Tao Upanishad #78

One of Buddha’s monks, Sariputta, asked him, “How may I find bliss?” Buddha said, “Drop the search; just be present here and now. There is no need to seek. Bliss is here. You are the one who has run away; therefore you fail to meet that which is here.”
Bliss is not an object that will be attained in the future; it is embedded in the heartbeat that comes with our birth. Bliss is our very nature. There is no need to search for it. It is precisely because we search that we miss. Do not search; seize it this very moment. Do not postpone it till tomorrow. The unhappy person is the one who seeks happiness tomorrow, and the blissful person is the one who does not postpone—who dives into it this very moment. This diving is called dhyana, samadhi.

So when you learn the art of diving into the present moment, the source of bliss becomes available to you—first. Second, remember this well: those who seek happiness are always trying to get it from the other. As if someone else will give it—the wife will give it, the husband will give it, money will give it, society will give it, the son will give it—someone will give it. There the mistake occurs. Bliss is within you; no one in the world can give it to you. There is no way to give it. As long as we think someone else will give us happiness, we will reap sorrow. The day we realize that no one can give bliss—throughout history no one has ever given bliss to anyone—then we know: bliss has to be attained by oneself. It is the self’s relationship with itself. It is an inner journey, not an outer pilgrimage. Dive into the moment and dive within.

And third, whenever suffering arises, do not merge with it in identification; do not become the suffering. Whenever suffering comes, become a witness and watch it. Rather than undergoing it, know it. Instead of drowning in it, remain detached—be a witness, a seer. The root formula of suffering is identification. Anger comes, the clouds of sorrow begin to gather, and you immediately become one with them. You forget that there is something in you that is separate from anger. Certainly you are separate. When anger was not there, you were; and a little later, when anger is gone, you will still be. Anger has come around you like a cloud. But your sun has no need to become one with that cloud. The sun can remain at a distance. The art of keeping that distance we have called the witness attitude—witnessing.

So whenever suffering seizes you, try to stand a little apart and watch. In the beginning it will be difficult, because for lifetimes we have tried only to see by becoming one with things. But make just a little effort and instantly the distance will appear—because the distance is there. Identification is false; distance is true. There is a gap between you and your experiences. Whatever happens is happening outside you. If you wish, you can link yourself to it; and if linking has become a habit, breaking it may seem difficult. But in truth you are already separate. Your nature is not to undergo but to know. Undergoing is a mistake, an illusion; knowing is truth. What is true will happen easily—though the old habit may take a little time to fade.

Therefore, whenever suffering catches you, sit silently, close your eyes, and try to watch the suffering from afar—as if it were happening to someone else. Let this one maxim sink very deep: as if it were happening to someone else. Someone has insulted you and a hurt begins to whirl within. Sit down, close your eyes, and see it as if it were happening to someone else; you are far away. Gradually that distance will become clear, the haze will lift, and it will be plainly seen that suffering is happening and you are seeing. The very moment you become the seer, your connection with suffering is broken. To become the witness is to be separate from suffering. Keep these three points in mind and buddhahood is not far. To be a Buddha is your right. If you are not, that is your whim. Becoming a Buddha is easy for everyone. If you are not, it is the result of your own doing. In every possible way you are restraining yourself. Outwardly it appears that you are seeking bliss, but whatever you are doing is itself murdering bliss.

If the search for bliss proceeds according to these three sutras, you will very soon find that a ray has begun to descend—by whose support one can be liberated, and by whose support one can reach sat-chit-ananda.

It seems so; it is not. The very road by which you came to this building is the road by which you will return home. The road that brought you here will take you back as well. The difference is small—only the direction changes; the road is the same. You need not change the road to reach home, you only need to turn around so that your face is toward home. While coming here, your back was toward home.

The development of consciousness takes man away from nature, because his back is to nature. And the ultimate flowering of that same consciousness brings man back into nature—then his face turns toward nature. If you have understood me rightly, I have said that the evolution of life is circular. As you begin to walk in the realm of consciousness, man appears to be breaking away from nature; if this evolution is completed, the circle completes and man is rejoined to nature. It is because this evolution stops midway that the trouble arises. Man does not become a whole man—that is the difficulty. He remains incomplete. Incompleteness is the problem. Become wholly conscious or wholly unconscious and you will be joined to nature. In total unconsciousness you are one with nature; in total consciousness also. For wholeness unites you to nature, and incompleteness separates you from nature.

Therefore I said there are only two ways. Either become unconscious—then in moments of unconsciousness, for a little while, unity with nature happens. That is why deep sleep is blissful. In the morning after deep sleep you say, the night was full of bliss. What was there in the night that was blissful? What happened? You cannot say what happened. But in the morning a faint glimpse remains; across the whole mind and body a shadow of joy lingers. What happened?

Only this: in the deep sleep of the night you fell back, you became unconscious; you reached where the plants are living, where the stone lives. You were absorbed in nature’s thoughtlessness; you were lost in the current. That personal consciousness was not. It is from this that the morning feels so pleasant. This joy is because you drowned in nature and returned. You came back refreshed, young again. Fatigue vanished; staleness departed.

