Tao Upanishad #72

About Leo Tolstoy I have heard this: one evening, as the sun was setting and the sky was filled with the colors of the dying light, a cool twilight breeze was flowing. In the shade of a tree Tolstoy saw a serpent resting—lying on a rock, on a moss-covered rock, in a state of perfect repose. Tolstoy approached the serpent. And it is said he spoke to it: amidst the dance of the sinking rays and the cool moving wind, you are alive, you are breathing—and that alone is enough for you to be blissful; you are blissful. But I—I am not. The sun’s rays are not enough, the cool evening breeze is not enough, the moving breath, the gift of life is not enough. You are blissful, and I am not.

Except for man, the whole existence is blissful. What malady afflicts man that he is not? If it occurred to a single man, we could say he is ill and treat him. But this is the condition of all humanity. So it is not easy to say that the whole of humanity is sick. Then it would be more proper to say that man’s very nature is to be miserable. As man is now, he can only be miserable. The door of bliss can open for man—by a transcendence of what he is, by going beyond, by passing over his present state.

Had Lao Tzu heard this incident of Tolstoy’s, he would have agreed—because Lao Tzu was a man like the serpent. To breathe is bliss enough. Life in itself is such a vast benediction that nothing more need be asked. To be is a great compassion.

Whoever is miserable—perhaps his connection with life has snapped. Man’s connection with life is broken—or has become very faint. The roots have been uprooted. Even if he is joined to the earth, he is not joined. Perhaps this is inevitable; perhaps in man’s very being this is the necessity, the destiny—that man must break from nature and then be joined again.

If we understand a little the dharma of consciousness here, entry into this sutra will become easy.

Sanskrit is a very unique language. Perhaps there is no other like it on the earth—because those who developed Sanskrit were deeply immersed in the inner investigation of human consciousness. As the West today is immersed in the science of Western consciousness, the imprint of science has come upon Western languages, and they become more scientific day by day. It is inevitable; language becomes what it is used for. Those who evolved Sanskrit were engaged in exploring the innermost recesses of consciousness; that entire search has entered Sanskrit.

In Sanskrit the word for sorrow is vedana. Vedana is a unique word. It has a double meaning. One meaning is pain, suffering; and the other is knowledge. Vedana is from the same root as Veda, vid. Veda means—knowledge, supreme knowledge. Vid means—knowing, the wise one, wisdom. Vedana too is made of that same root. One meaning of vedana is knowing, awakening; but another meaning is pain. There is a deep connection between knowledge and pain. This word is not accidental.

In truth, without knowledge, pain cannot be. If a surgeon is to cut off your limb, he must first take away your knowing. You must be made unconscious; then your body can be cut and stitched. Where there is no knowing, there is no pain. Where there is knowing, there will be pain.

The serpent to whom Tolstoy was speaking is certainly not sorrowful. Tolstoy is sorrowful. But the serpent has no knowledge, therefore no pain. Tolstoy has knowledge, therefore pain. And then a wondrous thing happens: in the human race those who are most filled with knowing are the most filled with sorrow. Among men too, those who have not gone very far in the direction of knowing are not very miserable. With the measure of knowing, sorrow increases.

Therefore vedana is a unique word. In no language of the world is there one word for both knowledge and pain. If there is knowledge there will be pain. The reverse is also true: if there is pain there will be knowing. Only when your head aches do you become aware that there is a head. When there is no ache, you do not know you have a head. In truth, when you begin to feel your body, understand that you are ill. This is the sign of illness. When you begin to feel every limb, understand that you have grown old. Wherever there is pain there will be awareness. If a thorn pierces your foot you know the foot is there. If there were no pain, there would be no knowing, no awareness.

Man is endowed with awareness. In all nature, man alone is aware; he thinks, reflects, deliberates—he does not agree as things are. He thinks about things as they are, he wishes to change them, or to change himself.

But man thinks every moment. Whatever is happening, he is separated from it because of thought. Whenever you think about something, you separate from it. Thought creates a gap in between. Thought creates distance, a space. Without distance thought cannot be. Hence thinkers say: when you think, first create a distance. If there is no distance you will not be able to think. The greater the distance, the clearer the thinking; the lesser the distance, the more difficult it is to think.

A magistrate—if his own son, caught stealing, is brought into his court, he cannot think; the distance is too small, the boy too near. A doctor—if his wife falls ill, he cannot diagnose; the distance is too small. A surgeon—even the greatest—if his own son is to be operated upon, he calls another surgeon; the distance is too small. The greater the distance, the more impartial the thought can be. The smaller the distance, the more the thought becomes clouded.

Therefore a strange thing is seen daily: if another is in trouble you can give very noble advice; the same trouble when it comes to you, you cannot advise yourself at all. There is no distance. Thought gets obstructed.

Thought is the technique of creating distance. Man has broken away from nature because he thinks; he thinks about everything. Wherever thinking enters, there he keeps breaking away.

Now man stands where only two options remain—either he joins nature again, for there is no bliss without being joined to nature. Thought does not know bliss; it cannot know. Thought is the root of misery. Thought itself is sorrow—vedana. So there are only two options for man: one, fall below thought—to where the animals live, the trees live, the clouds move in the sky; tumble into that realm.

That is why alcohol has such an impact. Why intoxicants have such a deep grip on man that all the religions of the world shout, all the states strive, yet man cannot be prevented from becoming unconscious. If it were only a matter of alcohol it would be easy—it is not only alcohol. Neither law can prevent it, nor saints, because its grip is deep—very deep. And that grip is this: in the deep intoxication of alcohol, for a while man becomes blissful; sorrow vanishes. Alcohol does not remove sorrow—sorrow vanishes because thought is lost. Alcohol becomes a medium. Wherever your thought is lost, there you begin to glimpse bliss.

