Tao Upanishad #77

Philosophy depends on vision. We can see only what we are able to see. Whatever appears to us carries the gift of our eyes. As we are, so the world appears to us; and with that which we are not, no relationship gets connected. This too is natural. But we remain oblivious of it. Therefore whatever we see, we think that is the truth. Most likely it is only the reflection of our own eyes.
Truth is seen only by the one who becomes free of every kind of vision, free of all eyes. If there are colored glasses upon the eyes, the world begins to look colored. And if the glasses are forgotten, we will think the world is of that very color. A blind man does not see light; for the blind, it is true that there is no light. But light’s non-existence is not proven because the blind cannot see it.
Every creature has different kinds of eyes. Scientists keep pondering how the world must appear through different bodies. Is the world as a human being sees it? Or does it appear so only because man has a particular kind of eye? Not only man—there is a long procession of animals. The world appears to them too; but it cannot appear to them as it appears to man. Their eyes are different; their way of seeing is different. Their desires are different; the structure of their personality is different. Through that entire difference, the world must appear altogether different.
But we have no means to know how animals, birds, or plants know the world. We are enclosed within ourselves. Every person is closed within the apparatus of his body—every animal, every bird, every plant. And our relation with the world is only as much as there are senses with us, and as those senses are.
If this is understood rightly, our insistence weakens; then we drop trying to make our vision the truth. Then we say only this: ‘Thus it appears to me; I do not know whether it is so or not.’ To the one in whom this thought arises, insistence, dogmatism, blindness begin to lessen. And a moment will come when slowly, slowly he will drop all visions, all prejudices, all assumptions. And when a person becomes able to see having dropped all assumptions, all prejudices, all visions, then that which is, appears. The seeing that is free of visions—that alone is the seeing of truth.
These sutras of Lao Tzu give news of how things appear to the ordinary, third-rate mind.
‘The highest character appears empty like a valley.’
That which is ordinary intelligence—that which is our intelligence—according to that intelligence, the highest character will appear empty. Because what we call character is not character at all. What we call character we have become accustomed to viewing as a summit. The character of Tao—the character of pure Dharma—will appear to us like a valley. Because we stand upside down. That which is like a summit will appear to us like a valley. Just as if you are standing on your head, in a headstand, the whole world will seem to be moving upside down. If you forget that you are in a headstand, the whole world will appear upside down. The moment you remember, ‘I am in a headstand,’ and stand straight, the whole world becomes straight with you in a single instant.
It depends on how you are standing. Why will pure character, spotless character, the highest character appear empty like a valley? It is subtle; it must be understood.
If a person is practicing love from the outside while love has not arisen in his heart—as happens in the lives of almost all ordinary people; they merely seem to be practicing love, while they do not possess the inner essence of love—then the love of the one who practices love will appear to us like a summit. Because he will manifest his love in every possible way. When love is within, there is no need to manifest it. When love is not within, there is no way to show its existence except by manifesting it. So the person who has no love within will behave overly in love; in words, in ideas, in every way he will demonstrate that he has love. And the love of this demonstrative person will be visible to us. Because we can only see conduct, not the inner essence. We can reach only that which appears above; that which lies hidden deep within is out of our reach. We cannot see the seed; we can only see the flowers that have appeared. Even if those flowers are fake, even if they are paper flowers, even if their fragrance has been sprayed on from above. But we cannot see the flower hidden in the seed. For that, very deep eyes are needed. The third-rate person does not have eyes that deep. He can only see the surface.
You must have a sense of this in your own life: when you have no love for someone and you want to display love, to take some advantage by showing love, then you become very vocal in love, then you display great intensity in its expression. To hide the inner lack, you express outwardly. The day you fear that you have done something which, if your wife should discover, there will be trouble, that day you arrive home with gifts, with flowers, with ice cream. That day you manifest love. There is something to be hidden; within, somewhere is an empty place where love is not—one has to cover it with some outer wrapping.
This emphasis on outer expression is increasing greatly. In the West, books are written daily—how to love. In all those books there is invariably one prescription: do not keep love hidden; express it. Because what is hidden no one knows. Say it in words, show it in your conduct, demonstrate it in your behavior. You love your wife, the Western books say, that is not enough. Say it too, ‘I love you.’ Repeat it every day, and show it by some behavior.
These books report that love has died within man, or that man is no longer capable of understanding love. When love is, there is no need to demonstrate it. When love is, to say ‘I love you’ will seem absurd, vulgar, petty, futile. To raise it as a topic, even to mention it, will feel like a descent. Expression in behavior is needed only when love is not deep. If love is deep, it is manifest even in silence. If love is, even if it never appears in behavior, it is manifest. But then eyes are required on the other side too—eyes that can see that deep.
Therefore Lao Tzu says, the highest character will appear empty. Because the highest character makes no effort to display. The highest character is concerned with being, not with showing. But then the highest character will not be visible to us. We notice only what makes noise, creates a commotion, and displays itself from all sides. The true lover we will not recognize. We can recognize only the actor, and the true lover will not act. Such pettiness as acting the true lover will not descend to. Acting will be done only by one who has no love. Acting is his substitute, his compensatory device.
