Tao Upanishad #69

It is difficult to see death together with birth. But whether it is seen or not, birth is the beginning of death; it is death’s very first step. Yet we rejoice at birth and we grieve at death. If only we could see that birth itself is the commencement of death, then both the joy about birth and the sorrow about death would disappear. For death appears sorrowful only because birth appeared blissful. And the illusion goes on only because, owing to the interval between birth and death, we fail to see their oneness. They are two ends of one and the same thing; one end we call birth, the other we call death; at one end we are happy, at the other we are unhappy. Between the two is only the extension of the same wave. In truth, birth means that death has happened. However long it may take to manifest, however long for us to experience that death has happened, with birth, death has happened.

Lao Tzu calls this the rhythm of life. Rhythm is made of the opposites, it is woven out of duality. And for rhythm, the presence of the opposite is necessary. A single note cannot create rhythm; an opposite note is needed to give it relief and rise. If we inquire into the truth of life, the first truth we will experience is that life is made of the opposites.

This has very deep consequences. If life is made of opposites, then to desire one and reject the other is unintelligence, ignorance. To choose one and discard the other is foolishness. Because if life is made only of opposites, then when we choose one, we have simultaneously chosen the other. Otherwise, even that one cannot be in life. When we choose day, we have chosen night; when we choose love, we have chosen hate. And when we make a friend, we have begun the process of making an enemy. And when we rejoice, we have sown the seeds of sadness. The second thing cannot then be avoided. Because we have created one end of the wave, the other end becomes inevitable. What is visible to us is the manifest; the other end is unmanifest, hidden just beneath.

If it becomes clear that life is made of the opposites, then choosing ceases, choice ceases. And when choice drops from a person’s life, all his sufferings end. He no longer has any anxiety; there is no sorrow left for him.

It is a strange thing: we want to be free of sorrow, and sorrow goes on increasing; we want to attain happiness, and happiness never arrives — only sorrow arrives. Because in the desire for happiness we have also chosen sorrow. Life is made of the opposites; one cannot be separated from its opposite. There is no way to separate it. They are the two faces of the same coin. So when you ask for happiness, you do not know that you have also prayed for sorrow. The other face will also appear; if not today then tomorrow it will come into existence. Then you will be filled with dejection. Because you had asked for joy — and sorrow came. You had wished to make life into a beautiful poem, a song; but in the end death breaks all music, all beauty is scattered, all becomes ugly. Finally only the funeral pyre remains in your hands. All those flowers we saw in the dreams of life vanish dream-like; in the end only ash remains in the hand.

Lao Tzu says: if we understand that the rhythm of life is made of the opposites, that wherever one is, its opposite is hiding behind it — without which that one cannot be — then choosing drops. What meaning is there in choosing then? If in choosing happiness, sorrow is bound to be obtained, what meaning is left in choosing happiness? Then another phenomenon happens: the one who does not choose becomes available to bliss.

Happiness and sorrow are a duality; they are parts of life. Bliss is not a part of life. And bliss has nothing opposite to it. Bliss is the name of that moment when we choose nothing out of the duality. Then the rhythm of life is nullified; the rhythm of life falls to zero. And where life’s rhythm becomes zero, where life’s tune falls silent, there the note of liberation is experienced, the zero-note — moksha.

So first, understand that this duality surrounds from every side. Our mind will go on saying: no, it is not so. ‘When I love, where do I hate?’ But have you ever noticed that the one you have not loved you cannot hate — or can you? The one with whom you have no love, you cannot hate. So for hate, love is the first step. And how can enmity occur with one with whom you have never had friendship? Friendship is the first arrangement of enmity. From there the journey begins.

All friendships turn into enmities. Whether you understand or not, whether you recognize it or not, whether you go on denying it, whether you go on forgetting yourself — but all friendships turn into enmities. That is why friendship is so honored, yet the flower is nowhere to be found. It is honored so much because it is a sky-flower; it does not bloom upon the earth. All loves turn into hates. We can hide from ourselves the knowledge of this fact — that love turned into hate. We can find a thousand rationalizations, intellectual arguments, but this fact cannot be denied that all love turns into hate. That is why love is so praised. But the flower of love too does not bloom upon this earth.

Where there is duality — and life happens only in duality — whatever we do, its opposite has been linked with it. But there is also a non-dual realm. Yet there all the notes of life fall completely silent; no tune of life remains. Then there is no duality either. Call that moment the moment of liberation, moksha, or the moment of the experience of the Divine.

Before entering Lao Tzu’s sutra, keep this in mind. Lao Tzu has his own way of saying things. He says a thing very artfully.

In this sutra he says: ‘The one whom you want to bring down, first you must give expansion to him.’

Whom you want to fell, first you must raise him. Otherwise how will you bring him down? First you must give support so that he reaches the high peak; only then can you throw him into the valleys. So Lao Tzu says: if you don’t want to fall, be cautious about rising. People will of course raise you — because they want to see you fall. They will support you to go up. And while they are lifting you up you will not even be able to see that they are arranging for your fall. And when they offer you their hand as support, you become very pleased; but you know nothing of the other side. Those who honor you will be the very ones to insult you; those who give you respect will become the cause of your disrespect. Because the other side of honor is dishonor. Just as birth will certainly turn into death, in the same way honor too will certainly turn into dishonor.

Emerson has written a very unique thing — out of a lifetime’s experience. He writes: ‘Every great man finally turns out to be a bore.’

From the history of the last thirty or forty years we can understand what this means. In these thirty or forty years, as many ‘great’ men appeared on the earth, people one day honored them, lifted them to the summit — and in the last moments of the very same men’s lives, people pulled them down.

