Tao Upanishad #65

People often ask me why I chose to speak on Lao Tzu.
For some compelling reasons. First, Lao Tzu’s entire tradition is almost on the verge of being obliterated. China is bent upon uprooting Lao Tzu’s whole vision, his way of contemplation, his ashrams, his sannyasins—root and branch.
It is a very ancient conflict. For nearly three thousand years there were two streams of life in China: one of Confucius and one of Lao Tzu. If you look deeply, all the ideologies of the world can be divided into these two halves. Confucius stands for rule, order, government, culture. Lao Tzu stands for nature; not for culture, not for rules—he stands for the anarchy of the innate; not for imposed order, but for effortless spontaneity; not for discipline—for all disciplines destroy the intrinsic nature of life—but for the natural flow. All the streams of thought can be divided into two: those that want to make man good, and those that want to make man natural. Those that want to make man perfect by molding him to some image, some ideal; and those that want to make man simply as he is—without any ideal, without any image to conform to.
Lao Tzu is the foremost in this second lineage. Even in his own time, many efforts were made to destroy his vision. The followers of Confucius tried in every possible way to prevent the very sprout of this vision from taking root; for nothing could be a greater danger to Confucius than this.
Lao Tzu says, there are no rules, for all rules are distortions. Lao Tzu says, nature, simplicity—let man flow like rivers flowing to the ocean. There is no need to build roads, because every road coerces man. To hand out rules is dangerous, because every rule is a subtle violence. Lao Tzu says, if man is left according to his innermost center, then nothing bad will happen in the world. There is no need to make man good; there is a need to leave him with his intrinsic nature. No striving is needed, because striving leads to distortion.
Naturally, this was very difficult for Confucius. In Confucius’ view, this man will lead the whole world into disorder, into anarchy; he will destroy everything. What will become of society, culture—ethics, virtue, rules? For three thousand years the followers of Confucius have tried, by every means, to prevent the roots of Lao Tzu’s sannyasins, his scriptures, his stream from settling in China. And Lao Tzu’s disciples cannot even fight, because they have no faith in conflict. Their trust is in surrender. They do not believe they are in opposition to anyone. So they did not fight. Even so, they remained alive.
But Mao Tse-tung has torn their whole structure up by the roots. Mao agrees with Confucius. And if we understand rightly, communism must agree with Confucius. Confucius says control should be in the hands of society. Lao Tzu says the individual is utterly free; no one holds his reins. The current that began with Confucius came to its conclusion in Mao Tse-tung. And Mao holds total power. So today, where there were thousands of ashrams of Lao Tzu, there it is difficult to find even one. One or two have been preserved like museums—to be shown to guests. Lawsuits have been run against sannyasins who follow Lao Tzu; they have been dragged into courts; beaten, tortured, murdered.
Naturally, in Mao’s eyes the followers of Lao Tzu are idle and lazy. Because Lao Tzu says, we have no trust in doing; our trust is in non-doing. Lao Tzu says, by doing you can only attain the trivial; only through non-doing is the vast attained—akarm, not karm. What can man gain through action? And whatever man gains through action will belong to the world. In non-action man sinks into himself; through action he goes into the world. And when one does nothing at all, then within him his life-consciousness blossoms with its complete fragrance. So Lao Tzu says, non-doing is life’s principle. Naturally, his sannyasins—in Mao’s language—are exploiters, parasites; they do nothing. Action is necessary.
For this reason too, I have felt it essential to reflect on Lao Tzu. Because it may happen that in the days to come it will be difficult to find even a single sannyasin of Lao Tzu.
And China’s communist assault is ferocious. Not only in China, but in Tibet too, China has tried to destroy every possibility. In Tibet also there was a lineage that lived by Lao Tzu and Buddha. Perhaps Tibet was the only country of its kind on earth which can be called a whole nation-as-ashram; where religion was the root, and everything else secondary; where among every four people there was one sannyasin, and there was no house without a long tradition of sannyasins. A father with four sons would certainly send one towards sannyas—because that was the ultimate.
But China has taken Tibet into its hands. And the deep traditions of sannyas in Tibet have been badly shattered. No possibility is seen that Tibet can be saved.
When the Dalai Lama left Tibet, China did everything to see that he could not leave. In 1959, all those familiar with the esoteric secrets of religion had only one prayer: that somehow the Dalai Lama might get out of Tibet, and along with him the priceless scriptures and some rare adepts and sannyasins of Tibet might also get out. But that he could get out—this seemed impossible. Only a miracle could find a way. Because the Dalai Lama had no modern equipment—no army, no bombs, no airplanes, no great means of security. And China had occupied all of Tibet.
The Dalai Lama’s coming out of Tibet is a very rare event. Thousands of soldiers were stationed on all the Himalayan routes. And perhaps a hundred planes were flying low over the Himalayas so that the Dalai Lama’s caravan might not slip out. But a miracle happened.
Those miracles you have heard of—of Mohammed, Mahavira, Buddha—have become very ancient stories. You have heard that when Mohammed walked, in the Arabian desert clouds gave shade over his head. You have heard that when Mahavira walked, if a thorn lay upright it would turn upside down. All these things sound like fables. But the event that occurred in 1959 cannot be a fable, and it has thousands of observers, witnesses.
For exactly as long as it took the Dalai Lama to enter India, a mist enveloped the entire Himalayas. And a hundred planes searched, but it was not possible to see below. That mist arose the very day the Dalai Lama left the Potala; and it ended the very day the Dalai Lama entered India. And such a mist had never been seen over the Himalayas before. That was the first time.