So one way is to fall below. But this way is not very effective. Because from where we have reached, it is actually impossible to fall below. In existence, decline does not occur. It is like a child who has reached the matriculation class; even if you send him back to the first grade, he cannot truly be sent back. To fall below knowledge is impossible. What you have known you cannot un-know; what has become your knowing, you cannot return from it.

Hence there is some weight in Sri Aurobindo’s view. Sri Aurobindo is the first thinker in India to insist that no one, once born in the human womb, can return to the state of animals. There is truth in this. However much sin he may commit! He can become like an animal, but not an animal. There is no way to fall below—because how can what is known be made unknown? What has become conscious cannot become unconscious. For a moment we can create a deception. Alcohol creates a deception; your state does not change.

There remains only one way—the second—that we go beyond thought. If you go below thought, you are freed from it; along with it you are freed from sorrow. In unconsciousness there is no sorrow. Or, become so utterly awake—go beyond thought—become so conscious that consciousness remains, but thought does not; alertness remains, but thinking is gone; the sky of consciousness remains, the clouds of thought are no more. In that transcendence—in dhyana, in Samadhi—we are again one with nature.

So one is the way of the non-saint to become one with nature: alcohol, lust, anything—techniques of losing, of forgetfulness. That is the non-saint’s way to attain Samadhi. He does not succeed in it. The saint’s way is: meditation, entering that state where thoughts disappear. By descending... If Tolstoy felt the serpent is in bliss, that too is Tolstoy’s feeling, not the serpent’s. The serpent cannot even feel that Tolstoy is miserable, nor can it feel it is blissful. This too is Tolstoy’s thinking. The serpent has nothing to do with it. The serpent is not even in awareness. Whatever is happening is happening; the serpent is flowing with it. There is not even an atom of space for it to think. It knows neither sorrow nor bliss. It appears blissful to us; it knows nothing of it.

But the Buddha knows bliss. So the Buddha is like the serpent in one sense, and like us in another. He knows bliss as we know sorrow. In this sense he is like man. And like the serpent he is so immersed in bliss that no thinking about it arises. He is one with bliss; it is his nature. Therefore if Buddha is sitting beneath the Bodhi tree and we go and say: you are in great bliss—this too is our thought. Buddha is so merged with bliss that only if we say it might it occur to him; otherwise it would not occur. It is our face of sorrow that will remind him that he is in bliss.

There is a state of transcendence. To understand Lao Tzu’s sutra this must be kept in mind. The first link with nature is broken; there is no way to rejoin it as it was. But if we can understand that in this breaking of the link sorrow is produced, then we can transcend it and go beyond. Lao Tzu is speaking of that state when we are reunited with nature; the circle is complete. After this journey of knowing, we again drown in the source. We have not fallen back; after the whole journey the circle is complete. And remember, where we are, half the circle is already done. From here, even if we fall back, we will have to travel just as much as we would if we move ahead.

I was in a university. Every morning I went for a walk—a large garden; I would go around it once. I greeted an old friend there daily. Sometimes I would ask after his health. One day I asked: you are well? He said: everything else is fine, but now the body does not cooperate. Earlier I could complete the whole round; now I get tired halfway and have to return. I told him: where is the difference? You get tired halfway and return. Whether you complete the round, or return from the halfway point—your home is at the same distance.

Many people keep trying as that old gentleman did—trying to return from halfway. In the same distance the circle can be completed. And the education that life has to give will also be received, and the awakening which is life’s destiny will come to hand. The rubbish of thought will drop, and the purity of awareness will be available.

Whoever drops the effort to fall backward has begun to be religious. The effort to fall back is irreligion. And no one can fall back—that is an impossibility. Therefore I say again and again: the irreligious man is engaged in an impossible effort—one that cannot succeed. He is not unsuccessful because he is bad; he is unsuccessful because what he wants cannot be. It is not in the law of nature. The religious man does not succeed because he is good; he succeeds because he moves in accord with the law of life. He is bound to succeed.

Nature has no concern with good and bad; nature’s concern is with right and wrong. Good and bad are man’s notions. The ultimate laws of life do not think in the language of good and bad; they think in the language of right and wrong. Buddha prefixed the word samyak—right—to each of his methods. He told his bhikkhus: even if you do meditation, he said, it is samyak-dhyana, right meditation. It is worth pondering—can meditation also be wrong? Can there be false meditation? Certainly there can be; that is why Buddha insists—right meditation.

Someone asks Buddha: why do you add right even to meditation? Buddha says: there is that meditation too which is achieved through unconsciousness, by falling backward; that is wrong. And there is that meditation which is attained by moving forward, by transcendence; that is right.

Buddha says: samyak-samadhi, right Samadhi.

You may not have noticed—there is also un-right Samadhi. And many religious people of the world too are engaged in the attempt for un-right Samadhi. If you become unconscious, you get the wrong Samadhi. If you are filled with bliss and remain aware, you get the right Samadhi. The difference is the same—falling back, or going beyond. Falling back seems easy—but is impossible. Because it seems easy, many attempt it; because it is impossible, no one succeeds. Right meditation, right Samadhi seem difficult—but are possible. Because they are difficult, very few attempt them; but whoever attempts, succeeds.

Now let us try to understand this sutra. It gives news about those meditators who have once again made themselves one with nature.

“The man of superior character is unaware of his character.”

