Tao Upanishad #68

In Lao Tzu’s vision, a teacher is one who need not teach; whose very presence becomes teaching. A guru is one who need not ask for reverence; to whom reverence comes as effortlessly as rivers run to the ocean. Only such ease can bring revolution to life.

The teacher wants to teach; the guru wants to display his “gurudom”; the father wants to change the son; the social reformers want to reshape society. Their intentions are auspicious, yet they do not succeed. Not only do they fail, they prove terribly harmful. For whenever someone wants to change another, he becomes the obstruction to that very change. And the stronger the insistence on change, the harder change becomes.

Insistence is an assault. Good fathers often fail to beget good sons. Their goodness—and their insistence that the son must be good—becomes the son’s perversion. A society that insists too much on goodness grows hypocritical, and inside it streams of un-good begin to flow. Whatever is prohibited gathers a secret relish; whatever is forcibly imposed becomes insipid. These psychological truths are becoming increasingly clear through the probing of the Western mind.

Yet Lao Tzu remains unmatched; even now humanity has not fully understood him. Lao Tzu says: by the effort to bring the auspicious, the inauspicious arrives; the attempt to make good turns into the cause of evil. Results reverse. If we grasp this well, we can enter this sutra.

When I try to make someone good, understand the entire weave of that effort. First: I presume myself to be good—this is a deep ego. Second: I judge the other as bad—this is an insult. And the more I insist on making the other good, the more I humiliate him; my zeal becomes a profound condemnation. Insult seeks retaliation; insult wants revenge. The one whom I subtly insult will take revenge on me. And the simplest revenge is to prevent exactly what I want from happening—by doing the very opposite. Thus sons move against their fathers; disciples shatter their gurus; followers bring their leaders to disgrace.

We saw it here: Mahatma Gandhi labored tirelessly that people become good; he tried with all his might to make his followers good. But he knew nothing of Lao Tzu. The result is before us: his followers became the opposite of what he wished. People will blame the followers. Lao Tzu does not; nor do I. The mistake lies with the teacher. But we do not see that mistake, because we carry the belief that “Gandhi tried so hard to make people good; if people did not become good, it is their fault.”

Lao Tzu says the fundamental error is the teacher’s. Wherever there is insistence, wherever there is an urge to set the other right, the outcome is inverse. And not only with followers—the reverse happened with his own progeny. The desire was not wrong, but he did not know the deep truth of life: insistence is aggression; whether or not the other says anything, inside he feels insulted.

The very moment I try to make you good, I have already said: you are bad. If I said it directly, perhaps it would hurt less. But I say it indirectly: “You must become good.” I am saying you are not acceptable as you are; trim yourself, polish yourself, then I can accept you. My acceptance is conditional: become as I want you to be.

I assume that I am right; then I try to prove that you are wrong. This is a deep violence. To kill the other is a gross violence; to change the other is subtler—and far deeper. If I cut off your hand, it is not such a great violence; but if I cut your personality—even with good intention, even to benefit you—it makes no difference. The strange thing is: those who want to benefit others, very often the real drive is not to benefit, but the secret relish of changing, breaking, trimming the other. And there is a subtle pleasure: I am casting the other into my mold. As I am, as I deem right, so I wish to make the other. This is an insult to the other’s soul.

Therefore teachers, idealists, saints, sannyasins, leaders, revolutionaries, social reformers cannot change society; they distort it. And the shadow that trails them is of great degeneration. Whenever a great man tries to change people, a stream of darkness is inevitably born behind him.

Lao Tzu says: do not change the other. Live in your swabhava—your intrinsic nature. If anything of value is present in your swabhava, the other will begin to change in your presence. That change will not be your insistence; it will not be your effort; you will not even be consciously active in it. The other will act, the other will strive; you will be only a silent presence, a silent inspiration.

In that inspiration, no device comes from you. And when one is merely a presence—of joy, of celebration, of Samadhi, of meditation—others begin to flow toward him. In this flowing, they take the initiative. It is their own wishful endeavor. As water flows downward, so wherever joy exists, beings begin to flow. The ocean does not invite, does not call; the rivers run to it of their own accord. It does not pull; the rivers hasten by their own will.

And when someone becomes a disciple by his own will, when someone transforms of his own accord, then true transformation happens. In that happening there is no harm. Otherwise one of two possibilities arises when someone tries to change you, to build you anew. If you are courageous and have some strength to rebel, you will revolt and move to the opposite. If you lack that courage, you will become a hypocrite. That too is dangerous. On the surface you will fulfill what has been said and taught; inside you will boil and burn. On the surface there will be brahmacharya; within, lust. On the surface nonviolence; within, all forms of violence. Outside all looks auspicious; inside the inauspicious gets suppressed. That is an even more diseased state. Rebellion is better—at least it is honest.

