Tao Upanishad #81

Before entering Lao Tzu’s sutra, a few things about love must be understood. First: in anyone who becomes capable of loving, the urge to possess, to hoard, to gather things, begins to drop of its own accord. Possessiveness is love’s substitute; the less love in life, the more the tendency to possess. The causes go deep.
Possession is a device for feeling safe. Money at hand, a house at hand, position and prestige at hand—one feels secured. No fear of tomorrow. If a calamity comes, wealth will protect. He who is afraid of tomorrow will rely on money. But worry about tomorrow arises only in the life where love is absent. For one whose life has love, today is enough; for him tomorrow simply is not.
Concern for the future arises because the present is painful. If I am unhappy today, thoughts of tomorrow seize the mind. If I am happy today, tomorrow is forgotten. In moments of bliss there is no future, and there is no past. When you are in joy, time dissolves. The denser the happiness, the thinner time becomes; the denser the sorrow, the larger time grows. Hence a single moment of suffering is hard to pass; it seems very long. When a dear one dies at home, even the night refuses to end. And when a moment of delight arrives, it passes as if it never came.
All heavens will be momentary, and all hells will be endless—not because hell is truly endless, but because suffering stretches time. Time is not tied to the clock; time is tied to our mind. When you are unhappy, life seems not to move; when you are happy, it seems to rush with intensity. In happiness you hardly notice where the moments flew, and in sorrow you do not know how the moments will ever be cut through.
The one who is unhappy today thinks of tomorrow. The unhappy man lives on the crutch of the future. Today is not worth living, but there is hope that today will pass and tomorrow all will be well. But tomorrow will be well only if I make arrangements today. So I must clutch at money, build a house, gather friends and relatives—collect something that will serve me tomorrow.
And it is only the person whose life is without love who will be unhappy today. Where there is love, there is happiness; and where there is happiness, the future vanishes. Therefore the lover has no concern for tomorrow; today is enough. A single moment is infinite, sufficient. Even if there were to be no second moment, there is no demand. One moment grants contentment enough. And from this contented moment, tomorrow will arise—so no fear, no insecurity grips the mind. The love that gave contentment today will give contentment tomorrow. The fragrance that came today from love will come tomorrow too. The flowers that blossomed in love today will blossom larger tomorrow. Whose today is blessed—tomorrow will flow from the very stream of this bliss.
So the more there is love in life, the less the worry about the future. When anxiety about the future lessens, the madness to possess, to collect, to pile up objects begins to fall away. All the misers are simply trying to fill the lack of love in their lives by miserliness. Where there is no love, we fill the pit with gold. It never fills—because gold is dead; however valuable, it is not alive. Love is a living experience.
Psychologists say: the children who receive love in childhood do not eat much. Their mothers will be worried to feed them; the mother will be anxious to overfeed, but the child will eat little—as if his belly is full of love. Children who are not loved eat more than needed; the hollow within them left by love must be filled somehow. And then there is no trust in tomorrow. If the small child has received the mother’s love, he knows: the mother who held me today will hold me tomorrow too.
But the child without love is afraid: I get bread today, but who knows about tomorrow—will it come or not? He will eat more. People fill the shortage of love with food. Psychologists say: when love is less in life we collect outside; inside the body too we collect—flesh, marrow, and fat. That too is miserliness. That too is fear—the future is uncertain.
Understand clearly: this filling of love’s lack with things of any kind. What Jean Piaget, Anna Freud, and other psychologists who have worked with children have discovered—Lao Tzu said the same thing in sutra thousands of years ago. Lao Tzu’s vision is very deep; it touches and holds the last layer of the mind. And his analysis is unerring.
The miser’s trouble is not stinginess. The miser’s trouble is lack of love in his life. And the person who has love—second thing, mark it—he cannot be a miser; he can be extravagant. He will pour out; he cannot accumulate. The more love there is within, the more arises the urge to share. Understand this a little.
When you are in sorrow you want to shrink, to hide in a dark corner. Meet no one, mingle with no one, let no one see you. The unhappy man contracts. Sorrow brings inhibition; and if sorrow becomes too much you want to die, to commit suicide. Suicide means: you wish to contract in such a way that there remains no possibility of meeting the other again. When you are happy you want to meet people. In joy you want to share with friends and loved ones, to make someone a participant; the urge to share arises. Happiness wants to be divided. Sorrow shrinks; joy expands.
Hence the supreme state of bliss we have called in this land Brahman. Brahman means: that which goes on expanding, whose expansion knows no end. Brahman means the infinitely expansive, endlessly spreading. This word is precious. It means that where no contraction ever happens, whose extension has no limit, and which only becomes more vast. Such is the characteristic of bliss. The more bliss there is, the more you will want to share; you will want someone to pour you out and empty you. And the more you share, the more you will find yourself more blissful. Bliss increases by sharing.
Then this sharing will take many forms. Whatever you have, you will share. If you have wealth, you will share wealth; if knowledge, knowledge; if bliss, bliss; if love, love. All the stream of your life will flow into sharing.