So for those who understand the esoteric intimations of religion, this was great evidence. Evidence that whatsoever is most precious in life—if it is on the verge of being destroyed—then the whole of nature also rises to protect it. Lao Tzu’s entire lineage is near extinction. Therefore many kinds of efforts will be made in the world that this lineage may not be destroyed; that its seeds may sprout elsewhere, take root elsewhere. What I am speaking is also a part of that great effort.
And if Lao Tzu is to be established anywhere, then other than India, it will be very difficult to establish him anywhere. It was not necessary for the Dalai Lama to flee to India only; he could have gone elsewhere. But there is no hope elsewhere. If what he brought is to be delivered to some hearts, then the possibility of such hearts exists nowhere else in any significant measure.
Therefore I have chosen to speak on Lao Tzu: perhaps a seed may fall into your mind, perhaps it may sprout. Because India can understand. India can understand the notion of akarm. India can understand the vision of nature, of intrinsicness. For our whole effort too, for thousands of years, has been the same.
This may be hard for you to hear. Because the sadhus and mahatmas who have been explaining to you are also teaching something akin to Confucius, not akin to Lao Tzu. The teachings given to you are not of nature either; they are all teachings of ideals. In them too an effort is being made to make you into something.
I hold that this is not India’s original current. India’s original current too is that you not be made into something; because whatsoever you can be, you already are. You have to be uncovered, not made. It is hidden within you; you have not to become something else; whatsoever you could ever be, and whatsoever you can ever become, that you are this very instant. Only it is veiled. Nothing is to be constructed, something is to be unveiled, some curtain is to be removed. Man is not to be made into Paramatman—man is Paramatman; only the remembrance of this, the awareness of this, the awakening to this. As if a treasure is in your house—there is nowhere to go to find it, no long journey to make. Only, you do not remember where it is buried. It may be that you are sitting right on top of it and know nothing of it.
To establish Lao Tzu in India is also a way to reveal India’s own deepest, suppressed inner current.
So there is a double purpose. One, Lao Tzu has been uprooted from China; there survival is almost impossible. And other than India, there is no receptive soil where his seeds might sprout—one. And second, India itself is afflicted and harassed by the teachings of moralistic sadhus and sannyasins. And those teachings are not India’s original teachings; they are the teachings of the moralists, the reformers—not the teachings of the revolutionary seer-sages.
The truth is: whenever a great Rishi like Lao Tzu appears, society becomes afraid of him; and the custodians of society become afraid; society’s gurus and leaders become afraid. They may even worship him, give him honor, but very soon they will alter his teachings, and they will inject into them those elements that attempt to fabricate man—placing an ideal in the future, carrying a fixed schema, a mold: man should be like this.
In fact, a teacher cannot survive if he accepts you as you are. A leader cannot survive if he declares that you yourself are Paramatman. A guru cannot survive if he tells the disciple that there is nowhere to go, nowhere to arrive, nothing to attain; that whatever you can be, be. This whole racket of the teacher, guru, leader can continue only by convincing you that you are wrong, and the task of setting you right is in someone else’s hands. The key is in someone else’s hands who will fix you; you are wrong. A sense of guilt has to be created that you are wrong. Only when you start trembling in fear that you are wrong will you fall at someone’s feet and say, fix me. And only when you are frightened that you are wrong will there be an opportunity for a fixer to start working on you. If you are already right, then this whole business we call religion collapses, falls to pieces; only its ruins remain.
So those who exploit religion have certain formulas—trade secrets, the fundamental sutras of their profession. The first is this: as you are, you are wrong; whatever you are doing is wrong; your tendencies are wrong, your actions are wrong, your very being is wrong. The more forcefully this is hammered into you, the more forcefully the business of religion can run—because then there is a need for a fixer. And the amusing thing is, this business is eternal—because you can never be fixed. You cannot be fixed because you were never wrong; therefore there is no way to fix you. If there were a disease, there could be a cure. But there is no disease. The disease is imagined, the cure is imagined. And the trade is long; it has no end.
You will be right the day you come to know that you were never wrong. The moment you accept yourself—that as I am, this is my destiny. Understand a little; it is arduous. Hence Lao Tzu is difficult to catch. All deep thinkers of the world are difficult to catch. Understand this a little. The moment you understand that as I am, that is my destiny, it cannot be otherwise—in that very moment all tension drops, all restlessness drops, all discontent and all racing dissolve; all seeking stops. The moment there is no longer any seeking, no longer any race, no longer any future—the moment you accept yourself in such totality that there is no need to go beyond this moment—in that very moment all your veils drop, and what is hidden within you becomes manifest. Because of the race those veils do not fall; because of craving they do not fall. This tension of becoming this or that keeps these veils intact. Better to say: this race, this craving to become something, to arrive somewhere—this itself is the veil; because of it I am stretched and cannot be one with my nature.
The formula for being one with nature is acceptance. And not a pitiable acceptance, not a helpless acceptance, not a forced acceptance; a simple, natural acceptance—that I am what I am. This does not mean you will not change. The truth is, only then will you change. By your trying you cannot change. It is a little subtle. Who will change you? You yourself are engaged in changing yourself—and you are the wrong one; and you are engaged in changing. The wrong one is trying to change himself. He will go more wrong. The madman is treating himself; he will go more mad. The already crooked seeks to straighten himself; that very crookedness is trying to be straight. In trying to be straight he will become more crooked. There is danger in your trying to do something as you are. Who will make the effort? You will.