Hence one who does not sleep well at night finds life very burdensome, because his links to unite with nature through unconsciousness have been broken. But Krishna says in the Gita that the yogi is awake at night. If you suffer from insomnia you do not become a yogi. With insomnia you become ill. In the morning you find yourself more exhausted than you were in the evening. The whole night was nothing but fatigue. The tossing and turning only increased the restlessness. And in the morning you rise shattered, like a corpse.

Yet Krishna says the yogi stays awake at night—he is right. But that event can happen only when complete consciousness has been attained. With full consciousness, the relationship with nature is re-established. In full consciousness the person disappears and only the divine remains; in full unconsciousness the person disappears and only nature remains. In both states the ego dissolves. And where ego dissolves there is no longer any need for sleep. The body will rest; awareness will remain lit. It is not that Buddha does not sleep, nor that Krishna does not sleep. The body sleeps, but within, like a lamp, awareness continues to burn. Even in sleep there remains a knowing of what is happening. We are asleep even while awake; Buddha or Krishna remain awake even while asleep.

But such wakefulness is possible only—otherwise Buddha and Krishna would go mad—only when another method has been discovered to connect with that supreme source of energy. There is only one way to meet it: you must not be. Either you vanish in unconsciousness, or you become so full of awareness that the ego cannot stand.

But the ego clings mightily. That is our disease.

I have heard: a Jewish fakir was dying. He lay upon his bed. He had many devotees; they all gathered. The news had spread far and wide. Death was drawing near, and the devotees were singing their master’s praises. One said, such a wise one—neither has the earth seen his like before, nor will it see again. Every word of the scriptures was on his tongue; ask him anything from anywhere, he was never at a loss; the scriptures flowed like a stream. Another said, never have I seen such a compassionate man; his whole life was filled with compassion and service. Another said, what an ascetic! What a rigorous seeker! So disciplined with himself and so compassionate with others! So stern with himself and so kind with others! The discussion went on. The dying man, eyes closed, must have been listening. In the last moment he opened his eyes and said, Listen—speak also of my egolessness. All this is fine, but someone should also speak of my egolessness.

Ego is a very subtle thing. It survives even in austerity; it survives even in scriptural knowledge. It survives even in compassion and service; it is nourished there too. Even in the moment of death this man is full of ego—but a very inverted kind, not easily caught. He says, speak also of my egolessness. In truth, the meaning of ego is simply this: that someone speak of me, someone know me, someone recognize me. I am, I am something—this very madness is the ego.

There are two ways to lose this ego—either sink into sleep like an animal, or become established in perfect wakefulness like the saints. In both states you will disappear. You are in between. Ego is the midpoint: half-stupor, half-wakefulness; partly awake, partly asleep. There the ego stands. Fully awake—the ego goes. Fully asleep—the ego also goes. Therefore when consciousness is completely dormant we are one with nature, and when consciousness attains perfect Buddhahood we again become one with nature.

The road is the same, only the directions change. When we are moving toward ego, our back is toward nature; when we are moving away from ego, our face is toward nature. And to return to that very home, filled with awareness—this is the goal of life. From where we were born in unconsciousness, to return there filled with awareness is the whole art of life. Man arrives at the very place from which he came. The original source is the end—but he arrives there transformed.

Therefore the schooling of the world is wondrous and essential. God does not run the world without reason. There are deep reasons within: what you now have must be taken away, and it should not be returned to you until you are filled with awareness. This process of being deprived is an incentive to fill yourself with awareness. Filled with awareness, you will receive the very bliss in which animals and birds rejoice, in which trees rejoice, in which the stars of the sky rejoice. The whole cosmos is drowned in celebration—you too will be drowned. But the flavor of your immersion will be utterly different. Under the Bodhi tree sits the Buddha. The joy in which Buddha abides is the same joy in which the tree abides—but the tree has no awareness of joy. And what is the meaning of joy of which there is no awareness? If you do not know it, what difference does it make whether it is there or not? Beneath that same tree Buddha sits. He too is in that joy, but now fully, consciously awake.

Imagine you are carried, unconscious, on a stretcher into a garden. The fragrance of the flowers will surely reach your nostrils—because the flowers do not care whether you are conscious or unconscious. The songs of birds will ring at your ears—because the birds do not care whether you are listening or not. Cool breezes will touch you. But you are unconscious. And in that unconsciousness you are taken on a complete tour of the garden and brought back. When you come to, you may say, it feels pleasant, there is a freshness—because that garden will have left some unknown trace. But you know nothing: not the joy of the flowers, not the blossoming, not the birds’ songs, not the music in the winds passing through the trees, not the peace, not the greenery. No—you know nothing of it. Now go into that same garden consciously, awake.

Exactly so: in nature everything is drowned in bliss, but there is no awareness. Man returns to drown in it with awareness. In the process of arriving at this experience, one must pass through suffering. For what was obtained in unconsciousness begins to be lost as unconsciousness drops; as awareness arises it starts slipping from the hands, dissolving. Thus as man fills with awareness, he becomes increasingly unhappy. Children are less unhappy; the old become far more unhappy—because some awareness has dawned. The things of life become visible—everything was futile. All duties, all running and rushing, all fatigue, all boredom—clear. The old are more unhappy. The child does not yet know. The child has not gone far from nature; he is still playing very close to it—but awareness has not yet arisen.