What prestige Churchill had during the Second World War! But after the war Churchill could not come back into power. Those who had worshiped him and thought that never had there been a greater man in England’s history, they themselves were ready to prevent him from returning to office. De Gaulle had to step down after the war. Stalin saved and built Russia. Hardly has any single man built a nation in such a way. The sins he committed were also committed to build that nation. The whole Soviet Union is the labor of that one man’s hands. But after the war Russia dethroned Stalin. And after his death — you know — even his body was removed from the square outside the Kremlin. It had been placed beside Lenin’s; that too, after his death, was removed. He was not allowed to remain in the Kremlin square. What could be the reason?

Do you know what you did with Mahatma Gandhi? No one could have imagined that a Hindu would kill Gandhi. But that too is a secondary matter; death is not such a great thing. Gandhi was to die anyway. But even before dying, Gandhi began to say: among my own followers my coin no longer passes; even my followers have turned against me; no one listens to me. I have become counterfeit.

You worshiped Gandhi, and then Gandhi himself had to say that he had turned into a false coin; there is no currency left in his name. What is the matter? Gandhi wanted to live for one hundred and twenty-five years, yet before dying he began to say there is no desire to live further. Because those for whom I wanted to live have all turned their backs. What does it mean? We never put these two facts together.

Chiang Kai-shek was given such honor in China that it is beyond measure. Chiang Kai-shek is still alive, but in China there is no one to ask after him. He cannot even set foot on Chinese soil. The people of China consider him enemy number one. Roosevelt saved America; brought her near victory in the Second World War. He had the deepest hand in saving the world from war. But after the war, the American Congress passed an amendment to the Constitution so that Roosevelt should not again become the President — they made provision for that.

What is the secret behind all this? It is not a matter of individuals. It is a matter of the duality of life of which Lao Tzu speaks — the rhythm he speaks of. Hiding behind respect is disrespect; behind honor, humiliation.

‘The one whom you want to bring down, first give him expansion. The one you want to weaken, first make him strong. The one you want to cast down, first enthrone him. The one from whom you want to snatch, first give to him.’ And the one who understands this secret, Lao Tzu calls that the subtle vision.

And this secret is profound. Because if it is understood, you deny the first step; then the second step does not arise. Lao Tzu would say continually: no one can defeat me, because I am already defeated. Lao Tzu would say: no one can push me back, because I stand at the very back — there is no place behind me. Lao Tzu says: if the first step is taken, the second becomes a compulsion; then it cannot be stopped. Beware at the first step! Then the music of duality that is life — which in truth is a dissonance, not a music, because there is conflict, an inner tension, a restlessness, a burning — for the one who is careful at the first step, the second never arises.

But the first step is very tempting; to be careful there is extremely subtle and very difficult. The first step’s temptation is great, because one cannot even imagine then that I shall become a false coin! One cannot even imagine that I shall be dishonored! That I shall be hated! When someone puts his arms around your neck in love you cannot possibly think that out of this enmity can arise. Impossible! The imagination cannot catch it. And that is why so many people are in misery. For the one who stumbles at the first step, the second is a compulsion; there is then no way to avoid it.

Remember, the one who has taken the first step will have to take the second. He has become part of destiny. And for the one who is careful at the first, the second does not arise.

Ambition leads into misery; because ambition leads to defeat. Ahankar — the ego — becomes a thorn, becomes hell. Because the ego lifts you up, inflates you — and then creates the condition for the fall. If we understand the sutra of egolessness through Lao Tzu it is very unique. Lao Tzu is not saying that ego is bad; he only says: ego is the first step, and the second step is deep humiliation. If you are also willing for that second step, then take the first. Understand this a little. It can be taken both ways. If you are willing for the second as well, and will remain equally content there, then there is no fear. Then when people lift you up, let them lift you. But remember: while falling, remain just as blissful. Then there is no problem.

So there are two ways. One way is: do not worry; accept the opposite. Then you can take the first step. When birth comes, birth; when death comes, death. When love comes, love; when hate comes, hate. You will be able to welcome the second with as much peace and harmony as the first; then there is no hindrance. If you cannot welcome the second and your heart trembles — how will I welcome the second? — then do not take the first step. These are the two devices. Hidden in these two are all the spiritual disciplines of the world. The one who refrains from taking the first step — that is one path. The one who accepts the second with the same flavor as the first — that is the other path.

The first path is the path of Mahavira and Buddha; the second path is the path we see King Janaka walking. The second has no concern about what comes next; and there is full awareness that the second will follow the first — knowing this, accepting this, he takes the first. Then there is no hindrance. Hence Janaka or Mahavira — these are the two options. Either do not take the first at all; or be fully ready for the second as well — make not the slightest distinction between them. Both have the same result. For the one to whom there is no difference between the first and the second, even if he ‘takes’, his taking is equal to not taking. There remains no difference.

Lao Tzu says: this is subtle vision.

‘Gentleness triumphs over force. Fish should be kept in deep waters; and the state’s sharp weapons should be kept where no one can see them.’

Gentleness triumphs over force. It does not appear so to us. To us it appears that force always triumphs over gentleness. In our eyes, in our understanding, by our measures Lao Tzu’s sutra is never seen — that gentleness conquers force. We always see force winning. Where do we see gentleness victorious? The reason is that we do not even know the meaning of victory. And what we call victory is only our partial knowing. We know only the first step. Understand this a little.

When force conquers gentleness, that is the first step — and there we conclude that victory has happened. But soon the second step arrives — which is defeat. Gentleness does not fight; therefore the first step never arises. And there is no way for the second either.