Seers like Lao Tzu say: do nothing—stop—akarm! Whatever you do will be a mistake.
Just now in England there was a very unusual teacher, Matthew Alexander. He used to say to his disciples: whatsoever you do will be wrong, because you are wrong. Therefore I do not ask you to do anything. Do nothing—for a few days, stop doing. For a few days, drop even the idea of doing; for a few days, just remain as you are. From that remaining, rightness will begin.
This alchemy is not understood until it is used. We cannot believe it; because we are trying so hard and are not becoming right, while people like Lao Tzu say, do not try and you will be set right—it does not compute. We will say: we are not becoming right even with effort; if we make no effort at all, we will become even worse.
But I tell you: whether you try or not, you will remain as you are—you will not become much worse. With trying you may become worse; by stopping you will not become worse. At the most, you will remain as you are. But once trying stops, you will not remain even this much; as soon as striving ceases, nature starts revealing itself. A running man cannot see himself; to see, one must stop.
If you can become acquainted with Lao Tzu, perhaps you will become acquainted with the Upanishads, the Gita, Mahavira and Buddha in a new sense—the meaning that has slipped past you. I am discussing Lao Tzu so that if you can see the Upanishads through the eyes of Lao Tzu, they will open utterly new meanings—meanings your revered preachers are not opening at all. The Gita will reveal a totally new sense that neither Shankara opens, nor Aurobindo, nor Tilak. Recognition of Lao Tzu may prove priceless. Through it Lao Tzu can be saved, and the inner heart of India can be unveiled. That is why I speak on him.
Now let us take his sutra.
“Tao is the ultimate and it has no name.”
Two statements. One: whatsoever is ultimate cannot have a name; whatsoever is total cannot have a name; that which is the Totality, the Whole, cannot have a name.
Names can be given to fragments; names can be given to persons, to things. The meaning of a name is: that which has a boundary, that which can be defined. Of which we can say, “such and not such,” only then can the name be meaningful. The name “light” is meaningful at least in so far as we can say, “that which is not darkness.” Darkness provides a boundary. The name “death” becomes possible because we can at least say, “where the movement of life ceases.” Life provides the boundary. To define life, death is needed; because a boundary must be drawn. If death is to be defined, life is needed.
But that which is ultimate, other than which nothing else can be, it cannot be bounded, it cannot be defined, and it cannot have a name. “Tao” is not a name. Tao means “the Way.” The Goal has no name; only the way to It is named.
We give a river a name until it falls into the ocean. The moment it falls into the sea, the name is lost. Then the Ganga is no longer the Ganga; the Narmada is no longer the Narmada. And where in the ocean will you look for the Ganga? Rivers cannot be found in the ocean; when boundaries dissolve, names dissolve.
Tao is the Ultimate—therefore Lao Tzu says, it has no name. And whatever names we give are all provisional—indications. Those who clutch at names like madmen miss the point. People fight about names. What is God’s name—shall we say Ram? Or Krishna? Or something else?
Lao Tzu says, it has no name. Or, all names are its names. Then your name too is its name. Or else, none of the names is its name.
Lao Tzu lays great stress on not naming That. For several reasons. The moment we give a name, we are separate from That. Whatever we name, we become the namer—and are separate. And whatsoever we name, we have measured; we have completed its measurement. We have recognized it, known it, categorized it, made a pigeonhole: “this is its name.”
Lao Tzu says, this is madness; we can neither measure it nor assign a place to set it; we can make no category for it. Shall we call it female or male, living or dead—here or there—everything will be wrong. Whatever we say about it takes us away from it. Therefore Lao Tzu says, do not name it. It has no name.
And to live with the Nameless is what meditation is. When you sit repeating “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram,” that is not meditation. When even the name “Ram” is lost, when the repeater is no more and the repetition is no more—then you enter into That. We have called it Ajapa—the non-chant. Ajapa means: when the name is lost. As long as the name goes on, you are in thought. As long as the name goes on there is mind. And as long as the name goes on, you are, as the namer. And remember, the one who gives the name is greater; the namer becomes greater than the named.
Lao Tzu says: “Tao is absolute and has no name. That which is the Ultimate Truth has no name whatsoever.”
Because of this, Lao Tzu’s followers fall into a great difficulty: they have no name to use as a mantra.
One of my friends lived for some time with a sannyasin who followed Lao Tzu. Whenever that sannyasin sat to meditate, my friend was troubled: what does he do inside! My friend was himself a practitioner of japa. He asked again and again, what do you chant? The sannyasin would laugh. Many times he said: I do no japa at all, for we have no name. My friend could not believe him. He thought perhaps he was hiding his mantra; perhaps it cannot be told without initiation.
He came to me. I told him: he was not deceiving you. Those who follow Lao Tzu have no name. Then what do they do? They attempt to drop all names. That One has no name, but many other things do—and they are stuffed into our mind. When you “remember God” you add one more name to the line of already crammed names. There is the name of the wife, of the son, of friends; shop, market, goods, notes, money, bank—so many names. To this whole crowd of names you add “Ram.” And therefore, naturally, these old names, long entrenched, do not let this new name take root; they try to eject this Ram. However much you say “Ram-Ram,” between them the wife’s name comes in, the husband’s name comes in, the son’s name comes in; market, shop—everything intrudes. The old entrenched names do not wish to let this new competitor be seated within. And this competitor is dangerous, because it wants to throw all others out. The whole crowd gathers to throw it out. If you have ever used name-japa you will know what a commotion arises within.