Thus two kinds of people remain trailing the “great men”: either those who go in the opposite direction, or those who obey and become hypocrites. Hence religious societies are often hypocritical. They should not be. It is a matter of concern worldwide: why is a land like India—with so many gurus, reformers, thinkers, saints—so hypocritical?

There need be no confusion. India is hypocritical because of so many reformers. They have explained so much what is right—and imposed so much what is right—that you do not even have the nerve to say: this is wrong. You overlay it upon yourself. You also lack the courage to walk in the opposite and smash the hypocrisy. So you superimpose it upon yourself, but inside you open a backdoor where you are the exact opposite.

Thus you have one face in the temple—that is not your real face. Your real face never appears there. The face that appears in the temple is a mask. It has no value. You know it is donned, for show, a social act; not your true individuality. When such a doubling happens...

Hypocrisy means: the real is hidden within; the false is worn outside. Between these two, a constant fight continues. If there is great restlessness in your mind, ninety percent of it is due to hypocrisy. You may practice meditation and yoga endlessly; until hypocrisy drops, peace is impossible. Yoga practice will not drop hypocrisy; prayers will not either. You must see this truth: that inside you have made two parts. One is utterly false—the one you call “right,” but never live. The other is what you live, and that you call “wrong.” Strange situation: whatever I do I call wrong; whatever I call right I never do. And what I do—that is what I am; what I say has no value.

This hypocrisy is inevitable. Wherever change is attempted, only two outcomes occur—rebellion or hypocrisy. And whenever hypocrisy becomes too much, rebellion erupts. If America and Europe are in revolt today, there is a cause: the rebellion is against two thousand years of hypocrisy created by Christianity. The exact opposite situation has arisen.

In this country too, if not today then tomorrow, a tremendous explosion will happen. In China the explosion came—its root was Confucius. Mao Tse-tung’s “success” is not truly his; it is that the Confucian mold—which had been imposed on China’s personality—had grown so heavy, it had to be broken. Whenever anything becomes excessive, it breaks. Everywhere moral structures are breaking, simply because they are hypocrisy. Lao Tzu lends no support to them. His vision of religion is altogether different. If we enter this sutra, we will understand.

“Hold the Great Symbol, and all the world follows.”

What is this Great Symbol? Tao is its name—or say dharma—or say swabhava. Swabhava will make it easier. What is your swabhava? Hold to it. Even if it leads you into hardship, go into hardship; if it brings trouble, fall into trouble. That trouble will prove polishing; that pain will refresh you and give you life. But do not leave swabhava; hold to the Great Symbol. Do not go against your swabhava, even if great profit appears there. Move not an inch away from swabhava, even if great loss seems to loom.

In Lao Tzu’s vision, this alone is sadhana: that which is my swabhava, I will follow. Very difficult, very harsh—because the whole society is full of hypocrisy. Where everything is false, if one person follows his swabhava, he will face difficulties. Naturally. He will speak a language and live a life that will not fit with anyone’s.

I read a story—seems written under Lao Tzu’s influence. A man, deeply impressed by Lao Tzu’s talk of swabhava, suddenly drops all hypocrisy and begins to act only as is natural. Within hours people suspect he has gone mad. His wife has him admitted to the hospital. He says again and again: “I am not mad; I have only become true.” The man whom he always knew to be dishonest—whom he had long wanted to call dishonest but had not, and had even praised as honest—he now tells the plain truth. No one listens; people think something has gone wrong in his head. They feel offended, because he starts speaking whatever seems true to him. So he sits at home. Visitors come to see this sick man. At first they were startled when he spoke truth; now they smile—because they all agree: “He has gone mad.” Eventually he is sent to an asylum.

If, within the present social arrangements, you suddenly become true, you will find yourself in trouble greater than even a madman faces. What will you say to the wife to whom for life you have been saying, “I love you; I cannot live without you”? What to the husband you kept calling “Paramatma,” though you dealt with him as if he were a devil? If for even twenty-four hours you become truly truthful, you will find it impossible to survive. It will become very hard.

Emerson wrote in a letter: “I hear and read that one must be truthful; but I know that if people truly followed truth, it would be hard to find even two friends in the world. Friendship would become impossible. Love would become impossible—because all stands on lies.”

Your love, your friendships, your relationships stand upon lies. Strange, that all over the world teachers teach truth—and our whole life-structure stands upon untruth. If for twenty-four hours we decide to live in truth, either we will be killed, or thrown into the asylum, or people will laugh: “Your mind is off.” These are their devices for self-protection. When they laugh and call you mad, they are not diagnosing you; they are protecting themselves. They are saying: “There is no need to pay attention to what he says. If the man is mad, nothing can be expected; he may say anything.”