So the lover who has never told you ‘I love you’, who has never sent you a gift of love, who has not brought love down into the worldly—gifts are worldly; love is otherworldly—lovers give gifts so that it may be known that love is there. They must bring it into the material, because the material is visible to us. Gift means bringing it into matter. But if love remains silent, if it is not brought into matter, if there is no attempt to display it through behavior, if the natural flow is simply allowed to be, then how many in this world will recognize such love? Love too has to be publicized. It too needs advertising. It too needs every kind of noise and voice. Because no one can hear the music of silence; the ears have become so deaf. Until a great uproar is created, it is not known that something is happening.
As with love, so are all directions of life’s character. If a man is truthful, if a man is virtuous, if a man has attained to Brahmacharya, we will know only when it is publicized.
I have heard, Dale Carnegie wrote somewhere in his memoirs that he worked for an advertising firm. He went to a tycoon and said: ‘You never advertise your products. You are going in a very old-fashioned way. The world has changed: without advertising nothing becomes known.’ The magnate said, ‘Our business is a hundred years old, and we have no need of advertising. People know, people know well enough, and people recognize the best. Please excuse us; we have no eagerness for advertising.’
Evening fell just then, and the bells of the church on the hill began to ring. Dale Carnegie said to the magnate, ‘Do you hear those church bells? How old is that church?’ The magnate said, ‘At least five hundred years old.’ Dale Carnegie said, ‘Even now it rings its bells; only then do people know that there is a church. If it stops ringing, people will forget.’
Dale Carnegie writes, that magnate immediately issued his order for advertising.
How old something is is not the question; one must advertise. But people often forget. That is why husband and wife gradually feel that love is no more between them—because they reduce the publicity. The publicity they did at the beginning—thinking, ‘Now it has been thirty years, why each morning should I say, “There is no woman like you in the world, your beauty has no comparison, once I found you I found everything.” Why say this every day?’ But our eyes do not see so deep. Neither is our love so deep, nor are our eyes so deep that it could go without publicity. Therefore Western psychologists advise that even if it has been thirty years, or three hundred, still every morning ring the bells and publicize—because only publicity is visible. And by publicizing, even untruth becomes truth.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: ‘Truth has no other meaning; a lie that has been publicized long enough becomes truth.’ And Hitler proved it with his life—repeat the untruth, do not worry, keep repeating; if not today then tomorrow it will become truth. It depends on the capacity of the repeater whether the untruth will become truth or not. If it keeps falling on the ears and falling on the ears, then by listening and listening, faith arises.
You are Hindu. Have you ever inquired what truth there is in being Hindu? Or you are Muslim. Have you ever inquired what it means to be Muslim? No—only publicity, long publicity. And so long that it has continued from generation to generation; it has entered your blood and bones. And when you are born, the publicity begins. By the time you come to your senses, the publicity has entered deep within. And you yourself begin to feel, ‘I am Hindu; if the Hindu religion is in danger, I will give my life.’ Publicity becomes truth.
We are living from the outside; and whatever is put into us from the outside, that is what we see within. Our capacity to see the inside is almost nil.
Therefore Lao Tzu says, ‘The highest character appears empty like a valley.’
Because we are familiar with the inferior character that publicizes itself like a peak. And we live by words, while the highest is silent. And we look at the outer, while the highest is inner. Therefore the highest does not appear to us at all. Thus if we are deceived daily, no one else is to blame; we ourselves are ready to be deceived. Because from where we see, there will be deception. Our eyes do not penetrate deeper than that.
‘Pure light looks like twilight.’
Because our eyes cannot see until the stimulation is intense. The light before sunrise is pure light. In it there is no glare, no excitation, no intensity, no hurt and assault—it is non-aggressive, non-violent light. But it appears to us like a dimness. When the sun rises and its sharp rays begin to pierce our eyes, then we feel there is light.
All our sensitivities have become weak, dull. Our taste has become dull. Until chili shakes our tongue, we do not feel there is any taste. And the one who becomes addicted to chili loses all subtler tastes. After such intense taste, the gentle and noble tastes cannot even be noticed. Our tongue can no longer relate to them. We have become so accustomed to violence that no non-violent event is visible to us—stimulation, sensation, as sharp as possible.
You can see it: music grows louder by the day. The music youth prefer—unless it is maddening, so loud that all your senses get bruised and disordered—they feel it is no music at all. Soft notes, noble notes, peaceful notes will not be heard. Our ears too demand stimulation; our clothing too. Unless the colors are such that they pierce the eyes, such that they cause a prickling, we do not notice the colors.
Our entire life demands deep stimulation, sharp tastes, striking sounds, striking events. You get up in the morning, open the newspaper—and what do you look for? How many died and where? Where has war begun? Where were arsons? Where were riots? Where murders, rapes, how many women abducted? If the paper has no such news, you will say nothing happened today, and put it down with a sad mind. The noble and peaceful do not touch us; the ignoble and the turbulent alone touch us. If you watch a film, you want murder, espionage, war, blood. Your spine sits up straight only when something ‘happens.’ Something happening means some commotion. If everything goes right, as it should, that film cannot run. It can run only when there is excitement, when your blood starts boiling.
You do not know: psychologists at Harvard were doing an experiment. They divided twelve mice into two groups. Six mice were shown a film of mice fighting, shedding blood, tearing each other’s skin, pulling out bones. The other six were shown a simple film of ordinary mice going into their holes, coming out, picking grain; ordinary life—no blood, no murder.