The follower of Lao Tzu does not thrust a new name in; he only throws out the old names. He ladles out—he does not pour in. He waits for that moment when no name remains within. When no name remains within, then he will say Tao is attained, Tao is remembered. This is the remembrance of God. To become nameless is the remembrance of God. The process is utterly reversed. You are forcibly pushing one more name in. Be alert: first, in forcing you will not succeed—you will only be harassed; and if by ill luck you succeed, then from that forced name you will derive no joy. The success obtained by such compulsion will be dead; the silence that comes will not be alive—it will be graveyard silence. Therefore, those who try to impose japa by force—more often than not they do not succeed; and if they ever succeed, their japa turns into stupor—they simply swoon. The moment they install a name by force, immediately they sink into deep torpor; a dead peace seizes them.
Your house is already quite full; to invite God into this cluttered house is not appropriate. Lao Tzu says: empty the house. And that God is not coming from the outside that you need invite Him. Your house is full; that is why He is not visible. Empty the house. That emptiness itself is He; the emptiness within you is He. He is not a guest from outside; He is the inner emptiness, the shunyata within you, suppressed by your loaded stuff. Throw those out, and He will be revealed. To realize inner shunyata is meditation for a follower of Lao Tzu.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: “Tao is ultimate; it has no name. It is like an uncarved block of wood, which has no utility—no one can use it.”
This is delightful—an utterly unique and very profound Taoist image. Lao Tzu says: that which is hidden within you—Paramatman, Tao, Dharma, Atman—whatever name we give—it is like an uncarved block. One kind of wood is carved and gains price. Carve a piece of wood and it becomes an image—now it has value. Carve a piece of wood and it becomes a work of art—now it has value. Lao Tzu says: the very carving is man’s distortion; the more you have carved yourself, the more valuable you have become in the marketplace—but you have lost your nature. You are a carved man; you have price in the bazaar. Naturally, the more carved a man is, the higher his price in the market. How educated, how cultured, how polished, how civilized, how much he knows, how skilled he is in conduct—the more carved, the higher the price.
Lao Tzu says: but that which is hidden within you—the Divine—is like an uncarved block. Even if you want to, you cannot carve it.
You can carve yourself and sell yourself in the marketplace; you will fetch a price. But then your connection with nature will be lost. The carved form is culture. For Lao Tzu, culture is just a decent name for distortion. Lao Tzu is a mad devotee of nature. He says: what is, as it is, let it be! Do not alter it by an inch. For if you change it, you presume you are wiser than God.
There is the Divine who makes me; and then there is me who makes myself. God gives you birth; from God you are born, grow—like a wild plant. Perhaps it has no market price. In Japan they grow trees in pots. When Swami Ramtirtha first went to Japan, he was astonished. He saw trees three hundred years old whose height was five inches. He was bewildered—three hundred years old and five inches high! He could not understand. He asked the secret. The gardener revealed the trick: from beneath the pot we keep cutting the roots; the root cannot grow downward, the tree cannot grow upward. So it becomes three hundred years old, but remains five or ten inches tall—dwarfed. We do not allow the root to grow; the tree cannot grow above. And then, the branches we weave with wires as we wish; we even drive pegs into the branches to shape them as we like. A beautiful craft emerges. But the tree dies; its soul dies. The way the Divine wanted it, that it does not become; the way the gardener wanted, that it becomes.
We too do not become what God intended. We carve ourselves and become useful to the market; but the inner nature is distorted.
Lao Tzu says, it is like an uncarved block, which cannot be used for anything.
This is a very difficult notion. Lao Tzu says: the very idea of usefulness is wrong. Life is not a marketplace. Utility is a vain idea. In Lao Tzu’s reckoning, there is no word more filthy than “utility.” What is the use of the moon at night? What is the use of a flower blooming in a forest? What is the use of the sun’s orbit? What is the use of the oceans? What is the use of flowing rivers?
The whole existence is useless. In existence there is no utility. Utility is an invention of man’s mind. Man immediately asks: what is the use? To what end can this be put? Understand a little. This economic notion of utility—that only that which is useful has value—then what use is your soul? Any use? None. Can there be anything more useless than the soul? What will you do with Atman? What is the use of your life? Had you not been, what loss would there be? And when you are gone, what loss will there be? In ultimate terms, nothing whatsoever is useful. Existence is bliss, not utility. Existence is a celebration, not a means.
But our notion is of utility. We think of every thing: what is its use? It should serve some end. If it can be put to use, fine; if not, it is worthless. But you know: in life, joy is found only in those moments which have no use; from which you can make neither bullets nor banknotes; from which you can do nothing. In the morning you rise, a gust of wind comes—and you are delighted. You watch the sun rise and something within you begins to rise, and you are thrilled. But what is the use?
Utility turns everything into labor. Then even when a man loves, within he calculates, counts: what is the gain? What will I get from this? Therefore the clever never love; they keep accounts. They even derive some economics from love. They say: marry into a noble family, into a wealthy house, into prestige; derive some utility from it. Let love not be your natural act; it should have a market value. Whatever is in our life must be valued. But what price can be put on love? What price on joy? What price on meditation? None. Some things are valuable in themselves. Their worth is inner. They are not valuable for some other end; they are not a means to some other goal. They are their own end.
