Tao Upanishad #73

Man can live in two ways: from the within or from the without; either from the inner, or from the outer.
The life lived from the outside will be false, flimsy and hypocritical—even if it looks good. By being good alone no conduct becomes inward. Good and bad both belong to the outside. We call that bad which harms society, which harms others; we call that good which benefits society, which benefits others. Both are outer events. The so‑called virtuous and the non‑virtuous are alike outer.
The life of the within is the life of the saint. The saint does not brood over good and bad. Spontaneity is his aim; being natural is his goal. To be natural itself is good for him; to be unnatural itself is bad for him.
Understand this a little rightly. Our thinking is influenced by morality, and society tries to make us moral. For society it is necessary—it cannot survive without codes. So every person will inevitably be taught by society to become moral; a fear of being immoral will be created. These are necessities of social living. But no one attains truth merely by being good. The reverse can be. One who attains to truth will be good—there is no obstacle in that. But that one attains to truth because he is good—this is not necessary. Society is not concerned beyond this: that you be good. If you are good, that is enough for society. It is not enough for you. If your goodness itself becomes a hindrance for you, it will be a cause of misery.
Hence a strange phenomenon occurs. Sometimes even criminals are seen to be happy, and sometimes those whom we call noble and respectable are seen to be unhappy. Often it happens that the person who imposes goodness upon himself cannot be happy. In imposition there is pain, bondage, a prison; he feels something is being forced; a slavery has been thrust upon him. Therefore even the good man does not look dancing, does not look cheerful; in his life there is no rainfall of celebration; no music, no dance is seen bursting forth in his soul. The good man looks sad. We call his sadness seriousness. Sadness is an illness; it has nothing to do with one’s nature. Seriousness is a disease; it has nothing to do with spontaneity.
Spontaneity will be flowering, buoyant. In spontaneity there will be joy. But the serious people have given us very upside‑down teachings. The joyous person they call shallow; the exuberant person they call superficial; the serious person they call deep; the sad person they esteem higher than the festive.
The vision is fundamentally mistaken. Seriousness is a distortion. Wherever there is disease, there will be seriousness. Joyfulness is the natural expression. Wherever the stream of life flows without obstruction, there will be dance, there will be song, there will be festival.
When religion is born, there is celebration; and when religion becomes rigid and turns into a sect, seriousness catches hold. When religion is born it is like Krishna’s flute—the birth of a song. But when it becomes organized it turns sad. At religion’s birth there is spontaneity, and when religion is organized, morality enters. For religion is born in the soul of an individual, and a sect is constructed within society.
The day Mahavir attains knowing, or Buddha attains the ultimate wisdom, celebration descends into their lives. But this is an event that happens in the life of a solitary individual. Buddha is alone under the Bodhi tree; Mahavir stands in the forest in solitude. There is no society, no morality, no conduct; there is pure interiority. In that pure interiority the supreme bliss is attained. But when around Mahavir the Jain religion arises, it happens within society. When around Buddha Buddhism arises, then Buddhism is a social event.
Society insists on morality. Society’s emphasis is on right behavior with the other; religion’s emphasis is on right behavior with oneself. These are fundamentally different things. By behaving rightly with the other you can still behave wrongly with yourself—then you will be sad, serious, afflicted. Even your goodness will not become your expression. The flower of your life will not bloom; it will remain withered. But when you are also good with yourself, then celebration descends into your life. And one who is good with himself cannot be bad with anyone. Yet not being bad with the other is secondary, a shadow. When a person is blissful within, he cannot give sorrow to anyone. For what one does not have, how can he give to the other?
We can give to the other only what we have. However contrary our intentions, the unhappy person, howsoever much he may wish to give happiness, cannot give it. For what is not with him, how will he give? If a blissful person even tries to give someone pain, from him only bliss will go—there is no other way.
Religion’s emphasis is—right dealing with oneself. And one who has learned to deal well with himself, who has made his life simple and natural, will not behave badly toward anyone. But that is secondary; not even worth considering.
This is Lao Tzu’s proposition. This is his basic point from which he proceeds. Let us take this into account, then approach the sutra.
“Therefore: when Tao is lost, the doctrine of humanity arises.”