If you are aware of your character, that very awareness is telling you there is some catch, something that pricks. Otherwise how would there be awareness? There is awareness of illness; there is no awareness of health. If character is truly healthy, nothing will prick; you will not even know, “I am virtuous.” If you come to know that you are virtuous, then virtue is still far away. It is imposed; by hammering and patching you have somehow made yourself virtuous. But you have not yet attained to the capacity of character; it has not blossomed from within. These flowers are not rooted in your own soul; you have bought them from somewhere. They are borrowed. You have pasted them on from outside.

You may deceive the world, but how will you deceive yourself? You cannot. It will show in that you constantly carry the thought, “I am virtuous”; you will be stiff, rigid. It will keep pricking like a thorn that you are virtuous.

Look around—so-called virtuous people everywhere. Like a thorn it keeps pricking them that they are virtuous. They remain stiff. Even the way they walk is different; the way they sit is different. And all the time their eyes search: may someone see that they are virtuous! May someone recognize it—“Your conduct, your virtue, your glory!” They are not assured. They still need someone else’s support. They are virtuous only by the support of their stiffness. This too is part of the ego. Virtue has not yet become so natural that they can forget it, that they no longer know it, that they do not await someone to support them, to praise them, to feed them with the reflections in others’ eyes, to gain strength from the flattery of others’ words. No—now they know nothing of it. Virtue has become health.

Whenever a thing becomes healthy, you do not come to know of it. Take this as a criterion. For seekers on the path, this criterion is priceless. Whatever you still know, understand that it has not yet been attained.

People come to me; they say, “We have become absolutely silent.” Then they look at me, waiting for me to say, “Yes, you have become silent.” If I say, “You have not,” their silence is lost at once—they become immediately disturbed. I tell them: if you have become silent, why carry this restlessness—“I am silent”? Drop that too. Become totally silent. “No,” they say, “we have come to ask you, so it becomes certain.”

You do not come to ask me whether you are alive or not. That is certain. But you come to ask whether you have become silent. That is not certain. You want to convince yourself that you are silent. To be silent is difficult; to convince oneself is easy. And if others begin to praise, then convincing becomes very easy.

Lao Tzu says, “The man of superior character is unaware of his character.”

He knows nothing. He does not even know, “I am good and you are bad.” Remember: whoever knows “I am good,” simultaneously knows that you are bad. Whenever you look at another in such a way that the other is bad, watch—this effort to see the other as bad is in truth not related to the other at all; it is related to seeing oneself as good. And when we manage to see another as bad, seeing ourselves as good becomes easy. If all are good, seeing oneself as good becomes very difficult.

Kabir has said, “When I went searching for the bad man, none worse than me could I find.”

If you go searching, you cannot find anyone better than yourself—it is impossible. If by some mistake you do find someone good, he cannot remain good for long. You will find some way or other to call him bad.

Have you ever noticed that whenever you succeed in proving someone bad, a weight lifts from your chest? Whenever you slander, abuse, enumerate another’s faults—have you ever looked into the mirror then? How delighted you appear—some great burden seems to have dropped. One more person has been brought down; through one more person you have risen. The relish of slander is not for any other reason. It is because it gives you the feeling of being good. In one sense it is a good sign—that you want to be good. At least this much striving remains. But the method you choose is wrong—suicidal. You will never become good this way.

An endless effort goes on—seeing evil in others. If someone praises another before you, you bring a thousand arguments, a thousand devices, to prove that the praiser is wrong. But when someone slanders another, you bring no arguments. You accept it with great goodwill. If you watch a little, you will understand which craving this belongs to. You want to be good. This is the cheap method. A line is drawn; draw a shorter line beside it, and it becomes longer—without doing anything. You need not touch that line. Draw a longer line and the first becomes shorter. You are busy drawing everyone’s line shorter than yours so that your line appears long. But this effort is suicidal; by it you will never be great. It is a wonderful method to remain small—and it always succeeds.

Lao Tzu says: only he has character who is unaware of it; therefore he is virtuous. The mediocre man is intent on preserving his character.

Whoever is constantly striving to preserve his character is low, mediocre. He has no inkling of the vast sky of character, no taste of its freedom. For him, character is a bondage, a prison. Look at the sadhus! Let not a woman be seen—eyes go down. What is the worth of such saintliness? Let not a woman touch them—they arrange their garments carefully.

Just now a sadhu came to see me. I was sitting on a floor where two women were also seated. He stopped below the platform. I said, “Come closer; from so far it will be difficult to talk.” He said, “There is a difficulty; I cannot sit on the same platform upon which women are seated.”

No one was asking him to sit in women’s laps. He cannot sit on the floor because women sit upon it. The floor touches women—it has become feminine. Waves of feminine vibrations have spread in it. The sadhu is pained by this; he is frightened. What is the price of such saintliness? None at all. What value can there be in such weakness?

Yet we too say: yes, a sadhu. Because we recognize only petty character. Petty minds can only recognize petty virtue. This sadhu we too can call a sadhu because he fits our understanding. But we do not see: one who is so much bent upon saving his virtue—how much virtue can he possibly have? Is there virtue at all? Because what is truly ours needs no saving; only what is not ours needs great saving. We keep saving only that of which we ourselves fear that, if exposed, it will be known we do not possess it. If you are busy preserving your virtue, understand it is of no use. Seek another kind of character which needs no saving. Will character save you, or will you save character? Will truth save you, or will you save truth? Will Paramatma save you, or will you save Paramatma?

A God whom you must protect belongs in the trash bin. What is his value? And a character you must save is your own creation; it cannot be greater than you. Seek that character which envelops you like the sky. Wherever you go it surrounds you. Even if you descend into hell, it remains your surround. Where you are makes no difference. And you need not even be alert toward it—it simply is. It has become your breath.