Lao Tzu’s sadhana is arduous. As soon as you begin to move into your swabhava, you will find your entire personality is false. You will have to withdraw from many places. You smile falsely; you weep falsely.

I see people: someone dies in a house; visitors arrange their faces in a moment! Outside they come laughing, smoking; flick the cigarette away—instantly their faces turn grave; they utter somber words inside; then outside they laugh again, gossip, go off to the cinema. That cloak of grief in between—like nothing at all.

Tears are shed falsely; smiles are pasted. That smile is a paint applied from above. Gradually they forget what a real smile is. So much practice of the false—when the real should come, the false appears. It becomes a habit. Even when true tears should come, they cannot find them; the mechanical habit of the false has set in. Think on this a little, and you will sense how arduous, how intricate, how much tapa Lao Tzu’s sadhana will be.

“Hold the Great Symbol, and all the world follows.”

Yet the ultimate result is unprecedented, wondrous. Once a person begins to descend into his swabhava, first the whole world will move against him. Why? Because you became false precisely so that no one would turn against you. Understand this.

You built that whole structure of falseness to get along with everyone; that nothing be disturbed. In trying to keep everyone pleased, you have disturbed yourself. Whether others got “managed” is unknown; you certainly became unbalanced. You are no longer held together. Let everyone around be pleased, be happy—though none are happy around you—one thing surely happened: you ceased to be natural. Without naturalness no one can be happy. Joy arises only from harmony with swabhava; blossoming from oneness with swabhava.

So as soon as you endeavor to be natural, all the webs you wove to “manage” others begin to break and slacken. Those you “managed” start moving away. That management was merely makeshift; nothing was really managed.

The moment one holds the symbol of swabhava, the first outcome: people turn against him. If he becomes afraid, he will crawl back into his shell. If not, and he keeps walking in swabhava, the opposition will not last. The opposition is arising from their acquaintance with your old mask. As people begin to understand, as they taste your swabhava, your joy, your peace, the opposition will fall. After its fall, following arises; then people begin to walk behind.

Now you try to make people follow; none truly does. You may imagine they follow you; they imagine you follow them. But the day one becomes steady in his swabhava, people begin, unbidden, to follow. An extraordinary current has arisen within him, a great magnet has been found; people are drawn.

Before that happens there will be opposition. Those who were “with” you will leave; those who were your own will become strangers. For your ties with them were of falseness, of compulsion—out of fear and greed. Reflect on how your relationships are built. The husband is afraid of the wife—so he keeps on “loving.” The wife fears the future—“What of life? food? roof?”—so she serves the husband. But between them there is no natural resonance, no glimmer of love. We keep each other frightened—knowing this is our bond. We live on two bases: fear and greed. Therefore people seem to “go together,” but only drag along; no one truly walks with anyone.

Companionship is only when there is neither greed nor fear; when two natures meet and thus walk together. Then Lao Tzu says: the whole world follows.

But do not think this is a trick to make everyone follow you. If you are attracted to swabhava for this reason, you will never attain it. Only the one who leaves all concern for the other—whether he will follow or become an enemy—attains swabhava.

Often Lao Tzu has been accused of selfishness. There is some truth to the charge. Lao Tzu says: if you come rightly into your swabhava—he calls this the right “selfishness”—all else begins to happen. Do not worry about the other; the entire turmoil arises from concern for the other.

This is a little intricate. We are crammed with the ideal of altruism; we are busy “benefiting” one another—and our beneficence destroys the other. Understand this. A strong idea makes the contrary idea hard to digest.

The husband thinks he is doing everything for the wife. The wife thinks she is sacrificing her life for the husband. Together they think they live for the children. No one lives for himself. One who does not live for himself has no life; how will he live for another? Danger ensues. The husband works for the wife; naturally he will take revenge, for he is “ruining” his life for her. Who will pay back? He will show anger and resentment. The wife thinks she has given her body, life, everything for the husband; she will also take revenge. Together they grip the children by the neck: “We live for you; otherwise there was no reason to live.”

“No reason to live?” Your parents lived for you; they too had no reason. Their parents lived for them; these children, too, will not live for themselves; they will live for their children. If no one will live for himself, where will life blossom?

Thus parents keep taking revenge upon children; anger arises. I have not seen a single parent who does not get angry at the children. The cause is not the children; it is: “My life is being spoiled for you. I will die laboring, and you will enjoy.”

They too will not enjoy; your “grace” will spoil them. Here no one may enjoy; enjoyment here is sin. Parents take revenge, and remember: children will never understand that you lived for them—because you had no life. They only understand how much anger, harassment, trouble you gave. In the end children remember your malice; you remember your “sacrifice.” There is no meeting between these two languages. In old age you keep saying you sacrificed; children know you did nothing but torment. Children take revenge on the old, because in childhood they could not. They were weak, dependent; you tyrannized them. When you become old, they begin to torment you.

