Tao Upanishad #63

Who is eager for violence? In murder, whose taste is at work? And in destruction, whose longing becomes obsession? Let us understand this a little; then reflecting on the sutra will be easy.

In this century Sigmund Freud has entered the human mind deeper and deeper. Call him the Patanjali of this age. Freud’s deepest discovery concerns two fundamental human urges. He named them: one, jiveshana—the life-urge; and two, mrityu-eshana—the death-urge. Man wants to live—there is a lust for life within. And within man there is also a lust to die.

The second is hard to grasp. But for many reasons it is as indispensable as the first. That everyone wants to live is beyond doubt; the urge to live comes with birth. Yet a second urge, opposed to life—the urge to die—also hides in everyone. Hence someone can commit suicide; otherwise suicide would be impossible. Hence someone can destroy himself. If there were no urge towards death within, man would never be able to obliterate himself.

As age passes, the tide of life ebbs, and the urge for death begins to grow strong. Old people are heard saying again and again, Now, let Paramatma take me away. The old person truly wants to depart; for now, being has lost its meaning.

But even a youth harbors some deep thought of dying. It is hard to find a young person in whom, at some time, the thought has not arisen: I should die, I should end it. What is the point of all this? What is the purpose of this life?

Just today a young woman was with me. She said that every month the thought returns again and again that life has no meaning; it would be better to die. She has not yet even seen life.

Even small children, in their minds, have thoughts of dying.

If there were no urge toward death within, from where would these sprouts of death-thoughts arise? The death-urge is also within. And when we find that living is no longer possible, the urge toward death seizes us.

This too is necessary to see, because everything in the world stands in polar tension. If there is light, there is darkness; light cannot be alone. If there is life, there is death; life cannot be alone. So if jiveshana is within, mrityu-eshana must also be. This whole world stands upon polarity. Here, everything is bound to its opposite. To be without the opposite does not seem possible.

Even scientists now have begun to acknowledge that all the laws of life stand upon opposites, and there is no law without its opposing law. Without an opposite it cannot be. The situation is almost like this: a mason, while building a house, sets the bricks in reverse around a door—thus a strong arch is formed. Opposing bricks support one another. Life is built of opposing bricks. Here, everything has an opponent—and in the tension of opposition, balance happens. As a staff must have two ends—one end alone cannot be—so everything in life has its other end, however unknown.

Thus, after forty years of psychoanalysis, Freud arrived at the conclusion that people do not know it, but the urge toward death also resides within them. The situation is like a coin: it has two faces. When one face is up, the other lies pressed below; when the other comes up, the first goes down. In the young, the urge to live is strong; the death-urge remains buried beneath. Sometimes, in some restlessness, in some upheaval, some inner unrest, the coin flips: the urge to live goes under, and death rises to the top. In the old, the urge for death comes up, the urge for life gets pressed below. Sometimes, in a sudden surge of desire, the coin flips even for the old, and he wants to live again. But you will only ever be aware of one urge at a time; both cannot be seen together, for you can look at only one face. Hence the illusion arises that only one urge—toward life—exists within us. The other is hidden.

If we understand these two urges within man a little rightly, then in the contemplation of violence and nonviolence a deep movement becomes possible. When your life-lust is on top, the urge to die is pressed down beneath. And one who wants to live intensely does not want to die. But if anything becomes an obstacle in the movement of his life, he wants to kill it. One whose life-urge is strong will destroy another’s life to fulfill his own. From this, himsa is born.

Violence is the projection of one’s own inner urge to die onto the other. The death that is hidden within me, I want to impose upon the other. This is the psychological meaning of violence: I do not want to die. For the sake of my living—even if I must kill everyone—I am ready; but I do not want to die. At any cost—even if the whole world must be destroyed—I am ready; but I want to live. Both possibilities exist within man. When man clings to life, what of his urge to die? That, too, is within. It must be projected outward; it must be thrown upon others. Otherwise there will be restlessness, difficulty. Both demand fulfillment. If you hold to one, what will you do with the other? You have to impose it upon others.

Therefore, the more one is filled with jiveshana, the more he will be filled with violence.

If Buddha or Mahavira could be nonviolent, the first reason is that they dropped the lust for life. Else, they could not be ahimsak. They abandoned the desire to live. Buddha has said: if even the slightest lust to live remains, a man will always be ready to annihilate others.

When do you fight? When you fear someone has come to snatch away your life—even if that fear is false. When are you afraid? When it seems your life may be taken—then you are afraid. Fear means only this: may my life not be taken away. So we seek security. And in that securing, if we must take another’s life, we shall take it.

Albert Schweitzer, a very thoughtful man, has called India death-affirming. There is a little truth in it—only a little. In the sense he intends, it is not right; but there is some truth. For the great seers of India are not filled with jiveshana. They say: the lust for life breeds violence.

When I want intensely to live, I become the cause of another’s death. And others, wanting to live just as intensely, become the cause of my death. No one truly lives; we become causes of one another’s death. We cut each other’s lives; no one lives.

So Buddha or Mahavira say: what is the worth of such jiveshana, which becomes the slayer of another’s life? If this is life—that violence against the other is inevitable—then this life is to be relinquished.

