Tao Upanishad #80

In Lao Tzu’s vision, power is not real power; emptiness is the real power. And whatever is done by action is fleeting; only that which is found through non-action is eternal and timeless. That which must be obtained by doing is of no value; only that which is available without doing has significance. Wherever effort can take you is not outside the world; and wherever, without effort, one sinks into emptiness — that alone is Moksha.
Lao Tzu’s immensely valuable insight must be understood from many angles. It is also difficult to understand, because it is utterly contrary to our mind and the method of our thinking.
We believe the powerful alone are powerful. But Lao Tzu says the soft breaks the hard, and the void enters even where there is no door, no pore, no crack.
We are familiar with this too — perhaps not consciously. A waterfall cascades down; there is no element more soft than water. The hardest rocks, slowly, crumble into sand. Stone loses to water.
Lao Tzu says water is certainly not powerful. What could be more feeble than water? It is not hard in the least. It will bend as you wish, take any shape you give it. Water offers no resistance of its own. It has no fixed form. Give it a shape and it assumes it. There is not even a trace of resistance in water. And stone — in every way resistant; difficult to mold, hard to break, hard to change; its shape assured. Yet when water and stone collide, at first water seems to lose; over a long time the stone loses and the water wins. Mountains of any size are cut through; the mountain turns to sand and water makes its path. This is a symbol. In the depths of life it is the same. When a hard heart collides with a heart full of love, at first it appears the hard heart is winning; but over a long span, the loving heart wins and the hard one is swept away, broken. Love is like water. On the surface it seems that if woman and man struggle, man will win; but in the long run the woman wins. Man appears strong, looks hardened, resistant. Yet the softest woman’s love bends the strongest man. Love is like water.
In every dimension of life Lao Tzu sides with the weak — not because it is weak, but because life’s wisdom says the weak proves powerful in the long run, and the powerful seems powerful at the start, but later it breaks and is swept away.
When a fierce storm blows, great trees are uprooted; the small blades of grass bow down — even the storm cannot break them. The storm passes, the grasses stand up again. The storm leaves them fresher, more alive. It shakes off their dust, their past. They become more vibrant. The storm does not become their death, it becomes life-giving. But the big trees, standing stiff, powerful, mustering courage to fight the storm — their roots are torn out. And when a storm has felled them once, there is no way for them to rise again. When the powerful falls, it cannot rise; its very power becomes such a weight. The weak — the weak never truly falls; it bends. Bending is its art. And in bending lies the secret of its power.
Jesus has famous sayings, and Christianity does not possess the full key to open them. In Lao Tzu lies the key to Jesus. Jesus says: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the humble, for the final victory shall be theirs.
But in our seeing — our vision is not far-reaching — we only see what is first. Water falls from the mountain; the rock stands unmoved; the water scatters — the rock’s victory appears obvious. But over a long span, in the long current of time — and life is vast, immense, endless! In it the first has no value, only the final has value. This current is eternal. You were here yesterday, you were here the day before. There has never been a moment when you were not; and there will never be a moment when you will not be. In this endless stream, the one who makes the first the foundation of life falls into error. The powerful seems to win first, but in the endless flow of time it has no victory anywhere.
If the vision is far-reaching, Lao Tzu becomes understandable. But our eyes are very weak; they see only what is near, not what is far. In life each one should discover for himself: whatever seems to win in the very first instant — beware of it. It means that in the long run it will prove to be loss. And whatever does not seem to win at the outset — about that, reflect again and again. In the long run its victory is assured. Because we cannot see, the other, the ultimate shore, is not visible to us — thus we fall into the error of the first.
Understand it this way. I have said again and again: where the first taste is pleasure, at the end sorrow is found. Where from the first you feel pleasure, there become a little alert; sorrow is hiding behind. And where at first it seems painful, do not hurry to escape from there, because there may be the possibility of joy. The entire meaning of Tapascharya is only this: to accept pain too, because behind it joy may be possible. The whole meaning of Tyaga is only this: to reject that pleasure behind which endless sorrow is hidden.
But those whose eyes are weak and who see only a single step will always live in delusion. They will clutch at that pleasure which is only an invitation to sorrow. They will abandon and run away from that pain in which the treasure of joy was hidden. They will agree to that victory which is momentary, and then they will experience defeat forever. And they will flee from that defeat behind which the path of the journey to victory had begun.
Life is not so simple; life is complex. And as Lao Tzu states among the foundational pillars of his vision: everything is linked with its opposite. Where there is pleasure at the beginning, at the end there will be pain. And the beginning vanishes in a moment; the end is very long. Where there is victory at the start, at the end there will be defeat. Hitler, Alexander, Tamerlane, Genghis — all are in that illusion, the illusion of power! Lao Tzu, Buddha, and Jesus have gone beyond that illusion. They caught hold of the profound key which sees power in peace, not in power itself. They learned the art of being vulnerable. They did not wish to fight the storm like a strong tree; they bent like tender grass. And in that bending they defeated the storm.
