Tao Upanishad #79

‘From the Tao, the One was born.’
Tao is a synonym for shunya, the void. What Vedanta calls the One Brahman—Tao is prior to that. What Vedanta names as the One Brahman, as Advaita, Lao Tzu says: that too is born out of Tao. To call Tao “one” is not right. Tao is the void. Tao is svabhava—suchness, the intrinsic nature.
It needs a little understanding. Svabhava alone is the sole existence; all else arises out of svabhava. To acknowledge, to accept this svabhava no belief is needed, no scripture is needed. Svabhava is present within us just as the total existence is present. We can know it here and now, in this very moment. Brahman is a doctrine, God a conception; but Tao is an experience.
Tao means: that from which you were born, that which was even before you, and into which you will dissolve—and that which will remain after you. Tao has no personality. As waves arise in the ocean, so in Nature—svabhava—waves of existence, of personality arise. This Tao must not be divided into religious and irreligious. Even the atheist will accept it.
Therefore Lao Tzu’s vision transcends both atheism and theism. An atheist will not agree to God. He may reject Brahman; he will raise disputes about Atman; but about svabhava there can be no dispute. What science calls Nature, Lao Tzu calls Tao.
Even to call this Tao “one” is not proper. We can count only that which has a boundary, and we can call it “one” only when there is the possibility of two and three. Tao can only be shunya—the zero—from which all numbers arise and into which all numbers dissolve. Tao itself is not a number. From where number begins, from there the world begins.
This land even gave birth to a whole system of thought: its name is Sankhya.
Sankhya means the enumeration of existence. Where Sankhya begins, the world begins. That which we can count, which we can enumerate, which we can form a concept of, and define—will be smaller than us. That which we can study, contemplate, think about—will be smaller than us. That which is vaster than us, from which we are born—of that there can be no enumeration, no number. Whatever we say about that will be wrong. About that we can only be silent… utterly silent.
Hence Lao Tzu says, ‘From the Tao, the One was born.’
After Tao, whatever is in the world can be approached, can be understood. It can be defined; theories can be built about it; it can be bound in scriptures. But about Tao, no theory, no intelligence, no thought will be of any use. If Tao is to be known, then the capacity to think, to understand, to count—our cleverness—we must drop it. The moment we drop thought, we enter the void. If within you there is not a single ripple of thought, then wherever you are, that is Tao. If there is no vibration inside, not even a wave in consciousness—akamp, unshaken—no thought is being formed, the sky is empty, no cloud of thinking floats by—wherever you are in that moment, that is Tao.
But in that moment only you will be—alone—and nothing else. Not even this whole world. And even you will not be there in such a way that you can say, “I am”; there will be only being. The very moment it is said “I am,” the One is born. And the moment it is said, the second is born too. Because to whom will you say, “I am!” The moment anyone says “I am,” the world has begun. Hence the supreme knowers have said: until the “I” drops, Truth cannot be experienced. Because with the “I,” the world arises. Here the “I” is made, and there the “thou” appears—because without “thou,” “I” cannot be formed. And where two have come in, the chain begins.
‘The One is born of Tao; from One, Two; from Two, Three.’
Let us understand it a little. If Tao is the void, the shunya of Nature, then the very moment we say “I,” the One is born. In Lao Tzu’s language, the sense of asmita, the ego-sense, is the beginning of the world. It is the seed. The moment I say “I,” I will say it to someone—in reference to someone—someone listening, even if no one listens; but whenever I say “I am,” I say it only in reference to the other. Even if he is not present, the other has become present. A word is meaningless in isolation; it has meaning only with the other. Language is useless in solitude; its use is in dialogue—or dispute—with the other. The moment I say “I,” I have thrown a bridge towards the other; I have built a bridge. The other has arrived. And the moment the other arrives, the third enters—because the relationship between the two is the third. I am; you are. Then there are my friends or my enemies, my father or my son or my brother—or none of these. The moment the other arrives, relationship arrives, and Three is formed. And thus the world expands. But the declaration of “I” is its base. To return behind it, the emptiness of “I” is the way. The moment someone loses the “I,” the whole world is lost.
Therefore those who try to renounce the world toil in vain. The world cannot be renounced—so long as the “I” is. Because it is through my “I” that I have built the world around me. It is born of my “I.” So long as I am, the household cannot vanish. Where I am, my house and my household will be made—because where I am, relationships will arise. He who leaves home and runs away is running in vain, because the seed of home hides within. He who leaves the world and goes to the Himalayas goes in vain—because the world will be created in the Himalayas too. Wherever the “I” remains, there the world will be created. Because the “I” is the root. I will talk to trees, and friendship will be made. And if the tree falls in a storm tomorrow I will weep, and sorrow and pain will be born. Wherever I am, there will be attachment, relationships, the world.
And standing exactly in the world—if my “I” becomes empty—there and then I will enter Tao; there the svabhava will arise; there I will dissolve into that original void from which all is born.
‘From Tao the One is born. From One the Two; from Two the Three; and from Three the manifested universe arises.’
One, Two, Three—deep symbols. And if you begin by erasing the third you are making a mistake—like cutting off the leaves of a tree and thinking the tree will be destroyed. In place of one leaf, two will grow. The tree will think you are pruning it. The world is the last thing; it is the leaves. I am the root. Without me there can be no world.