India’s longing has been: the search for such a life as is not in opposition to another’s life. We have called that the supreme life. The search for such a being, such a state, where my being is not an obstruction to anyone’s being. And if my being becomes an obstruction to anyone’s being, India has always valued such being as worth two cowries—of no worth. Then it has no value. Then, having or carrying such a being, what will you do with it? What will you do with a life that stands only upon another’s corpse? A construction that can arise only by erasing the other—India is not in favor of such a construction.

So Schweitzer is right to this extent: in his criticism there is truth that India is death-affirming. The truth is only this: India is not jiveshana-affirming. But the term is improper; to call it death-affirming is not right. For one who does not even affirm life—how will he affirm death? One who has no taste for life—how will he have taste for death?

In truth, India is neither jiveshana-affirming nor mrityu-eshana-affirming. India holds that these two urges are together; one cannot be given up while the other is kept. How can you throw away one face of a coin? Either you can throw away the whole coin, or you can keep the whole coin. But to think one face will remain and the other can be discarded—then you are mad. So India says: either keep both—then along with the urge for life the urge for another’s death also remains, along with your own death-urge. And if jiveshana is to be thrown away, then mrityu-eshana is also thrown away; it is the other face of the same coin.

Therefore India is muktivadi, not mrityuvadi. Mukti means: beyond both life and death. Life is defined against death; death is defined against life. Mukti means: beyond both. Not in opposition to either; not in favor of either—beyond both. Hence all Indian reflection has revolved around moksha. What is this moksha? It is a state of being where my being is not the exploitation of anyone’s being.

Understand this a little rightly. Where I am, and no one is erased by my being—no one. My being becomes the violence of none; my being becomes purest, innocent, holy—no line of violence remains in it. If such a life exists, India says, only such a life is worth attaining. On this earth, the life we see stands, in some form or other, upon violence. Therefore India has had no longing for this earth. The finest seers we produced were filled with an intense longing to go beyond the earth. They said: if this is life, it is not worth living. Can there be another life?

As long as the body remains, the possibility of that life seems difficult. For the body’s very being depends on violence: whether we eat food, breathe, drink water, take a step, lie down, rise, sit—violence is on the move. The body stands upon violence. But consciousness—the awareness within, the wakefulness, the bodha—needs no one’s violence. Therefore we have sought to know how to discover that element beyond the body. And we have accepted the body as a necessary evil. Its only use is that while it remains, we may discover that which is not body. The moment that which is not body is known, there remains no reason to come back into the body, to return.

If jiveshana is one’s own, then mrityu-eshana gets placed upon the other. Today or tomorrow it can return upon oneself. It is, after all, our own urge; it can return any time.

A man’s house caught fire. Just a moment before he was full of jiveshana—great dreams of living and being in the world. Suddenly he wants to leap into the flames: let me die. What happened? A moment before, this man wanted to live; there were great plans for living—long dreams to fulfill; time was short. Now suddenly he says: I want to die; leave me, let me jump; let me burn with this house. What happened? How did jiveshana turn into mrityu-eshana? He who wanted to live—why does he want to die?

All living has conditions. Be mindful: you too are living with conditions—whether you know them or not. This man’s condition for living—unknown to him till now—was: only if this palace remains will I live. Today the palace is burning; living has become futile. Someone loves someone; his wife dies, his child dies, his husband dies—he wants to die.

In our land, thousands of women became sati. What does sati mean? It means: there was a condition for life—only with the husband… When that condition broke, jiveshana became mrityu-eshana. Now she wants to die with the husband. It means: there was a fixed condition; without it, life is not acceptable; without it, death is acceptable.

I knew a friend; he was chief minister of a state. He had grown old. I was a guest at his house. In casual conversation he let slip—then repented, and said, Do not tell anyone. But now he is no more, so there is no obstacle. He said, in late-night talk: I have one desire—to die while still chief minister; for without being chief minister I will not be able to live even a minute. Since India became independent, he had been chief minister of that state. Only one desire—to die while still chief minister. If I am no longer chief minister, I will not be able to live.

Once he had been a schoolmaster, before independence. But now, to leave the chief minister’s palace and return to the earlier condition—he had no courage. His condition was pitiable. And I believe that had he not died while still chief minister, he would have committed suicide; he was that restless and tormented a man.

We live by conditions. Life is conditional. When the condition breaks, we agree to die. Whether you kill yourself or another, the cause is always one and the same. You kill another because he was becoming an obstacle in your life. And you kill yourself because your own life was becoming an obstacle in your conditioned longing for life. You eradicate it.

This tendency toward violence is a part of what Freud called Thanatos—the death-urge. If, as Freud says, this is so, then how can man be freed from it? Hence Freud says: at most, we can regulate man toward minimum violence; but never to total ahimsa. Man will remain violent. We can sublimate his violence, make it a little upward-moving. There are many kinds of sublimations of violence. If you take them into account, you will see that there, too, you are still doing violence.

Two wrestlers grapple; you go to watch. Thousands, even lakhs, gather to watch wrestlers. What are you going to see? What taste do you get? One will be beaten, thrashed, thrown; one will throw the other, mount his chest. Why do you feel thrilled? Stupid, utterly foolish—what have you come to see?

Yet watch people when a bout is on; they cannot remain seated—they are so filled with energy they keep rising. Their breath grows fast, the spine straightens—as if their life is caught in some great event. What is happening? A catharsis of the violence-tendency within you is taking place—it is being discharged. You are enjoying it. In truth, you are no longer strong enough to do violence yourself; you outsource it to hired hands. The professionals do the job for you.