These sutras appear upside down, yet it is necessary to make them sutras. The one who fights will lose; and the one who is willing to lose — there is no way to defeat him. The one who stiffens will break; the one who yields with ease — no one can break him. But our entire education, society, culture teaches us to stiffen. The result is that we are all broken; we are like ruins. We are only skeletons — defeated, tired, shattered. Every man’s life is a sad tale. And if you ask anyone at the end, he will say: I am just tired, I am broken, I have gained nothing. Yet no one asks where the error occurred.
The error occurred where we taught winning; taught fighting; gave the concept of power. We worship power. We have set up idols of power; we are devotees of power. Our worship everywhere is of power. Wherever power is, our head bows — because that is our aspiration. And even after so much worship of power, where do we reach? No victory. Lao Tzu is giving the sutra of victory.
‘The softest thing in the world passes through the hardest. And the formless enters that which has no cracks. By this I know the advantage of non-action. Instruction without words and the benefit of non-action — in this whole universe they are without compare.’
There is one kind of instruction that can be given through words. But whatever can be given through words is not very valuable. Its highest value can only be that it points, indicates, to take you into the wordless; points to falling silent. This is a strange paradox. The only value of words is that they lead you into wordlessness; the only significance of speech is that it persuades you toward silence. Beyond this, words have no value. But if words seize you and do not take you into the wordless — if you become hypnotized by speech, if scriptures sit on your head, if they do not open the way to the thought-free and the silent — then the word proves your enemy. Very few in this world can make words their friends. For the many, words prove to be enemies, and ashes alone remain in their hands.
I have heard: in his old age Mulla Nasruddin was made the village J.P., Justice of the Peace — a judge. One day a case came before his court. A woodcutter — who daily cut wood in the forest and sold it in the village — came and said, I am in trouble.
Along with him stood another man who looked strong and rather ferocious. The woodcutter said, yesterday I spent the whole day cutting wood in the forest. And this man simply sat on a rock near where I was cutting. Each time my axe struck the tree, he shouted loudly, “Hoo!” as one striking would do. And now he says half the price is his, because he did half the work. The woodcutter said, it is true he sat there all day; every time I brought the axe down, he shouted “Hoo!”
Nasruddin asked, where is the money you got from selling the wood? The woodcutter handed the coins to Nasruddin. He dropped each coin hard on the floor — a ringing clang, again a clang — and returning them one by one to the woodcutter he said to the other, your reward has been given; you made the “Hoo,” you have heard the “clang.” The property has been divided half and half.
Those who take scriptures as all-in-all will, in the end, get nothing more than the sound of words. And from the sound of money no money is obtained. From the sound of truth, truth is not obtained.
Instruction can be given through words, but it is never given for the sake of words; it is given for the sake of the wordless. Because we do not understand the wordless, and to understand silence is very difficult, words must be used. But Lao Tzu says: there is also instruction that is given in silence — and that alone transforms the heart. Only, one must understand the language of silence; then it can be given.
As there are languages of words — now I am speaking Hindi; only if you understand Hindi will you comprehend what I say. If I speak Chinese and you do not understand, the matter is finished. Just as there are languages of words, so too the language of silence must be learned. The language of silence is the supreme language. Until we learn that language, that communion, no Lao Tzu, no Buddha, no Jesus — even if they wish to give a message — can give it in silence. Hence Lao Tzu, too, had to speak. But he is unhappy.
All the knowers are unhappy because they must speak. For they know perfectly well that what they say will not resolve anything. And there is the fear that what they say may even become an enemy for people. There are many dangers. Words can become entertainment, and then listening to words can become an intoxication, an addiction. Words can become stupefaction. Words can create a kind of fanaticism. Words can give the illusion of knowledge. Words are dangerous. Without knowing, it can seem that you know. Even if the head is stuffed with words, your heart remains empty. If anyone mistakes this stuffedness for the fullness of his Atman, the wandering has begun.
Thus the knowers have always feared speaking. They had to speak — because of you. For it can be said without speaking, but then you must be ready. The space of no-speaking must arise within you; silence must grow within you; then the master can speak even through silence. And what is spoken through silence reaches the very life of your life. Words can strike the ears, can vibrate the nerves of the brain, but the veena of life remains untouched. The veena of life is touched only by silence. All that is worth saying can only be said through silence.
Why this insistence on silence? Lao Tzu’s insistence is always this: the subtle alone is powerful. Words are gross, not subtle; silence is subtle. And you are in that profound subtlety — your being, your Atman — where no gross thing can reach. There is not even a door to reach that Atman. If there were a door, the gross could reach. There is no crack there at all. In your being there is not even a fissure.
In the West there was a great thinker, Leibniz. He gave a concept worth understanding. Leibniz says: every person is a doorless, closed monad. Monad is his word — a unit without window or door, utterly enclosed. No entry is possible in this closed monad. One may move around you, but cannot enter within. You too can move around others, but cannot enter within.