Such a character can be sought. The search for such character is sadhana. But the journey is hard—finding that character which saves you. It is easy to paste around you such a character that you must protect. It is like garments you have draped over yourself. The wound is within; you have bandaged above. There is no healing. Then you must keep protecting it.

I have heard: a little boy injured his hand. The doctor was bandaging it. The wound was on the left hand. The boy said, “Bandage my right hand.”

The doctor said, “Son, are you mad? The wound is on your left hand. Bandaging is necessary so that in school some child may not bump into it.”

The boy said, “You do not know children; that is why I say bandage the right hand—because wherever the bandage is, that is where they will bump. If the left is to be saved, then the right must be bandaged.”

He is right. By bandaging a wound you do not remove it; you only cover it. Our entire virtue is a bandage. Hence if someone speaks even a little about your character, what a hurt you feel—have you noticed? Just a hint and how the arrow pierces you. Where does it strike? Not in his words, but in the wound hidden beneath your bandage. When someone speaks of your character and you feel no hurt, know the wound has healed—character has been attained.

But we are hurt. We are hurt because the word is true; otherwise we would not be hurt. If a non-thief is called a thief, he will not be hurt—he will laugh, thinking the man is mad. But call a thief a thief, and he is hurt—because there is a wound beneath the bandage. Your hurt reveals where the wound is. What angers and disturbs you reveals your wounds. And people too know where your bandages are; not only children, grown-ups know as well—and they strike exactly where the bandages lie.

Lao Tzu says: virtue is low if it needs to be preserved. A character that needs preserving is a character produced by effort.

Understand this a little. There are two kinds of character. One is an emergence—sahaj, the blossoming from within. The other is superimposition—imposition, not emergence. You are something inside, outside you paste on something else. One kind is dharma, and one is niti. Niti is the character of the wounded one. Niti is the viewpoint of utility: what is useful, what makes it easy to live in society, to succeed, to gratify ambition, to avoid collisions—that is cleverness. Niti is cleverness. Those who are shrewd erect every kind of policy around themselves. It gives them the convenience to be immoral.

Understand this a little. If you must steal, you should certainly go to the temple—people will suspect less that such a man could be a thief! If you must be dishonest, you should sing the praises of honesty without stint; not only speak, but whenever there is a public occasion, display honesty too. Use every small opportunity to display it. Then you become free to commit great dishonesty. No one can suspect: “This man—and dishonest! He has donated so much to the hospital, so much to the school, so much for the education of tribal children—this man, dishonest!” If you must exploit a crore or two, it is worth spending a lakh or two in donation. You are secure.

Niti is your protection. So those who say in English, “Honesty is the best policy,” are right—it is policy, not honesty. What has honesty to do with policy! It is shrewdness, skill, cunning, arithmetic, calculation.

And surely, the shrewd deceive through honesty. The foolish are simply dishonest and get caught. Do not think the dishonest get caught—only the foolish dishonest get caught. The intelligent dishonest do not, because they make every provision to escape. It is very difficult to catch them, even to suspect them.

Character—the moral character, the outer one, the art of living skillfully in society—is an imposition. Inside, the man will be the exact opposite. So the man who talks a lot about brahmacharya, understand that lust stands strong within. The man who talks much of truth, understand he is preparing to lie. Keep in mind: the inner is the opposite. It is to hide the inner that so much arrangement is made; to cover it, to forget it. Perhaps the attempt is not to deceive you; perhaps it is to deceive himself. He wants to forget.

Western psychologists are puzzled by your sadhus and sannyasins. Your monks keep chanting, “Brahmacharya, brahmacharya, celibacy.” Western psychologists say: there can be only one meaning to such chanting—that lust is banging strongly within. Otherwise the chant would disappear. If lust were not inside, what would this chant be covering and concealing? That too would go.

When character is complete, niti disappears, only dharma remains. Niti is to discipline your behavior by looking at the other; dharma is to flow with the ultimate law of life. There is no question of the other. Therefore the religious man will often be a rebel; the moral man will often be conservative, always in accord with the establishment—because all his policy is to conform. He does not want to deviate even a little, because only within the establishment can exploitation be done, only within it can success be had, only within it can the ego be gratified. The religious man will often not fit the establishment—because he is aligning with a great law. Humanly-made rules have become small. They may fit with him—or may not.

I take it as a criterion: when a man like Buddha or Jesus is born, or like Krishna or Lao Tzu—if the society can be in tune with him, that society is religious; and if not, it is irreligious. Your so-called saints fit perfectly with society. They fit like an electric plug exactly into its socket—made for it. Cast in its mold. A mahatma who fits so completely with society has nothing to do with dharma; certainly he has to do with niti. He has cut and trimmed himself to conform. Society will carry him on its shoulders, honor him, respect him, give him prestige—because he is its follower, its shadow. But if someone unites himself with life’s supreme law, many obstacles will arise between him and society—and naturally so, for society is not yet at the level of saintliness.

If you are virtuous by looking at society, remember—this virtue will not serve much. It is a social utility, a formality, a skill in behavior. Seek that character through which you become one with nature. Keep these two in mind. The effort to become one with society will give you a character—but it will be sham, hypocrisy. And it will need continuous protecting, because it has not come straight into your life; it has been loaded from above. It is a burden you must carry—one you would like to unload at any moment to feel light.

But compulsions are there. Unloading it is costly. You have heavy vested interests; they would break; insecurity would come. So you keep on carrying it. Slowly you become accustomed to the load. Then if someone even says, “Drop this burden,” he seems an enemy—because the burden feels like property.

The character you have created by considering society is not a property—it is a burden. Seek the character that searches for unity with the stream of life. Lao Tzu calls that law of life Tao.