Children play. No value—only the joy of play. You feel they are wasting time. You keep ledgers and accounts. Children play and make a racket, and you feel they are wasting time. It is hard to say. Ask Lao Tzu and he will say: you are wasting time. If only you too could play! If only you too could be so absorbed in this moment that you drop the worry of whether it has any value. What does value mean?
The notion of value means that whatever I am doing is not valuable in itself; through it something else will be gained, and that is valuable. Value means the goal is always in the future, and what I am doing now is merely a means. You go to the market, sit in the shop—all this has no value; value is in the money that will come. And what value does that money have? You will search for some other value: what will be bought with it. And what value in that? If you keep searching in this way, you will find you are circling in a loop where nothing has any value—always postponed—further and further—you keep kicking the can down the road.
Lao Tzu says: do not postpone. Every moment of life is valuable—because every moment is not only a means, it is also the end. Live this moment as if there is nothing to be gained outside it; whatever can be gained is here. This is the doctrine of “uselessness.” It means: do not think utility; only make enjoyment supreme. Make enjoyment so deep that utility becomes irrelevant and the moment becomes meaningful in itself.
Even when people meditate—see the difference—if someone else meditates with one ideology, then meditation is a means. He says, God is to be attained. Value is in God; meditation is only a means. If someone tells him a trick—why so much effort? Without meditation there is a technique to attain God! He will immediately drop meditation. Because meditation was only a means.
Therefore, in the West a phenomenon is happening now: LSD, marijuana, mescaline... because their propagandists are saying: why meditate? That is the old-fashioned way—this happens with one pill. If meditation has value in itself, you will say: keep your pills; meditation is my joy. But if meditation is for gaining God, or for gaining something else, and someone claims that why waste three years in hard meditation—this can be done with an injection, with a pill—then you will drop meditation, naturally. Why waste three years? There is more utility in the pill.
And understand: that pill-seller will convince you—if not today, then tomorrow. I believe that the day this country comes to know fully of LSD and marijuana, this country will stop praying and meditating. Because those who come to me to ask about meditation are asking for meditation as a means. Their very logic is wrong—and the outcome of that wrong logic is dangerous.
Understand. A man is fasting. He fasts so that peace will come, bliss will come, or vision of God will come, or self-realization will come. But a physiologist, a biologist, explains: what are you doing in fasting? It is a bodily process; you were taking food, you have stopped. Some chemical elements entering your body are now not entering. The chemical homeostasis of your body is disturbed; some elements that used to come have ceased; some stored elements the body will digest daily. The chemical ecology within will change. He says: why so much labor! In three months you will change that inner chemistry—what we can change with one injection. His logic is clean—and anyone with a little intelligence will understand it. What does fasting do? In three months of long fasting your body’s chemistry will change. If what would happen in three months can happen now with one injection, what is the harm? You will have no argument—because fasting was a means. But if the same is said to Mahavira, he will say: I have nothing to gain outside fasting. Fasting is the joy; it has no utility.
Meera is dancing, delighted. She dances as much as she is delighted. Someone says to you: this dancing, this delight, this can happen with one pill of mescaline, with one injection of LSD—you can dance just like this.
Even a thoughtful man like Aldous Huxley has said: the experience that came to Kabir or Dadu—that has come to me with LSD. What came to Kabir has come to me with LSD. The difference between Kabir’s experience and mine is only this: Kabir did not know the modern way; he was taking the bullock-cart road, working for years; I know the modern way.
Alright. If you want to come to Bombay from Calcutta and you sit in a bullock cart only to reach Bombay, then what is the harm in taking a plane? Then you are foolish if you say: no, I will go only by bullock cart. Then you must not discriminate between bullock cart and airplane. Then it is proper to take the airplane—it has more utility.
But the man who says: it is not a question of reaching Bombay—there is joy in being in the bullock cart—then the difference arises. He will not agree to the airplane. He will say: there is a joy in being in the bullock cart that cannot be in an airplane. In truth, there is no journey in the airplane. How can there be a journey in the plane? You are transported from one point to another; the between is deleted. Journey happens only in the bullock cart, because every plant, every patch of earth passes by you and you pass by it. The airplane is not a journey; it is a way to avoid the journey. The in-between of Calcutta and Bombay is removed. You become two points; the middle drops. If tomorrow some even faster means arrives, we will use it.
Utility means: what we are doing has no value—we have to reach somewhere, some goal—and in whatever way we get there, fine.
But Lao Tzu says: Tao is not a goal. Hence he named it Tao—the Way. Tao is not a destination where we have to arrive. The Way itself is Tao; the Way itself is God. Each moment is the goal. And the one who uses each moment as a means is utilitarian; the one who uses each moment as the goal is celebrative. Understand this difference well. Then there can be only two modes of living. One: you do everything to arrive somewhere, and what is to be arrived at is ahead. Usually, no one ever arrives, because we go on postponing till death. The other way: where we have to arrive, there we already are; now we have only to enjoy this moment.
You are listening to me. You can listen in two ways. One: you are listening so that you may receive knowledge, find some way, use it. Then your listening is labor. Second: you are listening—this very listening is joy. Not to arrive anywhere by it, not to use it, not to accumulate knowledge, not to become a scholar—not to go anywhere. This moment of listening is joyous; it is a celebration. Then you are delighted each moment. Its value is not outside, it is inside.