The six who saw the film of blood and murder—their blood pressure rose, and they became ready to fight and kill. The six who saw the ordinary film—most of them fell asleep while watching; there was nothing of substance, no ‘news’. Their blood pressure remained normal. That night, the six who had watched the peaceful film slept with ease; there was no disturbance in their sleep. They did not see dangerous dreams: for now, mice brains too can be examined at night. When dreams occur, there is tension in the brain, the veins swell, the blood flows faster, and the waves become fevered; a graph can be made. The six who had seen the film of commotion, blood, murder—their night was restless. They turned often; their sleep broke many times. And they saw dreams—all intense, fearsome, painful, nightmares.
When you come out after a sharp film, do not think you will behave differently than the mice. You went to watch because your blood felt cold, no movement in it; your blood needed a little exercise, your mind needed a little shaking. You had nearly fallen asleep. The same office, the same wife, the same children, the same house—the film running around you has bored you completely. Let someone jolt you out of this boredom.
If life were as Buddha or Lao Tzu say, you would feel very bored; if life were as Hitler, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane want, only then would you find it flavorful. Yet you worship Buddha and curse Tamerlane. But you are followers of Tamerlane, Hitler, Napoleon. You have nothing to do with Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ. This too is your strategy to deceive yourself: walk behind Hitler while worshipping in Buddha’s temple—so you can keep the confidence that you too are following Buddha. But what relish will there be for you in Buddha’s life?
A friend just came to me—he is Jain, a great industrialist, a wealthy man. He asked me: Mahavira’s 2500th birth anniversary is coming in ’74, so give some suggestions for what we should do for Mahavira. I said: make a film on Mahavira’s life. He said, ‘Who will watch that? There is nothing in his life.’ He was right. He became utterly dispirited. He said, ‘Who will watch it? How will it run? Mahavira sits with eyes closed—how long can you show that? No murder, no commotion of love, no triangle—two women fighting over him, tug-of-war—nothing. Life utterly peaceful. Who will watch such a gentle stream?’ He is right.
If no one is willing to watch a film on Mahavira, who will accept Mahavira’s life? And if people begin to live like Mahavira, we will all get bored—terribly bored. Our relish is in excitement.
But why is there so much relish in excitement? This must be understood a little. It means our sensitivity is low; our sensitivity has lessened. And the less the sensitivity, the less the life. The name of death is the loss of sensitivity. So the more your sensitivity diminishes, the greater your demand for stimulation. And the growing demand for stimulation indicates you are that much dead. A corpse will not be stimulated no matter how much you try. No matter how much band and noise, he will not start. Death means sensitivity is completely gone.
When you get much stimulation and only then do you stir, it means you too are dead to a great extent. Your nerves do not usually move unless someone shakes you. Then there is a little vibration. Your nerves too have dried up.
The more alive a person is, the less stimulation he needs. And when a person is fully alive—as Mahavira or Buddha—he needs no stimulation. The fact of life itself is enough bliss; no stimulation is needed.
If Buddha and Mahavira sat for days under their trees, do you think—if you had to sit—what would happen? Do you think they would have been bored, sitting? Boredom has never been seen on their faces. They are so immersed in life, their taste is so subtle that the slight movement of air is enough bliss; the slight rhythm of breath is enough life. Being is in itself such a great event that no other event is needed—just to be. For you, just to be has no meaning, unless some commotion goes on over your being.
Lao Tzu’s statement is worthy of deep reflection. He says, ‘Pure light looks like twilight.’ Because our eyes have become accustomed to flames; gentle, mild light looks like dimness.
‘Great character appears inadequate.’ Because we have become accustomed to petty character. And petty character is what we understand, because it runs parallel to our understanding. The more elevated it becomes, the more it goes beyond our understanding. And what is beyond our understanding we cannot even see.
Someone once asked Sri Aurobindo: ‘You were a leading warrior in India’s struggle for freedom; you were fighting. How did you suddenly become escapist—leaving everything and sitting in Pondicherry with eyes closed? Once a year you come out to give darshan. You, so active and radiant, who stood in the thickness of life and was transforming it—how did you suddenly become escapist and hide in darkness? Why are you not doing anything? Do you think there is nothing left to do, nothing worth doing? Have society and man’s problems been solved that you can rest? The problems keep increasing; man is in suffering, in pain, enslaved, hungry, sick—do something!’
Lao Tzu is saying exactly this. Sri Aurobindo said: ‘I am doing something. And what I was doing earlier was inadequate; what I do now is sufficient.’
The man who asked must have been astonished. He said, ‘What kind of doing is this—sitting in your room with eyes closed! What will come of it?’
Aurobindo said: ‘When I was engaged in doing, I did not know that karma is very superficial; you cannot change others by it. If others are to be changed, one must enter so deep within oneself that the subtle waves arise from there, where life itself is born. If from there I alter the waves, they will travel as far as they may—and waves spread to the infinite.
‘It is not only radio voices that are circling the earth, not only television images that go thousands of miles—every wave sets out on an infinite journey. When you become silent in the depths, peaceful waves rise from your lake; those peaceful waves spread. They will touch the earth and the moon and the stars; they will pervade the whole cosmos. And the subtler the wave a person becomes master of, the greater the capacity to enter others.’
Aurobindo said: ‘Now I am engaged in the great work. Then I was engaged in the small; now I am engaged in that great work in which men will not need to be told to change, and yet change will happen—because I will be able to enter their hearts directly. If I succeed—success is very difficult—if I succeed, the birth of a new man, a superman, is certain.’