There are leaders, teachers. They go on explaining to people, “Be human.” As if humanity were the supreme religion. But Lao Tzu says: only when religion is lost do talks of humanity begin.
Understand it thus: whenever anyone tells you, “Be human,” one thing is certain—your humanity is no longer there. Only then does the exhortation have meaning. No one goes to a cow and says, “Be a cow.” The cow is a cow. No one says it to animals, to birds; no one tells parrots, “Be parrots.” Because parrots are parrots. Only man is taught, “Become a human.” It means man only appears to be human; he is not.
And only about man can such phrases make sense—that one is a great human, another a small human. Between two parrots who is the greater parrot and who the lesser? Both are equally parrots. Their parrot‑ness is not in the least different. Between two dogs who is the greater dog and who the lesser? As far as dog‑ness is concerned, both are equal.
But between two human beings we can say one is great and one is small, one is noble and one is mean, one is a complete man and one is incomplete. Such words, such statements are meaningful only about man. It means man is not born as man; he is born only with a possibility. Then some become, some do not; some remain half‑made, some become distorted; some go astray, some fall off the path. A thousand walk on the road of becoming human; once in a while one becomes human. It should not be so. If the reverse were true—that a thousand are born and once in a while one fails to become a man—this could be understood: he fell ill, something went wrong. But where a thousand are born human and scarcely one ever becomes man, and nine hundred ninety‑nine go astray, then we must admit: straying is the road. That one happened somehow, by mistake, to escape the straying path. That one became an exception, not the rule.
Lao Tzu says: when religion is lost, then the talk of the religion of humanity, of humanitarianism, arises. Then people say, “Be human.” Lao Tzu says: the root is lost—only then do such small teachings arise. He says: become simply natural.
The whole of nature is natural; only man is unnatural. Only man moves away from his nature. No one else deviates from his nature. Fire burns. The ancient scriptures say: burning is the nature of fire. Water flows downward. The ancient scriptures say: flowing downward is the nature of water. And the ancient scriptures say: humanity is man’s nature. But have you ever seen fire not burning? Or water of its own accord climbing upward? Then if humanity were man’s nature, how is it that man, like fire burns, does not naturally become human? Indeed, being human should be man’s nature. But we have slipped from nature, moved aside.
On this thought a great search has gone on for thousands of years; countless thinkers have proposed countless theses as to why man is distorted. The latest proposal is by Arthur Koestler—very disturbing. Koestler thinks—and he is a scientific thinker—that in the very primal moments of the human race, at the original emergence of man, some defect occurred in the human brain, and we are born carrying a distorted brain. Therefore once in a while, by mistake, someone becomes a Buddha, once in a while, by mistake, someone becomes a Christ—that is accidental. But by the rule man is born defective.
Some will even find consolation in this—that the trouble ends here: the mischief lies in the origin; there is no personal fault. In the West such ideas become influential. They become influential because whatever gives you convenience in being wrong becomes popular. It relaxes you; your tension is reduced. You sit back in the chair at ease: “All right—somewhere in the very beginning, millions of years ago, along with history itself, a mistake happened; man is born distorted; hence personal guilt is over.” And where personal guilt is over, you get full license and allowance to be bad.
But Koestler’s notion is not new, though his language may be. Christianity has long said that man is born in original sin. The mistake Adam committed, its fruit all men are eating. The sin Adam committed expelled man from the kingdom of heaven, from the kingdom of bliss, and he entered into a life of sorrow. Adam’s mistake has to be suffered by Adam’s sons. So the idea is very old. We may change the language, make it scientific—that some sickness occurred at the root of man’s mind. The old tale says the same thing in an old way: that somewhere a mistake occurred with the first man, with Adam, and we all are bearing its fruit. This idea opened the gate of distortion for the West. Then whatever a man does, the fault is Adam’s. And the guilty one is so far away that there is no way now to change him; he is nowhere. So we have to live in this pain.
But Lao Tzu does not accept this. Nor does any other Eastern sage. The Eastern standpoint is altogether different: man is born absolutely within nature; all men are born natural; no one is born distorted. But he has to pass through a process that produces distortion—and that passage is necessary for education. Some get stuck in that process and cannot cross over. Some complete the process; education completes and they go beyond.