Now we are incapable of doing anything ourselves. If you want to love, you cannot do it yourself; so you watch others loving in a play or a film. Your servants are loving; you watch. You feel relief; after three hours of such foolishness, you return with a lighter mind. Why?

You wanted to do all that. These impulses are within you. When on the screen the police chase the bandit, the situation becomes sensational; every hair quivers; there are hill roads, racing cars, and it seems—now the accident, now the accident—then you become as if you are inside the car. It is good the cinema hall is dark; no one can see anyone. If suddenly there were light, you would be ashamed: what were you doing? Why did you get so excited?

Something was happening within you too; you were becoming light. You watch wrestling, riots, war—something inside is being relieved. Hired hands are doing the work; what you cannot do, the professionals are doing. You cannot dance—someone dances; you cannot sing—someone sings; you cannot run—someone runs a race; you cannot fight—someone fights. We have created outlets for our violence.

And across the world, societies have provided such devices—holidays. Like Holi: a holiday. On that day, all the mischief you have wanted to do, you can do with joy—and no one will object. But have you ever asked why you do it? You wanted to do it all year, but there was no holiday. Your heart wanted it all year—abusing, throwing filth, harassing others—your mind wanted it constantly. A clever society gives you holidays now and then so the garbage inside can be released; some relief can come.

All over the world, especially in ‘civilized’ societies. Uncivilized societies do not make such arrangements; they have no need. They do it all year; so they have no need of Holi—the whole year is Holi. The more civilized a society, the more it must create outlets. Then we will take it lightly; you will not object—for you have never thought this is your need, a psychological need.

All over the world there are games, competitions, the Olympics. These are remedies for our violence—to let it flow out somewhere, to be released. This is sublimation—an upward movement in the language of psychology. Not very high, but at least it is not direct violence. And no one is greatly harmed. But violence exists within you and keeps demanding expression; this you must remember.

Hence, when war breaks out, a radiance appears on people’s faces. It should not; sadness should descend. But the opposite happens. When there is war, people are filled with a glow; there is spring in their step; a thrill in life—Something is happening! Life is not being wasted; all around, something is happening. The air is hot; you too grow hot. However much you condemn wars, if you look within, you will find you derive a taste. Yes—so long as war does not come to your own home; then you worry. Let it happen far away—Vietnam, Bangladesh, Israel—you are perfectly pleased. Let it go on. Even hearing it, watching it on television, listening to it on radio—your mind feels relieved.

Will man never be free of violence?

Psychology has no remedy—it is pessimistic. Psychology says: the best we can do is to channel man’s violence into appropriate avenues. Fine—watch the Olympics; make wrestlers wrestle; watch films—fine. Don’t do it directly. Vent your mind like this; lighten it. That is all that is possible.

Or, change the man. Psychology sees no hope. But Lao Tzu and Buddha have hope; they believe man can be transformed. And there is only one way to transform man: first, let man be fully acquainted with the facts of his own being. First, he must know that violence lies hidden within him. To accept this is the first step toward ahimsa.

But we do not accept it. We take ourselves to be nonviolent. One who does not drink water at night—he is ahimsak; one who filters his water—he is ahimsak; one who does not eat meat—he is ahimsak. We have discovered very cheap tricks of ahimsa.

But have you ever seen any difference in the behavior of one who does not eat meat and one who does? Any difference of violence? There is none. One who filters his water and one who does not—can anyone tell by watching their conduct which one filters water? No one can. Then what ahimsa is this? Their behavior is the same.

If a Jain shopkeeper—who in every outer way practices ahimsa—and a Muslim shopkeeper—who eats meat and does not renounce any outer violence—deal with customers, is there the slightest difference in their behavior toward the customer? There is none. The danger is that the one who restrains himself everywhere may squeeze the customer’s neck harder—because he has no other outlet or opportunity. The tendency to squeeze may become more intense—for if violence is spread out into many things, its concentration diminishes, it is diluted. If it is contracted from all sides, then it becomes dense; then it catches hold directly.

Hence it often happens—and we are surprised. In many outer senses India is ahimsak. Western lands are outwardly violent. But if you need to rely on humanity, integrity, truthfulness, keeping one’s word—you cannot rely on the Indian. Why? It should not be so. If so much ahimsa is being practiced, the Indian should be a different kind of man. But today we see that in the human sense the violent Western man proves better than us. Why? One reason: by these small outer practices we do not even leave ourselves outlets for our violence. Then our violence moves in a single direction; it becomes very condensed.

What conclusion can be drawn? This: one who, by outer force and hammering, avoids petty acts of violence and practices showy ahimsa, deprives himself of knowing a fact—that deep violence is filled within. With slight adjustments of behavior, he will forget it. And that forgetting is dangerous. Small changes of outer conduct do not matter much. Seeing the violence within will matter greatly; recognizing it will matter greatly. The deeper the understanding of it grows, the easier it will be to be free of it.

And as long as violence remains within you, there can be no beauty in your life. Keep this second point in mind; then we will enter the sutra. There is only one kind of beauty in this world, and that beauty is this: when every tendency of inner violence and destructiveness has been dissolved. When no tendency toward violence or destruction remains within, inner consciousness blossoms like a lotus.

