Chapter 2 : Sutra 3
Thus the sage conducts affairs without action; and imparts his teaching without words.
Tao Upanishad #7
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
Chapter 2 : Sutra 3
Therefore the sage manages affairs without action; and conveys his doctrine without words.
Therefore the sage manages affairs without action; and conveys his doctrine without words.
Transliteration:
Chapter 2 : Sutra 3
Therefore the sage manages affairs without action; and conveys his doctrine without words.
Chapter 2 : Sutra 3
Therefore the sage manages affairs without action; and conveys his doctrine without words.
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, from the exposition of Lao Tzu’s nondual philosophy it is clear that he had attained supreme knowing. Then why is it that only a handful in the world have taken his vision of life as their guiding light? Is this very lack of acceptance not a harsh criticism of his standpoint? And does the wide adoption of Aristotle not prove the excellence of his science? Please throw light on this!
Very few people know Lao Tzu. The higher the peak, the fewer eyes can reach it. The deeper the depth, the fewer divers can descend to it. The ocean’s waves are visible; the ocean’s pearls are not.
Lao Tzu’s depth is oceanic. Once in a while a truly deep diver reaches there. But the world is not made of divers. The world is run by those who build boats that float on the waves. Man wants to get across; he has no use for plunging into the depths. So those who can teach the science of building boats become primarily important.
Aristotle became important because the logic he offered is useful to the world. Even if, far down the road, it proves dangerous, at the first step it is very pleasing. Even if the final fruit is poisonous, there is a sweet layer on top. So Aristotle will be understood, because he is giving formulas for how to obtain power. And Lao Tzu is giving formulas for how to find peace. Though ultimately peace is the real power, and power ultimately is nothing but restlessness.
But initially it doesn’t look that way. Walk on Aristotle’s path and you will reach the atom bomb. Walk on Lao Tzu’s path and you will not reach the atom bomb. On Lao Tzu’s path you will reach Lao Tzu—and nowhere else. So to those who want to travel, Aristotle will seem the better companion: you will keep arriving—somewhere, somewhere—reach the moon, far away! Only those can travel with Lao Tzu who do not want to travel at all. With Lao Tzu you can arrive only at Lao Tzu: not at any moon, not at any star, not at any atom bomb—nowhere.
Then, in our minds—in everyone’s mind—there is a craving for power, ambition. We want wealth, power, position, fame, identity, ego. We will listen to Lao Tzu and run away, because there the talk is of having everything taken away from us. Lao Tzu gives us nothing; he takes everything. And we are all beggars. We have set out to beg. We won’t stay even a moment with Lao Tzu, because whatever we do have—the begging bowl—he may even snatch that away!
There is a story about Diogenes: he used to roam with a lantern in broad daylight on the streets of Athens. If someone asked, “Whom are you looking for?” he would say, “I am searching for an honest man.” This went on for years; a fellow who had been watching him for years asked one day, “Did you find an honest man? Any success?” Diogenes said, “A good deal of success: at least my lantern is still with me. Many tried to take even this away. That my lantern is still with me—isn’t that something!”
A person goes to Lao Tzu only when he is ready to lose. How many are ready to lose? People are ready to snatch. So the science of snatching could develop from Aristotle. That is why the East lost. The East could not produce an Aristotle; therefore the East lost, was enslaved, suffered so many troubles—because it could not develop the science of snatching. But no one can say who will be at an advantage in the long run. The long run is a different matter. What seems advantageous at the first step decides nothing. By the second step everything changes. By the time you reach the end, everything may have changed—and will change.
The East appears to have suffered much in the middle. But if the East stands with courage beside Lao Tzu and Buddha, the West will have to see that it has been foolish. What it snatched were toys; they made no real difference. And what it lost was the soul. And what the East lost were toys, and what it saved was the soul—if the East stands firmly with Lao Tzu.
Lao Tzu’s name has reached few because no one really wants to go to Lao Tzu. If we happened to meet him, we would avoid him: “Not now—later. When the time comes we will come to you. Why have you turned up now! Not now—we are out to seek, we are out to earn.” Therefore, and also because what Lao Tzu is saying…
There are two kinds of utterances in this world. One kind can be understood by the ordinary man just as he is. The other cannot be understood until the man has utterly changed. One kind is grasped by the man as nature produces him—like an animal; his instincts can recognize, “Yes, this fits.” No special training is needed. And there is a kind of knowing that will not be understood until this man is transformed, trained, prepared.
What Lao Tzu is saying is not for man as he is born. To understand Lao Tzu, even beforehand one must pass through a certain alchemy; only then will Lao Tzu be understood. Otherwise he will not be.
Imagine a small child. Ask him to pick out green, yellow, red stones—he will pick them out. But tell him to separate the diamonds from the heap—then there will be difficulty. For the appraisal of a diamond, you must wait. And it is very possible the child will keep the stones and throw away the diamond. Because a diamond has to be prepared; it is hidden. Many times a raw diamond looks worse than a stone. Only after a complete preparation does it reveal itself. And the child will not be able to recognize it yet. The child too requires preparation before discernment arises.
Lao Tzu is talking diamond-talk. So only when the earth is no longer peopled by children, when someone matures, becomes truly adult, can Lao Tzu be understood. To understand Aristotle, a school-going child is sufficient; no special qualification is needed. Humanity has still not come to the place where many can understand Lao Tzu—not yet. Even now perhaps one or two in a hundred thousand can understand. Remember, whatever is truly important in life is always aristocratic. Whatever is important is élite—understood only by a few. And knowledge has its condition: it will not come down to you; you must climb up to it. Lao Tzu will not descend to you; you must climb up to Lao Tzu.
Wisdom is a climb, a steep ascent. Science meets you where you are. Wisdom becomes available only as you move higher. So Lao Tzu has been understood by few. But whoever has understood him has been among the finest flowers of this world. Aristotle is useful to all—but those people are not the flowers.
The deeper a statement, the more ahead of its time it is. What Lao Tzu has said—perhaps another twenty-five hundred years will be needed before he becomes contemporary. Only then will people feel, “Yes, now we stand at a place from where we can understand Lao Tzu.”
Understand it like this: a man writes poetry. If everyone understands it right now, it won’t last more than two days. If it is not understood—if it is only understood by those on the peaks—then that poetry will last for thousands of years. A Kalidasa lasts for thousands of years. A film song—if it lasts even two months, that is a lot. It doesn’t: it is immediately caught, hummed in every neighborhood, every village, every lane and alley, from child to old man; every bathroom hears it. Then suddenly it is gone—never heard of again. What happened? It was so easily understood because it was exactly on the level of understanding of all. There was no way for it to survive. But when a true song is born, years pass—sometimes the poet dies—and only then it is known.
