreligious is the opposite. However successful he is, the day success enters his house, it turns into failure. The day he gains by falsehood and dishonesty—on that very day it becomes futile. Build as vast a palace as he may—he cannot sleep in it. Build as vast a palace as he may—it never becomes his own. A palace in which you cannot sleep—can it be yours? Hoard as much wealth as he may—it brings no decrease in his inner poverty. He continues to beg, to steal, to suffer.

In my view the religious succeeds—because failure, upon approaching him, becomes success. In his way of seeing, in his way of living, there is that alchemy, that art—whatever he touches turns to gold. The irreligious has a fault in his very way of living—he gathers gold and it becomes dust. His every success, in the end, reveals itself to have given him nothing. He lives empty and dies empty.

So think in a different way: if you are peaceful, blissful, if life feels like a flowering—know that you are religious. If the opposite—know that in the name of religion you are deceiving yourself. If you are unhappy, troubled, tormented, depressed—if life is a burden—know that you are irreligious. Even if you go to the temple regularly, read the Gita daily, bow to the Quran—you are irreligious. Take it in reverse and it will be easy.

I went to a gurukul. All the teachers gathered and said, “Explain something to us; discipline is breaking down, and no one respects the gurus—what shall we do?” I said, “First understand my definition. I call him a guru whom people cannot help but respect. And if people do not respect a so-called guru, he should understand he is not a guru. And the one who tries to get respect is not a guru at all—because guruship becomes available only to one who has no relationship left with respect.” They said, “But the scriptures say that the guru should be given respect.” I said, “You have not read the scriptures rightly. The scriptures say: he to whom respect is given—he is the guru.”

The religious does not perish. Turn it around and you will find it easy: the one who does not perish—that one is religious. And the one who keeps on perishing—that one is irreligious. If you are perishing, understand—you are irreligious. If you are not perishing and you feel that nothing is being destroyed—something is being created, born, developed within—understand that you are religious.

If you think in this way, it will be very easy; you will have the touchstone and criterion in your hands to test your life. And once you have the touchstone, very quickly you come to know: wherever I go contrary to Nature, I enter into suffering; and wherever I go in accord with Nature, my bliss flowers.

To be with Nature is bliss; to be against Nature is misery. To drown in Nature is heaven; to turn your back on Nature and run is hell.

Enough for today. Let us do kirtan, then disperse.