Hence Jesus said: blessed are those who become again like children. Again—those who, having grown old, become like children. But this becoming means now they become childlike consciously, like awakened children. The return is to Gangotri, to the original source—but return having earned awareness.

The world is a process of awakening.

They are utter fools. Because those who come close to a Buddha... who come close, come precisely because they are foolish. Why would a wise person come near a Buddha? There is no need. One goes to a hospital because one is sick. One goes to a Buddha because one is ignorant and seeking knowing. But the moment an ignorant person starts seeking, the birth of knowing has begun. That is why I call those who stay far away utterly foolish. They are ill, yet they don’t want to go to the physician. They are ill, and still their ego stops them even from saying, “I am ill.” For the physician you must at least say, “I am ill.” For a Buddha you must at least say, “I am ignorant.” Only then can the process of knowing begin. Even admitting that much hurts. Hence the utterly foolish cannot reach a Buddha; the foolish do.

But even among the foolish there will be many kinds, all sorts. Some will become aware of their foolishness and, near the Buddha, will find a way to cut it at the root. Some will not become aware; instead, they will use the Buddha’s words to stuff and pad out their foolishness. There are people who use even the Buddha in the service of their stupidity. They are the danger.

Naturally, when a fool comes to the wise he cannot understand everything—impossible. But if he remembers, “I cannot understand,” has that much humility, and keeps trying to understand, it is all right. If, however, whatever little he does grasp he takes to mean, “I have understood,” and becomes obstinate—there is danger. Then he will dig in. And how long will the Buddha be here? Today or tomorrow—there is a large class of such people—things fall into their hands. As soon as the Buddha died there was no longer any agreement about his words: twenty-five streams arose. Each group said, “This alone is what the Buddha taught.”

Leave the Buddha aside; I have heard that something like this happened in the life of Sigmund Freud. He was alive, but he had grown old. A great movement had arisen around him—psychoanalysis—worldwide fame, thousands of disciples. About ten of his special disciples, seeing his old age approaching, gathered to meet him. In the evening they sat at table with Freud for dinner. Conversation began; a dispute broke out among the ten—what does Freud say on this point? And Freud was sitting there alive; no one even asked him. Their dispute grew so heated that they forgot there was no need for any such dispute: the man is alive, present before us; we can ask him directly what he meant. They were busy proving their own positions. Freud said to them, “Friends, I am still alive. You can ask me directly what my intention was. But you do not ask me; what will you do after I am dead! Then you yourselves will become the arbiters.”

So, the moment a knower dies, the circle of ignorants around him sets up twenty-five kinds of sectarian views. It will happen. Religions are born from the enlightened; sects are born from the foolish. And they will fight over such petty issues as we could hardly imagine.

Ask the Digambaras and the Shvetambaras, “What is your quarrel regarding Mahavira?” The Shvetambaras say he wore clothes; the Digambaras say he was naked. See over what trifles they quarrel! The Shvetambaras say he married; the Digambaras say he did not. The Shvetambaras say he had a daughter and a son-in-law; the Digambaras say he had neither daughter nor son-in-law.

These are the disputes. Whichever of these is true—what has it to do with Mahavira? If he wore clothes, what difference does it make? If he did not, what difference does it make? It has nothing to do with what he said. Strange people! Yet the quarrels go on for thousands of years—and very scholastic quarrels at that. Great scriptures and arguments and nets of logic are woven, and the combatants imagine they are doing something of great importance—protecting a great religion. Now, whether Mahavira was naked or clothed—how does that concern the defense of religion? Even inside clothes one is naked. Cloth is not that precious. Whether Mahavira married or not—what has that to do with anything? What substance is there in such futile matters?

But no, it seems substantial to them, because the ego of the foolish gets tied up with such things—their view must be right. The fool has no relationship with truth; he has a relationship with his own opinion. The wise lets truth shape his view; the fool tries to prove his view as the truth. The wise is always ready to drop his opinion and go wherever truth leads. The ignorant says, “Truth will have to follow me; wherever I go, truth must go.”

Those who gather around enlightened beings are blessed—even if they are fools. Because there, there is a possibility that their foolishness may be dissolved. But it is not necessary that merely coming near will dissolve your foolishness. You will have to be very alert, because foolishness has deep roots and holds you with many tricks.

There is an incident in the Bhagavata. It is a full-moon night and Krishna is dancing the rasa. His beloveds, his companions, are dancing all around him. Each beloved feels that Krishna loves her alone. It will seem so—that too is part of the ego. Every beloved thinks Krishna is mine alone. But the moment any beloved feels “Krishna is mine alone,” she can no longer see Krishna. The dance goes on, but Krishna vanishes from the center. Whichever companion feels “Krishna is only mine,” and the sense of possession and proprietorship arises, she can no longer see Krishna.

It is a very sweet tale—beautiful, lovely, deeply symbolic. And the moment she can no longer see him, she grows restless, distraught, begins to pray, and forgets that feeling, “Krishna is mine, only mine.” She forgets it. Thirst arises, love awakens; overwhelmed, she begins to weep and cry out. Then Krishna becomes visible to her again. But as soon as Krishna appears, the thought returns: “He came at my call, at my thirst; I desired, and he appeared—he is mine.” Krishna vanishes again.