Jesus is the symbol of gentleness. Certainly, force appears to have conquered him. Jesus was crucified. A few moments before the crucifixion, Pilate said to Jesus: people say you are the son of God! This is the moment — show a miracle and you will be free; you can save yourself from death; and I too will be saved from the sin of being your collaborator in death. Show a miracle.

And people too were thinking the same — thousands had gathered: today surely a miracle will happen. About Jesus it was believed that if he touched the sick, they were healed; if he touched the dead, the dead arose. Certainly one who could give life to others by touch — when calamity came upon him, when the final moment of test arrived, a miracle was bound to happen. There was no doubt. Even Jesus’ disciples had no doubt. All stood in the hope: now the miracle! Jesus will be hung upon the cross and his real form will be revealed. He will be resurrected. And the whole world will accept his authority.

But Jesus quietly died upon the cross — as anyone dies. And I call this the miracle. I call this the miracle. It took Christianity a long time to understand this, and still it has not been truly understood. The mind goes on feeling: somewhere something went wrong; did God betray Jesus at the right moment? Did his power of miracle fail? Or was it all pretence? Were those miracles around him of no value? Are they false reports, mere stories? For one who could raise the dead, why could he not stop his own death? And this was the moment of examination. With this his victory would have been declared.

But Jesus’ whole art lies in this: he is not willing to win by force; he is willing to win by gentleness. Against force he will not raise force. Because whatever is won by force will today or tomorrow turn into defeat. Force is part of the duality, part of the world. Therefore Jesus will not use force; he will only witness, he will be silent, he will go on seeing. He will use only gentleness, humbleness, vinamrata. He will bend. When force attacks him, he will bend totally; there will be no resistance anywhere within him.

And the wonder is that this became the very cause of Jesus’ victory. No one would even have known Jesus; no one would ever have recognized him; no one would even know his name — if this gentleness upon the cross had not happened. Because of this gentleness Jesus won. But this victory belongs to another realm. Force lost; force fell apart by itself. Those who wanted to kill Jesus, to erase him — they were erased; and Jesus became utterly immortal, attained the nectar. This is not only in the historical sense; within Jesus’ inner being this is what happened. The greatest possible miracle in the world happened: Jesus, while experiencing the supreme life and the supreme power, chose to bend into gentleness.

Lao Tzu says: gentleness finally wins. Finally! In the beginning force appears to win. And that is why we trust force. For in the end we cannot see; we see only the first. Our eyes can see only near; far we see nothing. So everywhere we remain engaged in how to obtain power. Whether that power be of money, of knowledge, of tantra-mantra — but how to obtain power. Throughout life we have one search: how to become powerful. But what will you do with power? Why this longing for power?

Nietzsche wrote a unique book: The Will to Power. And in it he tries to prove that the very soul of each person is nothing but a longing for power, the will to power. Everyone wants to attain power — in whatever forms. When you want to accumulate more wealth, what do you want? Many people ask: what will you do by piling up money?

They do not know what they are asking. Money is not money; money is condensed power. A rupee lying in your pocket is not just a rupee; it is stored power. You can put it to immediate use. A man who was walking proudly — show him money and he will bend; he will press your feet all night. That man who can press your feet all night is hidden in that rupee. This great rush for money is not for money itself, as monks and sannyasins say — that you are mad unnecessarily. People are not mad unnecessarily; people are mad with a very clear mathematics. They themselves may not be aware; the race may be unconscious; they may not have sharp clarity about what they are doing. But the matter is simple: through money they are collecting power.

Someone else is collecting power in another way. One person studies in a university, becomes educated; he too collects power — through knowledge. A third one seeks by other means. But if we look at all people, by different paths they are seeking power.

One man sits to perfect mantras; he too is seeking power. He thinks that if the mantra becomes perfect, he will stir and influence people; thousands will be amazed — whatever he wishes he will show. He too is engaged in the same attempt. The person who prays, who worships — rightly understood, what is he doing? He too seeks power. He wants to influence God, to take him in his fist, to make him do something for him. So he will worship, kneel, fall in the temple. But what is the arrangement? He will weep, say: I am fallen, you are pure. He will say everything — but what is his purpose? The purpose is to grasp God in his hand and operate him according to his will. Therefore so-called religious people are heard saying: why seek petty powers? Seek the supreme power.

But whether you seek the petty or the supreme — power you must seek, power! What is the use of power?

Power in itself gives you nothing; only in comparison with others does it seem like strength. Power is comparative. This is the second truth to understand about power. It is always comparative. You cannot call someone powerful simply; you will have to say: A is more powerful than B. Saying merely ‘A is powerful’ solves nothing; C may be more powerful still. So power is always in comparison. Saying simply ‘you are rich’ is not enough; it is necessary to indicate: richer than whom? Because compared with someone else you may be poor. All powers are relative. Saying ‘this man is learned’ is not enough; you must say: in comparison with whom is he learned? Compared with someone else he may be a fool. All powers are relative. The enjoyment of power is not in itself; it is in making the other appear weak. Through power you are not truly powerful; but the other appears weak. From the other’s weakness you feel: I am powerful.

Hence the real relish of wealth is not in wealth; it is in the poverty of others. If there is no one poor, the joy of wealth disappears. Then there is no taste in it. Consider a little: you possess the Kohinoor diamond. Wherein is its delight? Only in this: you have it, and no one else has it. If everyone possessed the Kohinoor, the matter would be useless. You would throw it away. It would have no value. It is the same diamond — but now it has no value. Its value was that others did not have it. A strange thing: its value is not that you have it, but that others do not.