In Buddha and Mahavira we have seen that beauty. One beauty is of the body; it is only a matter of opinion. It is nothing in itself. Wherever Buddha goes—even past an animal, it is said—the animal is stirred by his beauty.

Physical beauty is a matter of notions. Somewhere a long nose is beautiful; elsewhere it is not. Somewhere a white skin is beautiful; elsewhere it is not. I was reading a book by an American thinker. He has written that white skin is a kind of disease. He himself is white; it is a courageous statement. He writes: white skin is a kind of disease; because in a white-skinned person, certain pigments are lacking that a dark-skinned person has. And those pigments in the dark-skinned person are essential for the protection of life. He is a doctor, and says: white skin is a kind of illness; whiteness is not beauty.

If you ask the tribes on the Amazon, they do not even call a white face white—they call it pale-face. And they say: this is a sick man.

Whiteness is not beauty; it is a matter of opinion. Therefore we did not make Krishna or Rama fair; because in those days we did not consider fairness beautiful. Who knows whether Rama and Krishna were dark or not—that is another matter. But one thing is certain: the painters and sculptors of that time held the view that the dark has no rival; the dark is beautiful. So we gave Krishna the very names Nilvarna, Shyam—the dark one. In those days the Indian imagination of beauty was dark. We never considered white as beautiful.

But all that is a matter of notions. Notions keep changing. Physical beauty depends entirely upon opinion. What is beautiful today will be ugly tomorrow; what was ugly yesterday may be beautiful today.

There is another beauty which is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of inner state, of existentiality. Let Buddha pass through any age, among people of any notions—Buddha’s beauty will touch them. That beauty is not of the body; it is the inner magnet. That magnet becomes intense only in one whose inner violence has waned.

Why does he attract us?

Beauty means that which draws, that which attracts. Hence we named Krishna—Krishna means: that which draws, that which attracts. He who charms is Krishna; he who pulls, whose being has kashish.

Understand it thus: whenever someone is filled with anger toward you, all attraction to him ends—you feel repelled. If someone is filled with violence toward you—even if you do not know it—you will feel restlessness near him; you will feel repelled, you will want to keep distant—let him be far away. Sometimes it happens that a person utterly unfamiliar, unknown, is seen for the first time and you want to move away. What is the matter?

Whoever is full of violence toward you creates repulsion in you. If you are filled with violence toward someone, repulsion will arise. And if you are full of violence, not merely toward someone but as such, then whoever comes near you will want to go away. Have you experienced that people do not want to come near you—or, if they come, they drift away—or if you pull them, they run? If such an experience has occurred, you will assume those people are at fault. But reflect a little: if violence is within, violence repels; it has reverse magnetism—it pushes away. Naturally: where there is violence, there is danger to your life; so to keep away is proper.

When violence is dissolved, the opposite happens. In one from whom violence has been dissolved, you suddenly want to fall, to merge, to be near, to be close. An irresistible attraction begins to draw you to him.

If hundreds were drawn to Buddha and Mahavira and drowned in them, the reason was not what they were saying. For what they said lies in books; you may read the book—you will not go mad with love. How many times you have read the Gita! But what Arjuna knew, you cannot know.

What is the difference? There, the man was present whose very being was attraction. The Gita will not convince you, however much you read. In Krishna’s being there is conviction. Your consent is not to Krishna’s words or voice, but to Krishna’s very existence.

There is a beauty, an attraction, which comes when inner violence is dissolved. And that alone is beauty in truth. He who attains it is beautiful. One who does not, however many ornaments he wears, however much he deck and adorn himself from the outside—he only hides his ugliness; he does not become beautiful. Hiding ugliness is one thing; becoming beautiful is entirely another.

Hence a person like Mahavira could be naked; because now nothing remained to hide. That which was to be hidden—the ugliness—is no more. Beauty can be naked; ugliness cannot. Only beauty can dare to be naked. This does not mean that whosoever is naked is beautiful—do not reverse it. But beauty can be naked, can be revealed; because nothing remains to be concealed, no fear remains of anyone. Ugliness is afraid; it wants to hide, to cover, to be veiled.

Now let us enter the sutra.

‘There is no beauty even in victory. And he who sees beauty in it is the one who takes pleasure in bloodshed.’

There is no beauty even in victory; because victory depends upon violence; victory stands upon death. Who wins? He who is more skilled in killing, who is a greater messenger of death than you. In victory it is not revealed that Satya is winning, nor that Shiva is winning, nor that Sundar is winning; only one thing is revealed—that brute force wins.

Jesus was hung upon a cross. Those who crucified him had only brute force; Jesus had Paramatma. Yet the crucifiers won in the act of crucifixion. Mansoor—those who cut him had swords; Mansoor had the soul. Yet those who cut with swords won in cutting the body.

Consider this: the subtler the element within, the less will it win—outwardly—against animality. Even if you possess Einstein’s intelligence—what difference does it make? A stone thrown hard will crack your skull. And however great your soul, a sword will cut your neck. In the outer, animality will win.

And note another strange fact: outwardly, only animality wants to win. In the outer, only animality longs for victory; in the outer, the divine does not even want to win. For the very desire to win is part of animality; the impulse to conquer another is violence. Why do you want to win over another? To dominate? To display ownership? To reduce him to a thing and put him into your circle, your noose, your prison? Why do we want to win over another?