This is exactly the play that goes on between master and disciple. The moment a devotee feels about the Buddha, “He is mine; I have understood; the real key is in my hands,” the Buddha is lost. Foolishness is ego—and wherever ego grabs, difficulty begins.

There is an event in the Buddha’s life: Ananda did not attain enlightenment until the Buddha’s death. He was with him for forty years, and he was a knowledgeable man—what we call “learned,” capable, talented. He was the Buddha’s elder brother in relation—a cousin. Yet even after being with him day and night for forty years, he did not attain knowing. The story says that after the Buddha died, he attained. Before the Buddha’s passing he began to weep and said, “You are going! What will become of me? Forty years have passed wandering and nothing has happened to me.”

The Buddha said, “Until I am gone, nothing will happen to you. My ending is necessary for your beginning, so that your fist opens, your grip loosens.”

The tale is very sweet: when Ananda first came for initiation, he was the elder brother by relation. He said, “After initiation I will be your disciple and will have to obey whatever you command. But right now you are my younger brother and I am your elder; for now you must obey what I command. First fulfill three conditions of mine, then I will take initiation. First: as long as I live I must always remain with you; you will not send me away anywhere; you will not say, ‘Go, stay elsewhere.’ I will remain like a shadow with you—twenty-four hours! Even at night I will sleep in your room. You will not separate me from you even for a moment. Second: whomever I wish to bring to you—even at midnight—you will not refuse to see. And third: whatever question I ask, whatever it may be, you will have to answer.”

The Buddha was the younger brother. So he said, “What you command in the capacity of the elder brother, I accept.” Then Ananda was initiated. But that stiffness, that pride of being the elder brother, became the obstacle. And the Buddha honored all that Ananda had asked for throughout his life; he fulfilled it all. Yet that stiffness became the difficulty; it became a barrier to learning from the Buddha. That sense of being the elder, that ego which could command the Buddha, became the hindrance. After the Buddha died the grip loosened, and Ananda came to his senses: “I have wasted forty years! With the one who had it, the happening could have occurred in a single moment, but I myself remained closed.” Deep within, he could never truly regard the Buddha as greater. He was the younger brother—so, a younger brother. He would bow, place his head at the feet, but inside he knew, “He is my younger brother.” So that bowing, that surrender, all became false.

Naturally, those who go to the Buddhas are ignorant. But they are blessed ignorants, because the thought to go has arisen. Even that much knowing is not small. Those who do not go are the utterly foolish. They are closed within themselves; there is no way to open them. Some blow from somewhere is needed; otherwise you can remain shut in your shell for births upon births. A spark is needed from somewhere. And it is very necessary that some joyous person become part of your lived experience, because you have no news of joy. How can you seek what you have no inkling of? And if you have no taste of it, how can you even trust that it exists?

A Buddha cannot give you bliss, nor knowledge, but the Buddha’s presence can give you a taste. You may feel at least this much: something has happened to this man—if it happens to me, life will be fulfilled. In the Buddha’s shadow, the glimpse of peace you get can become your own search for peace. A Buddha can give you thirst. No one can give God to anyone in this world, but the thirst for God can be kindled in someone’s presence. If that thirst awakens, and the ignorant becomes aware of his ignorance, then slowly, slowly ignorance dissolves.

But if the ignorant begins to fill his ignorance with the Buddha himself, then trouble begins. You can do that. The Buddha is helpless; he can do nothing about it. You can stuff your ignorance even with him. If what you hear from him goes only into memory and does not become your way of living, there is danger. Then you will become a scholar, not a knower. And when the ignorant becomes a scholar, he is afflicted with a terrible disease.

I told the story: Nagasena came to the emperor and said, “Take the chariot apart, piece by piece.” As the parts were separated, the chariot kept disappearing. When all the parts had been removed, what remained was emptiness; there was no chariot there. And Nagasena asked, “Now where is the chariot?” In just the same way, I am. Separate my parts one by one and I will disappear. This is the process of analysis. One thing at a time is taken apart.

The question is precious—that by taking things apart it was shown that there is no Nagasena; but can the same truth be established through synthesis?

It will be established in exactly the same way. Because what is true does not depend on analysis or synthesis. Truth is not proven; it is only discovered. Through this analytical process it was seen that there is no Nagasena; as the parts were separated it became clear that Nagasena vanished.

This is the Buddhist process—the process of emptiness. Hence Buddha says there is no soul. To know the nonexistence of the self is the attainment of truth; it is nirvana. The Vedantic process is synthesis. Vedanta says: keep adding, and add so totally that nothing remains outside the addition.

Nagasena is here; nearby there is a tree; the emperor is standing there; there is the sky, the clouds—keep adding everything. When all is included, even then Nagasena will not remain, because only the Divine, Brahman, will remain. If we keep adding everything, the One alone remains. For Nagasena to remain, multiplicity is required; at least two are needed—at least the emperor must be separate and Nagasena separate. That much distance is required. If we go on adding, only the One remains—Brahman. Totality happens; an organic wholeness comes. In that, the emperor is lost and Nagasena is lost.