Søren Kierkegaard wrote books. In his lifetime no one noticed. He managed to publish one book; five copies were sold—bought by his friends. The money his father had left was in the bank; he lived on it all his life, for he was occupied twenty-four hours with thinking and seeking; he had no leisure to earn. Each month he would withdraw a little for his expenses. The day it was all spent, he went to the bank and learned the account was empty. On the steps outside the bank his breath stopped—Søren Kierkegaard died. He said, “Now there is no point in living; there is no way for even a penny to come.” For a hundred years no one remembered him. Neither his books nor his name was known. In the last thirty or forty years he has been rediscovered; and today, in the West, if anyone is considered the most influential, it is Kierkegaard. And now people say it will still take hundreds of years to understand him properly. But in his village people laughed: “Madman! Earn something—make some money!”
Vincent van Gogh’s paintings today fetch three, four, five hundred thousand rupees apiece. Yet van Gogh could not sell a single painting in his lifetime. For two cups of tea at a café he would give a painting: “I have no money.” For a packet of cigarettes he would give a painting. Sixty years after his death, when van Gogh began to be recognized, people rummaged in their junk rooms and found his paintings—one was lying in a hotel, one in a shop; to someone he had given a painting for a loaf of bread. Those who found them became millionaires, because each painting was now worth hundreds of thousands. Today only about two hundred of his paintings remain. People beat their chests and wept—because he had given many away; someone had thrown them out, someone had done something—no one knew what happened. And van Gogh is now regarded as one of the supreme painters in human history. Yet in his own time—only some one and a half centuries ago—he could not eat bread all seven days of the week. The money his brother sent was just enough for seven days of bread; van Gogh would eat for four days and save the money of three days to buy colors and paint. At thirty-two, utterly exhausted—because how can one eat four days and paint three—he shot himself. He wrote, “Now there is no point; why give my brother needless trouble? He must after all send money for bread. And what I had to paint, I have painted. A picture for which I had been waiting a year has been completed today.”
These people live on another plane. When humanity reaches that plane, their discovery happens. But even Kierkegaard and van Gogh are not those who live on Everest-like heights; they still live on smaller hills. Lao Tzu lives on Gauri Shankar—Everest. Hardly ever does anyone reach there. And if we ever hope that a large part of humanity will make its dwelling there, we will have to wait thousands upon thousands of years.
That is why their influence does not readily happen. But time and again such people have to be rediscovered. Their note never dies; it keeps resonating. Many times we completely forget; then when someone says such a thing again, it seems very new. Lao Tzu’s disciple Chuang Tzu has said, “Every discovery is just a rediscovery.” There is nothing in this world that has not been known. But those who knew were on such peaks that it never became common—it was lost. Then when someone else knows it again, it seems a new discovery: “How new this man sounds!” But in this world there is nothing that has not been known thousands of times.
Man’s misfortune is that he does not live on the mountains; he lives on the plains. The talk of peaks gets lost and forgotten. Then someone revives it, and it looks new again.
These statements of Lao Tzu are among the finest ever uttered by man. He stands on the last frontier where nothing more can be said—beyond is silence. On that ultimate boundary he says a few things. Only when someone reaches there can he understand; if he does not, he cannot. In that, there is no fault of Lao Tzu.
And there are some things you will not know until they become part of your own experience. A small child—if you tell him things that are not part of his experience—will hear like a deaf person; he will forget. They will not even be imprinted on his memory, because only that is imprinted which matches experience. Our experience must resonate somewhere.
What Lao Tzu says does not match our experience anywhere. That his book survives at all—is that not something! His words do not meet our experience anywhere. Lao Tzu says: the one who is capable of doing without doing—he is the wise one; the one who says without speaking—he is the true speaker. The one who does not stir, and yet all is done! Whose lips do not open, and yet the message is communicated!
This appears nowhere in our experience. We shout ourselves hoarse and still the message is not communicated. How can we believe it will be without speaking? Even speaking, it does not happen. Life passes repeating the same things, and there is no communion. We make so many arrangements, and nothing comes of it. In the end beggars die beggars. So much running about, so much organization, so much management—and in the end beggars die beggars. And Lao Tzu says, “Do not manage, do not organize—just be present; order will happen by itself.” We will say, “You are mad! We are not ready to go mad with you.”
Only those will agree to go with Lao Tzu who have become thoroughly acquainted with the madness of our so-called humanity; who are filled with deep sorrow at our way of being; who have seen clearly that what we call cleverness is foolishness, and what we call intelligence is mere stupidity. Only those to whom this has become crystal clear will take a step with Lao Tzu.
And to take a step with Lao Tzu is to step into danger. He gives no assurance of safety. He shows such a perilous path that you will be lost, not saved. He says: this is the path of losing; this is the lane of disappearing. Only the one who has firmly understood, “In gaining I have gained nothing; let me try losing. By running I did not arrive; now let me stand still. With cleverness I did not find; now let me try being a fool,”—only he will be ready to go with him.
Very few can muster that much courage. Therefore very few can undertake that journey.
Enough for today, the rest tomorrow.
Lao Tzu’s depth is oceanic. Once in a while a truly deep diver reaches there. But the world is not made of divers. The world is run by those who build boats that float on the waves. Man wants to get across; he has no use for plunging into the depths. So those who can teach the science of building boats become primarily important.
Aristotle became important because the logic he offered is useful to the world. Even if, far down the road, it proves dangerous, at the first step it is very pleasing. Even if the final fruit is poisonous, there is a sweet layer on top. So Aristotle will be understood, because he is giving formulas for how to obtain power. And Lao Tzu is giving formulas for how to find peace. Though ultimately peace is the real power, and power ultimately is nothing but restlessness.
But initially it doesn’t look that way. Walk on Aristotle’s path and you will reach the atom bomb. Walk on Lao Tzu’s path and you will not reach the atom bomb. On Lao Tzu’s path you will reach Lao Tzu—and nowhere else. So to those who want to travel, Aristotle will seem the better companion: you will keep arriving—somewhere, somewhere—reach the moon, far away! Only those can travel with Lao Tzu who do not want to travel at all. With Lao Tzu you can arrive only at Lao Tzu: not at any moon, not at any star, not at any atom bomb—nowhere.
Then, in our minds—in everyone’s mind—there is a craving for power, ambition. We want wealth, power, position, fame, identity, ego. We will listen to Lao Tzu and run away, because there the talk is of having everything taken away from us. Lao Tzu gives us nothing; he takes everything. And we are all beggars. We have set out to beg. We won’t stay even a moment with Lao Tzu, because whatever we do have—the begging bowl—he may even snatch that away!