Understand it this way: all are born as children; no one is born as an old man.
I have heard: in a village a traveler asked an old villager—he was a tourist passing through, wanting to know the history of the village—he asked, “Tell me something of your village’s history; has any great man ever been born here?” The old man said, “No, here only children are born. No great man has ever been born here.”
All are born children. But childhood is a state to be passed through, to be transcended. Very few transcend. In the last world war, American soldiers were tested psychologically. Their average mental age was found to be thirteen years—thirteen! The body moves ahead; the mind gets stuck somewhere behind. The average man’s mental age is thirteen, even if his body is seventy. As soon as man becomes afflicted with sexuality, it seems, his intelligence stops; for around fourteen man is seized by sex, and the life’s energy moves away from the brain and flows toward the sex‑center. Therefore Eastern sages made the attempt that till twenty‑five the youth remain in the forests, and sex not catch them; and through experience and experiment they found that if till twenty‑five youths can be kept beyond sex, their intelligence flowers fully. The energy that flows out as sex, that very energy in totality blossoms the flower of life.
Now, you may not know: in America each year the age of sexual onset in children keeps falling. Some years ago fifteen was the age; then it became fourteen, then thirteen; now twelve is the average. American psychologists are worried that if this decline continues, it may go even lower. And the lower it goes, the lower mental age goes. So if today American youth look deranged, one reason is that their mental age keeps falling.
All are born as children, but they are not born to remain children. One has to go beyond childhood.
You may not be aware that the average person uses five percent of his intelligence in his whole life. The figure that could have reached a hundred is used only up to five. You could have walked a hundred steps of intelligence; you walk only five. And those we call highly gifted use fifteen percent. Even those who receive Nobel Prizes use fifteen percent. Man’s potential seems infinite. If our gifted ones walk only fifteen steps, whereas they came with the capacity to walk a hundred from birth, it seems humanity is living very incompletely; incomplete is not even right—within a very small fragment. Most portions of your brain remain unused. Half of the brain, scientists say, cannot even be understood why it is there—because no one uses it. Man is born with full capacity, but perhaps it is not being used.
The fault lies somewhere in man’s education, not in his nature. The fault lies in man’s society, because society is made by man; it is not in man’s nature, for nature is cosmic, of the Divine. The mistake is not in nature; it is in social arrangement.
Consider: we sow a seed. The seed could have become a hundred‑foot tree kissing the clouds—yet it does not get the right water, for watering is in the hands of the gardener. The seed is given by God; watering is in the gardener’s hands. It does not get the right manure, the right protection. Or the gardener is mad and does not let it grow. Or the gardener carries a fantasy: if the plant is kept small it will look prettier. So he keeps cutting it—its roots, its leaves, its branches. He does not allow it to grow. Or the gardener thinks, or there is such fashion in society, that if the tree is allowed to grow in its natural way it will look ugly; so he puts on a wire frame so it will grow as society calls beautiful; it will grow as per society’s conception of beauty. Then the plant grows, but not as the seed had brought. And then if the plant cannot be happy, cannot rise into the open sky and touch the clouds, if no song is born in its life, we will say there was some fault in the seed.
The situation is almost like that. Every human being is born with the capacity to be a Buddha. Buddhahood is every human being’s birthright. If one does not become a Buddha, understand: somewhere in education, on the journey, on the path, the gardener, the father, the mother, the teachers, the gurus, the religions—somewhere or other—have created mischief.
Lao Tzu points to this mischief. He says: when religion, nature, Tao is lost, then the doctrine of humanity arises. And when even humanity is lost, then the doctrine of justice arises. And when even justice is lost, then ritual is born.
For nature there is no need of any rule; no humanity, no justice, no ritual. Nature is sufficient. Therefore the Upanishads say: one who attains to his nature goes beyond all social rules. Then there is no bondage upon him. Then we cannot say to him, “Do this.” We cannot say, “This is proper, and that improper.” The Upanishads say: for one who has attained to his nature, whatsoever he does is proper, and whatsoever he does not do is improper. Our definitions do not apply to him; his very conduct becomes our definition.