This does not mean you will have no benefit; only then will there be benefit. Because the moments of joy you have gathered will sum up. He who has postponed will remain empty-handed. Because he who did not gather the moments, how will he gather at the end? The moments are slipping away.
Lao Tzu is utterly non-utilitarian. That Ultimate Truth, that ultimate element of life, is like an uncarved block—no one can use it.
Never think of using God; never think of using life. If you want to waste life, here is a trick: think of how to use it. And if you truly want to make use of life, drop the very idea of utility, and take life as joy, as celebration.
But we even use God. That is why when we are unhappy we turn to God—because now He can be of some use. In happiness we do not remember Him. What is the use? In happiness no one remembers God. What need—why remember!
I have heard: in a Christian home the mother asked her son in the morning: did you pray last night? He said: there was no need last night; everything was fine—what question of prayer!
We pray only when we want something. Today I was reading someone’s life. His wife got hurt in a car accident. Before that she had never gone to church. But that Sunday she reached the church. Bandages on arm and leg. The priest was surprised—she had never come; the husband always came alone. After the sermon, when people began to leave, the priest stopped her and asked: have you been shaken badly by the accident? For I see no other reason for you to come to church.
When we are in sorrow, we remember God; because now He can be used. When we are happy, we would rather avoid Him—lest He start asking for loans, lest some trouble ensue.... Even if God wants to meet you when you are happy, you will say: wait—there is no need now. When we pray, we ask; when we remember, we ask.
Lao Tzu says: beware, He can’t be used. And as long as you think in the language of usefulness, you can have no relationship with Him. The day the language of utility drops and the language of celebration begins, that day the relationship with God happens. Then whether you go to the temple or not; whether you remember Him or not; whether you connect with the outer structures of religion or not; but the one who turns life into celebration turns life into prayer.
“If emperors and landlords could keep this unblemished nature pure, the whole world would willingly offer them sovereignty.”
Such statements are uttered keeping Confucius in mind. For Confucius advised emperors, princes, landlords: live in this way, behave thus; sit like this, rise like this; let your conduct, your ethics, your ideal be such; let your life be a life of decorum; let all see and be impressed by your conduct; let even your sitting and rising be royal, not ordinary; only then will you be able to hold sway over people.
Lao Tzu says: this sway is false. Lao Tzu says: if emperors and landlords could keep their inner unblemished nature pure, the whole world would willingly give them sovereignty.
This is a different kind of sovereignty. Not because anyone is impressed by your conduct; not because anyone is impressed by your behavior; but only because you are as you are—your very being is a magnet, your natural being itself is the attraction. The first kind of attraction is contrived—there is violence in it, there is the other in it. The second is uncontrived—a flow. There is no violence in it, and no reference to the other in it.
The followers of Lao Tzu have held a very unique notion. Lao Tzu said: if in a village even four people understood me, and, understanding, began to live naturally, I would change the whole village. Those four need not go to change people. They need not even tell anyone to be good. Their presence will make people good. Wherever they pass, their breeze, their magic will begin to work. And people may never know who is changing them. For Lao Tzu says: if people come to know that someone is changing them, resistance arises.
A father wants to change his son and the son stiffens. A wife wants to change her husband and the husband stiffens. Because the ego does not like to be changed. No one likes anyone to change them. For the moment someone changes you, it means he does not accept you as you are; he does not love you. As you are, you are rejected. First he will cut and prune you—make you suitable to himself—and then he will like you. But no one in the world likes to be changed. Therefore when a father tries to change his son, he errs. Perhaps because of him, the son can never be changed. And when a guru tries to change the disciple, obstacles arise. When leaders try to change followers, followers do not change; followers begin trying to change the leader—and often they succeed, and the leader fails. Naturally—because the followers are many and the leader is alone.
I have heard: when the French Revolution was on, in one quarter of Paris a riot broke out; a gang was going to set fires. Two policemen grabbed the man who looked like the leader. His words are famous: “Don’t prevent me; let me go. I have to follow that crowd, because I am their leader.”
Even the leader has to follow the crowd. He becomes a follower of his followers. He has to watch what the followers want. Leaders try to change followers; followers change the leaders. In the attempt to change there is violence. And so, that which is greater in number wins.
Lao Tzu says: if one has to try to change someone, then the changer is not worth the name. Change is an inner happening. And as soon as someone lives with his own nature, by going near him your breath begins to change; your heartbeat changes; everything within you starts changing. His very presence!
The Sufi fakirs have accepted this fact. Hence the Sufis kept one rule: let no one come to know—remain quietly hidden. Your remaining quiet will make it easier to transform people.
There was a Sufi fakir, Jhunnun. For years he used to sit among disciples while a false man was placed in the seat of the master. That “guru” taught, explained, and Jhunnun sat among the disciples. Only much later did people come to know that this man was not Jhunnun. Then who was Jhunnun? The one who had been sitting among the disciples for years. When asked, he said: in this way I can change you easily. Your attention remains there on the speaker—and here I am quietly beside you.
Lao Tzu says: if landlords, emperors, gurus, leaders—the influencers—only live with their inner nature, the world will willingly grant them sovereignty.
At present they have to snatch and grab for it. Look at our leaders! With how much difficulty they remain leaders, with how much struggle. Whatever you do, they remain leaders. Thousands are pulling at their legs and they remain leaders. Their only work is twenty-four hours a day—how to remain leaders. It seems no one is willing to keep them leaders.