There is a story about Diogenes: he used to roam with a lantern in broad daylight on the streets of Athens. If someone asked, “Whom are you looking for?” he would say, “I am searching for an honest man.” This went on for years; a fellow who had been watching him for years asked one day, “Did you find an honest man? Any success?” Diogenes said, “A good deal of success: at least my lantern is still with me. Many tried to take even this away. That my lantern is still with me—isn’t that something!”
A person goes to Lao Tzu only when he is ready to lose. How many are ready to lose? People are ready to snatch. So the science of snatching could develop from Aristotle. That is why the East lost. The East could not produce an Aristotle; therefore the East lost, was enslaved, suffered so many troubles—because it could not develop the science of snatching. But no one can say who will be at an advantage in the long run. The long run is a different matter. What seems advantageous at the first step decides nothing. By the second step everything changes. By the time you reach the end, everything may have changed—and will change.
The East appears to have suffered much in the middle. But if the East stands with courage beside Lao Tzu and Buddha, the West will have to see that it has been foolish. What it snatched were toys; they made no real difference. And what it lost was the soul. And what the East lost were toys, and what it saved was the soul—if the East stands firmly with Lao Tzu.
Lao Tzu’s name has reached few because no one really wants to go to Lao Tzu. If we happened to meet him, we would avoid him: “Not now—later. When the time comes we will come to you. Why have you turned up now! Not now—we are out to seek, we are out to earn.” Therefore, and also because what Lao Tzu is saying…
There are two kinds of utterances in this world. One kind can be understood by the ordinary man just as he is. The other cannot be understood until the man has utterly changed. One kind is grasped by the man as nature produces him—like an animal; his instincts can recognize, “Yes, this fits.” No special training is needed. And there is a kind of knowing that will not be understood until this man is transformed, trained, prepared.
What Lao Tzu is saying is not for man as he is born. To understand Lao Tzu, even beforehand one must pass through a certain alchemy; only then will Lao Tzu be understood. Otherwise he will not be.
Imagine a small child. Ask him to pick out green, yellow, red stones—he will pick them out. But tell him to separate the diamonds from the heap—then there will be difficulty. For the appraisal of a diamond, you must wait. And it is very possible the child will keep the stones and throw away the diamond. Because a diamond has to be prepared; it is hidden. Many times a raw diamond looks worse than a stone. Only after a complete preparation does it reveal itself. And the child will not be able to recognize it yet. The child too requires preparation before discernment arises.
Lao Tzu is talking diamond-talk. So only when the earth is no longer peopled by children, when someone matures, becomes truly adult, can Lao Tzu be understood. To understand Aristotle, a school-going child is sufficient; no special qualification is needed. Humanity has still not come to the place where many can understand Lao Tzu—not yet. Even now perhaps one or two in a hundred thousand can understand. Remember, whatever is truly important in life is always aristocratic. Whatever is important is élite—understood only by a few. And knowledge has its condition: it will not come down to you; you must climb up to it. Lao Tzu will not descend to you; you must climb up to Lao Tzu.
Wisdom is a climb, a steep ascent. Science meets you where you are. Wisdom becomes available only as you move higher. So Lao Tzu has been understood by few. But whoever has understood him has been among the finest flowers of this world. Aristotle is useful to all—but those people are not the flowers.
The deeper a statement, the more ahead of its time it is. What Lao Tzu has said—perhaps another twenty-five hundred years will be needed before he becomes contemporary. Only then will people feel, “Yes, now we stand at a place from where we can understand Lao Tzu.”
Understand it like this: a man writes poetry. If everyone understands it right now, it won’t last more than two days. If it is not understood—if it is only understood by those on the peaks—then that poetry will last for thousands of years. A Kalidasa lasts for thousands of years. A film song—if it lasts even two months, that is a lot. It doesn’t: it is immediately caught, hummed in every neighborhood, every village, every lane and alley, from child to old man; every bathroom hears it. Then suddenly it is gone—never heard of again. What happened? It was so easily understood because it was exactly on the level of understanding of all. There was no way for it to survive. But when a true song is born, years pass—sometimes the poet dies—and only then it is known.
Søren Kierkegaard wrote books. In his lifetime no one noticed. He managed to publish one book; five copies were sold—bought by his friends. The money his father had left was in the bank; he lived on it all his life, for he was occupied twenty-four hours with thinking and seeking; he had no leisure to earn. Each month he would withdraw a little for his expenses. The day it was all spent, he went to the bank and learned the account was empty. On the steps outside the bank his breath stopped—Søren Kierkegaard died. He said, “Now there is no point in living; there is no way for even a penny to come.” For a hundred years no one remembered him. Neither his books nor his name was known. In the last thirty or forty years he has been rediscovered; and today, in the West, if anyone is considered the most influential, it is Kierkegaard. And now people say it will still take hundreds of years to understand him properly. But in his village people laughed: “Madman! Earn something—make some money!”
Vincent van Gogh’s paintings today fetch three, four, five hundred thousand rupees apiece. Yet van Gogh could not sell a single painting in his lifetime. For two cups of tea at a café he would give a painting: “I have no money.” For a packet of cigarettes he would give a painting. Sixty years after his death, when van Gogh began to be recognized, people rummaged in their junk rooms and found his paintings—one was lying in a hotel, one in a shop; to someone he had given a painting for a loaf of bread. Those who found them became millionaires, because each painting was now worth hundreds of thousands. Today only about two hundred of his paintings remain. People beat their chests and wept—because he had given many away; someone had thrown them out, someone had done something—no one knew what happened. And van Gogh is now regarded as one of the supreme painters in human history. Yet in his own time—only some one and a half centuries ago—he could not eat bread all seven days of the week. The money his brother sent was just enough for seven days of bread; van Gogh would eat for four days and save the money of three days to buy colors and paint. At thirty-two, utterly exhausted—because how can one eat four days and paint three—he shot himself. He wrote, “Now there is no point; why give my brother needless trouble? He must after all send money for bread. And what I had to paint, I have painted. A picture for which I had been waiting a year has been completed today.”
These people live on another plane. When humanity reaches that plane, their discovery happens. But even Kierkegaard and van Gogh are not those who live on Everest-like heights; they still live on smaller hills. Lao Tzu lives on Gauri Shankar—Everest. Hardly ever does anyone reach there. And if we ever hope that a large part of humanity will make its dwelling there, we will have to wait thousands upon thousands of years.