“The inferior man of character is bent on preserving his character; therefore he is bereft of character. The superior man of character never acts.”

Superior character means that which is born within you. You do not speak truth because truth will bring you prestige in society; nor because truth-tellers never go to jail; nor because you will be saved from hell and go to heaven. Rather, you speak truth because in speaking truth you have tasted the joy of life—not in the future, but now, this very moment. When you speak truth you are nearest to life; you flow with its current. Whenever you speak a lie you fall out of the current.

This is an inner research. Whenever you speak truth you are weightless, innocent, light, free—there is no past, no future. Whenever you lie there is past and future—there is society. Then that lie must be protected. For one lie you will have to tell a thousand; you must constantly remember where, what you lied. You must be continuously alert not to speak anything contrary. The lie becomes an anxiety. There may be profit in it; but compared with the anxiety it breeds, that profit is nothing. The anxiety is terrible. And the great calamity is: the more you get entangled in the lie, the farther you drift from life’s current—because the current of life is truth.

So when someone speaks truth by looking to society, his truth has no value. It too is a kind of lie. This may be a little difficult to grasp. Understand it this way: why do you lie? Because it will profit you. If profit would come from truth, you would tell truth. Your focus is on profit. So between lie and truth there is not much difference. If you feel: I will get off scot-free by lying—you lie. If you feel: I will get off by telling truth—you tell truth. In both cases your aim is to get off. Both are the same. Truth too is a means, lie too is a means—the goal is one.

But there is one who speaks truth not for loss or gain. And remember, it is not necessary that truth always brings profit. Those who teach that truth always profits are also addressing your greed.

India has taken as its national emblem: Satyameva Jayate—Truth alone triumphs. Nowhere is this evident. But people are interested in triumph, not in truth. If truth wins, they can become interested in truth; otherwise, they are not. If it were certain that untruth wins, people would speak untruth. People are interested in winning, not in truth.

So I do not say to you that truth always wins. It is not necessary. Many times it will lose. In fact, it will lose more often than it wins—because those among whom you live are all false. I do not say truth always wins, but this I do say: truth is always blissful. Victory belongs to the others; bliss belongs within. Success belongs to the others.

Jesus was crucified; he could have avoided it by lying. It would have been enough to say... Jesus said, “I am the son of God.” This was his realization, his truth, his experience—that he was so one with God as the son is with the father; as the son is the extension of the father, so Jesus felt: I am the extension of Paramatma. This awareness was so profound it was his truth. By saying just this much—“It is a symbol, a parable; not a historical truth”—he could have avoided the cross. This is all his opponents wanted: that he say clearly he is not the son of God. But what was his truth—he would not deviate even a hair from it.

The cross is failure in the eyes of the world. Not only in the world’s eyes—even Jesus’ closest disciples felt everything was finished. Till the last moment they stood in the crowd thinking, at the final moment some miracle will happen and truth will win. But Jesus was crucified—finished. The disciples trembled: truth has died—truth hangs on the cross. They had thought: truth will ultimately win. There may be small losses in the middle, but ultimately truth will win.

I do not say truth will win. In fact, there are more possibilities of truth losing—because losing and winning are outward relations. One thing is certain: truth will always be blissful—even if it loses, even if it is crucified, even if it fails, even if it is condemned. Untruth is always sorrow—even if it succeeds, even if it reaches the throne. Untruth will succeed. It does.

Machiavelli advised kings not to speak truth even to their closest friends—because he who is friend today may become an enemy tomorrow; keep this in mind. He advises kings: keep in view that today’s friend may be tomorrow’s enemy; therefore speak no truth even to him. Speak only that which, even if he becomes your enemy tomorrow, cannot harm you.

Therefore emperors can have no friends. Those who hold power can be no one’s friends. Their friendship is a deception. In politics there is no friendship—only enemies. Some enemies are manifest; some not yet manifest—but they can become manifest any time. Hence, even with them, truth cannot be.

Life has become a web of untruth—as we have made it. Within that web untruth wins, untruth succeeds, untruth sits on thrones. But the sign of untruth is the dense gloom of sorrow within—like a dark night there is sadness there. So even on thrones only bundles of sorrow sit.

Truth is bliss. If you have caught its scent, and you speak truth because in speaking it you become nearest to nature—then your connection with character, real character, has begun. Such a person—once he has such character—does not act; action happens through him. Understand this difference. He does not do anything deliberately. He no longer needs to. Now whatever the inner soul makes happen, happens. Now it is as if he has handed himself into the hands of the supreme destiny. Wherever the winds of the divine carry him, he goes. He does not ask: what is the direction? What is the destination? What is the goal? Where will you take me? Now he has no goal, nowhere to reach. Now to be natural, to be spontaneous, to be self-arising is his lot.

So whatever happens through him happens like leaves sprouting on trees. No one says the tree “made” leaves; no one says the tree “put” flowers. There is no effort. It is the tree’s nature that leaves sprout, flowers bloom. The tree grows, throws fragrance into the sky. So it is with the virtuous one. From his within, what happens—happens. He makes no effort imposed from above.

I have heard: Lao Tzu’s devotee Lieh Tzu was passing a village—one of those few who approached closest to Lao Tzu. As he was passing, he saw the king’s horsemen galloping behind. He was riding a donkey. They stopped him. A great minister came and said, “The emperor commands you to come and become his chief counselor. The emperor is in great confusions—these must be solved.” Lieh Tzu said, “If ever the emperor within me takes me there, I shall come—there is no other way. If he does not, I will not. Now, I am no more. Only the one within moves me.”