There is some truth in his statement. You are a monad, a closed unit into which no approach is possible. All approaches grope at the outside and end.
But Lao Tzu says: even where there is no crack, entry is possible. Only, in an existence without cracks, gross means will not work. Words cannot reach there. However I call out, my call will not reach you. All calling will fall outside you. But if I call out in emptiness, if I call in silence — no words, only the call of my life — then entry into you becomes possible.
We are familiar with the world; there too, if we look, the subtle enters. The more gross a thing, the harder it is to penetrate something else. In the inner world of man it is the same. If we do something, it does not reach within.
If a Buddha-like being can enter into others, it is not because he does something. Buddha sits in silence — simply is. In that state, if you are receptive, willing, accepting, full of trust, and there is no bustle of mind within you, Buddha will enter into you. In this entering, he will do nothing; no act will happen. He will have nothing to do. For doing cannot go very deep. He will remain in a state of non-doing. If you also fall silent and come into non-doing, then these two beings commune. Doing is all on the surface. The innermost being is akriya — inactivity.
We say the master enters the disciple. The language is at fault, for we must say something — “enters.” It seems as if something must be done. It would be more correct to say: whenever someone is willing for discipleship, the master flows into him; he does not do. He flows naturally; in that flowing there is no action anywhere. And the less doing there is, the deeper it goes. If there is absolutely no doing, even the final innermost edge is touched.
‘The softest thing in the world passes through the hardest.’
And what is the softest in the world? In your experience, what is softest? That softest element alone must be nourished. There is no other sadhana. Leave the hard, for it is gross. Anger is not bad in itself; it is hard, hence gross. Hatred is not bad in itself, but it is gross, hard. Jealousy is not bad in itself, but hard. Greed, lust — hard. Whatever is hard deprives you; you go on wandering on the surface. So whatever is soft in your life, protect it, nourish it, help it grow.
Remember, there is a law of energy: you have a certain measure of energy. You can turn it into hardness or into softness. The measure is the same. The energy that becomes anger can become love. But love is energy’s soft form, and anger is energy’s hard form.
Understand it this way: as I said, there is water. Water is soft. But if it freezes, it becomes ice — very hard, like stone. If we turn water into steam, it becomes even subtler, softer. Water has a little resistance, steam has even less. So water has three states. The energy is one, the substance is one, but three conditions. One can be hard as stone; then it becomes liquid, can flow — water — soft. And there is another happening: it becomes vapor. When water is vaporized, a revolutionary event happens. The nature of water is to flow downward; the nature of steam is to rise upward. The subtler it becomes, the more it begins to ascend. To rise in height, one must be subtle; so subtle that all else is heavy and you are less heavy than all — only then can you rise.
Understand a little. If your weight is heavy, reaching the Supreme is impossible. Weightlessness is necessary for ascension. Water too has weight. Water flows and seems not to fight, yet it does. Otherwise it would not break the rock. Steam does not fight at all; its struggle has disappeared. There is no resistance in it. It silently dissolves into the sky and rises.
As physics says every substance has three states, so every mental-emotional impulse has three states. Anger is the frozen state. Hatred is a congealed rock. If we melt anger, it becomes like water. What we call love in this world is the melted form of anger. The energy is the same. And if this love is vaporized, it becomes prayer; then it begins to rise to the sky. And among these three there are not three different things — it is one.
If you are hard, you will remain like stone. If you are a little liquid, flowing, soft — you will be like water. And if you become utterly subtle and have dropped all hardness, all resistance — become like emptiness — you will vaporize, you will begin to rise into the sky. Each person must constantly examine within: how is he using his energy? Remember, you have a fixed measure of energy; if you make it wholly anger, it becomes wholly anger; if wholly love, wholly love; if you wish, wholly prayer, wholly prayer. The softest element in the world is prayer.
But very few are familiar with prayer — not even those who pray in temples and churches. For prayer is not something to do. If you are doing, it is still gross. Prayer is a mood of consciousness. One can be prayerful; there is nothing like doing prayer. Doing is a ritual, a children’s game. Being is a revolution. You can be prayerful. Then your rising, your sitting, your very breath, all will be prayerful. Then whatever you do will be prayer. There will be no separate doing called prayer. We do it separately because we know nothing of prayer. Among all our doings we have added prayer too. That also is a job. As you go to the office, eat, do business, so you also pray. But prayer has no connection with doing. You can be prayerful. Then while walking along the road you will be prayerful. But even acquaintance with prayer is far away. Sometimes a devotee, a Meera, a Rabia — they can pray. Of this soft element we have no idea.
The state below it is love. Even that we hardly know. Love is the middle state, like water. And remember, ice cannot become steam directly. There is no way. Before becoming steam, ice must first become water — even if for a moment. No leap is possible. It must become water first; only as water is the path to vapor.
Wherever you are, first you must flow toward love. In ordinary life love is the softest element; in extraordinary life prayer is the softest element. In the common man’s experience, sometimes a gust of love comes — then within, everything becomes soft. That gust can come in friendship, in wife, in husband, in the child, by seeing a flower — a gust in which for a moment you melt, you flow. But perhaps only for a moment. Then your old hardness and old habits seize you again.