If we turn a drop into vapor, it is gone; and if we drop the same drop into the ocean, it is gone. In becoming vapor the drop is annulled; emptiness remains, nothing is left behind. If we drop the drop into the ocean, the ocean remains and the drop is lost. So either move toward the zero—keep cutting away and inwardly experience, “I am not.” Or move toward the Whole—keep joining and joining, and experience, “Everything is myself.” In both cases Nagasena will be lost; you will disappear. The ego can survive only in between—something added, something broken. Break totally and it is gone; join totally and it is gone. With the Total there is no relationship possible for the ego; it clings only to the partial.

Therefore Vedanta and Buddha’s vision seem very opposed; God-realization and nirvana, emptiness, seem very contrary. They appear opposed because of words—because of the different procedures, the methods. But the final result is exactly the same. Hence, according to one’s taste! There are people who will relish analysis more, negation—neti, neti; good. That is why when an atheist comes to me, I don’t tell him, “Believe in God.” I tell him, “Forget it—there is no God. Now take care of only this: you too are not.” You had the courage to drop God—well done; now have a little more courage and drop yourself too. There is no soul either, no ego either. I tell the atheist: if your flavor is in saying no, then make it complete; say that nothing at all is. You will reach the same place. There is no need to be a theist—unless your inclination is theistic; then there is no need to be an atheist.

An atheist can also arrive—this is India’s unique discovery. You will be surprised to know: there is no atheistic religion anywhere else in the world; only in India are there two atheistic religions—Jainism and Buddhism. Nowhere else is there an atheistic religion. Outside India they cannot even conceive how atheism could have a religion! Atheism and religion seem opposite. But we even discovered a religion for the atheist. Because religion means the supreme truth; it can be attained by saying no, and it can be attained by saying yes. If truth could be attained only by saying yes, truth would be incomplete, weak—without the courage to withstand a no. Then truth would be partial: available to those who say yes but not to those who say no; then truth would not be so complete as to contain all. Even that temple would have room for some and not for others.

India is wondrous. Theistic religion is straightforward: Christianity, Islam—these are all theistic. Beyond their imagination lies the possibility of a religion that says there is no God—and yet it is religion. And there can be a religion that goes so far as to say there is neither any God nor any soul—and still it is religion.

But our meaning of religion is different. By religion we mean: attaining that which is ultimate. There are two ways to attain it. Either say yes so utterly that your yes becomes vast, leaving no room anywhere for a no—that is completeness. Or say no so totally that not even a trace of yes can remain—that no becomes complete. Either the Yes becomes complete, or the No becomes complete. Wherever either becomes complete, the supreme truth is attained.

Therefore Buddha is an atheist: there is no God, no soul. It is very difficult for the West to understand such a man. H. G. Wells has written that Buddha is the most godless and the most godlike person ever to walk the earth—godless and godlike together. H. G. Wells wrote that understanding is shaken: how to grasp this man? Because it is hard to find anyone more godlike than he; and yet he says there is no God.

If we understand it this way, the matter becomes very simple. There are two approaches to truth: analysis and synthesis—negation or affirmation. But in both cases there is one condition: totality. If you are to be an atheist, be totally an atheist—and you will attain Brahman. Half-hearted atheism will not do. If you are to be a theist, be totally a theist. Half-hearted theism will not do.

But on the ground there is a crowd of the half-complete: half theists, half atheists—people of all kinds of half-and-half. Whenever someone becomes complete in any direction, he becomes free of all incompletenesses, free of all viewpoints. In both situations you will discover: you are not. Either turn the drop into vapor and let it dissolve into the zero, or let the drop fall into the ocean and become one with the vast. Simply disappear. Other than you, there is no hindrance at all.

There is no contradiction. One who has attained Tao lives like wind and water, but how can one who is moving toward Tao live like wind and water? Even to live like wind and water one must first make effort. How can you be at the destination at the very beginning of the journey? You will have to break your old habits; there is old conditioning, old sanskaras—they have to be destroyed. They surround you from every side. Even if you come to see that they are wrong, they will still chase you—because mere knowing is not enough. You have practiced them for years, for lifetimes.

A man understands and decides that smoking is bad: “I will quit.” But his blood has acquired the habit of nicotine. Your blood cannot suddenly receive the intelligence of your decision. Your blood does not get the news. Even the beat of the heart demands nicotine. It is habituated. Nicotine has become food for the body. Now, if nicotine does not arrive, he will feel dull. And when he feels dull, the body will demand, “Give me a cigarette.” Nothing will taste good. Whatever he tries to do, he will feel limp, listless. His limbs won’t respond. The body will revolt: “Give me my food.”

The body does not know what your intellect has come to know—that smoking is bad, is sin. You heard some monk, got carried away, took a vow that you would not smoke. Now you are in trouble. The body knows nothing of your monk, your sannyasin, your scripture. You heard, and you decided. You never even asked the body: “I have been smoking for forty years; in these forty years, the habit nicotine created has become part of my food—how shall I separate it?” Decide as much as you like; until the habit changes, you will have to continue the struggle.