This does not mean that if I am not, trees, mountains and people will not be. They will be, but for me they will no longer be “the world.” The moment I dissolve, the coverings of personality that were over them are lost for me; I begin to see the ocean within them. The forms of the waves become meaningless to me; what was hidden within the waves—the ocean—becomes meaningful. For me, the world dissolves. The dissolution of the world is a change of vision. From the point of “I,” when I look at existence, it is “world”; and when I look I-free—then there is no world. What remains there is Tao; that is svabhava. Svabhava means: the ultimate element from which all is born and into which all dissolves—the basic, foundational existence.
‘Behind the universe dwells yin, before it stands yang. By the harmony of these vast principles, it attains rhythm.’
Lao Tzu’s vision is to discover the music amidst all opposites. Wherever there is opposition, there will be a rhythm that joins the opposites. Until we perceive that rhythm, we go on wandering in illusion.
There is woman; there is man. Woman is visible; man is visible. But the rhythm between them is not seen. And whenever woman and man come into that rhythm we call it love. But love is not visible. And whenever that rhythm between man and woman breaks, hatred is born. Hatred too is not visible. Behavior is visible. Two people in hatred—one can see it; two people in love—one can see it. Love is not seen; hatred is not seen. Love is the harmonization of two opposing elements. Let their opposition no longer remain enmity, but let it become the very cause of a rhythm; let opposition turn complementary—then love is born.
Jesus has said again and again that God is love. And if one is to understand the meaning of Jesus’ word, one must seek in Lao Tzu what love means. Love means: rhythm between two opposites. And wherever such rhythm appears between opposites, creation is born in a strange adornment and celebration.
Your whole life is a rhythm between birth and death. And when you are fully alive it simply means that the opposition within the process of birth and death has disappeared.
We do not call a child fully alive, because in a child the impact of birth is more, death’s part is less. We do not call the old fully alive, because in them the impact of death has become greater and the part of life, of birth, has waned. We take the youth to be at the peak of life. It only means: in the exact moment of youth, birth and death are balanced. The two pans of the scale come to one line. Youth is a music between birth and death. Childhood is incomplete; old age is incomplete. One is sunrise; one is sunset. Youth is the exact midpoint, where both forces are balanced.
Man–woman—or if we use the language of science—negative and positive polarities, opposing poles. Where the two are balanced, there arises a deep, profound peace; and in that profound peace, a creativity is born—an energy of creation. Lao Tzu’s names are: yin and yang. He calls them two opposing elements. Call them man–woman, call them negative–positive; his word is yin and yang. And Lao Tzu says: the rhythm between these two opposites is Tao.
But we are either male or female. We are bound to one pole, one wing of the opposition. Hence we go on searching for the other. Woman is searching for man; man is searching for woman. Birth is searching for death; death is searching again for birth. Without the opposite, we are incomplete. So the search continues.
Understand this a little: all of us go on searching in life for what is opposite to us. All your seeking is a search for the opposite. If you are poor, humble, destitute—you seek wealth. And the strange thing: those who truly gain wealth start searching for destitution. Mahavira, Buddha—wealth has no charm for them. They are seeking to be utterly poor. Jesus says, blessed are the poor.
Whenever we seek, we seek the opposite. And great difficulties arise from this. We seek the opposite; but to live with the opposite is a great art—because it is the opposite. Man seeks woman. Oscar Wilde has written in his memoirs: I cannot live without woman, and with woman I cannot live at all. Without woman it is difficult—incompleteness; and with woman it is very difficult—because the opposite, the opposition. And in everything, quarrel. Opposites attract, but they are opposites—and when they come near, quarrel begins. The quarrel of lovers is inevitable—because love itself means you have attracted the opposite.
Freud took a very pessimistic view: man can never be happy. The very way man is, he will suffer—because whatever he wants, if he does not get it, he suffers; and if he gets it, he still suffers. And only these two options appear.
According to Lao Tzu there is a third option—and that is: harmony between opposites. So long as man goes on seeking woman, he will be unhappy. So long as woman goes on seeking man, she will be unhappy. And when they begin to seek the rhythm between them, the first ray of bliss begins to descend. Real love is born the day the current between man and woman—the invisible flow of energy—comes into awareness. The confluence amidst the opposition, the stream flowing between the two banks—when that becomes visible, then alone does some possibility of happiness descend in life. And the very moment someone begins to see this rhythm, even the attraction of the opposite is lost. The recognition of this rhythm—Yoga calls it meditation; Tantra calls it the moment of mahasamadhi, the moment of mahasambhog; Lao Tzu calls it the birth of a music between yin and yang.
Wherever you feel attraction, understand two things. First: that whatever attracts you is your opposite—therefore you are stepping into danger. No one is attracted to the similar. Similarity brings a kind of distance, a repulsion. We withdraw from the similar; the dissimilar pulls us—just as positive and positive electricity repel, negative and positive become magnetic and draw near. Repulsion from the similar, attraction to the opposite—this is the rule. So whatever attracts you is your opposite. Second: the moment the opposite draws near, disturbance and duality will begin. The opposite at a distance attracts; when it comes close, being opposite and contrary, conflict will arise.