You see a beautiful flower; for a moment your heart melts — and immediately you pluck the flower. If truly love had arisen toward the flower, plucking would have become impossible. You could not even think of plucking. Love cannot even think of plucking. But the flower appears, a little breeze of feeling passes, and before you are conscious that something has melted within, you have plucked the flower and become hard again. Love arises toward someone and even before the gust can arrive you begin to become the owner. In plucking the flower you are doing the same — possessing. The flower was dancing in the open sky, in the winds; you could not tolerate it. Until it was in your fist you felt no peace. And in your fist the flower will die — it dies the moment it comes to the fist. No flower remains alive in a fist.
If you love someone, immediately you try to be the owner. The first idea that arises is how to be the master, how to take possession. The moment the idea of possession comes, that breeze that could have melted you is lost. You become hard again. The moment love wants to become a husband, love is lost. The moment love wants to become a wife, love is lost.
A small child is born in your home — he can melt you. Children are unique. In all the evolution of the human world, nothing is more soft than a child. And the human child is the most helpless and the most soft. The young of animals are not so helpless; even if parents are not there, they can survive. The human child cannot survive. Animal young, once born, in one sense begin to function; no schooling is needed. They will find their food, begin to protect their life. Hence animals could not form families — they had no need. The human child is the most soft and helpless on earth. It is inconceivable a child could be born and survive on his own. There is no way.
Thus a child brings an opportunity to the family that you may all melt. But we become owners of the child — we become father, mother. That unique event in the house, around which the whole family could have melted and flowed and become like water, we miss. Ownership of the child begins. We begin to mold the child. It would have been better if the child had melted us, rather than our molding him. And we not take the child as ours. He is not ours. We are only instruments. Through us existence has stretched out one more hand. Through our excuse, our mediation, one more blossom of life has opened. We are only the means, nothing more. But in being a means, we feel no joy. Instantly we become owners — my son! And in this insistence on “mine” the son dies. Then we carry a corpse.
Wherever a slight glimpse of love comes, our old hardness grips it. One must be alert to this. Whenever a glimpse of love arises, stop the old habit; pause a little before plucking the flower; pause a little before becoming the owner; restrain yourself a little from becoming father or mother; simply let love flow — without any condition, without any demand for reciprocation — just let love flow. Perhaps then, for the first time, you will taste what love is, and why it is so soft.
And only if you become love can you become prayer. Without becoming love no one can become prayer in this world. And as yet you have not even become love. What we call love is often deception. It is something else. It may be lust; it may be the loneliness of life; it may be the desire for companionship; it may be greed; it may be fear. Who knows how many things may be hiding behind our love.
Inspect your love a little — what hides in it? There is fear of being alone; so you love someone so that there is a companion. There is bodily lust — the body constantly generates sexual energy; it wants discharge. So you find a woman or a man for discharge. That is a bodily need. We take a little care of whoever fulfills our needs. This we call love. Naturally, whomever we depend upon for our needs, we become dependent on; without them our need is not met. This dependence we call love. There is sickness, old age, moments of distress — someone is needed to tend, to care, to protect.
People remain unmarried, but around forty, forty-five, anxiety begins to grip them. The nearer old age comes, the more they feel: youth can somehow pass without marriage, but old age will be very lonely. Then some companion is needed, otherwise one will be utterly alone, completely cut off. The world goes its way; the children will take over, the new young will take over; the song and color will be theirs. The old man will be cut off and alone. The fear of loneliness takes people into marriage. People do not marry out of love; they cannot remain alone. And then all this is called love. They remain stone, frozen, hard. Only a little wrapping of love over the hardness; a little acting; a little skill in the techniques of love.
Look at people! The father says to the son, I love you — and for twenty-four hours he appears hard. The husband says to the wife I love you, but there is no trace of that love. And if we have no experience of love, prayer will never be experienced. Before you meet the Divine in any temple, your home must at least become a temple of love. And until the home becomes a temple of love, no temple can become a temple of prayer.
‘The softest thing in the world passes through the hardest.’
If love happens to you, do not fear that you will become soft, defeated, a loser. At the beginning it will look so. Perhaps this is why we have become so hard, why we fear love. It will surprise you to know most people are afraid of love. Because as soon as they enter love’s world, they must melt. And their hardness, their stiffness, their ego, their concept of power — all breaks; the image, the entire statue, falls.
People are frightened of love. Therefore they only play on the surface. They are afraid to go into deep waters. Ask yourself if in life you have not been afraid of love. And whenever you have loved, did you secure yourself or not? You go only so far as it is easy to return. You fear going so deep that returning becomes difficult. Love means going where returning is impossible — you are lost. In my experience, hundreds of people carry a single pain: they could not love anyone. No one else is responsible; they themselves are. There are reasons they could not love. The greatest reason is this: in love you must bow. And to bow feels shameful. There is taste in making others bow. We want to make someone bow, not to bow ourselves. And even if we make someone bow, only enmity is born, not love. Because the one we forced to bow also wanted to make us bow. No one is willing to bow. This stiffness of ours is the cancer of our life — a great disease. Because of it no one descends into love.