You cannot be like wind and water yet; if you try to be like wind and water, you will at once light a cigarette. If you say, “I will live spontaneously,” the body will say, “Then smoke.” If you are to live spontaneously, why say you won’t smoke? If it is to be spontaneity, then pick up the cigarette—what is the obstacle?

Yes, live spontaneously—but only after the unnatural habits have been broken will you be able to live spontaneously. So when Lao Tzu says the saint is like wind and water, that is the final statement—of the attained, the accomplished. Do not assume yourself to be accomplished, otherwise there is danger. Take yourself as a seeker. There is danger if you take yourself to be a siddha. Your mind will be eager to do so, because what could be easier than being accomplished without doing anything?

People come to me and say, “Lao Tzu’s words appeal very much.” I know why they appeal. You need do nothing; everything is accepted. All trouble is finished—nothing to do, everything accepted. Remain as you are. That is why Lao Tzu appeals. But then you will not understand Lao Tzu; if that is why he appeals, you have come to the wrong man, and you will be harmed. You are as yet unspontaneous; you cannot become spontaneous in a moment. A decision you can make, but behind the decision, the journey, the tireless effort will be required. If you make no effort, the decision will remain futile.

Keep the distance between seeker and siddha in mind and the contradiction disappears. Buddha also says that nothing needs to be done; it is your nature. But Buddha practiced austerities for six years. Only after six years of austerity did he discover that nothing needs to be done. You read in a book or hear a discourse and conclude that nothing needs to be done. In his six years of austerity his old habits were broken; yours have not been. Deconditioning has not happened.

Pavlov did many experiments in Russia—about conditioning. He would give bread to a dog. Seeing bread, the dog’s saliva would begin to flow; he would ring a bell with it. Now there is no relationship between a bell and saliva. But each day, whenever he gave bread, he rang the bell. After fifteen days he did not give the bread; he only rang the bell. The dog’s tongue came out and saliva started to flow. In the mind, a link was formed between bell and bread; conditioning happened. The dog too knows there is no bread—he sees it, he feels restless—yet the saliva flows. Because you have no control over saliva. Do you think you do? Just think of a lemon and the saliva starts to come. You are only thinking; there is no lemon. But the conditioning is there; the association with the lemon is formed. If your mind can be conditioned, why not the dog’s? So now when the bell rings, the saliva flows. The dog has learned; his body has learned a habit.

Now it will take a fortnight or a month to forget it. Each day the bell rings, saliva flows, and the connection with bread gradually breaks; each day the saliva will lessen. A month may be needed. Or there is another method: whenever the saliva flows, give the dog an electric shock so that he gets frightened. A new link is formed: shock—saliva stops at once. Now bell and shock are linked.

So there are two ways to break habits:
1) Keep an attitude of indifference toward the habit, so that the association slowly breaks. Do not drop cigarettes all at once; smoke with indifference. Smoke, but remain very indifferent: “If I smoke, okay; if I don’t, okay.” Indifferent. Gradually the link will break.
2) Or—what in the West they now call reconditioning—whenever you smoke, you are given an electric shock. In two or three days the habit drops, because as you bring the cigarette near, your whole body refuses. A habit stronger than nicotine is formed: “Now a shock will come.” Many experiments are going on in the West; habits of years drop easily when linked with something painful.

But this second method is not good. It is harmful. It injures, and your mind does not become free through understanding; it becomes free out of fear of pain. Like when we slap a small child whom we think is doing something wrong. Why do we slap? We are conditioning him to understand that whenever he does this, a slap will come; if he doesn’t want the slap, he should not do it. But this brings no joy, no understanding, no awareness. And the day the child realizes that his slap is stronger than yours, he will do it again—now he knows there is nothing to fear. That is why parents who restrain a child for a while find, in the end, that he does precisely what they had forbidden. Because liberation comes through knowing, through awareness.

So today you must begin as a seeker, not as a siddha. And to walk as a seeker means: first, recognize your actual situation and understand how long you have created it; understand the whole process by which you have cultivated it. Then slowly, remove it, piece by piece. Remove it over a long sequence, so that no wound is left anywhere. If one learns well the art of breaking habits, then the day the net of habits falls away from all sides, it is as if the cage around a bird has collapsed. Now the bird can fly.

But a bird that has not flown for many years—its wings become stiff. It too must practice. If your parrot is simply released, animals and birds will eat it; it will not even be able to fly. In that case, the prison was better, because its wings have lost the habit of flying. The wings must rebuild their habit. They must spread again; blood must run through them again; the wings must become fresh and young again. The heartbeat must adjust for flying at height. Everything has to be remade. And just as it is difficult for the parrot to fly out of the cage, so too here: merely breaking the cage is not enough; outside, you must bring your body-mind to readiness to fly.

Therefore, Lao Tzu’s teaching is very precious. But if you proceed as if you are already a siddha, you will only be harmed, not helped. The foolish can turn even medicine into poison; the wise can use even poison as medicine. Keep this in mind; otherwise ultimate truths become very dangerous.