Look at Buddha. And the way Buddha walks, the way he behaves—that is law for us. We cannot say to him, “Do not walk against our rules.”
Therefore an important event happened in India: we did not hang a Buddha or a Krishna on a cross like Jesus. If Jesus had been born in India we would have counted him among the avatars. If Buddha had been born in Jerusalem he would have been crucified. It is not only Jesus; in Jerusalem the society thought that its rules must be obeyed by everyone; even if someone attains knowledge, he does not go beyond rules. Hence Jesus too should walk according to their rules. But in this land we have believed that the one who attains knowledge goes beyond our rules. We can mold ourselves to him—that can happen; but we cannot mold him to ourselves. If we cannot mold ourselves to him, that is our helplessness; not his fault.
Therefore India did not accept Buddha in practice; the Hindu ideology did not like Buddha’s ideology. But a very sweet thing happened: Buddha was rejected; Indian society did not follow him; yet the Hindus counted him as one of their avatars. This is very unique. Buddha’s religion did not spread in India; it withered away. People were not ready to accept the sutras he gave. It appears very strange that when not a single follower remained in this land, still the Hindus counted Buddha among their avatars. It means: it makes no difference; it is our helplessness that we could not follow you. It is not your fault; it is our mistake. We have our shortcomings, our limits. Our legs are not strong enough to climb the mountainous path you tread. So we cannot follow; you go alone. But we know what you have found is right. If anyone is wrong, it is we. So we counted Buddha among the avatars; yet we did not follow him.
Had Buddha been born in Jerusalem—or anywhere, in Mecca or Medina—his cross would have been certain. The way Arabia troubled Mohammed, this land has never troubled any Tirthankara or prophet. We have refused, we have said no, we have declared we will not follow—but we have not disrespected. The principle is: you have attained Tao, nature; for you there is no rule. We wander in darkness, in the valley; we do not know nature; we live by rules. There is a great distance between us and you. To bridge that distance is our aspiration. If we cannot, that is our helplessness, our weakness.
When nature is lost, then the doctrine of humanity is born. Therefore the doctrine of humanity is not some great, exalted doctrine. Below it are yet lower states. When even humanity is lost, then the doctrine of justice is born. When we say to people, “Behave justly,” it means that now even being human is not easy. A man will naturally be just—that is not a question. Justice toward the other is inherent in his being human. But when humanity is lost, when the love of being human is lost, then we have to say, “Do not be unjust.” The whole arrangement of justice is prohibitive. Hence justice always speaks the language of negation. Jesus cited the Ten Commandments from the old Bible—but all are negative: do not do this, do not do that, do not do that. Because justice cannot tell you what to do; it can only say, “Do not do this, so that injustice does not happen.” Do not steal, do not commit adultery, do not kill—these are all prohibitions. Humanity is affirmative.
Understand this a little. Supreme spontaneity is neither affirmative nor prohibitive—there are no rules. There, whatever arises from within you is the rule. There is no question of doing or not doing. One established in the supreme dharma does not do anything; thus neither affirmation nor negation applies. From him things happen. He is like the wind and the water. We can neither blame him, nor can we praise him.
If we go to Lao Tzu and say, “You are very virtuous!” he will laugh and say, “There is no virtue of mine in it—none at all. If we say, “You are very peaceful!” he will say, “There is no virtue of mine in it—lakes are peaceful, mountains are peaceful, the sky is peaceful; I too am peaceful like that. There is no merit in it.”
For the one established in the supreme dharma, whom we call the saint, there is no karma. One step below is humanity. For humanity there are affirmative deeds—what to do: love, compassion, kindness—emphasis is on doing. Below even that is justice—emphasis is on not doing: do not be violent. You cannot love? Leave it. But at least do not murder, do not give pain. You cannot give charity? Leave it. But do not steal. Justice descends to “not doing.”