All over the world the old suffer at the hands of the young. As soon as you grow old, the children begin to insult and harass you. They too find ways. It is the same revenge returning; the circle completes. The old suffer: “How are the children treating us!” They do not recall how they treated the children. They remember sacrifice; the children remember cruelty. No bridge between.

Rightly understood, the person who will “ruin” his life for another is dangerous. The martyrdom that arises—“I am a martyr”—will take revenge. This martyrdom is the greatest sin. Never think in this language: “I will live for the other.” You are dangerous; you will harm him. Live only for yourself—and let your life have such fragrance—which it will, only when you live for yourself.

The husband lives for himself; the joy that flowers in his living will reach the wife; its light will fall on her too. But he will never say: “I lived for you.” “I lived for myself; and if floods of joy overflowed, they reached you as well. But I did not live for you.” And the wife lives for herself; when she has abundance, she shares. Whoever receives, she feels grateful to him—for when one is overfull with joy, whoever takes some of it relieves him of his burden. Parents live for their joy; in their shade the children too will receive much joy. Those children remain grateful lifelong, remembering the fragrance and shelter they felt. These parents will not carry in old age the thought: “We ruined our lives for you.” There is no question of revenge. Where there is no talk of revenge, much returns by itself.

In this world, the one who asks receives nothing. The one who does not ask, and gives from his joy—not from principle, not from duty, but because he has too much and finds bliss in giving—he receives immensely.

Lao Tzu’s teaching is supremely “selfish.” But I say, if the world comes near his teaching, there will be such altruism as cannot be measured. We are all “altruists,” and yet there is such turmoil and such unbounded selfishness. Results reverse. Drop concern for the other; care rightly for yourself. But we fear this. “Care for myself? That is wrong. One should always care for others. Sacrifice for the nation! for the husband! for the children!” As if you are merely a goat for sacrifice; as if you have no function but to be sacrificed. Somewhere, somehow, be sacrificed—and you are fulfilled. Lay your head on some altar—and the trouble ends; your life has attained perfection.

The very talk of sacrifice is absurd. Those who invented it have woven a vast false net—so ancient and so huge that to lift your head out of it is very hard. I too say to you: if you rightly care for your “selfishness,” no one will be harmed by you. From your life, altruism will flow spontaneously. Only what flows spontaneously is auspicious; what must be pushed is inauspicious.

“Hold the Great Symbol, and all the world follows—and follows without meeting harm.”

A unique sentence: “and follows without meeting harm.”

For following can be induced—but then there is harm. All leaders harm, because the leader’s relish is in making others follow. He has no real interest in the follower; he is interested that others follow him. The more the followers, the bigger the leader! His ego is gratified by the number behind him.

Thus you see: great leaders do not arise in times of peace; they arise in times of unrest. In unrest, people become frightened and seek support. During India’s freedom struggle, great leaders arose. No free land produces as many “great leaders” as a slave nation. Why? The masses want freedom; any support will do—they can follow anyone. Worldwide, great leaders arise in times of war; in peace, hardly any. Let England produce a Churchill! Another world war must be fought for Churchill to be born. De Gaulle said on Stalin’s death: the age of great leaders has ended. Indeed—Stalin, Roosevelt, Hitler, Churchill—big figures.

But all were born of war. Whether Gandhi or Nehru—such figures are born of conflict. When there is unrest and people are troubled and seek someone to follow. When there is no war, people stand on their own; they do not care to follow. Without fear, they do not clutch at support.

If the world became utterly peaceful, leaders would vanish. In a peaceful world there would be no leaders. Therefore I say: as long as there are leaders, there cannot be peace. However much leaders talk of peace, they cannot bring it; peace is contrary to their very existence. They will bring war. They will get so fired up saying “No war!” that, given the chance, they will wage war to ensure “no war.” Without war the leader cannot live. Where war ends, leadership ends. Politics itself ends if there is no unrest.

Hence unrest must persist—by any cause; some pretext must keep it alive. The pretexts may seem true—but the real thing is not the pretext; it is leadership. The troubled masses are the leader’s opportunity; his interest is not their misery, but that the miserable can follow him. One who is comfortable and at ease does not follow anyone. Trouble strikes, fear arises, standing alone is hard; you no longer trust your own legs—then you follow. Where this relish of making people follow persists, troubles will be manufactured. Troubles are essential. When the India–Pakistan war happened, Indira surpassed all; even Nehru faded. Of course. War frightened the people; frightened people gather in crowds. Once war is gone...

Hence in war people say: “The nation has great unity.” Not really. The frightened cannot stand alone; they need support. Enclosed within a crowd on all sides, they feel secure—“I am not alone.” Thus whenever there is upheaval, unity seems to arise. Once the crisis passes, unity disappears. If the whole nation is under threat, Maharashtrian and Gujarati have no quarrel; Hindi-speaker and Tamil-speaker have no quarrel. Both are afraid. Quarrels are not useful now. They will stand together. Peace returns; quarrels return.