So all power depends on the other, and is in comparison with the other. The rich man is rich because someone is poor. The learned is learned because someone is ignorant. The powerful is powerful because someone is weak. The race for power cannot become self-knowledge, because the race for power is tied to the other — it is comparative. And a funny thing: what is comparative is dependent upon the other. Therefore even the greatest ‘powerful’ person remains dependent upon those weaker than himself. We do not see this. When you see an emperor walking with slaves behind him, it does not occur to you that the emperor is as much a slave to the slaves as the slaves are to the emperor — perhaps the emperor is more of a slave. Because if given a chance, slaves can leave the emperor and run away to be free; but the emperor cannot leave the slaves, because without them he will not remain emperor. His emperorship depends on the slaves. It is also a slavery to the slaves.

Mutual slavery — this is the condition. Whomever you enslave, you become his slave. Whomever you possess, you become possessed by him. Whomsoever you make weaker than yourself, you become weaker than him. This is deep arithmetic. It is not visible on the surface, but we all become dependent on one another.

The person who seeks power is seeking dependence, he is seeking bondage. Therefore even the greatest wealthy man cannot become truly rich; even the greatest scholar cannot become truly wise. Because the whole matter is comparative. His scholarship depends on fools. If the fools depart, his scholarship departs.

The ‘holy’ depends upon the unholy. If the unholy ceases, the holy loses all value; it disappears. Thus the holy strive hard that the unholy should vanish from the world — but if they understood the mathematics, they would know not what they are doing. They are engaged in suicide. Their holiness depends upon unholiness. The dishonest man, the thief — they create the holy man’s glory, his prestige. Because he is not dishonest, not a thief. The one who is thief and dishonest — he creates the saint’s shine. Imagine for a moment there is no dishonest person, no thief. In such a society, where no thief or dishonest person exists, can there be any ‘saint’? What would saintliness mean? Who would ask a saint? Who would give respect? The day you want to annihilate the unholy from the world, you must prepare to annihilate the holy as well. They are mutual slaveries.

If it becomes clear that power is comparative, dependent upon the other, then power can never become freedom. Freedom means: I remain absolutely alone; there is no dependence upon anyone, nor I dependent upon anyone; alone I become fulfilled, aptakama. Everything I need is within; none of my wants are fulfilled from the outside.

This cannot happen through power; it happens through peace. And peace is an entirely different thing. In power, one has to oppress the other, to conquer the other; in peace, no one is to be oppressed, no one to be conquered; neither is oneself to be oppressed or conquered. Peace means: my energy as it is, as I am, I am sufficient; I do not demand anything otherwise. I am content, delighted, grateful — whatsoever I am, that is my joy. In such a vision the search for power ends, and there is no give-and-take with the other; there is no relation with the other. This is sannyas. As long as there is give-and-take with the other, dependence upon the other, so long there is the world — in whatever manner that dependence is.

Lao Tzu says: gentleness triumphs over force. Let us understand what gentleness means for Lao Tzu. Because what we understand by gentleness, what is written in our dictionaries, is not Lao Tzu’s intention. Here is the difficulty of language — and for this very difficulty people like Lao Tzu find it a hindrance even to speak: how to say what they want to say? One has to use your words — and all your words are contaminated; you have already imposed your meanings upon them.

For example: gentleness, humility. When we use these words, what meaning arises in our mind? We say: such-and-such a man is very humble. Why? Because he is not egoistic, not stiff; he is bowed. So our meaning of humility and gentleness is bound to the ego — the one who is humble is less egoistic, is not egoistic — that man is gentle. But Lao Tzu’s humility and gentleness — the ‘gentleness’ he speaks of — cannot be measured by ego. There is neither the ego as we know it nor the humility as we know it.

Our humble man is also a hidden egoist. The man we call humble is often cunning, calculating. His humility is his cleverness; his humility too is his strategy of behavior; his humility too is a device to win you; his humility too is power.

There is a book by Dale Carnegie: How to Win Friends and Influence People. He says: be humble; the more humble you are, the more you can win people.

Certainly, if Lao Tzu spoke with Dale Carnegie, Dale Carnegie would not understand him at all. Because he says the whole point of humility is that through it you can win the other. Why can you win? Because you are flattering his ego. It is a kind of buttering. When you humble yourself before someone, you are feeding his ego. He becomes very pleased. He says: you are such a humble man. But he does not know why this humility seems so sweet to him — because his ego is being nourished. Someone has bent down — what a humble man! Why does this humility please you? Because your ego is being gratified. And when someone does not bend and stands stiff, why does his ego trouble you so much? It is not his ego that troubles you; it is pricking your ego. So in social arrangements, the shrewd, the skillful, the cunning use humility. They bow, they are humble; in every way they give a sop to your ego. But inside they are deeply egoistic, and are trying to defeat you.

The humility Dale Carnegie speaks of is a strategy of the ego. Lao Tzu’s meaning has neither your ego nor your so-called humility. Dale Carnegie’s humility is not there. There neither winning over the other nor losing to the other remains. The ‘other’ is not even there. The man is simply himself. He is neither concerned to win you, nor afraid to be defeated by you. He is not concerned with you. He is as he is. He is simple.

This humility of ours is very complex. Here, if you want to win people, you must be humble. What a joke! Here, if you want to push your ego forward, you must be humble. The more humble you are, the more you can fulfill your ego; the stronger you can make it. Man tries to gratify his ego by every means — by humility too.