A third point to remember: from wherever conflict can arise, from there music can arise too. Wherever there is conflict, there is the possibility of music—because where there is conflict, there is tumult of notes. And where notes are tumultuous, if someone knows the art, they can be harmonized. Between two similars, no notes arise. Between similars, sound itself does not arise—hence there is no possibility of music. Between dissimilars, sound is born, friction happens. Friction is not the end. If it can be directed, harnessed, given order and discipline, then the rhythm between opposites—Tao and Lao Tzu say—this itself is Yoga, this is the art—the art of joining the opposed.
If these three points are kept in mind, then from any corner of life you can attain Samadhi. Then the whole of life becomes a sadhana. Then, wherever something attracts, you know: there is danger. And knowing, you step on that ground. There is danger; therefore there is possibility too. Where something can go wrong, something right can happen too. Where there is fear of falling, there also is the opportunity to climb. On level ground you do not fear falling—because there is nowhere to climb.
Therefore, in life, love is the most dangerous happening. It is to walk on the edge of a sword. There will be great turmoil, great chaos; life will be filled with the conflict of opposites. If one stops here, then the stone that could become a step has been taken as a barrier, and you have turned back. What looked like a barrier could become a step—only one must know how to pass through it.
‘Behind the universe is the dwelling of yin; before it, yang. By the union of these vast principles it attains harmony.’
At every moment, the whole movement of life is bound to the opposite. Not only bound—it is continually transforming into its opposite. This is Lao Tzu’s astonishing insight—and now science too agrees—that everything goes on transforming into its opposite. Not only attracted to the opposite, but transforming into it.
As women age, the masculine begins to appear in them; as men age, the feminine begins to appear. Women, as they grow older, become harsher; their voice becomes masculine, and a masculine hardness enters their personality. Men, as they grow old, become gentler; a femininity enters their personality. Not only mentally, but physically—at the hormonal level—this difference appears.
Everything swings toward its opposite, goes on changing.
Often it happens that if in this life you are male, in the next you become female. Looking into many people’s past lives, it can be said almost as a rule: if you are male in this birth, you were female in the previous. Rarely does it happen that you are male in this birth and male again in the next.
There are reasons. Whatever attracts you, influences you, whatever you desire—that very desire becomes the determining element of your next birth. Man longs for woman and calls her beautiful. He feels some mystery is hidden in woman. All his life he will think of woman. His dreams, his fantasies, the strings of his mind will circle around woman—his songs, his poetry, his music will circle around woman. The natural result: your next birth will be as a woman. And women certainly want to be men. No woman is content with being a woman. She is influenced by man and attracted. In this life too you slowly change toward the opposite, and in the next you surely descend into the opposite. Yin becomes yang, and yang becomes yin.
This is a long arc; but even in the small moments of a single life it must be understood.
If you are angry in a true and total way, immediately behind it compassion is born. And if compassion does not arise in you, it simply means you never truly become angry. It is not authentic. Whenever you are authentically angry, immediately afterward you will find compassion is being born. The mind enters the opposite. Whenever you love deeply, you will be satiated by it—and then opposition, hatred, conflict will begin. As night follows day and day follows night, so each facet of your mind is linked with its opposite. And whenever one facet is fulfilled, the other is born.
Psychologists say moral education has robbed man’s life of many things—because we teach people to be false. We never tell a child: when you are angry, be properly and honestly angry. We teach him the art of falsification. We tell him, even if anger comes, hide it, swallow it—don’t let it show on the face. This is what it means to be cultured. Keep smiling; cover your anger. Our expectation is that perhaps such a person who does not express anger will be capable of much love. This is delusion. To the extent that his anger becomes inauthentic, to that extent his love will be inauthentic. Then he will smile, show love on the surface—but within, nothing will arise.
When you are in love, have you noticed—often nothing stirs within; as if you are acting a play, doing some job to be finished. A child comes; you pat his head—but nothing moves within. You smile, you even embrace him—but nothing stirs within. A formality you perform.
Man has become badly false. The reason: out of fear that someone may go wrong, may create trouble through anger—we suppress what is negative. But along with it, the positive is suppressed. He who will authentically love will authentically be angry too. Until you attain Tao, you will have to live in this opposition. And if you must live in opposition, only by living authentically is there a possibility that someday you attain rhythm. For the inauthentic man there is no way—because he never connects with the stream of life. Everything remains on the surface. His prayer, his worship, his love, his hatred, his enmity, his friendship—everything is superficial. Nothing stirs his life-breaths.
Try a little experiment: if something seems missing in life—say, compassion seems lacking—then try to understand. It means your anger is inauthentic—contrived. It is not real. Where it should be expressed, you don’t express; where it shouldn’t be expressed, you do. One who lives with such false anger cannot become nonviolent by any means. His ahimsa will be just as hollow and shallow. As a clock’s pendulum goes only as far right as it has gone left, if you think it should not go left at all and yet should go far to the right, you are mistaken. The energy to go right is gathered by going left.
Therefore Western psychologists are giving a new education that will puzzle the East—and the West too: be honest in your feelings. If love between husband and wife has dried up, if all has become arid, tasteless—no matter how much you advise them to be loving, it will be useless. They must be taught to be authentic.