If we understand this, leadership requires that people remain disturbed, unhappy, poor, troubled. If they became truly happy, leadership would die. Following can be induced by many tricks, but the costs are heavy.

All leaders damage the intelligence of their followers. Exploiting fear and greed, they stupefy you. They do not awaken your consciousness—they dull it. They say: “Don’t worry, you need not do anything; leave it all to me, I will do it.” You are afraid, so you feel relief: good, let someone else take all responsibility. The leader takes it—and grows big; his ego is gratified. But he harms you. Your consciousness should increase, not decrease. Your responsibility should grow, not shrink. Your awareness should expand, not contract. Your courage to solve your own problems should grow, not diminish.

Therefore the real guru is not one who takes your problems onto his head. The real guru takes none of your problems—and leaves you in such a state that you become capable of solving them yourself. For only when you solve your problems do you grow. If another solves them for you, you do not grow. The problem may get solved, but you have lost; you missed an opportunity for development. Leaders who take responsibility, gurus who take responsibility, bring harm.

Lao Tzu says: “and the world follows without meeting harm.”

If someone becomes absorbed in his swabhava, people follow him—and they suffer no harm. In following such a one there is no damage; only benefit.

But when a leader makes people follow, there is harm. One who has attained swabhava is not eager to make anyone a follower; he is not even eager that anyone follow him. He does not care to be obeyed. He is absorbed in his own bliss. If in the breeze of his bliss someone is carried in, if his fragrance seizes someone, if the music within him plucks a string in another’s heart—that is secondary; he has nothing to do with it.

“Follows without meeting harm—and attains health, peace and order.”

Those who follow one established in swabhava attain health, peace and order. The art is that he does not concern himself with your health, nor your peace, nor does he impose order upon you.

Lao Tzu’s words are deeply paradoxical. He says: the organizers of order have created disorder. Those busy arranging everything bring disorder. Their order is an imposition, which prevents anyone from remaining in his swabhava. They impose so much outer framework that the inner soul is crushed. They do establish order, but it is superficial, forced, like dependence. It cannot last; swabhava will break it. When imposed order collides with swabhava and shatters, disorder comes. Real order is that which comes without doing, without imposition.

You are sitting here silently. No one is telling you to be silent; no one stands with a stick to keep you quiet. I see, in religious gatherings, the preachers must say every few sentences: “Now be silent; now be quiet.” If that fails: “Say, ‘Glory to Sita–Ram!’” There is a stir for a moment, and a brief silence falls. It is astonishing—and the gurus do not see that people’s restlessness is saying: “Stop; do not speak. No one is ready to listen.”

Why establish order? Wherever people catch a note of swabhava, they fall silent. If they do not, the speaker should fall silent. Plain and simple. No need to arrange. Your silence here is an order arising from you. No one is bringing it. If brought from outside, a restlessness begins within. You may keep sitting, but you will toss and turn, because imposed order...inside something else is happening; above, you must do something else. You will tire; your life-energy will feel repressed.

Watch how children leave school—like prisoners released. How happy they are! In that delight, slates break, books tear, satchels are flung. Ecstatic. And what are we doing? For six hours we impose order with a stick. If today universities are being burned worldwide, do not think only the children are responsible. It was bound to happen. What you are doing with children is compulsion. That compulsion will provoke retaliation.

Earlier it did not, because there were few schools, few colleges; small numbers were educated. Those who went had means—money, comforts, property. The privileged do not rebel; they may lose something. Those who have nothing become rebellious; you cannot take anything from them.

Marx said: “Workers of the world, unite—for you have nothing to lose but your chains.” What fear can hold you?

Now universal education! Naturally, schools and universities are full of children who have nothing. You force them to sit six hours; they have nothing to lose. Six hours of punishment—stretched over twenty years. The result is chaos. Out of this massive imposition, disorder arises. No university can remain unburned. Before the century ends, the children will reduce colleges and universities to dust. You have no remedy—because all your thinking is wrong.

There is only one remedy: remove imposed order from colleges and universities; let natural order come. But that is beyond our imagination. We cannot even think how natural order could arise—because that would mean changing the whole pattern of life. A teacher can bring natural order if he is truly a teacher. But who is? Not one in a hundred. Ninety-nine came for a job—as they would take any job. In truth, they come to teaching when nothing else is available. First they try to be sub-inspectors, managers in some office, head clerks. Failing that, under compulsion they become teachers. This teacher—who wanted to be a sub-inspector—will breed disorder. He will strive to impose order so much that he will suppress everyone’s energy. The repressed energy will explode.