Therefore you see: once a leader steps down from office, you cannot even find out where he went. No name in the newspapers, no news asks after him. Strange sovereignty, that vanishes the moment the post is gone. As if the person has no value; only the post has value. In fact, those who seek posts are those who have no value within; because the value of the post gives them the illusion of value; they gain dignity from the office. Once removed, dignity is lost; no one inquires.
Lao Tzu says: if a person lives with his nature—just as God, as Tao has intended—flowing with his destiny—then he has a sovereignty, a leadership, a gravitation that is not imputed, not contrived; not something he has imposed upon anyone; it is his natural lordship. And the world grants it to him of its own accord.
“When heaven and earth are in embrace...”
Heaven and earth—for Lao Tzu these are symbols. Within you both exist. Within you are heaven and earth. And when you move in accord with your nature, then heaven and earth are in embrace—your circumference and your center are in embrace. And when you move against your nature, when you try to become something that is not your destiny, then your circumference and your center are sundered. Then your personality and your soul become two. Then personality is what you impose upon yourself by force, and the distance between you and your soul goes on increasing. In Lao Tzu’s idiom: then the bond of earth and heaven is broken; their embrace ends. From this breaking arises pain, anguish, sorrow.
A great lover of Lao Tzu has just written a startling book—on cancer. His thought seems right. Cancer is a new disease; and as yet there is no cure. He has written: cancer is a sign that the connection between the heaven and earth within a person has been utterly broken. The disease has arisen, for which there is no cure; because if it were merely of the body, there could be a cure. Cancer is not only of the body. If it were only bodily, there would be a cure. The disease is arising due to the distance between body and soul; not of the body alone. Perhaps the distance between body and soul is creating it. The more the gap increases, the more cancer will increase.
In one sense, it is a fortunate symptom—if we can become aware. If we can become aware, it is auspicious; if not, very dangerous. Cancer is not a disease; understand this. It is an inner accident in which all the bridges within have collapsed. The circumference is separate; the center is separate. We clutch to the circumference; our link with our own innermost is becoming attenuated. The disease generated by this tension is cancer. Cancer will increase. If the capacity to live in accord with nature does not increase, cancer will increase. Cancer will become a common disease. And it is difficult to find a cure. Perhaps even if a cure is found, greater diseases will arise. Because if the inner rupture does not find expression through cancer, if cancer is somehow stopped, that pus will search for another, bigger outlet.
The last two hundred years show a history in which one disease stands at the top; we find a cure, and a greater disease appears. We find a remedy for that disease, and a still greater disease appears. It is amusing that greater diseases appear instantly, as soon as we find a cure for the previous greater disease. Perhaps some deep inner anguish wants to express itself and we go on blocking its doors; it finds new doors.
Lao Tzu says: when heaven and earth are in embrace...
“Earth” means your circumference, your material aspect; and “heaven” means your consciousness, your soul—that which within is non-material.
“When both are in embrace, then the sweet rain falls.”
It is difficult to say what happens when your soul and personality are in embrace, when there is no distance within you, when there is no future, when you are wholly gathered in the present moment, when there is no fragmentation—when you are entire. What happens then?
Lao Tzu says: “Then heaven and earth join, and the sweet rain falls—beyond the command of men, yet evenly upon all.”
This rain cannot be commanded; you cannot make it happen by effort. Your striving cannot bring this rain. You can invite, not command; you can call, but not pull. You can pray and wait. This rain is prasada—grace.
Lao Tzu chooses very simple words: “sweet rain.”
Think a little—imagine an inner rain—your life-breath parched for years, for births; the soil within scorched, cracked; in your whole soul a single thirst, a single call—for rain. And then, it rains. In this union the thirst is quenched. That thirst of births upon births for “something”—and whatsoever was gained never quenched it; whatever was gained proved vain and the demand moved further on—like the horizon the craving receded—suddenly, in this union all wanting disappears, all craving evaporates; the horizon comes home. There remains nowhere to go; all is attained—nothing is left to attain. Such deep contentment happens.
I have heard of a Sufi fakir. His days of death were near. He lived in a small hut, but a large field and a big orchard had been given by devotees. A few days before dying he said: now I will die; as it is, I had no need for this big land even while alive—this hut was enough; and what will I do with it after death! After I die, bury me in this hut; it is enough. So he put up a board in the orchard: whosoever is utterly content, I offer this orchard to him. He must have been a dangerous man! Whosoever is utterly content, to him I gift this orchard.
Many came, but returned empty-handed. The news reached the emperor. One day the emperor came. He thought: you sent all others away—fine; how will you send me! What lack do I have? I am content; all that is needed is with me. He entered and said: what do you think? Many came and went—I too have come.
The fakir said: if you were content, why did you come? It is for the one who will not come—and I will go to him. That man is not in this village. He will not come here—why should he?
There is such a moment of contentment within—when there is no wanting, no race, and you are reconciled with yourself. In that moment, God comes; you need not go begging at His door. That day His sweet rain falls upon you. That is nirvana.
But to move towards it, you cannot do anything by way of effort; your effort will not work. Because it is grace. To make effort means you reached like the emperor—to ask. It comes to the one
who does not go to ask; who drops asking—he receives it.
That Sufi fakir must have been very wise. He wrote the last secret on his orchard.
“It is beyond the power of man, yet it rains equally upon all.”