Whether those ministers understood or not, they went back. As soon as they left, Lieh Tzu stopped at a well and washed his ears. The villagers gathered: “What are you doing?” Then he washed his donkey’s ears too. They said, “Have you gone mad?” Lieh Tzu said, “Even the word of power, if it falls into the ears, corrupts; it creates prostitution—hence I washed my ears.” People said, “But why the donkey’s?” He said, “If it corrupts me, what of the donkey! And donkeys are anyway very eager for politics! His mind would be ruined. He had pricked up his ears when they spoke. I saw electricity running inside—he was ready. He was whispering, ‘Lieh Tzu, say yes.’ He is angry with me that I made him leave palaces and wander in villages and forests. It is good to wash his ears too—otherwise his sin will fall upon me.”

Acton—Lord Acton—said, “Power corrupts, and corrupts absolutely.”

But we are all searching for power—not for truth, but for power. In the search for that power the character we build is a deception. He who seeks truth—character begins to arise in his life. Like fragrance in flowers, so his life becomes. Doership disappears; he does nothing—things happen through him.

The Zen master Rinzai used to say: after Buddha attained enlightenment, he did nothing at all. But the story is clear that for forty years he went from village to village, explained to people, awakened them toward realization; quenched the thirst of innumerable ones; awakened the sleeping thirst of many and made them discontent; innumerable were transformed. Forty years—tireless wandering, labor. And Rinzai says Buddha did nothing after enlightenment. His disciples asked, “Why do you keep saying this? We know Buddha labored tirelessly for forty years.” Rinzai would say, “It appears to you that it was labor. It was Buddha’s fragrance. He did nothing—things happened through him. Before enlightenment he did; after enlightenment, things happened.”

In this difference—between doing and happening—lies everything. One is when you act—think, plan, arrange, then set about doing. That is the journey of your ego. The other is when you are open, and wherever, whatever the current of life makes happen through you, let it happen. You are simply ready to flow. You have no destination, no purpose, no insistence that “it must be thus.” Then no one can make you miserable—for one who has no insistence, there is no failure. And one who does not want to reach anywhere—wherever he reaches, that is the goal. Even if he reaches nowhere, that too is the goal. His goal is with him. Failure is impossible now. In Buddha’s life something is happening—happening, not doing. It is a happening, a natural flow. The day character is born, the doer is lost.

Our amusement is that even our character is something we do. We organize it by trying hard. We put it together as one builds a house, placing bricks one upon another—so we build our character too.

Lao Tzu’s understanding of character is the understanding of spontaneity. The whole existence is spontaneous. The moon and stars do not raise a din about how hard they labor. The sun does not come every morning and knock at your door asking for thanks—“I dissolve the world’s darkness every day, for so long!”

I have heard a story: once darkness went to God and complained, “Why is this sun after me? I never harmed him. I do not remember injuring him. Yet every morning he is present! I cannot rest all night—tormented by fear of him. In the morning he appears—again I must run. I run all day; I cannot rest at night. Why is he after me?” God—so the story goes—called the sun and asked, “Why are you after darkness?” The sun said, “Who is this darkness? I do not know him. I have never met him. Bring him before me so that I can recognize him and never make such a mistake again.”

It has not been possible till now—how to bring darkness before the sun? They say God is omnipotent—but even he cannot bring darkness before the sun. That file lies where it was. The case cannot be decided; it never will be.

The sun, which does not even know darkness exists—what ego can it have that it dispels darkness? The sun is luminous by its nature. Darkness flees by its nature.

Exactly so is the one who surrenders to the current of life—who attains Tao, dharma. He does nothing; whatever happens, happens. Then nothing is bad and nothing is good—because when we do, then good and bad appear. There is no question of reward and loss—because we have done nothing. And the life which has acted through us may keep account of reward and loss—let it. We have stepped aside. And when the sense of doership is lost, the sense of “I-am-ness” is gone. Where there is no ego, there is Brahman—there the supreme energy manifests.

“The man of superior character never acts—or if he acts, never for any external purpose.”

“Or if he acts”—this is said also for us, because to us he will appear to be acting. Krishna appears to be acting; it is hard to accept he does not act. There even comes a moment when he says he will not take up arms—but then he takes up the Sudarshan chakra in his hand. He seems to stand in action. It is difficult to say he does not act. He may not act from his side—but from our side, action is visible—amply visible.

Jesus’ action is amply visible. However much he might say—and from his side there may be no action—yet we have seen him. In the temple people saw him overturn the tables of the moneylenders, whip in hand, driving them out. That a single man drove out hundreds of shopkeepers is astonishing. Surely, in that moment he was no longer a mere man; some vast power was working through him. Only then did all fear, tremble, and flee. Later they took revenge, but in that moment one young man, alone, overturned stalls that had stood for centuries, and no one could stop him. Some great power must have grasped him. Even so, from our side action is visible—he picked up a whip, frightened people, shoved people, overturned their counters. The act is clear.

Hence Lao Tzu says, “Or if he acts”—because otherwise it will be difficult for us; we will promptly assume that one who attains realization does nothing at all. And we do not know that event where action is spontaneous—that is unfamiliar to us. So Lao Tzu says: keep one thing in mind—“or if he acts, still never for any external purpose.” He has no external purpose. There is an inner upwelling, but no external purpose.

If we understand this, the knot in Krishna’s character becomes clear. Krishna vowed he would not take up arms; then he took them up. For us, this is a great confusion. This man seems unaware of his own word. His assurance is worthless. And one whose given word has no value—how can Hindus call him a complete avatara? When this is Krishna’s state, what will be the condition of other Hindus? Difficult! Krishna vowed—how did he take up arms?