To win another means to destroy his freedom; in truth, to win another is to destroy him. If he obstructs our winning, we will destroy him. Either consent to live by losing, and we will let you live—or be ready to die. What in truth? In winning another, what do we seek? We seek to erase him. And why? What existential reason is there?

Let me tell it through a small story, known to all.

One day Akbar drew a line on the board and asked his courtiers, Make it shorter without touching it. They were in a fix; they could not. Then Birbal drew a longer line beneath it. Instantly, the first line became shorter—without being touched.

Exactly this we are doing in violence—only in reverse. We are very small within. One way is to make this inner line bigger. But then we must touch it; we must transform this inner being. Then in this inner being there will be struggle and sadhana. Then this inner being will be a long journey of revolution, of transformation. That is troublesome. We do not want to touch the inner at all—yet we want to be big; the ego wants to be great. So there is a straightforward trick: make the other smaller. Do not touch this; forget all about this self, Atman, and all that—just make the other small. The moment the other becomes small, you appear big.

All the taste of violence is this: by making the other small, to experience oneself as big. You do not become big. Birbal deceived Akbar; do not be deceived. The line remained exactly what it was—not a bit shorter or longer. But by drawing a bigger line beneath it, it appeared small. It did not become small; only in appearance. And that line itself has no idea it has become small—how could it know? It is you who see the bigger line beneath and make a comparison. Those who research sight and light call this an optical illusion. Birbal deceived; it is an illusion of vision. The line is the same; Akbar was deceived. Why did deception arise? A bigger line appeared; comparison arose; the smaller seemed smaller—by comparison. The line is the same.

Let Akbar be deceived—do not you be deceived. When you make another small, you do not become big; you remain as you are. And the fear is: if you could make another small, you have become even smaller—because one cannot make another small without becoming small oneself.

Therefore, if beside a person you feel he is making you small—he is not a great person. About Einstein, C. P. Snow wrote: I have met many of the world’s great, but the greatness of Einstein was of another kind—for sitting near him, one felt that one had become bigger. His presence did not even allow one to remember that on the other side sat Einstein. He gave no chance to this thought.

And by intelligence Einstein was unparalleled. One great thinker, Josef, has suggested that now the world’s calendar should be according to Einstein—Before Einstein, After Einstein. Events before and after Einstein should be measured by Einstein—let him be the line in the middle. There is weight in the suggestion. Never was there a man of such intelligence.

But Snow says: sitting by him, one did not feel one was sitting by Einstein. Only when leaving his house did the thought arise—whom am I returning from meeting? He did not even let that thought arise. And being with him, one felt oneself enlarged.

When you make another small, you cannot become big; you certainly become small. But an illusion appears—an illusion of vision.

So the pleasure of violence is one: to make the other smaller, to defeat him. You become big—or, at least, you feel so. If the other obstructs, then eliminate him. Then you feel you have ultimate power—you can even destroy. Be aware: another illusion is born. Those who can destroy think they can create. If I can destroy, then perhaps I can create—it is an illusion. Your power to destroy is not your power to create. Destruction is easy. Children, fools, madmen can destroy. Creation is a far greater matter.

The violent man, in destroying, thinks he has done something, achieved something. What have you done? You have destroyed. Destruction is no act; creation is. But the illusion arises: if I can destroy, I can create.

Psychologists say: in killing another, a man gains a belief—if I can kill, then no one can kill me. If a man kills millions, he feels: now who can kill me? But when death comes, it does not ask: how many did you kill? It makes no difference. Your mortal nature remains mortal.

The entire foundation of victory stands upon violence. Violence is ugliness.

Hence Lao Tzu says: ‘There is no beauty even in victory. And he who sees beauty in it is the one who takes pleasure in bloodshed.’

But man is dishonest. His greatest dishonesty is his capacity to rationalize—he can give a rational gloss to everything. Understand this a little—for it is man’s basic dishonesty. And we are all skilled at it. Whatever we want to do, we erect a web of reasons around it. Till now, man has thought he acts reasonably. But this is false. He acts first; the causes of action are not in reason—they are in the unconscious. Yet man is unwilling to admit he does anything without reason. So he acts for other causes, and shows other causes.

Understand it. You are sitting at home. One who sees you can tell you are preparing to pounce on someone. You are on the armchair; but the chair is resting—you are not. Your very manner shows you are searching—looking for prey. Anyone observing you can recognize you are in preparation—even though you have no idea yourself. The steam within is gathering; soon it will erupt.

Your child is coming home from school after a day’s troubles—for what greater trouble is there than the teacher! Bag slung on his shoulder, as if bearing the burden of the whole world—needlessly, and he does not know why. He comes along. You see: there are stains on his clothes, he spilled ink; or his shirt is torn, or his pants are muddy. You pounce.

You will say: It is necessary to correct the child. This is rationalization. Because yesterday too he came the same way—he is a child. And yesterday he was even a day younger. The day before yesterday he also came like this—spilled ink, tore clothes, played in the mud. The day before yesterday also—but that day, you were not filled with anger within. Today, anger is ready.

Yesterday, this same wife cooked; and as she always burns, so yesterday too she burnt. Today—today the food is totally burnt. Today you will fling the plate, and say: How long must one eat such food? If this is to be eaten, life is worthless.