As happened here. We heard Shankara: the ultimate truth—he said, “The whole world is maya.” We said, “If all is maya, what is the obstacle now? Whatever we do is fine, because all is maya.” This thought of Shankara—which is a very deep truth, that the world is maya—led this country into religious decline. People felt, “If it is maya, it is okay—tell lies, steal, be dishonest, take bribes—the world is maya.” Whether in a dream you steal or you don’t, what difference does it make? Does it? In the morning you find it was all a dream—whether you stole, or became a saint, in the dream. In the morning, all is quiet; there is no substance, it was only a fancy. If the whole world is maya, then do anything.

So in the present immorality of India there is a share of Shankara’s ultimate truth. Lao Tzu is right: prophets and tirthankaras are blossoms of wisdom—and also sources of stupidity. Shankara’s hand is there—not knowingly. Shankara could never even imagine such a thing. But the idea he gave, and the way this nation used it, was: “All right!” Thus all talk, all character, all morality, the sanctity of life—lost their value. Everything became insubstantial—both the auspicious and the inauspicious. And then no one became a saint, nor did society become saintly; society fell very low. This doctrine of maya brought India very low.

There is a danger with ultimate truths: they are very high; you cannot reach them. Therefore, religion has always had two streams. One is what in India we call sudden liberation, sudden enlightenment—this happens perhaps to one among millions. In a single moment everything happens. The second is a life-stream: gradual liberation—step by step. Most people have to walk that way, one step at a time. But even step by step, the journey of a thousand miles is completed.

Remember: begin with the gradual; do not bring in the notion of instant liberation. It may happen—but begin with the gradual. There is no obstacle. If your capacity matures, you will be liberated in a moment; gradual effort does not hinder that. But if you try for instant liberation and lack even the capacity for the gradual, you will waste your time and fall into many kinds of delusions.

Certainly, the accomplished one becomes simple like wind and water. But for the seeker to reach that place, great methods must be employed. To be simple is not so simple, and to be effortless is not effortless. To become effortless requires sadhana; to become simple, one must pass through very intricate paths.

As I said, birth comes with death; whenever truth is born, organization is born. This cannot be avoided. The moment truth is told to another, organization begins. Either the one to whom truth has happened keeps silent, drinks it alone, and tells no one.

Buddha thought so. When he became enlightened he remained silent for seven days. He thought, There is no point in saying it. Those who can arrive will arrive without words; those who cannot, telling will not help—it will only create confusion. Better to remain quiet. But there is a sweet story: the gods, Brahma himself, came and pleaded at his feet, “Do not do this! Who knows after how many thousands of years someone attains buddhahood; what he has known should be spoken, communicated, shared.” Buddha said, “Those who can attain will attain without me, and those who cannot—why should I waste my time and energy speaking?”

Brahma was a little at a loss—the logic was clear and simple. So the gods held a meeting, conferred, even conspired a little, and reached a conclusion. They returned and said, “You are absolutely right. Some will reach without you; some will not reach even with your saying it. But there are those in between who, if you do not speak, will wander for lifetimes—and if you do speak, they will arrive. Speak for them. Even if there is only one such person in a hundred, it is worth saying.” Buddha agreed.

But the moment anyone speaks to anyone, organization begins. If I say something to you and you understand, what does it mean? It means you will either agree or disagree. If you agree, you will come closer—organization has begun. If you disagree, you will move to the opposite side—and start an organization against me. The moment the word is spoken, organization begins.

Then comes the question: if organization is bound to begin, should Buddha or Mahavira have done as Krishnamurti did and refused to organize? I tell you, Buddha and Mahavira acted more wisely than Krishnamurti. When organization is inevitable, there are only two possibilities: either the Buddha himself will shape it, or others will do it after him—and those others will be even more dangerous. Krishnamurti may refuse to organize, but organization is happening. There are people who call themselves his followers, who agree with him—they are his disciples. As he grows old and the sense arises that his last day is approaching, his disciples are tightening their grip: creating trusts, schools, foundations. Organization has begun. Once he is gone, it will become strong. And he is against organization.

Surely, rather than having Krishnamurti’s followers build an organization, it would be better if Krishnamurti himself did it. There would be more understanding in it. It would be deeper, last longer, and do less harm—harm it will do—but less harm. Those who raise an organization after him will do more harm.

Therefore Buddha, Mahavira, Mohammed deemed it proper to create the organization themselves, and to strive to carry truth as far as possible in its purity. Organization is unavoidable; it will happen. If you listen to me and agree, you will want to tell someone else, to reach someone else. What feels good, delightful, blissful—you want to share. There is nothing wrong in this; it is human. So if ten people like what I say, the ten will sit together and think what can be done to reach more people—organization will begin. That is appropriate. The organization will rot, it will spoil, there will be harm—true. But there will also be benefit, advantage, welfare—equally true. And if out of fear we do not prepare a medicine because some will drink too much and turn it into poison to commit suicide, then we are neglecting those who could be helped by the medicine. And I say: the one who would turn medicine into poison would find some other way to commit suicide anyway; he would not wait for this medicine.

People come to me and say, “Don’t form an organization.” But I see they themselves are in some organization—Jain, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian. My forming one changes nothing; they are somewhere already. My view is: an organization must be created—but with the awareness that it will rot, and with the understanding that when it rots one should have the courage to leave it.