That is why their influence does not readily happen. But time and again such people have to be rediscovered. Their note never dies; it keeps resonating. Many times we completely forget; then when someone says such a thing again, it seems very new. Lao Tzu’s disciple Chuang Tzu has said, “Every discovery is just a rediscovery.” There is nothing in this world that has not been known. But those who knew were on such peaks that it never became common—it was lost. Then when someone else knows it again, it seems a new discovery: “How new this man sounds!” But in this world there is nothing that has not been known thousands of times.
Man’s misfortune is that he does not live on the mountains; he lives on the plains. The talk of peaks gets lost and forgotten. Then someone revives it, and it looks new again.
These statements of Lao Tzu are among the finest ever uttered by man. He stands on the last frontier where nothing more can be said—beyond is silence. On that ultimate boundary he says a few things. Only when someone reaches there can he understand; if he does not, he cannot. In that, there is no fault of Lao Tzu.
And there are some things you will not know until they become part of your own experience. A small child—if you tell him things that are not part of his experience—will hear like a deaf person; he will forget. They will not even be imprinted on his memory, because only that is imprinted which matches experience. Our experience must resonate somewhere.
What Lao Tzu says does not match our experience anywhere. That his book survives at all—is that not something! His words do not meet our experience anywhere. Lao Tzu says: the one who is capable of doing without doing—he is the wise one; the one who says without speaking—he is the true speaker. The one who does not stir, and yet all is done! Whose lips do not open, and yet the message is communicated!
This appears nowhere in our experience. We shout ourselves hoarse and still the message is not communicated. How can we believe it will be without speaking? Even speaking, it does not happen. Life passes repeating the same things, and there is no communion. We make so many arrangements, and nothing comes of it. In the end beggars die beggars. So much running about, so much organization, so much management—and in the end beggars die beggars. And Lao Tzu says, “Do not manage, do not organize—just be present; order will happen by itself.” We will say, “You are mad! We are not ready to go mad with you.”
Only those will agree to go with Lao Tzu who have become thoroughly acquainted with the madness of our so-called humanity; who are filled with deep sorrow at our way of being; who have seen clearly that what we call cleverness is foolishness, and what we call intelligence is mere stupidity. Only those to whom this has become crystal clear will take a step with Lao Tzu.
And to take a step with Lao Tzu is to step into danger. He gives no assurance of safety. He shows such a perilous path that you will be lost, not saved. He says: this is the path of losing; this is the lane of disappearing. Only the one who has firmly understood, “In gaining I have gained nothing; let me try losing. By running I did not arrive; now let me stand still. With cleverness I did not find; now let me try being a fool,”—only he will be ready to go with him.
Very few can muster that much courage. Therefore very few can undertake that journey.
Enough for today, the rest tomorrow.
Osho's Commentary
Lao Tzu, in the first two sutras, has spoken of this dialectic of existence. And now, in the third sutra, Lao Tzu says: therefore—the sage manages affairs without action—therefore the wise one arranges his work in a spirit of non-doing.
To understand this, we must go a little deeper. If a sage says to someone, “I love you,” he is simultaneously giving birth to hatred. If a sage says, “I work for the welfare of people,” he is giving birth to ill-being. If a sage says, “What I give you is truth,” he is giving birth to untruth. Lao Tzu has said earlier that every single thing is filled with duality. Here, whatever we do, its opposite instantly happens. The opposite will not be spared. There is no way to avoid the opposite. The moment we do something, we become the begetters of its opposite. If we protect someone, we harm someone. If we save someone, we become the cause of someone else’s obliteration.
If polarity is the essence of life, then whatever we do will, at once, generate its opposite—whether we know it or not; whether we can recognize it or not; whether someone is aware of it or not. It is impossible to create one pole without at once giving birth to its counter-pole.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: the sage manages without becoming active. He arranges without becoming active. If he wishes your well-being, he does not become active for your well-being. If he becomes active for your well-being, your ill-being will also be born.
This is very difficult—subtle and profound. Ordinarily we think that if we want to do good to someone, we must do good; if we want to serve, we must serve; if we want to help, we must help. But Lao Tzu’s sutra says: the moment you serve, you also create the mechanism to enslave the other. The moment you love someone, you are also constructing the architecture of hate. Because the moment love becomes manifest, it gives birth to hate; the moment service becomes active, it turns into enmity.
So what will the sage do? Will the sage not love? Will he not wish well-being? Will he not be eager to serve?
If he is truly sage, Lao Tzu says: he manages affairs without action. Even if he loves, he will not give love the momentum of activity. His love will never become an outer act. Far from action, he will not even give his love words. He will not even say, “I love you.” He will refrain because the very utterance “I love” draws the line of hatred around the word.
When I say to someone, “I love,” first of all it becomes clear that earlier I did not love and now I do. And when I say, “I love,” there will be conditions—under what circumstances I will love and under what circumstances I will not. Or will it be unconditional? Any spoken word cannot be unconditional. And when I say, “I love,” I am admitting I did not love yesterday, and I must admit that perhaps tomorrow I may not love. Around this little island of love there will be a vast sea of lovelessness. In truth, I proclaim “I love” only to make it stand out against the sea of non-love; amidst that surrounding darkness I light this lamp. It is against that darkness that I light it—and by lighting it, I also make the darkness more evident, more defined; I also strengthen the darkness.
Lao Tzu says: if the sage loves, he will not become active. He will not be so active as to say, “I love.” His love will be actionless, inactive. His love will not be a proclamation, it will be his very being. His love will not be a statement, it will be his soul. He will be love. Therefore, to say, “I love,” would be inappropriate for him. One who is caught in hate can say, “I love.” But one who is love—how can he say, “I love”? And not only will he not say, “I love,” he will not even undertake the arrangements, the doing that ordinary love requires. His love will be a silent expression, a zero-expression. His love will be a sheer presence—unannounced, unproclaimed, wordless, inactive. And the great wonder is: such love does not create its opposite; it does not generate hatred. Because what has not become active has not entered the world of duality. Such love is only love. Such love never ends; for what never began in the stream of time will not end in the stream of time.
But such love is extremely difficult to recognize. Because we recognize words. We recognize acts. If someone says, “I love,” we understand. If someone performs acts that look like love, we understand. But if love is inactive, unexpressed, unannounced, it does not even occur to us. We will assume it is not there. Therefore very often the true lovers on this earth have not been recognized.