And when one does not descend into love, prayer becomes impossible. And I see that those who cannot descend into love are often found in temples. Because they could not bow before a living person, they think, at least we can bow before God. But you have no experience of bowing. Before a stone idol there is not much difficulty, because there is no other there. And in the temple you are alone. But if that idol were alive, bowing would be difficult. If while you were bowing you saw the idol’s eyes watching you, you would stand up straight again; you would not be able to bow fully. There must be no one there. That is why man has raised stone gods. It is part of man’s cleverness; his cunning.
Bowing is a sweet experience. If we cannot bow anywhere, we go and play a solitary game — we bow before a stone idol. Even in that false bowing, a little taste does come; even in that false bowing some taste comes. If you go to a temple and prostrate full-length on the floor, it will feel good; even in false bowing it will feel good — because bowing is such a great event. If in the same way you were to bow before a living human being, that is love. And the one who passes through love alone can arrive at prayer. Otherwise his prayer will be false. My condition for prayer is precisely this: prayer can be true only when before it there has been a real experience of love. Prayer is not a substitute. It is not a compensatory fulfillment for your failure to love human beings. The egoist does not want to love a human being; he wants to love God. With God there are many conveniences. It is one-way traffic — nothing comes from the other side. You speak, you answer. You are in your own delight. The other creates no hindrance. There is no other there. Then you choose your God; your God is your own. The Hindu has his own, the Muslim his own, the Jain his own. It is your own choice. Ask a Hindu to bow in a mosque — bowing becomes difficult. He can bow before his own God, whom he has himself constructed, who is the extension of his own ego — but not in a mosque. A Muslim cannot bow in a temple.
So, the God whom you have constructed and created through your own notions, who is only the expansion of your ego — what does it mean to bow before him? It is like seeing your reflection in a mirror and bowing to it — nothing more. It is the roundabout worship of ego — self-worship. In temples people bow before themselves. Bowing before a living person is painful. The ego breaks; you become humble. So people avoid love and move toward prayer.
But I tell you, the one who avoids love can never move toward prayer. From where you are, try to catch hold of the thread of love, so that someday the thread of prayer may also come within your grasp. Right now you are frozen ice; become water, so that one day you may become steam. And the art that turns ice into water — a qualitative expansion of that very art, and a quantitative deepening — turns water into steam. Ice becomes water by drinking heat; and water will become steam by drinking heat. The key is one: drink in warmth. The more warmth you imbibe, the nearer you come to vaporizing.
From ego to love, and from love to prayer. From “I” to “Thou,” and from “Thou” to “That.” These are the three steps. And the day it dawns on you that the subtlety of love penetrates the hardest and transforms it — on that day you will understand love’s strange sutras. Love says: if you must win, do not try to win. If you must win, losing is the key; lose, and victory is assured.
‘The softest thing in the world passes through the hardest. And the formless enters that which has no cracks.’
By the subtle is meant the formless. Ice has a form, a fixed form, a shape. Water has a form, but not fixed; a shape, but fluid. Water does not insist, “This is my shape.” Whatever vessel you pour it into, it takes that shape. Ice is insistent; it has its own shape, a fixed outline. To break it is pain; to change it is suffering. It will resist change, transformation. But water is ready for change. You cannot destroy it by changing it; it has no shape of its own. It is a fluid form. And steam is formless — even less form than water. And the nearer you come to the formless, the more you enter the vast.
‘The formless enters that which has no cracks. By this I know what the benefit of non-action is.’
This capacity of the formless, this strength of the subtle, this power of the weak — Lao Tzu says, on this basis I know the benefit of non-action, of inaction.
We are familiar with action. We know the benefits of doing. We are afraid of sitting idle; we teach “don’t sit idle.” If someone sits idle, we say: you are wasting time — do something. We have coined proverbs: “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.” Such sayings were made by those mad after activity, who keep saying, whatever will happen will happen through doing — do! keep doing! Anything is better than doing nothing; to sit idle is to waste time.
The West is badly afflicted by this madness. The West is the worshipper of activity. So, if one can do more than one thing at a time, all the better.
I was looking at a painter’s picture — Lao Tzu would have laughed much. The picture is of a woman who is listening to the radio; with her hands she is knitting a sweater; and with one foot she is rocking the baby’s cradle. Activity! She is making the utmost use of time. Listening to the radio; knitting; rocking the baby with her foot. But try to understand her inner state. Her heart cannot be very loving toward the child. It is a task, and the foot is doing it mechanically. Because her ear and mind are engaged with the radio. She must be knitting a sweater for her husband — that too cannot be very loving. The hands are knitting mechanically, like a machine. Love is not woven into this sweater. It will be made, because the hands are skillful; they know how. But the heart has not touched it anywhere. And this woman’s personality is divided, what psychologists call schizophrenic — fragmented. She is not whole. What she is hearing, she is not hearing wholly; what she is doing, she is not doing wholly; how she is rocking the child, she is not rocking wholly. Everything is half-done. Inside there will be restlessness; there cannot be peace. Peace exists only in those who are whole.