Hence in every village you will find such people who are the very image of humility. But if you test a little, you will find within them the flames of a deep ego burning. And the very image of humility they have assumed is for that ego. And when the whole village says: blessed are you, there is none as humble as you — they are filled with swelling pride. Who swells within? The one who hears: no one is as humble as you; you are supremely humble; no one is as gentle, as simple, as saintly as you. Who swells within? The one that swells and rejoices — that is the ego.

Once you understand this, it becomes proper that if you want to fulfill your stiff pride, fulfill it through humility. Because by humility it is easier to fulfill. If you stand stiff, people try to break your stiffness. If you do not stand stiff at all, no one tries to break you; everyone supports you. If you understand this deep cunning, you can be saved from the mind’s deceptions.

Lao Tzu’s gentleness, humility, is the absence of both ego and humility. Our humility is an arrangement of the ego. Our ego too is only a degree of our humility, its additive, its measure. Where both are not, there a gentle person is born.

Lao Tzu is sitting. Confucius comes to meet him. Confucius would understand Dale Carnegie perfectly. Confucius was the very embodiment of propriety. Everything had its propriety, its rule. And you know: in China, or in Japan, even if people quarrel, they first bow to each other. Quarrel too begins with bows. They have become so humble.

Confucius came; he bowed. But he was shocked. Lao Tzu was sitting — and kept sitting. He neither returned the bow nor stood up. Confucius became a little restless and could not contain himself. He said: do you not accept any rule or convention of society?

Lao Tzu laughed and said: so you bow because of rules and conventions? Lao Tzu said: what answer is there to the formal! The formal needs no answer! There can be an answer of the heart. You were only bending because it is the rule! Then it is all hollow. There can be an answer of the heart; what answer to the formal? And it is good, he said, that you should come to know your formalism — because the formal is false. You did not bend at all; you only showed bending. If you had bent, I am bent already; there is no obstacle. And you cannot see that I am bent, because you recognize only formal bending. For me to stand up and bow is necessary only for one who is not bent within and is making an arrangement on the outside, doing a performance.

Confucius must have been greatly disturbed. In the little discussion he had with Lao Tzu, he later told his disciples: do not go to this man again; this man is very dangerous.

By gentleness Lao Tzu means gentleness of nature.

Let us try to understand. We have many words that have become deceptive. A man puts on a loincloth and we say: what a simple man! As if simplicity happens by wearing a loincloth. But why does he wear a loincloth? Is there some greed in wearing it? Some temptation? Is there an ambition to obtain something? Then it is no longer simplicity; then it is an arrangement, a business, an investment. By wearing a loincloth he is trying to get something. Or it may be that you honor simplicity, so he stands there in a loincloth to gain your honor.

What is the difference? One man stands with an expensive, beautiful tie — in the hope that you will respect him; another stands in a loincloth — also in the hope that you will respect him. What is the difference between their loincloths? The basic longing! What are they waiting for? You can stand in fine clothes; you can stand naked — it makes no difference. This difference is very superficial. What is the inner longing? Is there a longing for respect, for honor, for prestige? That people should see and know who you are, that you are important, special? If this longing is there within, even behind simplicity, then simplicity is no longer simplicity; it becomes complex, entangled.

I have known many people of ‘simplicity’. Their simplicity is entirely imposed, arranged. And it is not that these people are bad; they do not know. They too take it for granted that this is simplicity.

Simplicity is of the heart. There is no way to measure it by loincloths. If the heart is simple, that is a different matter. If the heart is not simple, however much you arrange, simplicity will not fructify. You will go on calculating — heaven, moksha, what shall I get, what not. Because you have put on a loincloth. A tremendous bargain! With one loincloth they arrange the whole moksha. Or someone stands naked and thinks param-digambarhood is attained. Now, what was missing? Was it only this much that you wore clothes, and they were obstructing moksha? Or you eat once a day — will simplicity happen from that? It is a matter of conditioning.

In Africa there is a whole tribe that eats only once a day. When Europeans first went and they learnt that people eat four or five times a day — sometimes tea, sometimes snacks, sometimes meals — they were amazed. They had no idea; for centuries they had been eating once a day — just as you eat twice. The stomach is ready for that; then hunger comes once in twenty-four hours. If you eat twice, it comes twice; if five times, then five times. The stomach accepts all arrangements.

The one who eats five times — that too is only a conditioning. The one who eats once — that too is conditioning. Changing the habit may be a little troublesome at first, but in a few days conditioning settles. Then there is no hindrance. But this has nothing to do with simplicity. Simplicity is not about what you do; it is about what you are.

A friend of mine once traveled with me. He created such a fuss over food — ‘simple food’ — that I have not seen a more obsessive person about food. For ‘simple food’ he created such a daily commotion that the one who eats non-simple food never creates. His whole day was spent in thinking about food.

How many hours before was the milk drawn from the cow? Because he calculated that after so many hours bacteria will arise. How many hours since the ghee was extracted? Is the milk from a cow? It should not be buffalo’s, it must be cow’s. Who drew the water? He kept all accounts. And people said: what a simple life! And he was engaged twenty-four hours a day only with ‘simple’ life. His sole aim became to manage it round the clock. And he received respect and honor for it. People took trouble, made all sorts of arrangements — and he received great respect. And for twenty-four hours he treated food as Brahman and contemplated it.

I could not see any simplicity there. It appeared a very non-simple life — very tangled. Not only tangled for himself, he tangled many others with him. All were afraid, trembling: if a little mistake happens, he will not accept the food; he will remain hungry. And his ‘remaining hungry’ is such as if it is a crime upon all. All would feel: a mistake has happened, a sin, great trouble.