The supreme state is beyond affirmation and negation. One step below is humanity—affirmative. If we take Buddha’s dharma, it is affirmative—karuna. Mahavir’s dharma is affirmative—daya. Jesus’ dharma is affirmative—love. Lower than that is the world of justice, where emphasis is on at least not hurting, not harming, not giving pain to the other—that much is enough. But even that is not the final fall. Still lower is the world of ritual, where all is hypocrisy; where the other is no longer the question at all. Where even justice is practiced so that through justice exploitation can continue. Where if one refrains from stealing, it is so that a bigger arrangement of theft can be managed. There everything is deceit. There only one’s own self‑interest is everything; and everything else is dedicated to that self‑interest. And even in that self‑interest there arises a difficulty: you are not the only selfish one—others too are selfish. So among all these selfish ones how to manage, how to save your boat and make it across—that alone is religion. Move in such a way that no one can harm you, and you always remain in the forefront of harming—but that no one catches you. This is the world of ritual.
A man goes to the temple. I have heard: a man used to go to church every Sunday. He was deaf, so he could not hear anything—not the hymns, not the sermon. Yet regularly, every Sunday, on time, he was the first to be present in the church and the last to leave.
Finally the priest became curious. One day, when the deaf man came—he was alone—the priest asked him a question by writing, because he could not hear: “A question always arises in my mind. Since you cannot hear—neither the songs nor the sermon—why are you so faithful that you come first and leave last?” The deaf man replied: “I want people to see that I am religious; there is no other purpose.”
This too is an investment—that people may know I am religious. The ritualist’s eagerness is not to be religious, but to be known as religious—because with its help much irreligion can be done. If irreligion is to be done efficiently, one needs the reputation of being religious. If you want to lie, you must preach truth—because lies can be told only by one who is trusted for truth; otherwise lying is of no use. If everyone believes lying itself is religion, then great trouble will arise—you will never succeed with lies. Your lie succeeds because of those who keep faith in truth. You succeed in dishonesty because some people still keep faith in honesty. Your dishonesty does not succeed; their honesty becomes your success. Therefore the ritualist must go on propagating all those things against which he wants to act.
I have heard: a thief entered a bank at night. He had brought tools, dynamite, to blow up the safe. But right before the safe he saw a little plaque. He was surprised. On the plaque was written: “Don’t use dynamite; the safe is not locked—just push the button.” He was amazed: “What wonderful people!” He pushed the button. But as soon as he pushed it, a huge sandbag fell upon him. All the lights in the bank came on; bells started ringing. The police came in. He was taken out on a stretcher. When he came to, as they were putting him in the ambulance, these words were heard from his mouth: “My faith in humanity has been shaken very deeply.”
Even the thief relies upon your trust. There is no other way.
In the fourth state, even religion becomes a base for exploitation. Therefore, if you find exploiters, cheats, swindlers gathered in temples, mosques, gurdwaras—do not be surprised. You will find them there. The whole arrangement is for them and in their interest. It is necessary to understand the basic foundation of the ritualist’s life system—because most of us belong to that fourth category. What is its basis?
Suppose there is poverty in society. The ritualist will never be in favor of removing poverty at the root; he will be in favor of charity. He will never favor the elimination of the foundation of poverty. He wants the poor to remain—but charity is a great religion. Because charity does not remove poverty; it only makes poverty bearable. He will never want to change the foundation; he will only do whitewash on the walls. The house remains the same.
Hence the curious phenomenon: the religious man is ready to give alms to a beggar, and the one who does not give he will call irreligious; but he is not ready to understand the whole arrangement by which this beggar is produced. And he himself is doing everything by which this beggar is produced. From the very system by which he earns the money to donate, this beggar is produced. He himself is the base of that arrangement. Yet he favors giving alms to the beggar. And the one who does not give, he calls irreligious.
So there are two kinds of irreligious people. One, those who do not give alms. But they are not as irreligious as the one who gives alms but is not in favor of eliminating poverty altogether.
Swami Karpatri wrote a book and said therein that he opposes socialism. The reason he gives is very remarkable: in Hindu religion there is no way to attain moksha without charity. And if socialism comes, who will receive charity? Then how will you go to moksha?
For going to moksha, the poor are absolutely necessary—because you will put your foot on their shoulders and go to moksha. But keep giving them charity too, lest they fall to the ground before you put your foot on their shoulders. They must have enough strength to bear you.