Lao Tzu would laugh at this picture. But when you see it, you too will want to do the same. You will think: what a saving of time, what proper use of time — threefold efficiency! If these three tasks are done separately they will take three hours; here, in one hour three tasks are being done. And our entire effort is just this — to do as much as possible in as little time as possible. Without ever asking what the value of that “more” is, what its fruit is, its final outcome. Man does a lot — and is destroyed in doing.
In the West this has reached the final point, the point of derangement. People are running; twenty-four hours they run. Where they are going is not very clear; that they are going fast is certain. If someone’s car must stop for two minutes on the road, he starts blowing the horn. He never thinks: those two minutes he is saving — for what? Back home he sits and wonders: now what shall I do? On the road he seemed in such a hurry as though he must reach somewhere definite; at home he says: now what shall I do? Then he thinks: shall I go to the club, play cards, drink — how to kill time? And this same man who goes mad if delayed by a minute on the road, as if in emergency, is now seeking ways to kill time at home.
It is not clear what he is doing or why he is doing it. The joy of traveling the road is missed because he is in a hurry. The joy of being at home is missed because he does not know what to do and seeks anything whatsoever.
So much prestige to doing means only one thing: in our lives, being has no value. We have no value; only what we can do has value. If you can build a big house, people will respect you — you they do not respect. If you can earn millions, people will respect you — you they do not respect. You never ask: do they respect me? No one respects you; what you have done is respected. If someone else had done the same, he would be respected.
We see a man who is president; while he is president, the whole nation respects him. The day he is no longer president, no one cares; his words do not appear in the newspapers. It is as if he does not exist. Two days ago each of his statements had value — two days later? The value should have increased — now he is even more experienced by two days. But his words have no value. Yet it never occurs even to that man that the prestige belonged to the post, the chair — not to me. He too thinks the prestige was his.
Wherever you are, whatever respect people give you — do they give it to you or to what you do? If they give it to what you do, you are wasting your life. There must be some quality in your being — that your very being becomes valuable.
Lao Tzu says: until value arises in being itself, life is lost.
This value of being will not arise from your doing; it will arise from non-doing. Understand this a little, for all of the East’s search is the search of non-doing. All of the West’s search is the search of doing. Thus, how to make man more efficient in doing; how devices can do the work; let machines do everything so it can be done more efficiently. The West gave birth to science and technology, because doing is valuable. The East gave birth to meditation, because meditation is a state utterly without doing — there is no doing at all. Meditation means there are moments when you are not doing anything; you are simply being, tasting the nectar of being, sinking into being, floating in being, blossoming in being — simply being. This non-doing state, this inactivity, this akarma — only in this will you come to know your Atman.
Lao Tzu says: you may gain the world by doing, but you will not find yourself; only by not-doing can one find oneself. Meditation is non-action. We are so absorbed in doing that if we sit idly, we cannot sit; we need something. People come and ask. I say to them: meditation means sit quietly for a while; do nothing. They say: at least tell us something! How can we do “not doing”? Give some mantra, give the name of Rama — give something! Some support, some handle, something to do. They miss the point. And thus there will always be teachers who say: repeat this mantra, repeat the name of Rama; this is a seed-mantra, repeat it.
In the West, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s idea found currency. The only reason is: the West is obsessed with action; something to do is needed. Even if meditation, something to do is demanded. So the Maharishi gives a mantra — sit and chant. The Westerner understands: if there is something to do, it makes sense. Non-doing makes no sense to him.
The East too is becoming Westernized; there too no one understands non-doing. People ask: what was Buddha doing under the Bodhi tree? He was doing nothing. If he had been doing, he would have remained like you. Buddha was sitting empty. But to us it seems if he was sitting empty, he was wasting time. What is the use? What is the benefit?
Because he was sitting empty, he became a Buddha. In Japan an entire stream of meditation is only sitting empty. They call it zazen — just sitting. They say: if even this much happens in life, everything has happened. It is not an easy thing. It takes at least twenty years. The Zen seeker sits six hours a day. The master’s sole injunction is: do nothing, just sit.
Old habits insist; the mind wants to do something. Thoughts move; feelings arise; if nothing else, a tingling begins in the leg, an ant seems to be crawling. Normally it never comes, and no ant is there. An itch arises somewhere; tension feels somewhere in the neck. This all is because the mind says: do something — scratch. It is looking for a way to engage you. It says: you are tired, you are becoming miserable; this won’t do — do something. A cough begins; something happens. You think: what can I do? This is happening naturally.