Jesus is passing through a village. He rests beneath a tree. That tree stands in the garden of the great courtesan of those times—Magdalene. She peeks from her window and sees Jesus, just as he is about to depart after resting. She had seen many people; she had not seen such beauty before. There is a beauty of the body that dissolves after a little acquaintance; and there is a beauty of the soul that deepens with intimacy. There is a beauty of form, and there is a beauty of being. Magdalene had seen many handsome men. She herself was among the most beautiful women. Emperors knocked at her door, and even they did not always find it open. Seeing Jesus, she was enchanted. She left her mansion, stopped the young man who was leaving, and said to Jesus, “Come inside, be my guest.”
Jesus said, “My rest is complete now. Some day, on your path, if I grow weary again, I will not rest under the tree—I will come inside. But now it is my time to go.”
For Magdalene this was a great insult. She could not imagine that a youth who looked like a beggar would not be dazzled by her! Great emperors lost their senses on seeing her. Yet Jesus picked up his bag and prepared to depart. Magdalene said, “Young man, this is insulting! It is the first time I have invited someone. Will you not reveal even this much love for me—that you sit in my home for two moments?”
Jesus said, “Think again about those who come to you to display love—have they ever loved you? Those who have displayed, have they ever loved? I am the only one who can love. But now it is time for me to go.”
Magdalene must not have understood Jesus’ statement: “I alone can love, but now it is time for me to go.” For centuries people have pondered what Jesus meant by “I alone can love.” If so, then love should have been shown. Yet even this statement is completely impersonal. Jesus did not say, “Magdalene, I love you.” He said, “I alone can love.” It was not addressed to a person; it was indicative. And if there was love, then some little act should have been done—if only to step into her house. What kind of love is this?
Jesus never again rested under that tree, and never again went to Magdalene’s home. The path did not cross again. That statement of Jesus—“I alone can love”—neither became an act nor a declaration toward a person. What then was its meaning?
If you understand Lao Tzu, it will occur to you. Even so, Lao Tzu would perhaps not say even this much—that “I alone can love.” Lao Tzu would not say even this—because even that is too much. Even in that, a form is born, a shape takes hold. Even in that, the thing is expressed and enters the stream of time. Lao Tzu would simply have walked on. He would not have answered. For Lao Tzu says: the moment anything is expressed, its opposite is manufactured—instantly! As I speak and the echo resounds from the mountain, so it is here. Here, love—there, hatred gathers. Here, compassion—there, layers of hardness begin to form. Whatever we do, we cannot escape the opposite.
Hence a very unique phenomenon: whomever we love, it is from the same that we receive our pain. Whoever loves will receive pain from the very one he loves. Love should not bring pain; but once love is expressed, it instantly creates non-love. Pain comes from non-love.
Lao Tzu says: those who know, who have discovered the secret that in existence whatever you create, the opposite gets created—there is no way around it; it cannot be otherwise; this is the law—what will they do?
They arrange, but they arrange without action.
“The sage conveys his doctrine without words.”
And the sage explains his vision without words. He reveals his being without acts, his insight, his darshan, without words.
We must think about this. For there has not been a single sage who has not used words. And Lao Tzu says: the sage never expresses his vision through words. Two meanings are possible.
One meaning: whoever spoke were not sages at all—and whoever were sages, we have no trace of them. Then Lao Tzu, Buddha, Jesus, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ—none would fit in the line of sages. The second meaning—and this is the meaning—is that whatever Buddha spoke, his darshan is not in that speaking; his essence is not in what was said. By speaking he merely called people near. Those who came near, to them he spoke without speaking. Speech was only a device—not to tell the truth—but to invite those who can understand nothing but words.
Understand this well. Truth cannot be spoken. The moment it is spoken, untruth is born. The moment a doctrine is spoken, it becomes a debate. Hence all doctrines turn into “isms” the moment they are spoken. The moment an “ism” is born, its counter-ism is created. Conflict, quarrel, sects and dogmas—this whole mischief is born. Would the speaking of truth create such noise? Truth, if spoken, would not create controversy. But truth is never spoken, nor has it ever been spoken. Whatever has been spoken is only a device to invite those who can understand nothing but words. Once they come close, once they are present, then one can speak to them in silence.
Speaking is a lure—just a lure. As we give sugar-balls to small children to bring them to school, lay out toys to attract them to school. In nursery, there is nothing like study; yet we call it school. Slowly the toys are withdrawn. Still, in children’s books we must place colorful pictures. When a child takes a book for the first time, he does not look at the book for the book, but at the colorful pictures. Then the pictures are gradually removed.
Just so, when Buddha or Lao Tzu speaks, they speak for those who can only understand words. When people come close, when they gain the capacity to sit near, when the taste of satsang begins to be felt, then people like Buddha and Lao Tzu become silent. And the one who had come, lured by speech, some day returns carrying the message of silence.
Sages have never really said anything—yet they have said much. They explained from morning till evening; still, they did not speak truth. Truth they gave only when the listener became ready to receive in silence. When receptivity flowered, when the preparation was complete, they said in silence. The saying has always happened in silence.
But what we collect is what was spoken. Hence the scriptures miss what is truth—because truth was never in words. What was said was only the lure. It is as if, to preserve the memory of a school for the future, we gather the toys kept there—and after a thousand years we say: this is what was taught.
These toys were not taught; they were only enticements. What was taught is not in the toys. They were invitations for children.
What Buddha said, what Krishna said, what Lao Tzu said, what Mahavira said—we collect the spoken. But what was not said—what was said by not saying, what was communicated by being present, by being near, what was realized in the climate of presence as a living stream flowing from one to another—there is no way to collect that.
Therefore, for thousands of years, the Rishis tried not to write scriptures. For thousands of years there was an earnest insistence that nothing be written. Because in the writing, that for which all this was said—though it was not sayable—would be left out. Those empty, blank spaces would be lost—and those were the essential. The Vedas were written about five thousand years ago; yet before they were written, they existed for at least ninety thousand years—at least! To imagine that those who could give birth to the Vedas could not discover writing, could not create a script, is foolishness. Those who gave birth to such vision could certainly create language.
Why were the Vedas not written for ninety thousand years?
There was an insistence: do not write. Let one person directly transmit to another—direct transfer. For the person can give both the word and the silent presence. A book cannot convey silent presence. A book becomes dead. And a book falls into the hands of those who know nothing. A book is hard to protect. A book may fall into the hands of the ignorant, and when it does, an illusion of wisdom arises very quickly. To be ignorant is not bad; to be ignorant while imagining oneself wise is perilous. Then the doors of wisdom close.