So keep the poor alive; do not let them die. For with their death the rich man will also die; he stands upon their shoulders. But do not get off their shoulders, and do not let them become as capable as you. For the rich man will disappear in two conditions—either the poor disappear, or the poor also become rich. Do not let either happen. Keep the poor where they remain poor and remain full of reverence toward the rich. So give charity, do pity. This is the ritualist’s arrangement.
Therefore, if Marx said that religion is opium for the poor, he was not entirely wrong. For ritualistic religion, Marx’s statement is absolutely correct. Charity, pity, piety, dharmashalas, temples, schools, hospitals—these are all opium for the poor. They do not let him come to the state where he becomes so utterly discontent that he makes revolution. They keep giving him satisfaction, consolation.
If the arrangement of charity were to disappear entirely, revolution would happen now. But charity creates buffers. As in a train there are buffers between two coaches, so that if a jolt comes, the buffers absorb it and the people inside are not hurt—the buffers swallow the shock. Similarly, society creates buffers between the poor and the rich, so that whatever disturbance happens the buffers swallow it; the shock does not reach the rich.
Between the poor and the rich, charity and pity create buffers—and very skillfully. Through long experience it has been decided that if society is to be sucked properly, sucking alone is not enough; around the sucking must be an atmosphere where the poor himself feels that there are benefactors concerned with his welfare. How can they exploit him?
If in a country like India no revolution could ever happen, one root cause is this: we created such vast ritual, so many buffers, that no society in the world has been able to create buffers so skillfully. The poor does not even feel that the rich is his enemy. The poor feels that the rich is his savior, his father, the giver of alms, the one who takes care—his lord; everything seems the rich.
If we go back a hundred years and look at the Indian village, the poor could not even think that the rich might be his enemy. He is his father; he gives him food, he educates his children, he gives him clothes—everything depends on him. Whereas the situation is exactly the opposite: everything of the rich depends on the poor. But the poor has been made to understand for thousands of years that everything depends on the rich. This understanding has come through charity, pity, compassion, temples, dharmashalas—these are the bridges in between.
So the ritualist will look very religious, but he will not be religious in the least.
Lao Tzu says: “This ritual is the thinning and vanishing of the heart’s sincerity and honesty. And that is the beginning of anarchy.”
And when this happens—when ritual becomes so dense—then the arrangement will break down. There is a limit to how much ritual can be borne—beyond that, everything will be uprooted.
India stands today almost at such a point, where ritual is approaching its hundred degrees; where any day rebellion, upheaval, anarchy can happen. At its root is our ritual accumulated through thousands of years. Its crust has become completely thin; it can break any time. There is no sincerity of heart in it—no inner feeling, no justice, no humanity—Tao and religion are far away, a dream—only ritual remains. And that ritual is a vast net. But that net too, at a point, comes close to dying. Whenever something useless becomes too burdensome, how long can it be carried? A limit will come when it will have to be thrown off the head.
Thus Lao Tzu says: if Tao prevails in the world there will be no revolution—because there is no cause for revolution. But as soon as the fall from Tao begins, if humanity prevails, then too the bliss will not be like that under the influence of religion, yet there will still be well‑being—no revolution. If justice prevails, even well‑being is lost; but there will remain at least the notion that pain should not be inflicted—still no revolution. When that too is lost and only ritual remains, then sooner or later anarchy and revolution are inevitable, because people are being given suffering; and hollow ritual—how long can it deceive?
It is almost like this: the mother does not want to give milk to the child, so she puts his own thumb into his mouth. He will suck for a little while—but how long? There is a limit. In the end hunger will increase and the thumb‑ritual will not support for long. The thumb is ritual. No milk flows from it; nothing is being received. But it can seem to the child that because he is sucking, something must be coming—for whenever he sucked the mother’s breast, milk came. Sucking and receiving have become associated. Here he only sucks; nothing is received—mere ritual, no stream of life flowing within. But how long can this go on? One or other moment the child will understand that only sucking is happening; nothing is being received.
The day society’s ritual remains only like a thumb to be sucked—nothing is received by life, no glimpse of joy, no great fragrance of happiness, no grace, no buoyancy of life—then anarchy arises.