But the one who asked must have returned dissatisfied. All this sounds like talk. It looks like the stance and posture of escapists. Sitting idle is not sufficient; it looks inadequate.
Therefore Lao Tzu says, ‘Great character appears inadequate.’
Thus we will continue worshipping Gandhi; and gradually we will leave Aurobindo. Yet in India’s freedom, Aurobindo’s hand is as great as any. It is no accident that India became free on August 15—it is Aurobindo’s birthday. But it is difficult to see it. And to prove it is impossible. For what way is there to prove? What does not appear in the gross cannot be proven in the subtle. That Aurobindo had some contribution to India’s freedom does not seem even worth writing. No one writes it. And those who made a lot of noise and commotion, who went to jail, took lathis, took bullets, who have copper plates to show—they are the makers of history.
If history were only outer events, fine. But history has an inner story as well. Those whose noise is visible on the circumference of time have one history too. And those who work beyond the circumference of time—in the timeless, in the subtle—they too have a story. But their story cannot be known to all. Nor is it possible for everyone to relate to their story. Because they are not visible. They do not come to the level where things begin to appear. They do not descend to the gross, to the material, where our eye can catch them. So until we have the eye of the heart, no connection with them can be made. Our history is false, incomplete, and petty. We cannot even imagine what Buddha did in history. We cannot even imagine what Christ did. But what Hitler did is clear to us; what Mao did is clear; what Gandhi did is clear. What happens on the rim we can see.
Therefore Lao Tzu says: ‘Great character appears inadequate. Solid character looks weak.’
A deep vision is needed. Solid character looks weak; weak character looks very solid—bear this psychology in mind. In truth, the weak-character person always builds solid walls around himself; the solid-character person builds no walls. He has no need; he is sufficient unto himself.
Observe: if a person is weak in character, he takes vows, resolves, undertakings; a solid-character person does not take vows. But the one who takes vows will appear solid to us.
A man decides, ‘For three months I will live on water alone; I will not take food,’ and he fulfills his resolve. We will say, ‘He is a man of solid character.’ Naturally—it appears so; there is no need to search for proof. A man who lives for ninety days without food, on water—we conclude he has character, resolve, strength, firmness.
But ask a psychologist. This man is very weak within; he has no trust in himself. To bring trust, he tries all kinds of devices. Even fulfilling the vow of three months is an attempt to create self-trust. If he were not weak, he would not take vows at all. Vows are an attempt to erase, hide, suppress weakness. If he is not to eat, he will not eat—three months, three years; but he will not take a vow. If he is not to eat, he trusts himself; he does not need to erect a vow.
A vow means: ‘I do not trust myself, so I erect a vow, I place a stake, I make a public declaration. Now others too will be supports for me. If after three days I begin to think of eating, I myself will feel ashamed—now it is difficult; there is the question of honor, of ego.’ A vow is a matter of ego. ‘What will people say?’ Therefore vow-takers take vows in public, not in solitude—because in solitude they fear they will break.
Jains fast. Their Paryushan days are near—then they pass almost the whole day in the temple. Because in the temple, however much the thought of hunger and food may arise, there is no way. And all around are others like themselves, taking mutual support. Then their monks and sadhus sit there keeping an eye on them—and they keep an eye on the monks—that no one may slip off the path.
What is this talk of slipping? If a man is strong—truly strong—where is the question of slipping? And whose support is needed?
All these vows are symptoms of weakness. But these vows can be fulfilled. Because the weak man too has an ego. In truth, only the weak have egos; the strong man needs no ego. He is so assured within himself that he needs no other ego. The need for ego means: ‘I am not assured in myself; you assure me. You tell me I am great. People say I am virtuous; people say my vow is wondrous; people celebrate me. By their strength I can live; by their strength I can be firm. My firmness comes to me from others’ hands—from others’ eyes.’
But the man who is truly resolute, truly strong, will appear weak to us. He will appear weak because he will never try to display his strength, never arrange externals for his strength, and never ask us for support for his strength.
It is difficult—because where we live we are all weak. We all live by arrangements; arrangements are our strength. And you must know from your own experience: in a moment of weakness you try to look very strong from outside. When you feel that within you might break somewhere, then you stand outside with full collected courage. But when you are assured within, you do not need to collect outside courage. You can rest in ease.
A woman was brought to me—a university professor. Her husband died; she did not weep. People said, ‘She is very strong! Educated, cultured!’ As people praised her, so did she stiffen and become stone. She held back her tears—though it was utterly natural; tears should flow. When love has been there, and when love was natural, then when the beloved dies, tears are natural. It is their necessary part. But people praised her and said, ‘A woman should be like this! There was so much love—love-marriage, against the parents—and still, upon her husband’s death she kept herself so controlled, so restrained! She has resolve, firmness, a soul!’ These nonsensical words stiffened her more.
Three months later she began to have hysteria, fits. No one thought that those who said, ‘She has soul, strength, firmness,’ were responsible for this hysteria. They are. For within she wanted to cry, but lest weakness be revealed she held herself back. This holding went so far that it became hysteria; a point was reached where spontaneous tremors would arise. Her whole body would shake and she would faint. Fainting too is a device of the mind: what she could not express in awareness, she had no way left but to express in unawareness. The body had to express. In hysteria she would roll and writhe, shriek and cry. But she was not responsible—no one could say it was her weakness. This was illness; her responsibility was not there: awareness was gone; in awareness, she stayed rigid.