And certainly, it rains equally because it is beyond your power. Were it within your control, the powerful would draw more; the weak would remain thirsty. He who could push and shove would occupy more; many would be left queued at the back. It can rain equally on all because it is beyond your control. You can do nothing; you can only wait. You can only consent, be ready. You can at least not create obstacles—this is enough. You can do nothing else; only do not obstruct—this is enough. Remain open; do not have the doors barred. If He ever comes to your door, let Him not find it shut—this much you can do.
Therefore it rains equally on all. Kabir or Krishna or Buddha or Mohammed—there is not the slightest difference. Buddha may have been the son of an emperor—so be it. Kabir was a weaver—so be it. Buddha very cultured, civilized—let him be. Kabir absolutely rustic, unlettered—no difference. When that rain falls, the sweetness is not different at all. Because there is no relation to the person, remember. If there were relation to the person, Buddha would win the race and Kabir would be in trouble. But there is no relation to the person. Your pot may be of gold or of clay—it makes no difference to the rain. Let your pot be empty—gold will fill and clay will fill. Emptiness is the condition; that the pot be gold or clay is not a condition.
Hence the unlettered also arrive. The poor, the wretched also arrive. The weak, the sick also arrive. And they do not receive less than the learned. Not a grain less. For the rain, there is no distance between person and person. Whenever you are wholly reconciled with yourself and have accepted—this is my destiny, my nature, I am like this—and you drop the slightest attempt to alter it—this is the greatest tapascharya.
It will be difficult to hear. I tell you: the greatest tapascharya is to be reconciled with yourself and to drop altering.
Try for three months. Whatever you are, as you are—make no change for three months. If you are a thief, you are a thief; if you are dishonest, you are dishonest; if bad, bad; if a liar, a liar—make no change for three months. As you are, and accept whatever consequences come. In three months you will find a new man has been born within. To become reconciled with oneself releases such energy that in that fire all the rubbish is burned—only gold remains.
But for this supreme event—that the rain may fall upon you—you can do nothing directly. Indirectly you can: you can leave yourself empty, open.
“And then human civilization arose and names came. And when names came, it became proper for man to know where to stop. He who knows where to stop is safe from danger. In the world, Tao may be compared to those rivers that flow and are absorbed into the sea.”
With nature there is no name, no word, no philosophy, no scripture. But human civilization arose; man began to think, to understand—words came. As soon as words come...
A child when born still is in Tao. But we cannot leave him like that. He must be taught, educated. It is necessary. If left as he is, that too would be unjust. He would not even survive. In this vast collective, this surrounding ring, to live he must be made capable. He must be ground, cut, carved; his rough stone must be made into a statue. Only then will he move. And language must be given, words must be given.
Lao Tzu says: the birth of civilization is the birth of language. Hence no other animal becomes civilized—because they have no language. Without language it is impossible to be civilized. Without speech, society does not arise; the individual remains alone. If there is speech, names will come; society arises, words will come, language will come, names will come. And when names came—and Lao Tzu is very much against names, very much against language, for silence—then it was proper for man to know to stop. But stopping is difficult. One name begets another. Words generate more words.
The more civilized a language, the more words it accumulates. English adds perhaps five thousand new words every year. Words keep increasing; language expands; thinking sprawls. And the distance between nature and oneself also expands. The roadways paved with language are precisely what separate circumference and center.
Lao Tzu says: then it was proper to know where to stop—because he who knows where to stop is saved from danger.
But man could not stop. Perhaps this danger too was necessary to pass through. And perhaps only by passing through it could the full meaning of silence be understood. If you can understand and stop, the Tao that was lost behind can be regained. The moment language is dropped, and you descend into silence, the connection with nature is made. The moment you descend into language, you begin to move away. This does not mean you should not speak. Lao Tzu too spoke. The point is only this: when you are not speaking to another, do not speak.
But you go on speaking even then. No one is there; you are sitting alone—and still speaking. Your lips also quiver. If someone examined you closely, he could catch what you are saying within. Inside, it goes on. Dialogue is going on within. Language does not stop. When awake, when asleep—dreams, thoughts go on within. This inner, ceaseless river of words does not allow you to descend into nature.
Nature is silence; nature is speechless. He who knows where to stop in that speechless realm is saved from danger. To know how far to go with words—this is wisdom. With another, speech is necessary; with oneself, silence is necessary. With another, words are needed; with oneself, the wordless. There is no need to speak to oneself; one needs to be silent with oneself. The day you are silent within, that day your first conversation with yourself will happen. Until you are silent within, you have not met yourself.
“In the world, Tao may be compared to those rivers that flow and are absorbed into the sea.”
As rivers silently—without pre-laid roads—groping in the dark, reach the ocean and dissolve. So, says Lao Tzu, Tao may be compared in this manner: silently, groping along all the roads of the world, you drown into the inner ocean of silence. The day your river of personality merges into the inner ocean of silence, that day you attain Dharma.
This may appear difficult; it is not. It may even look impossible; yet it is not difficult. Once the root formula is understood rightly, Lao Tzu’s great mantra is very simple. It is only this: to accept oneself in absolute totality and not to try to carve oneself. However you are—good or bad—ungainly, this is how God has intended it to be, and we will not try to be wiser than God. As He has wished, with His wish we are content. This contentment, this acceptability—this acceptance—is Lao Tzu’s great mantra. Then the river falls into the ocean.
We will pause for five minutes, sing a kirtan, and then disperse.