Lao Tzu says: there is another kind of order—of swabhava. When one follows such a person, if the world dissolves into following such a one, health, peace and order are naturally available.

What is health? A rhythm with oneself, a deep friendship within; no inner anarchy; no inner strife; a consent that all is well; a sense that all is right. A resonance in every note, every breath—that nothing is wrong. This happens only when one begins to be absorbed in swabhava. If you walk behind one who is drowned in swabhava, you cannot remain untouched for long. This immersion in swabhava is contagious.

In this context understand a sweet word we have: satsang. The sadhus and sannyasins have ruined it. Satsang does not mean the guru explains and you understand. Satsang only means: the guru is present, and you are present; merely being near is the meaning—nearness, proximity. Not an intellectual schooling; a soul intimacy. Sit near one who has attained swabhava, and within you too the same tune will begin to play that plays within him.

But it is strange. You go to a guru—if he sits silently, your satsang would happen—but he cannot sit silent. He must speak. By speaking he saves himself—from you. You do not know: language is a device of escape. When you do not want satsang with someone, you begin to talk. Through talking a wall arises between you. If a husband does not want satsang with his wife, he will start discussion—any discussion will do. You all know this: you will talk about anything to hide intimacy. Lovers can sit quiet; husbands and wives cannot. Lovers often fall silent; they do not feel like talking, they want nearness. When one wants nearness, one does not want to talk. When one wants to avoid nearness, one talks. Conversation is a shield, a device—a curtain behind which we hide.

Satsang means: go near one who has attained swabhava. His waves will touch you; in his silence you too may fall silent. The bliss in which he bathes will sprinkle a few drops on you. Standing where he stands, you will get a glimpse.

Another word we have: darshan. Hard to translate in any language. Satsang is nearness; and if, even for a moment, the gaze of the one established in swabhava falls on you—or your gaze falls upon him—a connection is made, a current, a wave that can sweep you away.

Westerners come and cannot understand: what is the point of going for a guru’s darshan? Unless there is a conversation, an interview, questions and answers—what is the use? Just to look? Then we could look at a photo.

But this land knows: darshan is wondrously beneficial. Only, the benefit is when the other has attained swabhava. It is like going to a mountain and peering into a deep gorge. When you look down, you tremble. Why? You have not fallen—just glanced. The depth outside awakens a depth within; it reflects; you tremble, fear arises. When someone has attained swabhava, going near him is standing at a human abyss—a chasm of consciousness—an endless void. A single moment’s darshan, and you will never be the same.

There was an art: how to do satsang and how to do darshan. Now you go to the guru, touch his feet, and run. Perhaps you did not really see; a duty done. Perhaps you did not peer. Sit a while and just look.

Remember: this is your test for the guru. If merely looking at him you begin to grow still, he is your guru. If sitting near him you suddenly begin to sink into meditation, he is your guru. What he says is not the question. What he is—that fragrance can be caught if you sit quietly for a while.

The only method to find a guru is that something must happen to you from his mere darshan, from his mere presence. Before he speaks, a message should arrive in you. Before he moves, something should move within you.

Lao Tzu says: “the world follows without meeting harm; health, peace and order are attained. Offer tasty dishes—the traveler halts; the guest stays. But the taste of Tao is utterly plain.”

Therefore, near Tao, guests seldom linger. Its taste is utterly plain. Lao Tzu says: Tao has neither argument, nor titillating excitement, nor the terror of threat, nor the lure of greed. Tao does not say: “Do virtue, give alms, and you will gain heaven.” Tao does not say: “Sin, steal, be dishonest, and you will rot in hell.” Tao does not frighten; Tao does not entice. Tao gives no assurances about the future—“if you obey, such will happen; if not, such.” Tao has no arrangements of greed and fear. Hence its taste is utterly plain.

Man becomes religious—ninety-nine times out of a hundred—from fear or greed. Afraid, he clings to God; tormented by greed, he clings to God. Our God is a fruit of fear and greed. Whenever you go to a temple, ask yourself: “Why have I come?” You will find either fear creeping or greed rising. If either is present, the temple is futile; go back home. Only when no ripple of fear or greed is within, is your entry into the temple.

Entering the temple-building is easy—flies and insects also enter in the rains. Buildings can be entered; but a temple is not a building. Temple is an event, an experience. You enter it only when these two have vanished. But if these two vanish, it is hard to find a religious man on earth.

Russell said: “If happiness comes to the world, then I shall deem anyone religious.” He is right in a way. Considering religious men as they are, Russell’s thought seems almost correct. He says: there is suffering, therefore people are religious. They are troubled, so they are religious. If they become happy, let us see who is religious. There is some truth. In happiness you do not remember; you remember in misery. The more the suffering, the more you become theist; the more the happiness, the more atheist.