You can turn simplicity too into complexity if your mind is complex. And if your mind is simple, your heart simple, you can live in any amount of complexity and yet not create complexity. Therefore, the real question is not what you eat, what you drink, what you wear. The real question is: what kind of heart you have, what kind of being you are. Are you entangled? Are you calculating?

I have heard: a Sufi fakir was traveling to Mecca. He and his companions had kept a month-long fast. They would break it on reaching Mecca. They came to a village, but great trouble arose. Only four or six days of travel had passed. A poor man of the village, who was a devotee of the Sufi, sold everything — fields, land, house — because his guru was coming, and a hundred fakirs with him, and he, the devotee, fed the entire village, gave a feast. He burnt up everything he had. His guru was coming.

When the guru came to know, the disciples became very anxious. They said: what now? We are fasting; the guru is fasting; the fast cannot be broken — even if life is at stake. These are the signs of a complex person: ‘Even if life is at stake’ — this is not the symptom of a simple person. The guru listened and said nothing. But when they arrived, he sat to eat. And when the guru sat, the disciples were forced to sit. But they ate with great sorrow, anxiety, sweating, self-condemnation, sin: what is happening? Has the guru forgotten? What has happened? A month’s fast — and it broke in six days!

When all had dispersed, the feast ended, in the night, alone, the disciples said: this is beyond our understanding. It is a great calamity — we undertook a month’s fast and it was broken in six days! The guru said: what is there to be disturbed about? From today we begin again; it will last a month. But that poor man had burnt up everything; to tell him that we were fasting would have unnecessarily created complexity and hurt him. What need was there? Why bring it up? We gained instead — we got the benefit of six extra days. Tomorrow we begin again, and it will go for a month.

This is a simple man. Those disciples were not simple men. Simplicity does not calculate. Simplicity is a spontaneous response. And to whatsoever occurs, without calculating about the future, the spontaneous communion, spontaneous reply — that is it.

Lao Tzu says: ‘Gentleness triumphs over force.’

That gentleness — the gentleness of the heart. There is no mind sitting there calculating that by being gentle, force will be defeated. If you make this into a mathematical rule — that by being gentle you will defeat force — you will never attain victory. And then you will say the sutra was wrong. For gentleness is no device to gain victory over force. The gentle simply finds victory happening — it is a consequence.

I went to a religious school. There a muni was presiding. Behind the muni on a board was written a maxim: ‘The learned is worshiped everywhere.’ I asked him: why have you hung this here? So that those who want worship may become learned! Because the learned is worshiped everywhere. A king is worshiped only in his own country, but the learned is worshiped everywhere. What does it mean? If the feeling for worship is to be aroused — let me be worshiped everywhere — therefore I shall become learned; how will you become learned? Or that ‘learning’ will be rubbish. It cannot be wisdom; it can be scholarship. But behind that scholarship stands only the ego, and the sole use of that scholarship will be to become an ornament for the ego.

We create cause-and-effect relationships in everything — even where there is no such relationship. Understand this a little, because it is hidden throughout our life.

I say to someone: come, play this game; by playing it great joy is felt. You come to play in order to get joy. You think: joy is felt, then let us play — joy is needed, therefore we shall play. Then you will not play; you will keep thinking the whole time: still no joy! Still no joy! When will joy come? And how can it come by moving hands and feet, by throwing a football here and there, or a volleyball over a net? How can joy come by tossing a ball over a net? But let us try, they say, perhaps it will come. You will become disturbed and get sorrow. Then you will say later: it was wrongly said — joy does not come.

Joy comes from play — but not as a cause-and-effect that you play and therefore joy will come; that in order to get joy you play and then joy will come. No. Do not even think of joy — just play. Do not bring joy into it at all. Do not even keep in mind that joy will come. Drop even the need for joy. Forget joy — only play. Then joy will come. Because joy follows play like a shadow — not like an effect, but like a shadow. But a shadow is not something you can grab. If you simply go on playing, the shadow gathers all around; you will be filled with joy.

Those who do not understand this fall into great difficulty. Somewhere music is playing. Someone says to you — a lover of music — come, there is great joy. You sit there with your spine and kundalini all tensed up — where is joy? This man is making noise — where is joy? When will it come? How long will it take? You keep checking your watch — still not come! Still not come! You will never get it. Because what you are doing does not allow any relationship with music to be formed.

If you think gentleness will bring victory, then gentleness will not happen at all — victory is very far away. Because that very desire for victory is the absence of gentleness. Therefore do not understand these sutras as cause-and-effect. Their meaning is of consequence. If someone is gentle, victory follows him like a shadow. But the one who thinks of victory first has placed victory ahead and gentleness behind — then victory does not follow him.

I have heard: a man used to visit Swami Rama. Rama would say to him: when I had one house and I clutched that one, even that one could not be saved. Now I have dropped all houses, and the houses of the whole world have become mine. When I held on to money coin by coin, not even a coin would stay in my hand. When I released my hold on money, the wealth of the whole world became mine.

The man said: I too shall try. He thought: if this is the case, why did the gurus not tell us earlier?

Rama must have been frightened seeing him. He said: wait! Do not get into trying, otherwise you will bring a case against me. If you drop your wealth in the hope that the wealth of the whole world will become yours, even what you have will be lost — the world’s will not be found. The man said: just now you were saying that when you gave up the petty, the vast became yours! I too want to try and see.

We all do the same. When we read the utterances of supremely conscious ones like Lao Tzu, we face the great difficulty that we think: perfectly right — we too want victory; and Lao Tzu tells the key — it belongs to the gentle — so let us become gentle.