When they brought her to me, I said: ‘She has no illness, no hysteria. You are her illness—you who surround her. Kindly do not feed her ego; let her weep. Let her do consciously what she is doing in unconsciousness. Let her beat her breast, let her roll on the ground. It is natural. When one has found happiness in love, it is necessary to find sorrow in the loved one’s death. Will you take the sorrow while she took the joy? I asked her: Did you find happiness with your husband?’
She said, ‘Much happiness; my love was deep.’
I said, ‘Then weep! Beat your chest, roll! Do consciously what happens in hysteria. Let others note what happens in hysteria and then do it with awareness; hysteria will depart.’
Within a week hysteria departed. The woman is healthy. And now on her face is true strength—the strength of love, of pain. A naturalness now. The face she had before felt of steel, of iron. But that indicated weakness. There is no need for a face of steel. Only those have iron faces who fear to reveal their real face. So they wear a mask; from behind it they appear strong. You too can put on an iron mask; it will be useful to frighten others. People will say, ‘Yes, a man indeed!’ But within—within you tremble, you are afraid. That is precisely why the mask is worn.
That steel mask fell, and with it the hysteria. With the tears, all that was false washed away. In the crying, all that was artificial burned and ended. Now her own face has appeared. But those who used to call her powerful will now say she is ordinary, as all women are—weak. Those who called her powerful no longer call her powerful. But they have no sense that their calling her powerful had produced the hysteria.
Lao Tzu says: solid character looks weak. Because solid character is natural. Solid character is so assured of itself that it is spontaneous. It is not artificial, has no protective measures—only a natural flow.
See whom we call powerful. I have read in Lokmanya Tilak’s life: his wife died. He was working in his office at Kesari. When the news came that his wife had died, he looked at the clock and said, ‘It is not yet time for me to leave the office.’ The person who recorded this wrote: ‘This is called solid character—steel!’
But my way of thinking is the reverse. This is not steel; it is a false face, dangerous. Because the man who gives more value to the clock than to love, more value to office than to wife—he has suppressed the naturalness of his being. When duty becomes greater than love, understand: the real man is suppressed and a fake man has come up. But no one else will say this. Because in the whole world, duty is the great thing. And the man who sacrifices even love at the altar of duty—we say, ‘He is a martyr! This is called duty! Service! Nation!’
But the person whose heart has no natural efflorescence of love—his whole personality will become inert and dry. And where there is no efflorescence of love, there can be no other efflorescence. We train the soldier such that he becomes an iron man. And it is necessary that a soldier be iron—because with a heart, he cannot do what he is ordered to do. Therefore we teach the soldier duty, service, obedience. And we have taken the soldier as a model for many parts of life; we want every person to be like a soldier—not natural. Because the whole of life is struggle and war.
If such an incident occurred in Lokmanya’s life, it means those who praised him were praising the soldier in him. They have their own aims: they want to lead him and those like him toward a direction where people abandon the heart and become attached—whether the name be patriotism or any other, it makes no difference. The idea is that man should lose naturalness, become unnatural.
This unnaturalness will appear very powerful. If Lokmanya had begun to weep and tears had flowed, and he had forgotten the office and Kesari—which should have been forgotten—and had run to his wife, we would have felt, ‘Ah! Perhaps we should stop calling him Lokmanya—he is but an ordinary man.’
Rinzai was a mystic in Japan. His master died. When the master died—Rinzai’s fame was so great, even greater than the master’s; the master’s fame was because he was Rinzai’s master—thousands gathered. Those very close to Rinzai became anxious because tears were flowing from his eyes; he sat on the steps, weeping like a small child. His intimates said, ‘What are you doing? Your prestige will be greatly damaged. People cannot even think that you would weep. You yourself taught us that the Atman is immortal—what death is there then? Why are you weeping?’
Rinzai said, ‘For weeping there is no “why”! Am I responsible to anyone? Am I not free even to weep? Surely, the Atman is immortal. I am not weeping for the Atman. My master’s body was so dear—I am weeping for that. Who is weeping for the Atman? I am weeping for that body: now it will never be again; such a body will never be again. And if my prestige suffers, let it. What is the value of such prestige that becomes a slavery—that I cannot even weep?’
Rinzai said: ‘I do only what happens; I do nothing from my side. Now weeping is happening; I will not stop it. When it stops, I will not carry it on.’
We are very strange people. When weeping is happening, we stop it; when it is not, we show weeping. In my family there was an incident: a woman died; her husband remained alone. I was at their house. I was amazed: the women sat gossiping and laughing; if someone came to visit—immediately they pulled down their veils and began to weep—without even a moment’s delay. When the man left, the veils went up, the tears were wiped, and the gossip resumed from where it had broken. I said to those women, ‘Your skill is marvelous; you are blessed!’
But we are doing exactly this. Where there is weeping we can stop it; where there is none we can display it. We are false. Yet we call this our strength. We call control strength. The highest character is natural, not controlled. If his naturalness itself becomes control, that is different; but naturalness is his foundation. Control is our foundation—control and restraint. The one who can restrain the most, we regard him as the strongest, the greatest.