Lao Tzu says: that is the beginning of anarchy.
“Prophets are Tao’s fully blossomed flowers.”
This sutra is very rebellious, very revolutionary; it will shock. Prophets, Tirthankaras, avatars, are Tao’s fully blossomed flowers—where religion manifests in its supreme excellence, its uttermost—the peak like Gaurishankar—where the highest expression of dharma appears—such are prophets, Tirthankaras, avatars. But the next statement is astonishing:
“And with them begins foolishness.”
Around every prophet, fools will gather—there is no way to avoid it. That herd of the obtuse will then construct a sect. And from it the whole world is troubled. Mohammed is unique. But the herd that gathered around Mohammed has harassed the earth much. Jesus is unique. But the herd that gathered around him has not yet left; it still goes on tormenting man. Krishna is unique. Shiva is unique. But the net of their priests and pundits sits on the chest like a stone. The name is Shiva; the exploitation is done by the pundit. The name is Krishna; the Bhagavat is read; but the one who reads—the net of pundits, the priests—exploit in that name.
Lao Tzu is right: prophets are life’s ultimate heights; but with them also begins stupidity. Not in them, not by them—but around them it happens. Think a little: if Mohammed had not been born, what mischief done by Muslims would not have occurred. If Jesus had not been, the religious wars, the burnings of thousands and millions for countless reasons, would not have happened. Lao Tzu does not mean that prophets start this mischief; but from them it begins—this is somehow inevitable. One law of life is: opposites attract.
Mahavir is there—Mahavir, the supreme renunciate; renunciation is natural to him. All the hedonists of this country were attracted to him. Look at the Jains today—their connection with renunciation is negligible. It is strange that around Mahavir, all shopkeepers gathered! Mahavir says, wealth is futile—yet all the wealthy gather around him! Mahavir even left off clothes—but see: the greatest cloth stores are of Jains. It seems senseless, but there must be some inner logic: the man who became sky‑clad, even clothes he left—
In the town where I lived there is a “Digambar Cloth Store”—the Naked Ones’ clothing shop! It looks absurd, but some inner reasoning must be at work. Seeing Mahavir’s renunciation, the indulgent were impressed. Opposites attract—just as woman is drawn to man, man to woman. Seeing Mahavir’s renunciation, the hedonists must have felt: “Amazing! Such renunciation we can never manage for births upon births; Mahavir has created a miracle.” That miracle touched them; they gathered.
Thus often the opposite gathers. And those very opposites receive the will—the testament—in their hands. Naturally, it reaches their hands. What can Mahavir do? Those who are gathered around will become owners of what he has said. Those who are gathered will interpret him. Tomorrow they will build the temples, the organization, the sect. This will happen; it cannot be avoided. But if there is awareness of this—as Lao Tzu intends by saying so—its pain can be lessened. And if this understanding permeates the world, we will accept prophets and reject their sects. That is the meaning.
So Mahavir is perfectly right, but the Jains are unnecessary. Krishna is utterly beloved, but what have we to do with the Hindus! Shiva’s glory is fine, but the nuisance of Benares—we do not need it. Mohammed is right, but what goes on in Mecca and Medina—the net is to be broken. And the day expressions of religion are accepted and the organizations around them are rejected, that day the disturbances that occur in the name of religion will cease—and the medicine that religion can be for the suffering will be available.
“Prophets are Tao’s fully blossomed flowers. And with them begins foolishness.”
Such a straight statement none but Lao Tzu has ever made. Perhaps for this very reason no sect could form around Lao Tzu. How could a sect be formed? Who would form it?
“Therefore the noble one dwells in density, in the foundation; not in the thinness, at the end.”
Therefore the noble pays attention to the root. He will attend to Mahavir; he will leave worrying about the Jains. He will attend to Buddha; he will not pay even a little attention to Buddhists. His gaze will be on Nanak; he will beg forgiveness of the Sikhs. He will attend to the root.
“The noble one dwells in density, in the foundation; not in the thinness, at the end.”