Only yesterday a young man and woman came to me. They are in love and want to marry. The woman said: we want to marry, but lately a lot of anger arises between us; small things make us irritated, annoyed; a tendency to fall upon each other. I asked: only a tendency—or do you also fall upon each other? They said: no, what are you saying! We cannot possibly attack each other physically.
I told them: then when you love, that love also cannot be physical. If you wish to descend into the depth of love physically as well, then at the moment of anger come down from mind to body too. What is there to fear? Why only think anger? And why do you take such a weak view of love—that if you quarrel, hurt each other, love will break? How can such weak love last? So I said: make an experiment. Next time when anger arises, don’t just think and suppress—let it out. Then come back and tell me.
They had come in the morning; in the evening they sent word: astonishing! After anger we felt so light! And for the first time in these months, a feeling of love arose for each other. We are closer than we have ever been.
There is a relationship in the opposite. Psychologists say: lovers fight to go far apart—so that they can enjoy coming close again. If there is fear of going far, the joy of coming close is destroyed. When two lovers quarrel and move apart, then they become fresh, as on the first day they met—distant. Once again coming close, a new honeymoon; a new beginning, fresh again.
If we understand the duality of life rightly, there is no need to be so troubled. If you have loved, be prepared for anger. And if you keep in mind that through this anger we are regaining capacity for love—then anger will no longer remain painful; it too will become play. One who can love and can be angry—and is authentic in both—very soon begins to feel the rhythm between anger and love. Then love becomes secondary, anger becomes secondary; rhythm itself becomes primary. These two banks become secondary; the river in between…
But that river is invisible. And unless you experiment with honesty in the emotions of life, you cannot get any clue of that invisible.
But we are frightened, timid people. Our fear has poisoned our whole life. Whatever we do remains half-done, crippled; it has no legs, it takes us nowhere. We live dead—because to no moment of life do we give our totality.
If someday man’s character is developed in a scientific way, he will be taught to be authentic. Authentic means: whatever your emotional state, plunge into it wholly; be ready to bear whatever result comes. Out of fear of results, we lose life itself. Whatever the consequence of authenticity, it will not be bad. It will bring benefit; your soul will be born. And whatever benefits appear from being inauthentic and false—no matter how many—ultimately they are the murder of your soul. In the end you will find you have committed suicide; drowned in your own cleverness.
Lao Tzu says: yin and yang—two opposing elements—call them woman and man, or call them prakriti and purusha; between them there is a rhythm. The two are visible; the two shores are clear, visible; the stream flowing between is invisible and formless. To see that formless, one must grasp both shores clearly. A bit of dishonesty, and man is lost. Whatever we have received—good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious, positive or negative—we have received from svabhava. Surely some mystery is hidden in it. Do not rush to condemn it; do not rush to renounce it. Renunciation is not easy. Only those can renounce who discover the balance between the two. Then the shores themselves fall away. To one who finds the stream, shores no longer concern him. They drop away of themselves. One who finds the stream is no longer male or female; one who finds the middle balance, the music—he is neither positive nor negative, neither yin nor yang. He is both at once, or beyond both at once. This art of crossing beyond—atikraman—is what Lao Tzu calls Yoga.
‘Orphaned, unworthy, and alone—these are the states man most detests.’
Understand a little. Orphaned, unworthy, alone—these are what man detests most.
‘Even so, kings and princes call themselves by these very names. Because things gain by being diminished and lose by being increased.’
Orphaned, unworthy, alone—these are our fears. We are very afraid of being alone. Perhaps there is no greater fear. No one wants to be alone. In some way, some kind of companionship is needed. Even if we become alone by circumstances, we still think of others—so that at least in imagination there may be another, and we not be utterly alone.
Poets say love increases when away from the beloved. It increases because when the beloved is far, we think of him; when near, there is no need to think. Imagination is a substitute; we think of what we do not have. By thinking, we create an imaginary companionship. On a day of fasting, a man thinks of food. He imagines all kinds of dishes. Unwittingly, unconsciously this stream rises. And so long as a man, while fasting, thinks of food, his fast has gone in vain. He has only starved. Because he has not yet learned fasting. Fasting means: to let no thought of food arise. More than putting food into the stomach, do not put food into thought—that is fasting.
To be alone means: no thought of another. In aloneness there should be joy, celebration—not misery. But all are afraid of being alone. And all are alone. Hence all are afraid. Because we are afraid of a truth from which we cannot escape. Everyone is alone. Alone he is born; alone he lives. He creates the illusion that someone is with him. But no one can be with anyone. All companionship is imaginary.
And the other thinks you are with him; you think the other is with you. Neither of you cares to give the other companionship; nor does the other care to give it to you. There is mutual exploitation. By the presence of the other, you feel okay, full—you feel you are not alone. But being alone is a truth. Until we gather the capacity to be alone, we will not be acquainted with our own svabhava. If we cannot be alone, how will we know ourselves? Preparation for aloneness is needed—no matter how much fear or insecurity appears. Even if the mind insists: find company, still one must dare to be alone.
A strange phenomenon occurs in the world: whatever we seek, the final result of that seeking is—we become alone. A man seeks wealth, and fears being alone. The more wealth he gains, the smaller his society becomes. He cannot meet everyone. He can meet only a few who are of his status. He continues to gather wealth; he leaves people behind. A moment will come when he is alone—when there is no one of his status. This is why he worked all his life—to stand at the final peak, on Everest. And when he stands on Everest—a heart attack. Because he is utterly alone. No companions remain.