For centuries upon centuries it was insisted: do not write. The knower should give to the one who has become worthy. Until one is worthy, use words; when worthy, speak wordlessly—convey in silence. And until one is ripe for silence, make it clear that nothing essential has yet been said to him—only outer talk. The real has not yet been uttered. Keep him waiting, lest the illusion of knowing arise.
From the day books were written, sages seemed fewer and knowledge seemed more. And from the day books were printed, the matter almost ended. Because even a written manuscript could reach only a few; a printed book has no barrier of reach. And that which was essential—because it could only be directly transmitted person to person—has been continually lost.
The days Lao Tzu speaks of were the days when the sage explained his vision in silence.
This must also be seen from two or three angles.
The farther back we go, the less sadhana is scholarship. The farther back, the more sadhana is the practice of silence; scholarship is the practice of filling with words.
Buddha left home. He went to all who knew and said, “I have come in search of the supreme truth. If you know it, tell me.” There were wonderful people. Those who did not know said, “We do not know the supreme truth; we know the scriptural truth. That we can tell.” Buddha said, “I do not want scriptural truth; I want truth.” They said, “Go to someone else.”
Then Buddha went to those who taught him sadhana. With one teacher he practiced for three years. He did all that was asked. When it was all completed, Buddha asked, “Is there anything else to do? Or have I missed somewhere?” The master said, “You have missed nothing; you have done with full dedication.” Buddha said, “Yet I have no glimpse of the supreme truth.” The man said, “What I knew, I made you do. I do not know the supreme truth either. Go elsewhere; seek another.”
For six years Buddha moved like this. Whatever was to be learned, he learned. Until he learned, he did not question. It is interesting: three years he stayed; only when the teacher said, “I have nothing more,” Buddha said, “But the supreme truth has not come.” He should have asked at the outset! The real question is not whether someone else has it; the real question is whether you first make yourself worthy. Therefore he asked only after three years—he too must become capable even to ask. When the master himself said, “I have nothing more,” Buddha said, “But the supreme truth has not arisen. Tell me if I have left anything incomplete; I am ready.” The master said, “No, you have completed. Now I have nothing to give. What I knew I have given; beyond that, search elsewhere.”
Buddha wandered to every teacher and scholar; he did not find. Then he went on alone. But before going alone he had knocked at every door. Remember: only one who has walked with many can walk alone. To insist on being alone too soon is dangerous. This experience—of walking with others—is needed to be alone.
Buddha sought each one. Each took him as far as he could. Buddha thanked them, and departed. When he realized the supreme truth, he said: I used to think perhaps those to whom I went had hidden something from me. Now I can say—they hid nothing. The supreme truth is such that no one else can give it. Nor could I have received it then, for I had not the capacity of silence. I asked in words and they answered in words. Only when one begins to descend into the ultimate silence can it be said to him in the ultimate silence.
Lao Tzu says: the sage does not act. But this does not mean he does not arrange. Do not fall into that error. Non-action is not inertia; it is not sloth. It does not mean the sage lies around doing nothing. It means something else: the sage arranges through non-doing.
A father: if he is truly revered—and only then is he a father—his very entering the room, the son sits in order. He does not need to strike a stick announcing, “Sit properly, I have entered.” He need not arrange; he comes, and arrangement happens—through his presence. He himself may not even know that by his coming order has arisen. His coming and order arising are simultaneous.
If the father is a little weaker, a slight gesture of the eyes is needed. Yet even that is a powerful father—today even such are rare. Still he is weak, because presence is not doing the work; he must do something with the eyes. He must become active.
Weaker still is the father who must say aloud, “Be quiet; sit in order.” Even that kind is rare today—where one says and others obey. The likelihood today is: the more he says, the less they obey.
A friend asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Your seven sons must drive you mad.” Nasruddin said, “Never, my sons have never troubled me. Yes, once I had to raise my fist—in self-defense. Otherwise never. I simply avoid situations where trouble could arise.”
A father says: “I walk in such a way that no entanglement arises. Where my sons are, I just pass by. Only once, for self-defense, I had to raise a fist. Otherwise they never troubled me.”
Now the weakest father says the same thing fifty times. Even if nothing happens, he is ready to say it the fifty-first time.
Exactly so with the sage. The sage arranges by non-doing. His presence creates order. He does not arrange through action. Action is a substitute. If there is no knowing, then one has to arrange by doing.
So glimpse another secret: the farther back you go, the more non-active the sage appears. He sits in his hut, or in the forest. Yet his presence gives order. He remains in the hut, and if an emperor needs counsel, he rushes to the forest and sits at the sage’s feet. Emperors tried to keep the sage in the capital—only that he be present!
As we move forward in history, we find the sage entering action. Even Buddha and Mahavira do not appear very active. But if today Buddha and Mahavira were here, we would tell them: do some social service, run some hospitals, open schools, do village uplift, run a “remove poverty” campaign. Do something! Sitting idle—what use are you? If Lao Tzu were born today—better he should not be—we would not know what work to assign him!
Today whom we call “mahatma” is not a knower. His being a mahatma depends on what he does, not on his pure being. It depends on his doing, not on his being—what he does, what his report card is.
If we ask today, what did Lao Tzu do? There is no record. In the name of doing, Lao Tzu’s life is empty. If we weigh by doing, even a small village worker has done much more than Lao Tzu.
But in those ancient days no one asked, “What do you do?” They asked, “What are you?” And the understanding was: when such a vast spiritual presence is, as a consequence much happens that needs no doing. If Lao Tzu is present in this village, his presence is enough. Whatever can happen for the village will happen through his presence. If one must go about doing, Lao Tzu would say: a very weak sage. The sage’s presence is activity. His being is enough. Like a magnet—if it is present, it does not need to do anything; pieces of iron are drawn. If a magnet must go to each piece to pull it, know that the magnet is fake. The power of the magnet lies in its being. From its being, its field is formed. Whoever enters that field is drawn.
Wherever Buddha sits, a magnetic field forms. In that field, happenings begin. The stories say—today they sound like stories—that in the village where Buddha stayed, theft stopped. Not that Buddha persuaded thieves one by one. Murders ceased—not that Buddha took vows on behalf of murderers. Buddha’s presence!
And Buddha holds: if my presence cannot work, my shouting will not. When being cannot work, how will speech? Being is powerful. If it goes in vain, what will propaganda do? If Buddha stands before a thief and the thievery does not drop, what will explanation accomplish? If Buddha’s presence cannot make the thief drop theft, is his speech greater than his being?
See it this way: should Buddha twist the thief’s limbs so he stops stealing? Then is the twisting of limbs greater than Buddha’s being?
No. When Lao Tzu speaks he is saying: there is nothing greater than being. That self-state is the greatest. Actions are peripheral—small things. If the essence in the soul cannot work, nothing else will.