Buddha had that courage, but no one listens. Buddha said the truth I give will not last more than five hundred years. In fact, if Buddha’s followers truly loved him, then after five hundred years all Buddhist organizations should have been dissolved. But they are unwilling. Now they are all doing the enemy’s work. This is why new religions are needed—so the old, which have decayed, can be bid farewell.

So if I create an organization, it is with the thought that when it decays someone else will create another, and those who can be freed from the rotten one will be freed, taken out. Those who are determined to die would find a way anywhere—they will die in this, they will find a way here as well. One thing is certain: there are two ways of thinking about life. Either we think in terms of what can go wrong—then nothing is possible. Or we think in terms of what right can happen, what benefit there will be. Krishnamurti keeps thinking about the harm. There is much harm. You build a house—you know how many dangers there are: an earthquake may come, the house may collapse, someone may die. If you go on thinking like that, you cannot build a house. But if you attend to what a house can do, there is far less need to worry. Still, anxiety grips. Let me tell a small story.

An atomic scientist was explaining the dangers of the atom. People were gathered as you are here, and he explained the dangers very clearly. A man sitting in front began to tremble. The scientist, seeing him turn pale, grew concerned. “Don’t be so frightened,” he said. “Even if a bomb were to fall on your city, there are ways to survive. And there is no such likelihood now; I am speaking only of theoretical dangers.” But the man went on panicking. So the scientist said, “Don’t be afraid at all; the chance that you will be killed by an atom bomb is one in ten million.” The man nearly fainted. “Don’t talk about chances!” he cried. “Last year ten million people bought lottery tickets—and I won the prize. Don’t talk like that. It tears me apart—that’s the danger: one in ten million, and I will get it!”

Organization has its dangers; words have dangers; scriptures have dangers—but they also have benefits. The risk is worth taking. Only one thing should be remembered: everything is mortal. Religions, organizations, scriptures, words—all are mortal. And when something dies, you should not carry its corpse. Buddha said, “When you have crossed to the other shore, leave my words, my dharma, my ideas as one leaves a boat. Do not carry it on your head.” This seems wise: when something has rotted, leave it.

A child is born in your home. It is certain he will grow old and die. By bringing a child into the world you are becoming the cause of a future death. Then should you not give birth? We know he will grow old and die. Wisdom lies in giving birth and raising the child—but when he dies, do not keep his corpse in the house. Take it to the cremation ground, which exists for that, and let him rest there.

Religions should also die; organizations should die; scriptures should die. New ones keep being born; we keep carrying the old corpses—and that creates trouble. There is no danger in the birth of the new; the danger lies in carrying the old. When you feel something has become dead, the courage to leave it is the sign of life.

Who likes to take the mother to the pyre when she dies? Still, it must be done. When the father dies, who likes it? We weep, we beat our chests, yet we carry them to the cremation ground and burn them. Religions also die. Once they were dear, alive. Once many received life from them, fragrance; there was light. But now there is no light there—only darkness. Still we carry them on our hearts.

Individuals are born and die. Institutions have a special danger: they are born, and then they insist on not dying. That is the danger. Create as many institutions as you like—but knowing they will die, and that they should be allowed to die. This is natural. If this awareness remains—if there is the understanding to remove and burn the dead, and the courage to welcome the new—then there is no danger.

There are more questions. There is no end to questions. And when I answer you, it is not with the intent that a particular question be settled in your mind. I answer so that you may gain a perspective for resolving questions. I have no concern with the particular question. Let an understanding arise in you so that you can resolve questions yourself. Therefore it is not right to answer every question. As many as I do answer, it is in the hope that you will be able to search out the rest yourself. My hope is that you become capable of finding answers on your own. If you cling to my answers, they will be dead, a burden on your heart. Let it be that you gradually begin to find answers to life’s questions yourself—and slowly you stop bringing your questions to me, and one day you come with no question at all and ask me nothing.

Keep this in mind. One kind of answer is given to hand you something ready-made—take it, and now you need do nothing. No, I do not want to give you that kind of answer. Those who do are enemies, because they do not allow your intelligence to develop. For me, questions and answers are only an experiment to draw your consciousness toward the space where you can resolve questions yourself. Gradually, when a question arises, the answer should begin to arise within you. If this art comes to you, it will stay with you. My answers cannot truly serve you.

I have heard that a blind man asked a true master, “In this village, which road goes to the river? Which road goes to the market? I am a stranger.” The master said, “Wait. There are many roads, many villages. How many roads will you remember? How many villages will you remember? Today you are a stranger here; tomorrow you will be a stranger somewhere else. Life is a long journey. So I will not give you answers. I know a little therapy for the eyes; I will treat your eyes. Then wherever you go—whether the village is unfamiliar or familiar—you will yourself be able to see which road goes to the river.” The man said, “That will take long—this treatment of the eyes. Please tell me now.” But the master said, “That is not my habit.”

I do not give answers to questions. I give only the method by which questions can be resolved. Keep this in mind. When I give answers, I have no attachment to the answers. Do not memorize them like a scholar. Understand only the process: how to enter a question, and how to return out of it alive—with the solution. And the day your questions begin to dissolve within you and answers begin to arise from your own consciousness, that day know you have understood my answers—before that, not.

We will pause for five minutes, sing kirtan, and then go.