Politicians fall into this trouble. After traveling and traveling, when they reach the summit, suddenly they find they are absolutely alone; there is no companion. Whether it is the search for wealth or for position! Great thinkers, great scientists reach this state. Einstein feels: whom to talk to? No one will understand his language. He has a wife, but distances are immense. Einstein cannot remain Einstein and talk to his wife.
I was reading the memoirs of Wilhelm Reich’s wife. Wilhelm Reich—after Freud—a very revolutionary and precious psychologist. His wife wrote: I could not understand Reich at all. Was he mad or a genius, right or wrong—impossible to say. He was exceptional, that much can be said, something special. No relationships are possible. The first wife divorced; then the second left. Relationships cannot be formed—because the world in which he roams is where he is utterly alone.
All great thinkers reach a state where they feel no one is their companion. A loneliness is experienced. Astonishing: those who ought to go mad do not—Nixon does not, Mao does not, Hitler does not—those who ought to. But great thinkers—Wilhelm Reich goes mad, dies in an asylum. A height arises in the mind where no relation with anyone remains. Then panic. And this is what they were seeking.
Wherever you arrive—if you keep moving rightly—you will become alone. If you truly compete, fight—you will succeed only so far that one day you will suddenly find you are alone; no competitor remains. Then you panic. Therefore all successes prove failures in the end—because no one wants to be alone. If you are not yet successful, you remain in the crowd; there is still something to do.
Lao Tzu says: man detests being alone; he detests being unworthy.
But Lao Tzu asks: what does your worthiness mean? And what is the result when you are worthy? Lao Tzu’s insight about worth is unique. He says: worthiness means only this—that people will use you as a means if you are worthy.
A father rejoices in a worthy son—because the ambitions the father could not fulfill, he will saddle on the son’s shoulders. This worthy son will fulfill them. The foolishness in which he wasted his life and remained incomplete—this worthy son will complete. A wife rejoices in a worthy husband. What will be the result? He will go on multiplying money.
Andrew Carnegie was asked: how did you collect so much money? He left ten billion. He said: it is hard to say that I collected it. I only wanted to see if I could collect so much money that my wife could not spend it! I was only a means. I wanted to see if I could reach that point—earn so much that my wife could not spend it! But she is spending. The husband is worthy. She keeps him running.
The total result of worthiness is: you will be exploited. What else? The more worthy you are, the more people will exploit you. Lao Tzu is very unique. He says: do not strive to become worthy. He says: the unworthy are often saved from trouble; the worthy are ground down. But the world says: be worthy!—because the world wants to exploit.
Be skillful! The world condemns the unworthy; praises the worthy. But it praises only those who are ready to be sacrificial goats. And everyone is afraid of being unworthy. Why? Because the unworthy are not given respect in the world; the ego is not gratified. What other fear is there? The unworthy fear that if someone calls them unworthy, there is no value left. If there is no value in the marketplace, one feels valueless.
But Lao Tzu says: you are not a commodity to have a price. And if by being worthy you have some price, then it is not your value but the value of something that arises through you. Your value can only be when you are not at all worthy, yet you have value. The value of your being—your sheer presence. Understand this.
You love your son because he is worthy. If he is not, you do not love. Do you love your son? Or do you want to use your son—to accomplish something, to be a means to some end? Then the son is an instrument, a means—not the end. If the son is the end, his worth or unworthiness is meaningless. Then his being, his presence, is valuable. You are happy because he is. His being is enough. Beyond his being, nothing else is needed. If love has meaning, it can only be this: someone’s being—without any calculation of market value, without the assumption that he can serve as a means to some goal. Simply his being!
Lao Tzu praised greatly the art of being unworthy. He says somewhere in his reminiscences: in a village there was a hunchback. The king conscripted all the young men, because it was time of war and every person had to go. Only the hunchback was left—he was good for nothing. Lao Tzu went to him and said: blessed are you! If you had been worthy, you would have gone. Your unworthiness saved you. Thank the Divine—worthiness will die on the battlefield. Lao Tzu was always seeking how unworthiness is a shield.
But we are tormented to be worthy. Precisely because we are not. Actually, we only desire what we don’t have. Understand this a little. It will seem upside down. One can agree to be unworthy only if one truly is worthy—and whose worth does not depend on external bases; whose worth depends on his being, on his svabhava. You desire what you don’t have. You want to be worthy, because you are not. Lao Tzu says: one who can agree to be unworthy has found the worth of svabhava. Now he has no need of any outer worth. His being itself is blessedness. In all of us, there is an effort to cover what is not there. The weak person wants to look powerful—if possible, be; if not possible, at least look. The weak man does not want to appear weak. He uses every means so that no one recognizes his weakness. The unworthy builds every cover of worth around himself so that no one detects his unworthiness.
Adler worked much in this century on the inferiority complex. He said: all the devices in the world arise from the inferiority complex. Wherever a man feels inferior, he begins to compensate; he runs. He is afraid someone might see his inner wound.