If we understand this sutra, it becomes clear. Giving a vow is a natural upwelling of a given situation. When he gave the vow, the situation was different. In that situation, that flower bloomed—Krishna vowed. If he had given it from his side he would have thought before giving: shall I or shall I not?—because tomorrow the situation may change and I am a man of my word. If he had given it, he would have given it legally, with conditions attached: “If this happens, if that does not happen...”

As you see, when a lawyer drafts a document, to say one thing he uses fifty lines. To leave room—for tomorrow the situation may change. There must be loopholes through which a way can be found, so that no one can say, “You broke your word.” The pledge must be framed so that within it remains the facility to break it. In legal documents this is necessary.

But Krishna simply said, “Yes, I will not take up arms.” This is not the word of a legal mind. It is the word of a simple sage who has no thought for the future, no account with the past, who is not cunning. It is the word of an innocent man, a child—“Yes, I will not take up arms.” He does not know that those who exact the vow are clever, shrewd, skillful; that they seek to bind him, to tie his hands. Krishna knows nothing of this. He gives the vow. Then a moment comes—he takes up arms. The moralist is in great difficulty: how to fit Krishna? The vow is broken; this man is a deceiver.

I do not see any deceit here. Had he been a deceiver, first he would not have given the vow. Had he been a deceiver, he would have given the vow in such a way that it kept the facility to break it. This man is so simple that he gave the vow—and when the time came he broke it. And he felt no hitch in doing so. In a different situation it felt natural to take up the weapon. These are two different moments. The cunning man ties the two together; the simple man lives moment to moment. Between his moments there is no linkage—other than his spontaneity there is no continuity. Therefore Krishna seems to me a man of amazing simplicity. Your other holy men are not so simple; they are very cunning. They keep account of the far future. Even Paramatma will not be able to trap them; they go by legalistic ways. But Krishna is utterly simple.

This simplicity is like that of a child. Just now he loves you; a moment later he becomes fire and is ready to take your life; a moment later again he is quiet and sits in your lap. You never call a child deceitful. A moment ago he said he is your enemy; a moment later he is your friend. You never call a child deceitful—because you know he is spontaneous. You can deceive; he cannot. In every moment he is true. There is no account between moments—that is the arithmetic of the cunning. He is true moment to moment, and expresses the truth of the moment.

There is a moment in which Krishna says, “Yes, I will not take up arms.” And there is a moment in which he takes them up. Between these two moments there is accounting for us; for Krishna there is only spontaneity. In that moment this was natural; in this moment this is natural. Between the two there is no contradiction. But we see contradiction. When the day comes you do not see contradiction, know that character too is born in you. As long as you see contradiction, know your character is calculation.

But even Hindus cannot explain Krishna rightly. They too are troubled—because they too have the intellect of moral character. When people of other religions object to Krishna, the Hindu scholar must dodge; he must put forward things by force. Either he says: the avatara’s character is unfathomable, mysterious. Not unfathomable at all—it is straightforward, clear. There is no mystery in it. It is simple—childlike, innocent. What is unfathomable in this? But they say: the avatara’s life cannot be understood; it is very mysterious. He must have taken up arms for some purpose we cannot know.

He did not take them up for any purpose. If he took them up for a purpose he would not be a man of character—then there is motive. The Sudarshan rose; Krishna did not “raise” it. There is not a trace of calculation—no gap between thinking and act.

In your case there is a gap between thought and act—you think first, then do. Or sometimes you do first, and then repent: why did I not think! Had I thought, this would never have happened. Your thinking and your doing are far apart. Krishna’s act is his consciousness; nowhere in it is there calculation. What happens, happens out of his wholeness. He neither thought it before, nor will he think it after.

Therefore in Krishna’s life there is no repentance. No prior planning, no later regret. There is a chain of acts. And Krishna is true in each moment. One moment does not bind him to the next. The past is not bondage. His integrity flows spontaneously in each moment. Wherever life takes him, he is ready to go. Since once I said so, he will not bend life’s current. He will say: in that moment life’s stream flowed east; now it has taken a turn and flows west.

You do not go to a river—to Ganga—and say, “Your conduct is not right; sometimes this way, sometimes that. If you must go to the ocean, go straight! Sometimes you flow this way, sometimes that; your conduct gives no certainty of your direction.”

No one says to Ganga, “You are deceitful.” Wherever the stream finds a channel, a hollow, a door, a path—it flows. Sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west; sometimes taking many a turn; it reaches the ocean. Reaching the ocean is not even a goal; it is the final outcome of its spontaneous nature. It does not carry a flag: “We shall reach the ocean!”—that if it does not reach, life is wasted; if it reaches, some great festival must be celebrated. As Ganga flows towards the ocean, so flows the life of one who has attained to nature.

“The man of superior character never acts; or if he acts, not for any external purpose.”

Whatever he does is from inner intention, not for external ends. His acts are not pulled from the outside; they are emergent from within.

“The inferior man of character acts—and always for external purpose.”

The inferior man remains a doer; in whatever he does he keeps his eye on what is happening outside. He is not concerned with what is happening inside. And life’s connection is from within; outside is only play, a drama. The inferior man gives great value to the play. He is always watching: what is occurring outwardly, what will be the result; if I do this, this will happen; if I do that, that will happen.

The inferior man is like a chess player. He thinks five moves ahead: if I move thus, how will the other answer; then I shall do thus, then he thus. Grandmasters say: whoever can think five moves together wins in chess—at least five. The more, the greater the skill. The inferior man takes life to be a game of chess. Even when he speaks to his wife, he pre-plans: if I say this, she will say that—then what reply will I give? For him life is a courtroom, not a joy. He is constantly busy: “If I say this, this result will follow.” He imagines results first, then steps.