First: if you become gentle by effort, that will be false. It will not be of the heart; it will be formal. Second: how can one become gentle with the desire for victory? How can one become humble wanting respect? If you become humble, you will be honored everywhere — how can one become humble from the desire for honor? You can be gentle only without any desire. Whether honor or dishonor comes, whether anything comes or not — all that is irrelevant; I want to taste the very joy of gentleness; in gentleness itself is my flavor.

And certainly, gentleness is such a great savor in itself that no extra victory is needed. If someone becomes gentle, he needs no victory; no victory can hold value in comparison. All victories are insipid. And the one who has come to enjoy letting go of wealth — even if the wealth of the whole world is given to him — he has no question of grabbing it.

But many hear the sutra: renounce Lakshmi and Lakshmi will massage your feet. Many even fall into the trouble of renouncing for that reason. I know many sannyasins who have lain down in hope that Lakshmi will massage their feet. They have prepared the serpent couch; Lakshmi does not come; no one massages their feet. Now they are very restless. Their boat is stuck in the middle. They can neither return nor go forward. But the desire they made was wrong. Lakshmi surely follows from behind — but do not look back. If you look back to check whether she is coming or not, you have missed. Then no matter how much you try, Lakshmi is not going to come.

So remember this sutra: if Lakshmi is what you want, then do not look back; you go on walking. But this does not mean you keep guarding yourself that you do not accidentally look back — because that too is looking back. Even if you put your neck in a cast so you cannot turn, nothing will change. Let the mind not look back — then certainly Lakshmi follows.

With all such sutras there is a difficulty: we agree to follow them, but their condition we do not understand. The condition is this — let me make it clear: gentleness triumphs over force; and gentleness means one who has no desire for victory. Then it is clear. Gentleness means one who has no desire to win. Certainly then gentleness triumphs over force.

‘Fish should be kept in deep waters.’

And that gentleness, Lao Tzu says, should be kept like a fish in deep waters — do not go on tossing it about outside. Because that is then shallowness. People flaunt their ego; in the same way they flaunt their gentleness. It is a great fun — but the two are opposite things.

A man stands stiff with pride — that can be understood. Because pride cannot survive within; it can only be outside. Pride is for the other to see. Therefore the egoist will display — that can be understood. He who has a palace will show it. He who has gold ornaments will show them. He who has diamonds will show them. Because their value is in the gleam in the onlooker’s eye; in the poverty that arises in the other; in the lust that is stirred in the other — ‘if only I too had it’ — in the feeling of absence in the other, in the other standing like a beggar — there is his relish. Therefore the ego will be display; without display it cannot survive. If you do not display, it will die. It is fed by display.

But humility, gentleness — if you display them they will die; if you display them they were false to begin with — there is no question of dying. Ego lives on the outside; there is its life. Gentleness lives on the inside; there are its roots. The deeper the better. That is why Lao Tzu did not stand up. But this is very difficult to understand. Had you gone, you too would have felt: poor Confucius is right — he bows; and this Lao Tzu seems utterly uncivil that he keeps sitting. At least stand up when a guest comes to the house…

But Lao Tzu says: fish should be kept in deep waters. What is there to show of humility? If it is, it is. Let its roots remain hidden and deep. Whoever can see will see it. To the one who cannot see, showing is meaningless — it will only give a relish to his ego and nothing else.

‘Fish should be kept in deep waters.’

This sutra is worth understanding in other ways too. Whatever is valuable within you, whatever you want to preserve, put it deep. If you want to destroy it, put it outside; if you want to save it, put it within. The tree is visible above; the roots remain hidden under the earth. The roots are valuable. If the tree brings the roots out to show, it will die. Whatever is deep and valuable, keep it within! Let no one even come to know. This does not mean no one will know — the deeper it is, the sooner it will be known. But do not try to make it known. Your effort to make it known shows that it is not deep.

When later the disciples asked Lao Tzu: you kept sitting! Why did you do that? Lao Tzu said: I was thinking — if Confucius has even a little depth, he will understand and see. But he could see only that I remained sitting and did not stand. He could see only the outer; nothing else. He lives only in form. Rules, propriety, order, formalities, etiquette, civilization, culture — he lives in these. He knows nothing of religion. Had he known, he would have seen that I am bowed already; whether I sit or stand makes no difference. This bowedness is my nature.

A mountain can bend — but how will a pit bend? A mountain can bend — but how will a ditch bend? Lao Tzu is like a pit; how can he bend any further? The one who is stiff can bend; but the one who is not stiff — how will he bend?

But we too do not recognize. We too would recognize Confucius, because we stand in Confucius’ tradition. Ninety-nine out of a hundred in the world stand behind Confucius. Once in a while someone understands. Otherwise we all understand only manners, forms, rules.

‘Fish should be kept in deep waters.’

Religion, meditation, humility, simplicity, gentleness — as deep as possible keep them. For the deeper they are, the more they will transform your being. Your humility is not for showing to others; your humility is to transform you. Your simplicity is not an exhibition in the marketplace; your simplicity is the transformation of your own soul. It is for you.

The Sufis say: when all are asleep, when the whole world sleeps — then quietly do your prayer. Do not go to the mosque; for there is the danger that perhaps you are not going to pray at all — you are only going to show that you too pray. That crowd that gathers — you want to show them that you are religious too. From religion, a certain respectability is obtained, a prestige that this man is good, honest, simple, religious, absorbed in prayer to God. The Sufis say: do your prayer silently in the dark when no one knows. Put it deep within; it is not something to be tossed outside. No one else has anything to do with it; it is your own matter.