A great wonder: Nietzsche was physically weak—very weak; in no way could he be called powerful—sickly, feeble, always ill. But he worked mightily to worship power; his greatest book: The Will to Power. Nietzsche says: the soul of man seeks only one thing—power. He gave such honor to the powerful man that reading him one might think Nietzsche must have been very powerful. He was not at all. On Nietzsche’s worship of power, German fascism arose—Nazism. Nietzsche said: the Nordic German race is the great powerful race; it is its birthright to rule the world. He himself was not Nordic; nor powerful. His own inferiority complex. What he didn’t have, he wrote in scriptures. He himself could never fight, let alone go to the battlefield. But he wrote: the most beautiful sight in the world for me is when soldiers march in the blazing noon sun with bayonets—on whose steel the sunlight sparkles. Beyond that I have never known greater music. This is the desire to compensate what is not within.
If we look within ourselves, we will see: we strive to gain what is not in us. Mahavira could kick a kingdom away—because the inner kingdom was understood. We cannot kick the kingdom away—we are poor, beggars. Buddha could stand a beggar—because beggary was not within. We cannot stand as beggars—because we know we are beggars, and if we are beggars on the outside, the whole secret will be exposed. Buddha can stand as a beggar—because to be a beggar reveals no secret; rather the inner emperor stands revealed.
Lao Tzu says: we fear being unworthy, because we are unworthy; we fear being alone, because we are alone; we fear being orphaned, because we are orphaned. We are afraid of exactly what we are. Orphaned means helpless. But we avoid accepting that we are helpless, alone, unworthy. And in trying to create the opposite state we waste life.
Lao Tzu says: accept the fact. Acceptance of fact is liberating. This does not mean Lao Tzu says you will remain unworthy, alone, orphaned. He says: the day you understand that you are alone, from that day you are no longer alone. This is a little subtle. Because the day you accept that you are alone—that it is a fact of life—that very day aloneness disappears. As long as you seek the other, aloneness remains strong. Now you accept: I am alone—this is a fact of life—and you drop the search for the other. Slowly you will forget that you are alone. And the day you forget that you are alone, that day the other will disappear, and you too will disappear—and what will remain is svabhava, Tao, hidden within all. That is never alone. We are alone because we, as a wave, have considered ourselves separate from the ocean—and then we try to unite with other waves. We ourselves are a momentary wave, and we make closeness with another momentary wave to remove aloneness. We are momentary; joining with another momentary, we remove aloneness.
Lao Tzu says: the day the wave understands “I am alone”—this is my nature—let go of concern for the other wave—that day the awareness of the ocean beneath begins. When the eyes are fixed on the other, they do not turn within; because of the other they wander outward.
Therefore, if the profundity of aloneness is to be understood, going to the mountains is meaningful—not to leave the world, but only to be alone. It is no renunciation; it is only an arrangement to descend into the experience of being alone. It is not running away from the other; it is only creating the convenience to go within—so that I may know my aloneness in its full nakedness. Where there will be no other, where I will not think of the other—there I will know my aloneness in total nakedness, in total profundity. The day one knows it in its total profundity, accepts it, that day he is no longer alone. That day he descends into the original nature. Then there is no other—only I am.
And one who knows: unworthiness will be—because I am not perfect. How can a wave be worthy? Whatever a wave attains has no value—because the wave itself is going to vanish; what it attains will vanish with it. Whatever the wave achieves has no price. No matter how worthy you become—you will be lost. Where the foundation is going to be lost, what value a mansion of worth? For a little while you may glitter in other eyes. But what is the worth of others’ eyes? They too will be dust tomorrow. Look into history. What is the worth of Napoleon, of Alexander? What worth? Had they not been, what difference? If you yourself had been Napoleon—someone must have been—what is your worth today? Even if someone tells you today that you were Napoleon and proves it—you will laugh. The same will happen to you tomorrow. Tomorrow you fall into dust. Your prestige, worth, fame, honor—all will fall into dust with you. Those who gave it will also fall into dust. Where everything falls into dust—how mad we are, chasing things that have no eternity, no meaning, no value—because they do not abide anywhere.
Lao Tzu says: the race for worth is the race of ego; the acceptance of unworthiness is the fragrance of humility—“I am unworthy.”
This does not mean such an unworthy person will be able to do nothing. Lao Tzu says: only he will be able to do. Because the worthy man spends his energy in maintaining his worth.
What do politicians accomplish? What do the wealthy accomplish? What is their gain? What is added? They appear to do much; but in the end, nothing comes to hand. One who accepts with humility, “I am whatever I am”—much happens through his life. There is no sense of doership; it happens—just as flowers blossom on trees.
Such a blossom happened in Lao Tzu’s life—this Tao Upanishad, Tao Te Ching. It did not happen by striving. No effort was made for it. No running around. It happened as flowers appear on a tree. It is the natural blossoming of Lao Tzu’s life-energy. Behind it there is no sense of a doer. It happened because such a happening was possible in Lao Tzu. Lao Tzu does not know how to write; he does not know how to speak—and yet this greatest garland of utterances arose from him. Nothing was arranged for it. The Tao Te Ching was born by coincidence. A happening—not a doing. Even Lao Tzu cannot say why. Had it not happened, no harm; having happened—no desire for honor or prestige.