It is not natural. Because I see you can sit for two hours and listen to me; no cough comes. If I ask you to sit silently for five minutes, suddenly you are plagued by coughing. You sat two hours; but then you were doing something — listening. You were not “just sitting.” There was a task. The body was engaged. The mind was occupied, busy; then there was no obstacle. If I say: sit silently — all obstacles begin. Twenty-five kinds of ailments suddenly seem to arise.
The Zen seeker sits twenty years, just sits. It is both the hardest and the simplest of practices. The master says nothing more than: sit. He says: just keep sitting. Drop the old habit of doing; four hours, six hours, eight, ten — whenever there is an opportunity, just sit. Keep only one thing in mind: loosen that old grip of the mind that says, “Do something.” One day comes when the grip is gone. You are doing nothing — just being. In that being alone Samadhi flowers. That is what Buddha is doing. And the day you too do it, on that day there will not remain a hair’s-breadth difference between you and a Buddha.
Lao Tzu says, ‘I know what the benefit of non-action is.’
The benefit is self-realization, the benefit is freedom, the benefit is self-knowledge. Begin to move a little in this direction. Take out one hour; do not even meditate in that hour — in that hour simply be. Sit as if the world is lost. The telephone rings — keep listening, as if it rings in someone else’s house. Someone knocks at the door — keep listening; you are not there, who will open? The wife says: get up, do something. Keep watching, as if she is speaking to someone else. For one hour, become inactive. And whatever is worth obtaining in this world will be yours.
Many obstacles will come. The mind will find many excuses. It will persuade you: what are you doing? You could have gone to the office in this hour, or the shop; you might have made a thousand’s deal; a lakh could have been earned. At least you could have read the newspaper, listened to the radio, gossiped with a friend. In an hour, who knows how many things could be done. Why waste time? Life is short. Do not squander time in vain.
These wise men have said very “intelligent” things: time is money — save it. Convert time as quickly as possible into money; the more you can convert your time into money, the more successful you are. Turn all the time you have into rupees and deposit in the bank. “Time is money.” At death the Paramatman will ask you one question: did you turn your time into money or not?
When for one hour you sit empty, there will be a great restlessness; many obstacles will come. The body will find a thousand excuses, the mind will find them: do something! But keep listening to all and say: for one hour, nothing is to be done. In a few days you will find a new kind of peace descending into your every pore; a new door begins to open; a new sky from which the clouds have dispersed.
And as this peace deepens you will understand the benefit of non-action. Then you will know there is something that can be obtained by doing, and something that can be obtained only by not doing. Whatever is obtained by doing will be of the world and will be taken away from you. Whatever is obtained by not doing does not belong to the world — and no one can take it away. Whatever is obtained by doing, death will destroy. Whatever is obtained by not doing transcends death.
Put it this way: only the done dies; what is known in non-doing has no death. The experience of the Self is the experience of the deathless, because it is available in non-doing.
‘By this I know the advantage of non-action. Instruction without words, and the benefit of non-action, are without compare in the universe.’
Instruction without words is certainly incomparable. It is a very subtle occurrence — and it can happen only when two peaks are present. First, there must be one who has become adept in the art of non-action, who has realized. Such a one we call guru — one who has known that which is known without doing; the summit of his life has been formed. But this alone is not enough. This peak can commune only with one who is willing to become empty, who can be silent — even if only for a moment. Then his emptiness will pierce into that one like an arrow.
In the Upanishadic days, all sadhana was this: people would go and sit near the master. Upanishad means: to sit near the master. The very word means: to be near the master, to be at the master’s feet. Do any small piece of work the master says, and then sit near him. It is a matter of being near. Because in some moment, while sitting, the disciple will become quiet. In that quiet moment the master will speak.
People say: the master whispers the mantra into the ear. But man is mad; even deep symbols he makes trivial. They understood it to mean the master puts his mouth to your ear and gives a mantra. Thus there are masters who blow into the ear and give a mantra.
Giving the mantra in the ear meant: given without speaking. If it is to be spoken, what does it matter how far from the ear — one foot, five inches, or lips upon the ear? If spoken, it has no value. Giving in the ear is only an esoteric symbol: it means that it is given without speech. Straight into the ear — no word put in. The lips are not used. Only the receptacle is used — the ear, the listener; the speaker has said nothing. Only the listener has heard; the speaker remained silent. In that silence there is communion; in that silence there is transmission of insight.
Instruction without words is certainly incomparable, because it rarely happens — once in thousands of years. There are many masters, many disciples, but once in ages it happens — hence Lao Tzu says “incomparable.” It is hard to find a parallel.
Buddha had thousands of disciples. But what he gave, he gave through words. And what they heard, they heard through words. Only one disciple there was — Mahakashyapa — to whom Buddha said, I will tell you that which cannot be said. One morning Buddha came holding a lotus flower. He sat. People waited — their impatience grew — they wanted him to speak. They had come to hear, not to drink Buddha’s presence. They were not empty vessels; their minds were full of words. They were restless. And it had never happened before: Buddha would come, sit, and begin to speak. That day he was silent — and he kept looking at the flower. Buddha looked at the flower, the disciples looked at Buddha — and all grew restless. Soon the calm became disturbed, and people began to whisper: what is the matter? Finally one disciple stood up and asked: what is it today? It has been long; we are eager to hear. Then Buddha lifted his eyes, raised the flower in his hand and said: what do you think I have been doing so long? I have been speaking!