But according to Lao Tzu, the ultimate goal of life is such naturalness that there is neither control nor a controller within; what is happening is being allowed to happen—because there is no one within in opposition. As long as there is an opposite within, you are split. Something is happening and someone is standing to stop it—you are in fragments. And however firm a fragmented person may appear, he is weak. There is no integration; no wholeness has arisen yet. Wholeness alone is strength and firmness. But wholeness will arise only when there is no one within to prevent what is happening—when ego does not remain and I become like a child: what happens, happens.
Very difficult. Because we ourselves will feel the hindrance: ‘This is not right—to weep before four people. People will say, “Being a man, you behave like women!”’ So men have stopped weeping. But Nature is stubborn. She keeps making tear-glands. Whether you weep or not, she keeps making tear-glands. Your eyes are always eager to weep, whether you are male or female. But we teach children—even a little child—‘Why are you weeping like girls!’ He stops at once: ‘Right, I am not a girl,’ and restrains himself. We have begun to distort that child. His tears will become poison, because withheld tears are bound to become poisonous.
Thus you will be surprised to know: men are more mentally afflicted than women. One would think it should be women—they seem weaker. But men are more mentally ill. In asylums there are more men than women. Why? Men are taught more control. Women are granted some forgiveness: ‘She is weak, she weeps—let her.’ It is accepted for women. As soon as a man begins to weep, obstacles arise. We have tried to make man artificially controlled, a soldier; in it he has become false. Around him we have constructed a false armor. He stands inside that armor. Even if someone dies he must remain stiff. Whatever happens, he must hold himself.
Who is this holder? This is our ego. Therefore, the bigger the egoist, the more firm he appears to us; the more egoless, the more it seems he is not firm. The egoless will be simple, natural—like water flowing, like wind moving.
‘Solid character looks weak. Pure capacity seems defiled.’
Of pure capacity we have no inkling. We know only limited capacity, impure capacity. Understand it so: a man is an engineer, a skillful engineer. We say: he is capable. Because he is a skillful engineer—gone far in one direction—we say, ‘He is a capable man.’ But is it right to say so? What has engineering to do with manhood? Engineering is a skill. It makes a man useful, not capable. A man is a doctor, a skillful doctor.
I know a doctor, a great surgeon. His fame was far-reaching. From all corners of the country people came to him for operations. He would place a man on the table, begin cutting—and then tell the relatives: ‘Fifty thousand rupees; otherwise the man will not be saved.’ With the man lying on the table, unconscious, already cut open—he would say it then.
He was a skillful surgeon, but what has that to do with the capacity of a man? And so skillful that people knew and yet went. His hand was wondrous. Even at seventy his hand did not tremble—not a bit. That was his skill. But as a man he was very dangerous, not capable at all. He was the sort who should have been a robber; by mistake he became a surgeon. If he had been a bandit, we would not call him capable—although his aim would have been as sure as ever, his hand steady. The robber’s skill became the surgeon’s skill. But what of the man? The man stood where he was.
A man’s capacity is pure capacity; all else are skills. You can be a good surgeon, a good teacher, a good ruler, a good painter, a good poet, a litterateur, a politician—these are not capacities; these are utilities, skills, efficiencies.
What is pure capacity? Pure capacity is pure manhood. Difficult—because we do not recognize pure capacity at all. If a man has no social utility you will call him useless. He is not a surgeon, not a painter, not a sculptor, not a politician—nothing; not even a poet. At least he could make rhymes—but he cannot; he sits idle.
Buddha sitting beneath the Bodhi tree—what capacity is there? What can he do? He cannot even fix a bicycle puncture. Of what use is he?
Buddha sitting beneath the Bodhi tree is in pure capacity—where capacity goes in no one direction, where capacity has no practical application, where capacity is only presence. And when capacity withdraws from all directions and sits within, purity is born—the birth of the pure man. Any utilization of inner manhood is, in one sense, an impurity—because in utility one must become impure, one must descend into matter.
Thus Lao Tzu says, ‘Pure capacity looks defiled.’
However much we worship Buddha, within we feel: this man is doing nothing; he is of no use.
It happened in my own home: people gradually began to think I was good for nothing. It would even happen that I was sitting there and my mother would say, right before me: ‘There is no one here—someone must be sent to buy vegetables.’ I am sitting there, hearing it. But she was right: in truth, there was no one there; I had no capacity for buying vegetables.
Once, she made the mistake of sending me. It was mango season—she said, ‘Bring mangoes.’ I went and asked the shopkeeper: ‘Which are the best mangoes?’ From my face and my way of asking he knew I had never bought mangoes. He pointed to the worst and said, ‘These are the best.’ And he quoted the highest price for them. I thought, ‘Right—if the price is highest, they must be the best.’ Though I suspected they looked rotten, I thought: I myself have asked him, and am ready to pay whatever he asks—why should he cheat me? I brought them home. My mother closed her eyes on seeing them. An old beggar woman lived next door. Mother said, ‘Go give them to her.’ The beggar woman said, ‘Throw them on the garbage heap.’ After that, my journeys to market ceased.
Skill is recognized and seen; it has use. What use has purity? It is useless. It has no value in the economic world, no price. And remember: where we cannot see a price, how will we see value? Without price, value disappears for us. Purity is a useless element—in the sense that in the world of conduct and market we can do nothing with it. But it is the source of supreme bliss. And the one who attains it has supreme bliss; and if you too begin to see it, you become a participant in his bliss.