Therefore Lao Tzu says, “Therefore.” Again “therefore.” Because to create one pole is to create its opposite, therefore the sage arranges his affairs through inaction and conveys his doctrine without words. What he has known he speaks through silence; what he has lived he spreads by presence. This is a great silent event—quiet, still. The sage moves like a zero—as if he is not.
There is a delightful fact: there is no news of Lao Tzu’s death. When did he die? History has no record. What happened, where he went—there is no account. A folk tale has persisted for thousands of years: the man who saw Lao Tzu last asked, “Where are you going?” Lao Tzu said, “Where I came from.” The man said, “But people will worry forever about where you went—what happened?”
Lao Tzu said, “When I was born, I was ignorant; so there was a little noise at my birth. Now I will die as a knower; there will not be even a sound at my death. In one sense, my death will not occur in the world of events. There will be no entry for me in the ledger of happenings. For the knower lives quietly and departs quietly.”
And so, quietly, he departed. People only knew that he was—and then he was not. There was no event of death. No one even knew at that moment: “Now Lao Tzu has died.” Lao Tzu had said to a traveler: “Now I am a knower. There will be no sound at my dying. I will simply disappear as if I had never been. Truly I disappeared the day I knew. Since then I have been a zero. When a zero walks, there is no footfall, no footprints. Like birds flying in the sky—no tracks remain.”
This statement—“the sage manages affairs without action”—is hard to say in language; hence we are forced to say “manages.” Even “manages” is not accurate; it happens. Rather than “the sage manages affairs without action,” it would be truer to say: “Affairs are managed without action.” Not that the sage manages; in the presence of the sage, without action, things are set in order. Knowing this, he need not do anything consciously. He does nothing, for the illusion of doership falls with the ego. As long as there is “I,” there is the doer—and we even claim doership for things we never do. As long as the ego is, it interprets everything so that the sense of doing remains. I breathe—“I breathe.” I live—“I live.” I fall ill—“I am ill.” I am healthy—“I am healthy”—as if I do it all. I become young, I become old—again as if I do it. Ego ties every movement to itself.
The sage’s ego is gone; hence every act is linked to Paramatma, not to the sage. Therefore the sage does nothing. And the day the sage comes to that state, he becomes only a medium of Paramatma—a vehicle. Paramatma makes him stand and sit, walk and speak—or remain silent.
Hence the Rishis of the Upanishads did not write their names with their utterances. They did not, because these are the words of the Divine. Thus we could not attach the Veda to any person; we came to know the Vedas are apaurusheya—not created by any person. From this, another misunderstanding arose: people began to say God himself wrote the Vedas. The truth is different. The truth is only this: those who composed the Vedas had no such sense that “we are writing.” Of course men wrote, but the one who wrote had no ego left. He had no reason to say, “I write.” If you asked him, he would say, “Paramatma is having it written, or Paramatma is writing.” The Vedas were written by humans, but those who wrote had no ego. Therefore they could say: “They are not ours—Paramatma is writing; they are apaurusheya.”
Whatever supreme truths have manifested in this world—by any means—all are apaurusheya. There the doer’s claim—“I am doing”—is absent. Wherever that claim remains, truth gets distorted, beauty becomes ugliness, love becomes hate.
Lao Tzu says: neither do they arrange by action, nor do they deliver messages by words. Yet they act. Lao Tzu walks, rises, sleeps, sits. He eats when hungry, sleeps when sleepy. He begs, goes from one village to another. When someone comes to understand, he explains. He acts—but he does not fall into the delusion that he is arranging the world. Understand this too.
Lao Tzu acts the way a dry leaf is blown by the wind. If the wind takes it east, it goes east; if west, it goes west. Sometimes a whirlwind lifts it to the sky; sometimes, when the winds are quiet and forget the leaf, it lies on the ground. I sway like a dry leaf in the winds, says Lao Tzu. As the winds will! When they lift me to the sky, I do not puff up: “See, I am on the throne.” When they drop me to the ground, I do not weep: “I am insulted, neglected.” When the winds lift me, I enjoy floating; when they bring me down, I rest and enjoy the rest. When they take me west—it is a journey west; when east—it is a journey east. I have no journey of my own. I have no reason to quarrel with the winds. If I had any will of my own, I would tell the winds: do not take me east, do not take me west, do not lift me up, do not drop me down. I have no will.
Whatever is happening, I am not doing; it is happening. Therefore, whatever the fruit, there is no purpose of mine in it. If someone understands from Lao Tzu—fine. If not—fine. Lao Tzu is not out to convince anyone.
See the difference. A Muslim friend came to see me a few days ago. He asked, “If Hindu Dharma is so high, why are its numbers so small? Islam has so many, Christianity so many, Buddhism so many. Hindu Dharma is oldest, you say—then it should have the largest numbers.” I said: there is a reason. The Rishis who laid the foundation of Hindu Dharma said: who are we to convince anyone? Who are we to change someone? Who are we to convert? To say, “Become a Hindu”? We are not. If someone comes to Patanjali, to Vashishtha, to Yajnavalkya—they will explain; if asked, they will tell. Then the matter is finished. Whether he agrees or not—no account is kept. Whether he follows or not—no account is kept. I am not—you following “me” does not arise. You raised a question; if an answer arose in my life-breaths, I gave it; if not, I did not. Not that I gave it.
If you ask Lao Tzu a question, it is not necessary that an answer will come. Lao Tzu will say, “If an answer arises, I will give it; if not, forgive me.” Many people were troubled in this way. Someone would come from far away, walk miles, ask a question. Lao Tzu would say, “But no answer is coming, friend.” The man would say, “I have come so far, walked miles.” Lao Tzu would say, “No matter how many miles you walk, if the answer does not arise within me, where shall I bring it from? Stay. If it comes, I will give it; if not, forgive me.”
No conversion—no attempt to change another. Like the sun: it rises. If some flower has to bloom, it blooms; if not, it does not. Those that do not bloom will not lay blame on the sun. Nor will the sun stand before God and claim credit for those that did. The sun’s work is to rise. If the flower has to bloom, it blooms—that is the flower’s work. The sun rises and moves on. So beings like Lao Tzu come and go. They do not arrange, they do not preach. Yet whoever is ready to receive, from them the message is received. Whoever wishes to be set in order is set in their presence. But these are happenings—not planned actions. These are natural fruitions—events that occur of themselves.
This is hard for us to grasp, because we have never done anything that was done without doing, nor said anything that was said without saying. In our dimension of experience this does not occur. But I say to you: try a few experiments; then this will enter your experience.