We call such a man intelligent. It is hard to find a greater fool—because he may indeed gain something outside, but he has no idea what he is losing.

“The man of superior compassion acts, but not for external purpose. The man of superior justice acts—and does so for external purpose.”

Therefore compassion is dharma, and justice is niti. Justice is social; compassion is inner. When you are compassionate, it is not necessary to pay attention to justice. In truth, if you pay attention to justice, compassion cannot be.

Jesus told a story. A rich man hired workers for his vineyard. Some came in the morning; some heard at noon and came; some heard in the evening and came; some came as the work was about to end. As news reached them, they came. In the evening he paid all equally. Those who had come in the morning were angry. They said, “This is injustice! We labored from morning; some came at noon—same pay; some in the evening—same; some have just come—done nothing—same. What injustice!”

The rich man said, “I do not give by justice; I give by compassion. You came in the morning; tell me, is what I give you less than your labor?” They said, “No, not less.” He said, “Go home content.” But they said, “That is fine—but these who just came?” He said, “They are none of your concern. It is my money; I am lavish. You have received for your labor—even more. Yet you keep saying injustice.”

Jesus says: Paramatma too will not give according to your doing. You came—that is enough. That rich man gave because you came—that is enough. Your intention was complete; time ran out. What is your fault? When the news came, you came. What difference does it make? Some heard in the morning and came early.

Some became virtuous before you; you a little later. Do not think Paramatma will say: “This saint is ancient—and you just now!” Jesus’ story is meaningful. Paramatma will give out of his compassion, out of his love, from his inner abundance. He has; therefore he gives. You came—that is enough. You heard—and when you heard, you came. That is enough.

The man of superior compassion acts, but without any external purpose—out of inner feeling. You give to a beggar. Two reasons are possible: because he needs; then you are a just man, but your act is external. Or you give because you have more than enough; then you are compassionate—your act is inner. The nature of the two acts is utterly different. When you give because the other has not, you can also snatch—from one who has. You can become dangerous. You can give to the beggar and rob the rich.

Communists are just. There is no doubt about their justice. Compassion is absent; justice is complete. Marx says: take from those who have and give to those who have not. Where is the mistake? It is just—but there is no compassion. Compassion does not give because the other has not. The root of compassion is different—“Because I have so much.”

When you give to the poor because he has not, you will expect thanks. Justice asks for gratitude. Justice desires the other be obliged. But when you give because you have so much that if you do not give, what will you do with it—then you will not ask for thanks. Rather, you will thank him for lightening your burden, for consenting to take. Because he could have refused. Giving is easy—but what if the receiver does not take! The receiver can refuse; then all your wealth will feel like poverty. Since he accepted, you feel obliged.

In this land, when we give alms to a sadhu and he accepts, we offer dakshina. Dakshina is to say: you accepted the alms—thank you. The sadhu is not giving thanks; the householder is—“Your grace that you accepted.” After the alms, here is dakshina—thanks. He could have refused. We are not giving to the sadhu because he has not; we give because we have much and want someone to share.

So the compassionate one acts, but his act has no external purpose. The just man acts—and he acts for an external purpose. And below even justice is another kind.

Lao Tzu calls him “the ritualist.” The ritualist acts for external purpose—and if he does not get response, he rolls up his sleeves and imposes his rituals upon others by force.

There are three kinds of men. One: the one who has attained to dharma—he acts because he has so much that he shares. Two: the just, who acts because there is a need, an external purpose to be fulfilled. Three: the ritualist—not only does he act for external purpose, if you do not allow him to act, he will force it upon you; but he will do it.

You may not understand this, but many of you are doing exactly this. Often in doing good you become bad—because you are so convinced you are right, your ego so strong, that even if you must hurt and harm others, you will still do your “compassion.” You cannot drop your compassion. Understand by example: Muslims destroyed countless temples and images in a thousand years in India. Why did they do this? It is the third category—the ritualist.

The Muslim believes God has no image. There is no harm in this belief; it is absolutely right. But when a fanatic believes it, he will not agree to merely explain; if you do not understand, he will roll up his sleeves. If you still do not agree, to set you right he will raise the sword. He will destroy your idol. The zeal to do good is so great that he will do evil for the sake of good.

Therefore under the name of religion more sins are committed than under any other name—because the passion to do good is so strong that evil no longer appears evil; it seems we are doing it for good. When you slap your child you say, “For your own good I have to do this.” You slap him—and “for your good!” And the great joke is—you may be slapping him because he slapped a smaller child. You say, “I have told you a thousand times—no hitting!”—and you are hitting. The child cannot understand what world this is. For the same offense, he is beaten. The father says, “You must not hit your junior”—and he is hitting his junior. He is junior to his father. Children grow confused—growing up with you, nearly their minds go wrong. They cannot understand: what is happening? What is the rule? If the small must not be beaten, why am I beaten? If beating the small is a sin, then you must refrain from beating me. But you are beating for my good. It is not that by your beating he will refrain from beating the smaller—he too will beat for the other’s good. That is the result of such training.

These are three kinds of men; and search which kind you are. Mind always wants, when it hears such thoughts, to think about others—“So-and-so is this kind.” No—this has nothing to do with others. Lao Tzu is speaking to you. And I am speaking to you. Think for yourself—of the three, which are you?

Out of a hundred, ninety chances are you are the third kind—the ritualist. Nine chances out of a hundred that you are the second—the just, the moral. One chance out of a hundred that you are as man should be—the man of dharma, the man of Tao.

Think for yourself. And keep alert toward becoming the first kind—there is difficulty in reaching, but no impossibility.

Enough for today.

We will sit five minutes; leave after kirtan.