If Buddha is sitting under the Bodhi tree and you pass by thinking ‘useless,’ your connection is broken. If you feel: something is happening—something ultimate—which does not appear, which does not come to the world, which is happening in some original source, in the seed—and you sit by Buddha without erecting a wall by thinking ‘he is useless,’ if you think something is happening and you become receptive, a client, you will find Buddha’s rays of joy begin to stir you too. You will find Buddha’s emptiness spreading within you. You will find the nectar that is showering within Buddha gives you some glimpse, some taste as well—if you are open and your vessel uncovered. But if you say ‘useless,’ your vessel is closed. Then, certainly, it is utterly useless—how will you know its utility? Its utility belongs to another dimension—where the market’s values do not work; where only the receptivity of the soul can understand what is happening.
Purity is bliss—it is not convenience, not utility, not skill. It is simply man’s being in its purity! That means: where there is no desire, where there is no thought, where there is no race, no strain, no unrest—such a state of consciousness is purity. That is purity, innocence, simple guilelessness. But we can feel it only when, wherever such an event is happening, we sit by such a one as a receptive client. Perhaps not in a moment—you may need years. But if you remain a receptive client…
Someone asked Buddha: ‘These ten thousand bhikshus around you—what do they do here?’ Buddha said, ‘They do nothing; they simply are near me. For years they only remain near me. They drink me. They open to me. As a lotus opens in the morning and turns toward the sun—unfolding its petals—so do they open. Something has happened within me which is outside the world; they are engaged in becoming partners in that. Once they get the taste, the happening begins within them too.’
Buddhahood is contagious—infectious. If you are ready, the germs of Buddhahood can enter you and transform you. Not only illnesses are contagious—health is contagious too. Not only sorrow is contagious—supreme joy is contagious as well.
But we are very strange people. We are utterly open to sorrow, utterly closed to joy. Where sorrow is available, we open quickly; we are ready, thirsty to take sorrow. Where joy is available, we devise every way to refuse.
In truth, we no longer believe joy is possible. Therefore we cannot believe Buddhahood is possible, or that being a Christ is possible. We cannot believe it. And when we say these are all legends, we are not really saying that Buddha and Christ never happened; we are saying we cannot believe they can be—because we are so much in misery, and no ray of joy has ever come to us. We have lost trust in ourselves. Pure capacity appears to us defiled.
‘The great space has no corners.’
Does the sky have a corner? But we have become accustomed to living in houses, and our rooms have corners. Because of corners we can say: this is our room. If there were no corners our room would be lost. But the great sky has no corners. Therefore the great sky is not visible to us.
Skills have corners—little rooms. Purity has no corner—the great sky! Therefore purity is not visible to us. Until the sky is enclosed by walls, we do not find it useful. We sit in the room. We do not sit in the walls; we sit in the sky. Lao Tzu says again and again: the utility of a house is not in its walls but in its empty space. The walls merely enclose the emptiness. But when walls enclose emptiness, we feel assured; we say a house has been built. We sit only in the empty space, in the sky, but when walls enclose it we feel secure: we have enclosed ‘our’ sky; now something is ours. Where there is a boundary we can see it. If the walls disappear—if just now, while sitting here, such a miracle happens that the walls vanish—you will remain sitting exactly where you are; you will feel no difference. But you will fall into great difficulty; uneasiness will begin. You have come under the open sky—under the unknown. Where there are no limits and no corners, our grip does not hold; we become afraid.
Man has not built a house only for the body’s security—that of course is there. Greater is the mental security. What we can see, we feel we possess. What we can bound, we feel we own. Before that which has no boundary, we become petty, and it appears to be the owner. Fear begins there.
‘The great space has no corners. Great talent takes time to ripen.’
People come and ask me: how long will meditation take? A month, two months, three? All the abilities they know take very little time. A man wants to become an engineer—some years. A doctor—some years. They ask, ‘Meditation—how long?’ The Upanishads and Vedas say: infinite births. If one were told ‘infinite births’ you would not even begin the effort—you would say, ‘Let it be!’ You would not even try.
Once Buddha was passing a village. The path was lost. Companions, bhikshus were hungry and thirsty. Midday had grown intense. No path through the forest seemed to lead anywhere. How far the village was, no one knew. On the way they met a man. Buddha’s disciple Ananda asked him, ‘How far to the village?’ He said, ‘Only two miles—one kos.’
A kos passed; still no sign of the village. They met another man. Ananda asked, ‘How far to the village?’ He said, ‘Only one kos, two miles.’ Ananda felt restless. ‘It was one kos earlier too; we have walked a kos—perhaps more.’ But Buddha kept smiling.
Another kos passed, still no village. Now evening was approaching. Hunger and thirst and all were troubling. Another man—a woodcutter—was met; they asked, ‘How far to the village?’ He said, ‘Only two miles, one kos.’ Ananda stopped, ‘What sort of journey is this? How long is this one kos?’
Buddha said, ‘Be happy: at least the village does not grow farther than one kos. Is it not enough that it remains fixed at one kos—not more? We have not lost what we had; that much is sure. We are at least where we were—have not slipped back. And these people are good people. Out of love they say one kos, so that you may keep walking. My own state with you is the same. You ask, “How far is Bodh? How far is Buddhahood?” I say, one kos. You walk one kos and ask again; I say, one kos. This is a long journey; an infinite journey; it takes infinite births. These are compassionate people. Seeing the fatigue on your face, they say one kos. They have nothing to do with the kos; they are kind.’