For instance, you want peace in your home. Do not try to arrange it—become peaceful. Do not “manage.” Nothing gets truly organized by those who manage. Simply become quiet. If you want peace in a family of ten, simply become quiet. In a few days you will find a strange peace descending in the home—from unknown paths, unknown doors and windows, peace begins to enter. Those whom you thought were pure instruments of unrest begin to look calmer. Just become quiet; after a year you will see: peace on all sides. And you have not done anything. If anything was done, it was within.
In truth, a peaceful person begins to radiate waves of peace around himself. An unquiet person radiates, every moment, waves of unrest. Now science has a way… Recently, a French scientist made a machine that, when a person stands before it, can tell whether peace spreads around him or unrest. The rays that emanate from his body strike the machine; it reports the wavelength of the radiation. Each type of radiation has a different wavelength, and each wavelength has a different effect.
It is amusing: the man stands before the machine; you whisper in his ear, “Do you know? Your wife has run away with the neighbor!” His radiation instantly changes; the machine reports it at once. Now this man is burning in fire; his inner state is such he could kill someone. Or whisper, “Do you know? You have won the lottery!”—his radiation changes again.
All the time our body is a radiator. We are tiny nuclei from which, twenty-four hours, thousands of rays are being thrown out. And see: when we throw rays which, reflected from others, return as anger, we think the other is angry at us. If I radiate around me such rays as will return from others as anger, I feel, “He is angry”—never suspecting that I am arranging my energies in such a way that when they return, they must be anger.
We all do this. When not one but all are doing this—a home of ten multiplies the mischief, not by ten but as a product—there is no calculation of how much disturbance results. From one to another and back again, crisscross, a net is woven. In that net we live. Then we “manage”—and this person, filled with turmoil, undertakes arrangements for peace and creates more unrest.
Lao Tzu says: become quiet, and peace will spread around you.
Yet it is not guaranteed. For someone can remain unquiet even near Lao Tzu. Even sitting with Buddha, someone can think of murder. Buddha’s own cousin, Devadatta, lived near him for years, yet only plotted Buddha’s murder. He once rolled a boulder down onto Buddha meditating on a rock. If anyone would radiate supreme peace, it would be Buddha. And yet Devadatta released a mad elephant upon him. He was a cousin. Then the question arises: if Buddha radiates peace and bliss, what is happening here?
Even then the rays can enter only if you are receptive. You can keep your doors shut. That freedom is yours. You can live in your inner poison; even if nectar is raining, you can open your umbrella.
So keep this in mind: Lao Tzu’s sage will, from his side, become quiet and radiate peace. Those who are receptive will be set in order; those who are not will not. Still, Lao Tzu will not be a partner to their unrest. If he radiated unrest, he would certainly be partner in their unrest. At least he will not add to it. Even if they do not receive peace, he will not help their turmoil grow. And even that is not little; it is much! In accumulation, its sum becomes immense—hard to calculate.
We have split the atom; we have learned that within the smallest particle of matter is immeasurable power—beyond our imagination. We always thought power should be in the big; what power could the small have? The truth is reversed: the subtler, the more powerful. Power is in the subtle, not the gross. In the subtlest lies the maximum power; and the zero is the boundless shore of power—no measure. As we move toward the subtle, power increases; the zero becomes full power.
If the sage becomes a perfect zero—inactive; neither doing nor speaking—no movement within, no vibration; unmoving, empty—he becomes a reservoir of supreme power. That power arranges in myriad ways. Many lives change near him; far, far away—even for hundreds of thousands of years—its effects continue.
Yes, Devadatta lived with Buddha and plotted murder. Yet there are also those who, after twenty-five centuries, tremble with joy at the very name “Buddha,” and some door opens within. Across twenty-five centuries, Buddha’s rays still enter them. In this universe no radiation is ever lost. Nothing that is truly is ever lost. The rays that emanated from Buddha’s heart continue to spread. Even today, if a heart opens to them, they enter at once.
Not only Buddha—whoever has ever known; and also those who have not known! When you think murder, you are not alone. The rays of all the murderers of the world become available to you. Remember: no one has ever murdered alone; no one has ever attained the supreme alone. When someone burns to know the supreme, the power of all the knowers of the world begins to flow into him. When someone burns to kill, the current of all murderers—whoever were, are, or will be—flows toward him; he becomes a pit that draws.
Hence murderers often say—and knowers too—murderers say, “How did I do it? I could not possibly do such a thing. I never imagined I would.” There is some truth here. The thought to murder was his, but in the moment of murder the power available to him contains the hands of many murderers.
Therefore no knower says, “I attained this knowledge.” Although he made the effort, practiced, resolved, surrendered—when knowledge becomes available, the power of all the knowers stands with him. In this world, we do not live as isolated individuals; we live as a point within an infinite web of beings.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: all becomes quiet, doctrine is conveyed by silence, and order arises through non-action. The individual is the atom of consciousness, just as science has discovered the atom of matter. If we enter within the person—and that entering within is what Dharma is; all these sutras of Lao Tzu point us inward—
When we say: “What arrangement do you make by action? It will happen by your being.” Action is outside; being is within. When Lao Tzu says: become pure and purity will spread—do not try to purify others—he is telling you to go within. When he says: you cannot tell truth by words, only by wordlessness—words are outside, wordlessness is inside. He is directing you within. The whole thrust is inward.
And when one reaches within, one attains the atom of consciousness—the chinmaya atom. The atom of consciousness! Its energy is vast. That very atom of consciousness we call Paramatma. The energy is immense. As soon as we reach that place, there is such power that power itself works. Then we need not work separately. It may sound strange: in this world the powerless are the doers; the powerful get things done by being. Those who do not know, only they labor and accomplish something; those who know, accomplish even by resting. Those who know, speak even by silence; those who do not, using millions of words, say nothing.
This sutra of Lao Tzu is very fine—he himself was very fine. Whatever he says looks small on the surface. A friend told me inside today: “Today’s sutra is very small.”
It is not small; it is vast. Just one line—and in it, almost the whole Veda is contained, all the scriptures. Whatever the knowers have said is contained in this little sutra. If only this single key were preserved and the whole book thrown away, one who knows could rediscover the entire book from this small key. It is enough. Let me repeat:
“Therefore the sage manages affairs without action, and conveys his doctrine without words.” Therefore the sage arranges through non-doing, and communicates his vision through silence.
If there are any questions related to this—or any left over from before—bring them. And tomorrow we will have one more sitting; one sutra remains in the second chapter, we will take it up tomorrow.