Now it became even more difficult for the disciples — they had been sitting in silence, and he says, all this while I have been speaking; and if you do not hear, whose fault is it?
Then Mahakashyapa, who sat far away and had never spoken before, for the first time was noticed by the sangha — because he burst into laughter. Buddha called him: Mahakashyapa, come here — take this flower. What can be given through words I have given to all; what can be given only through silence, I give to you.
Then a great search continued through the centuries. Because a burden fell upon Mahakashyapa — that before he died he must find at least one person to whom he could give what Buddha gave him; otherwise the treasure, the heritage, would be lost. This continued for six generations after Mahakashyapa. The sixth receiver was Bodhidharma. He searched and searched, then went to China — only because in India he found no one ready to receive in silence. In China he sought for nine years; then he found one man to whom he could give what Buddha had given to Mahakashyapa in silence. That process still continues. Zen monks call it: transmission without words and without scriptures. Seldom it happens — because for it to happen two peaks must meet: one who has and is ready to pour; one who is ready to receive and to be silent. One brimming vessel, and one utterly empty. And the empty one should be simply empty — not even eager to receive; just empty — then the event happens.
Lao Tzu says, ‘Instruction without words and the benefit of taking no action are without compare in the universe.’
These two are incomparable: communion without words, and the benefit of non-action. The benefit of non-action is the supreme benefit. But whatever I say — what can its value be? You heard Lao Tzu; I spoke — you heard. What value can that have? For you, non-action will remain a word, and you will become familiar with the doctrine. It must in some way become an experience, become blood, bone, flesh, marrow — it must soak into you.
Take out one hour from the twenty-four — contrary to all the “wise” who say, use time, do something, do not sit idle — and for one hour let yourself be drowned utterly in non-activity.
In the West there was a great thinker, Aldous Huxley, who died a few years ago. For years he experimented with this — non-action. His wife, Laura Huxley, has written her reminiscences. She writes that an unprecedented event used to happen: regularly for one hour, and whenever there was a chance two or three times, Huxley would become inactive. He would sit in his chair, place his hands in his lap, his head would bend, his beard would touch his chest, and he would become empty. Laura Huxley writes: whenever he became empty, the entire atmosphere of the house changed. A completely unfamiliar fragrance, an unfamiliar silence and peace would envelop the house.
Sometimes it would happen that his wife had gone out and he did not know. Huxley was alone at home; he would sit in his chair, become empty — he was a devotee of Lao Tzu. The wife knew nothing. She would phone. Huxley would get up, take the phone, receive the message, note it down on paper, then go back and sit. When the wife returned and asked: I phoned — did it disturb you? Huxley would say: what phone? Then, when they looked, there on the table lay the note in his handwriting. This happened many times; then Laura understood: in those moments when he becomes so empty, whatever he does emerges out of emptiness, and no memory is formed of it.
When you are so inactive that there is no thought anywhere, no ripple anywhere — even if you do something, it is as if Existence has done it through you. It is not your personal act; no memory is formed of it. It is a delightful observation: memories are quickly formed where the ego is hurt.
You will be surprised to know: if ever in your life there has been any event that wounded your ego, you never forget it — however petty. Fifty years ago you were a small child walking on the road; someone looked at you and laughed — you still remember. Everything else is forgotten. Thousands of events happened and were forgotten. But the teacher once made you stand in class and said before all the boys, “Look — an utter donkey!” — you still remember. Even now if you close your eyes, you can see yourself standing in the class, all the boys’ eyes upon you. The wound to your ego — a deep memory. If the ego is absolutely quiet, an event can happen and no memory forms — like a line drawn on water, as it is drawn it disappears.
Those who master non-action are not bound by karma even while doing, because no imprint of action is made. Thus Krishna in the Gita lays great emphasis on akarma: even while acting, freedom from the doer — then it is non-action; even while not doing, passing through an act — yet no memory forms.
Huxley was among the rare experimenters. And nothing is difficult; you too can do it. Take one hour out of the twenty-four and drown yourself in that incomparable happening — do nothing. No mantra, no remembrance, no name of God, no chanting — nothing. The mind will keep doing something; you silently watch it — it is an old habit; let it rattle on. Watch it with indifference, dispassion, aloofness, neutrality. In a little while, when you take no interest, it will begin to quieten; in a few days it will become quiet. And if even once you receive a glimpse of what happens in being empty, in being inactive — then in this life no attachment will be able to bind you, no delusion to ensnare you, no greed to attract you, no lust to pull you. The one who attains non-action attains that great power upon which no impression is imprinted.
Enough for today.