It was good—in those days there were no stones by the roadside, no milestones. Because stones cannot see your face; stones are hard; they will say exactly the distance—whether the traveler collapse there in panic or not.
Kos by kos, even a thousand kos are crossed. But it takes time. The greater the search for great talent, the longer it takes to ripen. Understand this from another angle—scientists now accept it. Man alone is the creature who takes a long time to mature. A puppy is born—how long to mature? A colt is born—how long? A colt can begin to walk and run the moment it is born. Mature. Born mature. Only the human child is born helpless. It takes twenty to twenty-five years to mature. Even at twenty-five, parents fear: can he walk on his own yet? Why does man take such a long time? If left helpless, the human infant will die; he cannot survive. Other animals’ offspring will. They are born fairly mature. Only man is born immature—because man has a great potential of talent. That talent takes time to ripen. The colt has little potential; maturity takes no time.
Scientists say: if man’s lifespan increases—and it will—our childhood will lengthen. But with that longer childhood, man’s talent will also increase. If the average lifespan becomes two hundred years, then a child will not be mature at twenty-one. He will approach maturity at fifty or sixty. He will leave university educated near sixty. But then man’s talent will reach great heights. Naturally—because the longer the time to mature, the more talent ripens.
Meditation is the ultimate stage of talent. One lifetime is not enough; many lifetimes are needed for the talent to ripen. And only if a person makes sustained effort through infinite births; otherwise, often the effort breaks, gaps arise, what was attained is lost and strayed; it must be regained. If the effort continues unbroken, infinite births are needed; then Samadhi becomes available.
Do not be frightened; do not sit down by the milestone saying, ‘Now what?’ You have been traveling for infinite births; there is no need to be afraid. Perhaps the time has come. When someone says ‘only one kos,’ perhaps only one kos remains for you—because this is not a journey of today; you have been traveling from infinite births. Even this very moment meditation can happen—if the past maturity is with you, if something has been done before. If seeds have been sown, the harvest can be reaped this moment. Therefore there is no need to be afraid. And even if nothing has been done, sitting down will not help. Do something, so that something may happen ahead.
Lao Tzu says, ‘Great talent takes time to ripen. Great music sounds faint.’
Petty music is noisy. Great music begins to grow soft. The ultimate state of music is that in which only emptiness remains; the notes become utterly empty. The one who can hear the empty can hear the great music. Therefore we call Omkar the great music. When a person becomes completely empty, the sound of Omkar is heard. That sound is soundless sound; it cannot be recorded. Even if we put a tape recorder in the heart, it cannot be recorded. It is no sound in the gross sense. It is the resonance of the great void. When all sounds are lost, the resonance that remains from their disappearance is called Omkar.
‘Great music sounds faint.’
Therefore one should cultivate the capacity to hear the faintest. Gradually, gradually, learn to hear the subtle. The market’s noise is going on; with eyes closed, try to hear the clock on the wall. You will be amazed: as soon as your attention goes to the clock, in a little while its tick-tick will be heard. The market’s noise is lost; the tick-tick becomes audible. Then gradually descend even lower: with eyes closed, while the market’s noise goes on, listen to the heartbeat. If the market’s noise continues and you begin to hear your own heartbeat—know the goal is near. Try to hear the subtle. Keep withdrawing from the gross. The gross will remain at the circumference; at the center, the subtle will begin to be realized.
‘The great form has no outline.’
Whatever has an outline is limited. Therefore there can be no image of Paramatma. Hence the deepest symbol we have created for Paramatma is the Shivalinga. It has no form; it is formless. An ovoid shape. The ovoid is the symbol of life’s movement. The motion of all life is circular, ovoid. The Shivalinga is only an ovoid shape without any form. Formless. Paramatma can have no form, because form gives boundaries. Where there is boundary, there is bondage. Where there is boundary, there is death. Where there is boundary, there is ignorance, avidya.
‘The great form has no outline; and the Tao is nameless, hidden.’
The intrinsic nature is nameless and hidden. Truth is nameless and hidden.
‘And that very Tao is skilled in empowering others and in fulfilling itself.’
This hidden original source of Dharma, of truth—from it all energy arises. From it flowers bloom; from it birds fly in the sky; from it stars move; the sun shines. From it consciousness appears; from it consciousness reaches Samadhi. The source of all, the primal origin of all powers—but nameless, hidden. As seeds hide in the soil and then roots form and the tree rises toward the sky. The tree that rises toward the sky depends on the roots hidden in the earth. Cut the roots below—the tree above will vanish. Whatever is manifest has its roots in the unmanifest.
Truth, or Paramatma, or Tao—whatever name we give—is our unmanifest original source. In that original source lies the origin of all power. As long as we seek power on the surface we remain weak. When we descend deep into the roots of the tree, we find the great power that has no end, that is infinite.
From what is visible, move toward that which is invisible. From what is audible, move toward that which is inaudible. From that which has form, move toward that which is formless. From that which has a name, move toward that which is nameless. Then you will enter the temple of Paramatma. That temple is not far—it is hidden here. But hidden. Therefore the one who searches it in manifest temples wanders in vain. The one who begins to search it in the temple of the unmanifest has found the path—and his goal is not far.
Stop for five minutes, do kirtan, and then go.