A delightful thing: having spoken these words, Lao Tzu disappeared; then no trace. These are his last utterances; after this he vanished from China. Some say he came toward India; some say the Himalayas, or Tibet. But he disappeared from history. After giving such priceless nectar-words, he did not remain even to see what others would say. Whether anyone heard, anyone read, anyone’s life was transformed—gain or loss—none of it concerned him. As birds sing, as flowers blossom, as rivers flow—so in Lao Tzu, the Tao Te Ching blossomed and flowed.
One who accepts his state as it is—much will happen through his life. But that happening has nothing to do with ego. It will happen from svabhava, from the supreme nature. Then such a person can even say: the Divine is working through me; He is doing. Lao Tzu does not even say this—because even in this, asmita may enter: “The Divine works through me, not through others!” Lao Tzu says simply: in svabhava, thus it happens. There is nothing to consider in it.
And orphaned, helpless…
We make every effort to hide that we are helpless. With wealth, position, prestige we erect a fence around ourselves so that inside we may feel secure and seem not helpless, not orphaned. But man is helpless. Death will come and we will not be able to stop it at all.
William James went to see an asylum. He himself—a great psychologist. He returned deeply anxious. They say the worry never left him for life. And the anxiety was this: in the asylum he saw people; he remembered a friend—yesterday he was fine, no one could imagine he would go mad. He was perfectly fine—and went mad. A thought seized William James: if I go mad tomorrow, what can I do? What means will I have? And what certainty is there I won’t go mad tomorrow? Yesterday my friend was fine—no one could imagine. I too can go mad tomorrow. What power do I have? What can be done to prevent it?
Whatever has ever happened to any man can happen to you. Whatever has happened to any human! Someone begs on the road—do not think it happened to him and cannot happen to you. You too may beg tomorrow. Today you cannot even imagine—no reason to think; all is comfortable, all secure. But it can happen. Emperors have begged. The powerful have become destitute.
Before Lenin came to power in Russia—Alexander Kerensky was the prime minister. Very powerful. Then the revolution; in the communist revolution Kerensky disappeared. People forgot he ever had power. In 1960 it emerged he was in America, running a small grocery shop. 1960—lost since 1917! One cannot imagine Lenin sitting in a shop selling groceries. Kerensky was once more powerful than Lenin; when Lenin was nothing, Kerensky was prime minister. But it happens.
Whatever has happened to any man can happen to you—any sorrow, pain, blow, madness, death, poverty—anything that can happen to humanity can happen to each human being. We are utterly helpless. And when it happens, we can do nothing. Our boat can sink any moment—because boats sink every day. And one day every boat must sink. Even if we somehow save ourselves—we reach where? However we save ourselves, finally we reach death. All saving leads to death. Helplessness is the inescapable element of our life.
Lao Tzu says, ‘Orphaned, unworthy, and alone—these are the states man most detests.’
And this is the fact. One who detests fact will never know Truth.
‘Even so, kings and princes call themselves by these very names.’
Chinese emperors called themselves by these very names—“orphaned, unworthy, alone.” Not because they were very wise; but for a reason. Chinese astrology holds: always place yourself at the point from which progress is possible. Never think of yourself as the full moon; after that there is only decline. Think of yourself always as the second day’s crescent; then you can grow. Thus Chinese emperors called themselves orphaned, unworthy, alone—so that the possibility of growth remains. Not out of wisdom, but due to an old tradition. The tradition was born from wise men. Those who said “think of yourself as the second day’s moon” spoke something of great value. They said it so that you can ever expand, ever grow; leave space, room—do not shrink.
Therefore the humble can grow; the egoist cannot. There is no room to grow. He believes he already is all that he can be. He who considers himself ignorant—he can become a knower. He who now considers himself a knower—his doors are shut. He who considers himself a zero—he can become the whole. All doors are open. He has made no arrangements to stop life anywhere. Life is invited from all sides.
‘For things gain by being diminished and are harmed by being increased. Others have also taught this maxim; I teach the same: the violent die a violent death. This I take as my spiritual master.’
All Lao Tzu’s words are very subtle, delicate. If his hints are not understood, one can blunder. Lao Tzu says: only that man is nonviolent who considers himself alone, orphaned, and unworthy. This is unusual; we would not link it directly with nonviolence. But the link is deep.
He who considers himself worthy will be violent. In the very declaration “I am worthy,” violence begins. With this declaration he will begin proving others unworthy. The struggle has begun. He who says “I am not orphaned—I am master, lord”—he has begun violence. He will prove it by becoming master. To become master is violence—because no one can be master without destroying the other. The attempt to be master is destructive; the other will have to be destroyed, broken; limbs will have to be torn. The other’s freedom must be snatched; his personhood must be destroyed into a thing. Only then can anyone be master.
All of us try to expand our area of mastery. Meaning: expand our area of violence. So we can cut and crush more people, so more people are in our fist, so that when we tighten our fist we can finish them.
Mulla Nasruddin was summoned by his emperor. Word had reached the emperor that Nasruddin was very wise. The emperor said: call him; the sword can destroy all wisdoms. He believed in the sword. He sat with a naked sword. Nasruddin was brought. The emperor said: you may make one statement, one sentence. I have heard you are wise. Speak one sentence! If it is true, you will be cut by the sword; if it is false, you will be hanged. You are permitted one sentence. I have heard you are wise. The gallows was ready; a man stood with the naked sword.