If the world has grown atheistic, a great reason is science has reduced many sufferings. Fear has fewer occasions. Go back to the age of the Rig Veda—the very form of the Rig Veda shows everything was fearful. Clouds thundered—fear; lightning flashed—fear. Everything induced fear. Man had no control over anything. Flood—fear; no rain—fear; too much rain—fear; the night’s darkness—fear. All causes of fear.

Soon there will be a solar eclipse. In Africa there will be a total eclipse, a rarity of millennia. African governments are sending messengers to the tribes: “Do not panic; it is not the end of the world.” Otherwise the tribal people, seeing the sun vanish at noon, might die of fright; they will think the end has come. Their folklore says: at the end, the sun will suddenly be extinguished at midday; when it goes out, the end arrives. So lest they panic and commit suicide, warnings are being sent: “Do not fear; it is only an eclipse.”

In Africa man is still three, four thousand years old. There was fear of everything; and with every fear, God is remembered. Fear has lessened: no beasts attack; concrete walls feel secure; light seems to be in your hands. The fear of God has diminished; remembrance has diminished.

Lao Tzu neither frightens nor tempts. Hence his taste is plain. He only says: be natural. For naturalness is the only way of being; all else is disturbance.

“Offer tasty dishes, the traveler halts. But the taste of Tao is utterly plain.”

Scriptures serve delicacies. They give detailed menus of heaven’s pleasures—sometimes so detailed they later appear absurd.

One scripture was composed when homosexuality was rampant in that land; men were enamored of boys, more than of young women. The scripture arose in that milieu; so in heaven they arranged for this too: beautiful boys will be available. Girls will be there, and exquisite boys as well.

Mind is mind! All flavors installed in heaven; all terrors installed in hell. Thus hells differ across cultures, because fears differ; heavens differ, because pleasures differ. In the Tibetan heaven the sun shines warm and strong—Tibet suffers from cold. In hell, ice. In our hell we cannot arrange ice—rishis would enjoy it too much—so we light fire; we suffer from heat. Heaven has cool breezes, air-conditioned. Our sorrows we put in hell; our delights in heaven. In Tibet there is no ice in heaven; only sun, open sky. In our heaven, we must make arrangements for a little snow.

Lao Tzu says: Tao is utterly plain. We offer neither past nor future; neither pleasures nor threats. We say only this: if you become what you are, your life’s fulfillment and meaning are attained. The needless sufferings you create will cease; the natural joy which should flow will flow.

Except for man, nothing falls away from its swabhava. All of nature lives in swabhava, but its living so is compulsion—nature lacks the awareness to move out of swabhava. Only man can step outside. This is a great possibility—and a great danger. The danger: stepping out, we suffer terribly. The possibility: we can return.

Surely, we suffer to depths no animal can. We can descend to the final hell of pain; animals cannot. But we can return—and in returning, taste a bliss no animal can. Animals have pleasures, but without awareness. They cannot suffer to our depths, because they cannot go against swabhava. We can go against swabhava and gain ultimate misery—and returning, realize supreme bliss. Tao only clarifies the law. It does not say, “Do this.” It says only: “It is so.”

In Buddha’s words too, often such statements occur. Someone asks Buddha: “What should we do?” Buddha does not say what to do; he says: “I only indicate: doing this brings this; doing that brings that. I do not tell you what to do.” If you live in craving, there will be suffering; if you live desireless, there will be joy. “I do not say: be desireless or be desirous; I only state the law.” Hence Buddha did not speak of God; nor of heaven and hell; he spoke of dharma: such and such causes bring suffering, such and such causes bring joy. Now you decide. I diagnose the sickness and indicate the remedy. If you want to remain ill, remain; if you want to be healed, be healed. I do not condemn you for being ill; it is your freedom. I do not praise you for being healthy; it is your freedom.

So Tao makes no promises of any kind.

“The taste of Tao is utterly plain. Look—and it is invisible. Listen—and it is inaudible. But on using it, its supply never exhausts.”

Its taste is plain—so plain it is tasteless. Plain means: no taste is felt. As long as taste is felt, there is some non-plainness—because we only feel where there is some sting, some stimulus. Those who seek taste create excitations—pepper the food and provoke the tongue—then one feels taste. Without stimulation, no taste is felt. If utterly plain, there is no taste to feel.

“Look—and Tao is invisible.”

The eyes cannot see it. Everything else can be seen—only dharma cannot. It is the hidden law within all. Everything moves by it, yet it remains unmanifest. Like a tree is visible, but its roots are not. My hand you can see, my eyes you can see; but “me” you cannot. The more fundamental something is, the deeper it hides; the more essential, the less it shows. All important things dwell in deep darkness. Life’s mysteries are concealed in depth, in the womb; not on the surface. What appears is body—not soul. What appears is expression; form; circumference. The center is always unmanifest.