But yesterday you ate the same; the day before yesterday too. And the first day this wife came, you said: Heaven is in your hands; what you touch becomes nectar. And that day also, it was burnt—more than now. But today, you will explode. You will say: how long can anyone eat such food? A man should get proper food! But if you look within—this is rationalization. You are rendering reasonable an event that has no relation to reason at all.

You see a woman—and you fall in love. Then you say afterward: her nose is such—I adore it; her eyes are such—I adore them. But all this is rationalization. When you fell in love, you considered neither her eyes nor her nose. These are thoughts thought afterward. You say: she is beautiful, therefore I fell in love. But psychologists say: you fell in love, therefore she appears beautiful. For the same woman does not appear beautiful to another. To some, the very same woman appears ugly. Someone may think inwardly: What madness—calling this woman beautiful! You have lost your wits. But to you, she appears beautiful.

Therefore, when someone finds someone beautiful, do not criticize. This is not the work of criticism. Remain silent; even if you do not find her beautiful, know it as your own failure. Be quiet. Do not speak in between; for beauty has no relation to the object. Anyone can appear beautiful when love happens.

And why did love happen? There is a great tangle: why did love happen? So people seek pathways. Some think: perhaps in a past life there was some connection; therefore love happened. But that is no solution. For why did love happen in the past life? How far back will you push it? Somewhere you must begin. What will pushing back achieve?

You do not know—love is an unconscious event. Psychologists say: it is unconscious. You do not know why it happened. And if your mind is opened, you will not find the things you narrate—about nose, eyes, body; something else will be found. If one descends into your unconscious, something else is found. Psychologists say: since childhood, images of woman have been imprinted within; as a child opens his eyes—he sees the nurse: the first woman. Or he sees the mother, the maid—someone; the first woman. The image of the first woman goes down into his unconscious. Upon this image, others pile up; for nearly a year the child collects images unconsciously. As many women as he encounters, those images are gathered. From all these images a composite idol forms in the unconscious—and he will search for this idol all his life. When this idol fits some woman, he instantly says: love has happened. But this has nothing to do with your reason or thought; it depends on exposure. Therefore many things occur of which you have no idea.

All men are greatly interested in the breasts of women. That is exposure; because the mother’s breast is their first experience. From that breast they received milk, food, the first touch. In that breast they experienced love. Their first relationships were with that breast. Hence they have exposure to the breast. Therefore you will not fall in love with a woman whose breasts are absent—hardly ever. You will not be able to. Unless you were raised by men since childhood and no image of breasts formed within—it will be difficult.

Hence women, knowingly or unknowingly, strive to accentuate the breast. False breasts are sold in the market too.

In America, a lawsuit occurred in 1920. A stage actress—very famous—had great renown. In a scene, there is grappling with the actor; in that tussle, her false breast fell out. She sued for millions of dollars; for her whole prestige was destroyed. After that, no one could believe her breast was real—whatever she might do. Her image was lost.

Why are women eager? Why are men eager? Do not seek rational causes; there are none. There is only an imprint—a samskara—laid upon the child since infancy. He seeks that samskara. Mother means breast; that is his first recognition of the world. Therefore breasts will continue to appear delightful.

Even the old man finds difficulty. An elderly gentleman asked me: What is the matter? Why is there still so much taste in a woman’s breast for me?

I told him: Do not be alarmed, and do not take it as a sin. There is no crime here. It only signifies this: you too were once a child. That is all. Do not be troubled. Be simple with it. Once you too drank from the breast.

But man builds a net of logic around things. This is called rationalization. One who takes pleasure in bloodshed will say: there is great beauty in victory; great dignity in victory; victory is noble; the victorious deserves glory. Why do you, why do we—if two people fight and one falls to the ground and the other sits upon his chest—why do we consider the one on the chest glorified? It is utterly beyond understanding—what is there to be glorified in this? You sat upon someone’s chest, the other lies below—what is there to glorify? He who lies below feels: I am nothing. He who sits upon the chest feels: I am everything. In the minds of the onlookers too, the one who wins is honored. Why? Why is winning such glory?

You have not thought. You too want to win, to sit upon another’s chest. Therefore whenever someone sits upon another’s chest, you deem him glorified—because that is your own desire too. And when someone lies under another’s chest, under another’s feet—you cannot call him glorified. Sympathy you may show.

Therefore no one becomes happy with sympathy. Never tell anyone sympathy by mistake. For it means: you too have accepted he has fallen—become worthy of sympathy. To be worthy of sympathy means glory is gone. No one shows sympathy to the victor. Have you ever said to someone: I have great sympathy for you, since you won? No one says that. Only for the defeated—sympathy. Why? You want to win, hence you call the winner glorious. And you too fear that you may lose—so at least you want sympathy. Both are feelings pressed within your unconscious; they spread out.

If a person truly wants to enter into spiritual sadhana, he must seek the unconscious basis behind each of his feelings. He should not try to explain with intellect and logic, to weave a net and say: because of this reason.

Ordinarily you will say: victory is noble; therefore the winner is honored. But why is victory noble? And why is defeat bad? And why is the defeated insulted? What are the inner causes?

The causes lie in your desires and lusts. What happens outside—winning and losing—is only a pretext; your inner craving uses that pretext.