Nasruddin spoke a wondrous sentence: I am going to be hanged. The emperor was trapped. He had said: if you speak truth, you will be cut by the sword; if you speak false, you will be hanged. Now he says: I am going to be hanged. If he is cut, then he spoke truth; if he is hanged, he can be hanged only if he spoke false. The emperor said: you have trapped me. I know only one thing—violence and the sword. But you are clever—you are certainly wise.
Our cleverness too is spent in escaping others’ violence. Two kinds of people: those whose power is spent in doing violence; and those whose cleverness is spent in escaping it. The rest of life is violence. Either we try to become masters—or we try that no one makes us a slave. In both, our reference is violence.
Lao Tzu says: one who accepts himself as orphaned, unworthy, alone—he goes beyond violence. Such a person neither tries to be master of others, nor worries to save himself—because he knows there is no way to be saved. Death will come. He does not go to kill—because death will kill all; there is no need to do its work in between. Nor does he worry much to save himself—because death will do that work too. Nonviolence is born only when we neither wish to enslave anyone nor wish to be anyone’s slave—nor even wish to save ourselves from slavery. We do not think in the language of violence. One who agrees to be orphaned, unworthy, alone—he goes, as if through a subtle door, outside the realm of violence.
This does not mean we cannot kill him. We can kill him. And yet we cannot touch him. We can cut his neck—and still we cannot cut him. Even in the moment of cutting his neck we cannot hurt him—because he had accepted that death is an inescapable part of life. How it happens is secondary. Its happening is certain.
‘Others too have taught this maxim; I teach the same: the violent die a violent death.’
There are many points in this maxim. He who wants to become master of others finds in the end that others have become his masters. He who enslaves becomes enslaved. What we do to others returns to us.
It must be so. It is life’s simple rule. Whatever we throw towards life, life throws back to us. Whatever we receive is what we ourselves had given—returned by the hands of life—no matter how much time has passed, and we have forgotten we gave it. When an abuse reaches you, perhaps you do not remember—ages may have passed, births may have passed. But what we give returns. We do violence, and violence pours upon us from all directions.
‘The violent die a violent death.’
We cannot harvest otherwise than what we sow. And if we are harvesting violence—if violence rains on us—then accept silently: it is our past account being cleared. Do not retaliate. Retaliation sows new seeds, and the chain has no end.
‘This I take as my spiritual master.’
Lao Tzu says: this maxim is a guide. Do not become anyone’s master; do not try to prove yourself worthy to anyone; do not fall into the delusion that companionship with the other is possible. Then suddenly you will find violence has departed from your life. And the moment violence departs, your eyes become free of smoke, and the Truth hidden all around begins to appear.
But we turn principles into burdens on the head. Jesus also says: he who takes the sword will perish by the sword. Mahavira says the same; Buddha the same. But principles become scriptures; we carry them on our shoulders. We forget their utility—they are not to be carried. We sometimes even study them.
I have heard: when Mulla Nasruddin was small, his mother said: son, I am going to the river for a while—keep watch over the door. Nasruddin sat. Half an hour, an hour, then restlessness. How long to watch the door? He wandered, circled the door, went out and in. But he had to “watch the door”—a principle given by mother. At last the restlessness grew; two hours were about to pass. The hut had a wooden door. He shook it loose, lifted it on his shoulder, and set out towards the bazaar. The mother was returning from the river. She saw and said: Nasruddin, what are you doing? I told you to watch the door! He said: for how long to watch? I thought: keep the door with me—no need to watch. Wherever I go, the door stays with me. I am watching it.
The house became more unsafe.
We too “watch” the guiding maxims. We all know what is right. But we carry it on the shoulder. It has no relation with our life. In life we go on doing precisely what is said not to be done. Then we suffer. People come to me and say: we do everything good in life, yet we suffer.
This cannot be. It only means they think good. What they do is wrong. Or they interpret the wrong in such a way that it matches their scripture—but it is wrong. You may avoid becoming master through politics or money; you may become a guru and grip people by the neck. It is the same thing. And no one can grip as badly as a guru. There is no way to escape a guru. Because you are always wrong; he is always right.
Some can remain perfectly “disciplined” only because there is the joy of making you disciplined. The joy of making you wrong is hidden in being right. Your guru can follow rules to the letter simply because he enjoys making you follow rules. Many gurus would vanish if their disciples disappeared. All their rules would collapse—because their only juice was the mastery gained through them.
You can wake at three in the morning—if there is the joy of making a thousand people wake at three. Then you will feel no pain. You will rise as happily as can be. People will think you enjoy the Brahma-muhurta. But mind is strange; it is enjoying torturing a thousand people—making them wake at three.
You can find ways to do evil such that it looks good. But man’s deep search remains the gratification of the ego—the joy of making the other small. How he makes him small is secondary—by wealth, position, knowledge, or by renunciation. But the relish of making the other small remains. Until that drops, there is no end to violence in life.
‘The violent die a violent death. This I take as my spiritual master.’
If someone can truly take this maxim into life, Lao Tzu says, nothing else need be taken. This maxim is enough of a master.
Enough for today.