“Look—and it is invisible. Listen—and it is inaudible.”

Listen—and it cannot be heard. See—and it cannot be seen. Touch—and it cannot be touched. Taste—and there is no taste.

“But on using it, its supply never exhausts.”

Yet the one who begins to drown in it finds it infinite; its supply never ends. However much you partake, it has no end. No moment arrives when you can say: “It is over.” It never exhausts. Understand this in two ways. One: its taste is not felt because there is no excitation. Two: it cannot be seen because it is the inner center of life, not the circumference. And it cannot be heard because hearing too needs a shock, a striking. All sound arises by impact. There must be collision. But there is no “other” for it to collide with; it is alone. Existence is alone. With whom will it strike to produce sound?

Hence our sages called that state anahata nada—the unstruck sound. When that which is never heard begins to be heard, when that which is never seen begins to be seen, when the taste of the tasteless begins to be known—then one has attained swabhava. What must be done?

If you use the eyes, there is no relationship. So drop the use of eyes. When seeking that, do not use sight. But we do. With eyes open we see; with eyes closed we go on seeing; dreams continue. Close the eyes—images float. The outer world’s impacts have left pictures within; they begin to drift; imagination spins its web; the inner screen starts to play. Seeing does not stop. Even if listening to outer sounds ceases, inner echoes collected over lives resound. There is inner clamor. To relate to that innermost center, seeing must cease entirely. Whether eyelids are open or closed is not the point; the process of seeing must stop. Whether ears are open or closed is not the point; the inner clamor must cease.

When all movements of the senses come to rest, the intuition of that inner center begins; its taste—or its vision, or its hearing, call it what you will—our first relation with it begins. Whoever relates to it becomes the owner of an infinite treasure. Its supply never runs out. You cannot exhaust it.

In this world everything exhausts. Even the greatest emperor’s treasury is limited. Even the greatest wise man’s understanding is limited. Even the strongest man’s power is limited. Whatever we gain here, it will run out. Here there is nothing inexhaustible. But in the inner world of Tao, of dharma—in the world of the center, beyond expression, beyond circumference—everything is infinite; it cannot be exhausted. That bliss cannot be ended. No hour comes when we can say: “What we had is finished.” In the Infinite we begin to move; sinking into swabhava we relate to the infinite.

Even saying “we relate” is not right; for we are already related. Our attention is turned elsewhere. The whole trouble is only this: our attention is not where our treasure is. We look where our treasure is not. So we dream of going to the moon, of reaching Mars—but never of going into ourselves, of descending within. We assume: that, I already am. There is our deepest delusion. So we wander everywhere.

I have heard: a man went hunting for the first time; he was afraid, arranged everything. He went to a shop for all hunting gear—special clothes, boots, everything. He bought a compass too; lest he get lost in the dense forest. When he opened the compass box, he was puzzled. Everything else was clear; one thing made no sense: there was a small mirror inside. He asked the shopkeeper: “Everything is fine, but why the mirror?” The shopkeeper said: “Seeing into it you will know who has gotten lost. Direction is fine—but one must also know who is lost. Otherwise, what use is direction?”

Maybe it was a joke—but a deep one. You too are lost. And you keep asking: direction, goal, purpose. People come to me often with this question: “What is the purpose of life? the goal? Where are we going? Where should we go?”

All this is nonsense. First look into the mirror: who is lost? Where to go, what to become—this is secondary; that will be known. Who is to go? You have no sense of yourself, and you worry about life’s goal. Who am I—you have no feeling. Whether I even am—you have not experienced.

Tao is the journey toward the root: to be acquainted with what I am. For that, all the bridges you have built to relate to the outside—the gates and roadways to the other—must be closed, so that the energy that runs outward turns back and returns to you. We speak to relate to the other; speech is a bridge to the other. Without language there can be no relation with another. But language is a bridge to the other; to relate to oneself, no language is needed. Yet even with eyes closed, language keeps spinning; words keep whirling like a madman. They must stop. When they stop, relation with oneself happens.

Language is the path to the other; silence is the path to oneself. Eyes are for seeing the other; to see oneself, eyes are not needed. Even a blind man can see himself; eyes have nothing to do with seeing oneself.

So the work of the eyes must cease. Let all the senses come to rest; let them attain repose—then the glimpse of Tao begins. Once glimpsed, it is never lost. However far you go into the marketplace, you do not go far from it. Whether in shop or temple, crowd or solitude—your link remains. Its remembrance continues; and while it continues, what you do wrong stops by itself. While it continues, the paths you miss, the ways you wander—these close by themselves. Let its remembrance abide; let its tune hum within—and a natural transformation begins. The futile falls away; the meaningful blossoms. The wrong does not happen; the right happens of itself.

With Tao, morality need not be practiced; it happens.

Sing kirtan for five minutes—and then go.