Lao Tzu says: ‘He who enjoys killing—only he sees beauty in victory. And he who takes delight in killing will not succeed in his ambition to rule the world.’

Why will he not succeed in ambition? Because he who wins by violence remains afraid of violence. He who wins by violence can never move beyond fear. Therefore the greatly violent are greatly fearful. It is hard to find more frightened men than Hitler or Stalin—shaking to the core. Stalin’s daughter, Svetlana, wrote in her memoirs: It is difficult to find a man more fearful than my father. Having done such violence, he also excited many to do violence. As many as he suppressed, he excited them to take revenge, to counterattack, to suppress him.

And whom we suppress—he does not become fearful of us; he never accepts that we have won and he has lost. He always holds: it is a temporary phase; by chance you have come up—give some time, our turn will come. The defeated never believes his defeat is final. He holds: it is a momentary matter, a coincidence. The one who has won cannot believe his victory is eternal; he knows too: the one below can be on top tomorrow.

Consider: no one is ever conquered by fear; no one can be defeated by fear. Yet we all rely upon fear—not only the war-mongers, but we too. We believe in it.

In 1940 Roosevelt, in an address, said: I want my country to reach a state where no one is afraid, where no one is enslaved by fear, where all are free to be fearless. And he said a second thing: all should be free to worship, to pray.

A very thoughtful person wrote Roosevelt a letter: The two statements oppose each other; think again. For in the Christian prayer the very promise is: O Lord, may such a day never come that I am not afraid of You; let my love remain for You, and let me ever fear You.

He wrote a proper letter. Roosevelt was in a difficulty. He had written rightly: in prayer, it is fear that is prayed for. And if you want people to be free of fear, then people will be free of prayer; please keep this in mind. And if you want people to be free to pray, then you must allow them to remain fearful. There is a little truth in it. In English they say God-fearing for a religious person; we too say Ishwar-bhiru.

Tulsidas has said: without fear, there is no love—bhay bin hoi na preeti.

This seems true for a little distance; because our love stands upon fear. The father frightens the son, so the son loves the father. And when the son begins to frighten the father—the opportunity will come; not many days pass—then the father says: Now you do not love me. He never did. You were only frightening him; so love seemed to be. Now he has begun to frighten you—how can love seem now?

Hence every father experiences: now the son does not love me. When did he love? Tell that first. When the stick was in your hand, you felt he loved you. The stick will not remain in your hand long. Life gives everyone a chance; the stick comes into his hand. Then he too will show the stick to the old father. Now he wants you to love him. Earlier he loved you; now you love him. How long should he alone love—love him too.

One who frightens, thinking he has created love—he does not create love in the other, he creates only hatred. But Tulsidas is right regarding ninety-nine persons—people take fear to be love. So the more they frighten, the more they think…

A great leader—crowds gather; people shout slogans, garland him. Tomorrow he is out of power—then no one knows when he comes or goes; you hear last when he dies—then the papers report. Why? If there was so much love, how did it vanish so quickly? That love was never love; it was fear of power. The worship of strength—that’s what it was; hence it is lost.

If a husband earns much money, the wife seems to love greatly. Then he no longer earns, or loses wealth—then all love is over. Where did love go? It was never love; it was fear of wealth, of prestige, of power. Hence men have kept women fearful—believing a fearful woman will love.

A fearful woman will feel hatred within; she cannot love. But this work is cheaper—to frighten another is cheap. To evoke love for oneself in another’s heart is very difficult—perhaps there is no greater art on earth than love. So the cheap work: frighten—and fear is born.

Thus old religions also stand upon fear. They say: fear God. But if a man fears God, how will he love God? Does fear ever create love? Then in the heart this will remain: if a day comes, I will thrust a dagger into God’s heart. Inwardly this will remain. Outwardly the hands are folded, obeisance is made: I am a sinner; You are the purifier. But within is the hope: if only I could sit upon the throne, and You stand there before me saying, You are the purifier; I am the sinner! Fear always awaits—even if the fearful man does not know it. This is what I’m saying. The fearful man, unconsciously, will feel hatred and want revenge.

Lao Tzu says: through hatred and violence, one will never succeed in ruling. For the ruled do not accept you; your victory never establishes itself in their hearts. There is only one way for victory to be established in someone’s heart: the way of love—not of violence.

But there is a difficult condition: as long as you want to conquer the other, there is no love in you. It is a subtle matter. When love is in you, the other is defeated; but as long as you want to defeat, there is no love in you. Victory happens in this world, but only to those who do not want to win. And many times it happens that he who is ready to lose—that very one wins; he is the first to win.

Jesus has said: those who are willing to stand last will be first in my kingdom. And those who are willing to lose—their victory is certain. Those who are willing to let go—no one will be able to prevent them from gaining. Those who want to save will lose.

This is right—these inverted sutras are very right. But these are the sutras of love. If I want to win you, one thing is certain: I will never win—because my desire to win is making you my enemy. If I do not want to win, I have extended the hand of friendship. And if I am so full of love that you feel joy in winning me, I am immediately ready to lose—then I have won. In the world of violence there is no victory without defeating; in the world of ahimsa, the art of losing is the art of winning.