But we put what is useless within; we collect junk inside. What is meaningful — which if it had been inside would have taken root, the seed would have sprouted, it would have gone deep into the soil, a womb would have formed around it — that we go on displaying. A strange thing! If you get angry, you suppress it inside — and show gentleness outside. Naturally, what you suppress is what you become. Anger is there, so you push it in. It doesn’t seem nice to express anger — what will people say? What will they think — a saintly man like you, and he is angry? So you go on smiling and push anger within. Lao Tzu says: fish should be kept in deep waters — and you also keep fish deep, but only rotten dead fish which would have been better thrown outside.

And when you restrain anger, it is not because anger is bad, but because prestige is lost by anger. Therefore wherever your anger will not harm your prestige you will express it. If your boss in the office scolds you, you stand there smiling; if you had a tail, you would wag it. You smile. But going home you can fall upon your wife — there, there is no fear for prestige. And in the eyes of your wife, whose prestige is there anyway? What is there to lose? At home you fall upon the child — there is no fear. You find any excuse.

That anger will come out somewhere — for the petty cannot be kept within; there is no space there for it. Only the vast can be kept there. The petty will come out — the petty is for the outside. And it is good that you cannot succeed in keeping it in; otherwise it would become an ulcer. Those who succeed in keeping it within grow ulcers. They are surrounded by deep disease. They have no heart left inside — only blisters. And they live with them, breathe with them; their life becomes a great ailment. But what is excellent we display; what is base we suppress.

Suppress the excellent! The more precious the diamond, the deeper you keep it — let no one know. There it will grow; there it will find a womb; it will spread and become light over your whole being.

Lao Tzu says: ‘Fish should be kept in deep waters. The sharp weapons of the state should be kept where no one can see them.’

Lao Tzu is not in favor of the state; nor of armies; nor of violence; nor of war. Lao Tzu holds that all wars, all armies, all states are distortions of human life. He says: those things dangerous to society and state — the weapons — should be kept so far away that people cannot even find them. Understand this a little: man’s distortion has not increased so much as the means to use his distortions have increased. If we look at man, ten thousand years ago man was the same as you are. There is no difference between you and a man of ten thousand years ago. The only difference is this: if that man got into a quarrel and became angry, he might scratch you with his nails — and you have the atom bomb. If you become angry, you will not scratch with nails; you will be ready to destroy the whole earth.

And there is a strange thing: in face-to-face fighting there was a certain flavor; in dropping an atom bomb there is no flavor — only stupidity. When two men fight face to face, it is natural; there is nothing very unnatural about it. Better if it does not happen — but even if it does, nothing very terrible is happening. But one man goes over Hiroshima and drops a bomb. On whom is it falling? No one is seen. Friend, enemy, children, women — on whom? Old men, the blind — on whom is it falling? It has no meaning for him. He has no idea what this bomb will do; he has no sense of its ultimate consequence. He presses a button and from the plane the bomb falls.

The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki — who in a single night became the cause of three to three and a half hundred thousand murders — in the history of the world no one man in one moment has caused such a massacre — that man slept very peacefully that night. And when in the morning the reporters asked him: could you sleep? After killing three hundred thousand people! Imagine killing three — and think whether after killing three you could sleep at night? Very difficult. Even the greatest murderer cannot do such a thing; he too will remain restless through the night. But that man, after causing the death of three hundred thousand, did not become restless. Is he insane? No. Only he had no connection with those who died.

He said: I only did my duty. I had to take the plane to a particular place and drop a bomb; beyond that I had no order. Beyond that I had no relationship. I finished my work; as a man sleeps at night after the day’s job, so I slept. My job was finished.

Even after killing three hundred thousand there is no restlessness — weapons give this convenience. When I scratch you with my nails, you are in front of me; blood flows before my eyes. Life is created and destroyed before me. I put my own life at stake; only then can I think of taking yours. It is a direct, face-to-face encounter. It is natural. All animals do this. Man is an animal too; he can do it. If he does not, he becomes a god. But weapons make him a devil — he no longer remains even an animal. For then there is no question. I do not see you; I do not know your eyes, your tears; whether you will burn, what will happen — nothing.

Lao Tzu is utterly against weapons. He says: put them where people cannot even find them. The purpose is only this — that man remain as natural as possible, as spontaneous, as simple as possible. Certainly, there can be conflict in life — but that too should be natural. And when two men fight face to face, there is a certain dignity, a certain grace. As long as people fought face to face, there was a dignity, a pride.

Now wars continue — but no one is face to face. Here too there is a machine; there too a machine; and the whole of humanity is in between. No one has any concern with anyone. One is killing one’s own and does not know. In the Vietnam war many Americans were killed by Americans themselves — because by mistake their own base was below, and they dropped the bombs. Their own men died — that too was discovered in the morning. All in the dark.

Lao Tzu says: there should be direct contact between man and man; nothing should come in between. No agency of weapons, of the state, nothing — people should be face to face. Then man will be more natural. And the one who sees will also reflect; and what he does will give rise to thought; and his acts will indicate whether he should transform himself or not.

‘Gentleness triumphs over force.’

Also for this reason Lao Tzu says: remove weapons — because through them you will not win, you will lose.

Perhaps now the world will be ready to listen to Lao Tzu. When he said this two and a half to three thousand years ago, weapons were not so great. Now weapons are so great that Lao Tzu can be understood. Because of them, the whole of humanity can commit suicide. Lao Tzu can be understood: remove them. Whatever can be removed from between man and man — remove it. Let man be face to face. Then life will be more in tune with nature. And aligned with nature there is the possibility of the birth of the soul.

Then no victory comes through power; and weapons can give power, not gentleness.

Sing kirtan for five minutes, and then go.