That end where religion ends—there there is no truth. Where religion is born—there is truth. And the birth and the end of religion are very contrary things. The end is always in the sect, always in organization—there is no way to avoid it. Even if one tries to avoid it, the end will be there; it is the natural consequence—just as the child is born and the end is in death. However one tries to escape death, no one can. The child is born; the end is in old age. Keep your attention on the child—there is purity there.
So Mahavir is like a child. The religion that forms around him is old age. And beyond old age is death. All religions are born and all religions die. Whatever is born in time will die. Mahavir will depart, but the dead religion can be carried for endless time. And the more dead the religion, the more lethal it is.
But religious people, the older the religion, the more glory they ascribe to it. They say, “Our religion is eternal.” That means you are carrying a corpse from eternity. Your religion must have died long ago. Nothing in time is eternal. Even the spark of religion, when it enters the stream of time, will be extinguished. Nothing on earth is everlasting.
This does not mean that religion is not eternal. But that form of religion which is eternal does not appear. From that eternal, sometimes some person finds connection; a Mahavir, a Buddha, a Krishna connects to the eternal dharma. A glimpse descends in them. Then through Mahavir and Buddha that glimpse reaches us. Then we organize that glimpse; we build temples, mosques, scriptures; we set up systems. But in this whole arrangement, that original connection of Mahavir to the eternal is lost. Then we carry the corpse. Then that corpse becomes foolishness. Then we suffer; and we cannot drop it either, for we are born into it. From birth our link is tied to it. Then dropping it feels like the breath is leaving: “My religion! How can I leave it!”
But one who wants to connect to religion must drop “my religion.” One who wants to be linked to the eternal stream to which Mahavir and Buddha were linked must drop the connection with the sects around Mahavir and Buddha, and turn directly toward that stream. One who, seeing the glimpse in Mahavir, seeks the source from which the glimpse came—he has taken the right road. One who, seeing the glimpse in Mahavir, remains stuck around Mahavir—now Mahavir is not, Buddha is not, Krishna is not; only their priests remain. And many generations have passed—borrowed, borrowed, borrowed—no truth remains, only dead untruth in their hands; people remain tied to them.
I have heard a story among the Sufis: the man who discovered fire was named Nur. He was supremely knowing, luminous; hence he was named Nur. Disciples gathered around him, for the discovery was unique—the discovery of fire. Today it seems nothing to us because our matches hold it, but thousands of years ago when for the first time a man discovered fire, he must have done as much good to humanity as even Einstein cannot. So Nur became a prophet, and disciples gathered in crowds. And disciples are very zealous that what their master has found should be carried to others.
Nur tried much to explain to them: “Do not hurry—people are so accustomed to darkness that they will be very angry with your light.” But the disciples did not agree. They had seen the light. And the ego finds great gratification in converting another: “We set him right; we brought him to the path; he was wandering in darkness and we brought him into the way of light.” The disciples would not agree. Nur said, “All right, then come.”
They went to the first tribe. When Nur’s disciples announced that their prophet, Nur, had discovered the secret of fire—that now there was no need to live in darkness, that the formula of light had been found, that they need not wander in night nor be afraid—people thought Nur must be a very good man: poets perhaps, rishis perhaps. No one believed darkness could be dispelled. They said, “We will worship Nur; let us make an idol of Nur.” Nur said to his disciples, “Look! They did not speak at all about fire; they made an image of Nur and declared, ‘We will worship you forever—you great man who found light.’” Nur’s disciples said, “We can teach you the light too.” They replied, “We are sinners; what have we to do with light! It is enough that we have had a glimpse of Nur—what greater fortune! Only by merits earned over births is this possible.”
Defeated, Nur and his disciples went to a second tribe. They listened and began to refute—because those who live in darkness for thousands of years create a philosophy of darkness. They said, “Darkness is life; without darkness nothing can be. And if darkness goes and night disappears—that is murder of nature. And since fire did not come to us from nature, who are you? Surely the devil’s hand is in it. For when God made nature and did not give us fire directly, then this is the devil’s doing.” They attacked the disciples. Nur and his disciples had to flee. Nur said, “Look! They have taken the side of darkness.” In this way Nur and his disciples went to many tribes. One tribe even learned the use of fire—but they used it to burn people, to kill enemies, to set houses on fire. Then Nur said, “Look!”