Such a person’s ambition will never be fulfilled who thinks he can rule the world through violence and bloodshed. Not even over one person—let alone the world. Consider your own small child: you cannot keep him under rule; in winning his love you will fail if you use violence. And all parents do it—therefore they fail. They frighten, threaten, intimidate. The child is weak—you can threaten. What will be the result?

This child is gathering hatred toward you. You are responsible. Tomorrow this hatred will erupt and flow. And then? Then you will only weep and wail and shout: all the children have gone bad. And you will never think how they went bad. For no child can go bad unless the father first went bad. There is no other way. The tree is known by its fruit; fathers are known by their sons. There is no other measure. If the fruit is rotten, the roots are rotten—no matter how loudly the roots protest that the fruit has gone bad. How does the fruit go bad? It is a long process—a long process that begins with violence.

But we are not mindful; we think rule is easy through violence. It is not possible even with one person—let alone with this vast world.

‘Auspicious omens prefer the left; inauspicious the right. The vice-commander stands on the left, the commander on the right. Thus, as at a funeral, so must the festival of victory be observed.’

Lao Tzu is being ironic. As if a bier is being carried, the corpse placed for the final rites—one side the commander stands, the other the vice-commander; fire is lit, the body is burned. The march of victory, Lao Tzu says, must be understood as the last rite at the cremation ground.

‘For the killing of thousands, sympathetic sorrow is required.’

And what are you doing—celebrating victory? After killing thousands, you celebrate victory? But understand this a little. Whenever a country wins in war, it celebrates. Why? If there is a little understanding, it could be admitted that there was compulsion—we had to fight. But what is there to celebrate?

The reasons are deep, psychological. Whenever you commit a crime, there is only one way to forget it: drown yourself in celebration. When a moment of repentance is arriving from within, there is only one way to avoid it: in the tumult of outward festivity, forget that moment. Whenever you mount a great celebration, you are trying to hide some inner crime. This is difficult—very difficult.

But man is very skilled in hiding. So whenever someone wins a war, he celebrates. In the noise of the celebration—in the bands, flags, colorful balloons, sloganeering, the stupidity of leaders’ speeches—an atmosphere is created in which we forget what we have done. What are we celebrating? We have strewn corpses—and upon them we celebrate? In the commotion of celebration, man then returns to his prewar, day-to-day occupations. In having celebrated, there is an escape from the moment of repentance.

But Lao Tzu says: it must be observed as the last rites—as if someone has died—submerge yourself in sorrow and grief.

But there is a great difficulty. If at the moment of victory we start sinking into grief, we will not be able to persuade people to commit violence. As I said the other day: if after the war we send our generals on a pilgrimage of repentance—or tell them: now you must fast for a month, sing the Lord’s name—or say: you have committed a great sin; you killed so many; now renounce everything and become sannyasins—then we will never persuade anyone to commit so much sin! He will say: If at the end I must repent thus, why go to war at all? Then we will not go.

If we must send soldiers to war, we must celebrate victory. For the soldier goes to kill and be killed for that very longing for victory, for that very pageantry. Tomorrow, when he returns victorious—after killing—we must welcome the killer. In the intoxication of his welcome, he will forget he has sinned. So we must give him the Padma Vibhushan, the Bharat Ratna, the Mahavir Chakra—so that in this clamor he feels he has done something great, and so that we may send him again into the same stupidity. Otherwise he will not go again. We must honor the soldier; for we have made him commit a sin. In exchange for that sin, we must give him glory—so he does not remember the sin. Thus the victory parade, the festival of victory, the noise behind it—all are devices to blind and deafen our soul.

If Lao Tzu is heeded, wars will cease in the world. If the victor too sinks into grief, then even the longing for victory will wither, and we will not be able to persuade people to violence. And a day may come when victory itself becomes a sin—a crime. We can form such a human being in whose heart the very longing for victory is a crime. Perhaps only then can we free the world of war. Before that, it will not be free.

However much we say wars should not be, we are still partners in the root causes of war; we never stand apart. We say war is evil—but that the winner is good; even we believe this. If a child returns home with a prize for standing first in class—he too is returning after defeating twenty-nine others. When a child comes home first in his class, we honor him; we invite war. He has defeated twenty-nine, pushed them down—so we say: you came first. The father rejoices—he could not come first; at least his son did. Through his son, his ambition is fulfilled. He will strut today—because his son came first.

But he has defeated twenty-nine. Those twenty-nine returned home in sorrow. Their fathers will be sorrowful, angry; they will insult them—say: shame upon you; better you were not born; ruined the lineage; you are a disgrace. Those twenty-nine who went home defeated—there will be mourning there. The one who returned victorious—there will be honor here. You have sown the seeds of war. Life will now run on this track always. He who wins is honored; he who loses is insulted. Then there are small wars and great wars. And life is filled with bloodshed.

Remember: there is no beauty in violence, and no glory in victory. The longing for victory is the expansion of a petty mind. To see glory in violence, victory, killing—this is the sign of a sick mind, an ill psyche.

The healthy man sees disease in winning; he sees sin in violence; he sees adharma in making another low, inferior. And he knows only one beauty—the truly thoughtful man knows only one beauty—and that is the supreme ahimsa, love.

And from that love too a victory is born—that alone is the real victory. And from that love a music takes birth in life—a music that goes on winning without defeating anyone.

Enough for today. Let us sing kirtan—and then disperse.