See! When Buddha and Mahavira were unhappy they fled to the forest; when they were filled with supreme bliss and entered Samadhi, they returned to society. It has never happened that an ecstatically blissful man kept sitting in the jungle. The unhappy went to the forest, but the blissful always returned to society. Because in the jungle there is no way to share. Bliss can arise in the jungle, but it cannot grow, it cannot spread—who will you pour it into, who will be a partner in it?
So whether Jesus or Mohammed, Mahavira, Buddha—anyone—when one day they were unhappy they went toward the forest; and when they found the source of their life, when the doors of heaven opened, when their life was filled with that immeasurable music which we call God—then they could no longer remain in the jungle. Their feet would not stay there. The forest’s silence and peace could not hold them back. They returned among the very people from whom they had fled. What is happening? What is the art and process of their returning? What is the secret of their return?
Many have pondered. Much thought has been given to why Mahavira went to the woods. But why did Mahavira come back from the woods—no one has really pondered. And the second event is greater than the first. What is the purpose of returning to the society they had left?
The purpose: to give away what has been found. Such a person sees neither fit nor unfit; he goes on sharing. Fit and unfit are seen only by the miserly mind. Before giving, it thinks twenty-five times—shall I give or not? And it searches for every possible way not to give—He is unworthy; how can I give?
We explain our mind in a thousand ways; we rationalize, we collect arguments. A beggar is asking on the street; you do not say, I do not want to give. You say, If I give, begging will increase. You never agree to see that this is fear of giving. Your logic may be right—that if you give, begging may increase—but this is not why you are not giving. You simply do not want to give.
There is pain in sharing—whatever is to be shared brings a pang. Hoarding gives pleasure. So whoever comes to you asking, Share something with me, causes pain; you want to avoid it. Fit and unfit, right and wrong—the miserly mind alone thinks such thoughts. When truly you have something worthy of giving, then there remains neither fit nor unfit.
Even when you give, you give with a purpose. There is a condition behind it—overt or covert. You may say it or not; but behind the giving is a bargain. You do not give totally. And even while giving you want the receiver to feel obliged, to feel thankful, to remain burdened, bowed. And the hope remains that at some time he will return the favor. This is not giving; this is business. If you are desiring something in return, you are not giving. If behind your charity a hidden demand lies, the charity is not being given; it is an investment—you are opening a new trade.
When someone is filled with love, or knowledge, or bliss, he gives—not because you need it but because he has too much, and his being is burdened. And then when he gives, you are not obliged; he himself is obliged that you took it. You could have refused. Therefore love is always grateful that someone was found who allowed me to pour myself out, who helped me become lighter, who reduced my burden, who accepted me—who consented to receive. Gratitude is felt by the giver.
When such love happens, what we call renunciation is no longer renunciation—it becomes supreme celebration. Because the giver rejoices in giving; there is no reason for sacrifice. And by giving, he receives more—not from you, but in the very act of giving. If ever, even once, a glimpse of giving comes in your life, understand it. If you lend a hand to a fallen man, a deep peace and joy are felt—not because the fallen man stood up and will return something later, but in that very moment of lifting you expand and become one with Brahman. Whenever you give, you expand. Every expansion is a taste of Brahman. But the giving must be unconditional—no demand hidden, no unconscious longing. And as soon as you give, let gratitude take you—an opportunity came, a situation arose, that I could share something and expand.
To my seeing, only love is real renunciation. But even to call it renunciation is not right, for the word carries a flavor of pain—as if letting go hurts. The word has picked up pain because misers have practiced renunciation, and they suffered immensely while renouncing. And we are all misers. When we see someone renouncing, we think how much pain he must be suffering. About Mahavira the Jain scriptures count: so many elephants, so many horses, so many chariots, so many palaces, so much wealth—he renounced it all. They have written the numbers of elephants and horses. Whoever wrote this must have been miserly, counting the account. The miser’s ledger! And they must have thought: How much agony Mahavira must be bearing.
If Mahavira were suffering, the renunciation would be futile. Mahavira suffered in the palace; leaving the palace, no shadow of pain is seen on his face. If he renounced anything, he renounced suffering itself. This renunciation is rising from some inner happening—this is the experience and joy of sharing.
Keep a few points in mind; then we can enter this sutra.
"Whom does a man love more—good repute, or his own innerness?"
There is you—your privacy, your within. If the whole world were to vanish, all humanity to dissolve, and you alone remained—whatever remains in that moment is your innerness.
Even to imagine what would remain is difficult. Generally you will feel nothing will remain, for you have no acquaintance with innerness. Some people call you gentlemanly; if they vanish and you are left alone, you cannot call yourself gentlemanly. That was their notion about you; it vanished with them. Some may consider you a saint, a mahatma. If they vanish, tomorrow without them you cannot be a saint. That was their recognition. Someone gives you prestige, someone insults you; some are friends, some enemies; some for you, some against you—all these people vanish. And what you presently take yourself to be is the sum of their notions. What will remain with you?
You will feel—utterly empty; nothing will remain. Perhaps no support to live will remain. No reason to live. For till yesterday you lived to accumulate wealth; now if you own all wealth, what will you do with it? The joy of wealth is not in wealth—it is in those who have less than you. Wealth’s taste hides in the poor. You were building a great palace; now all palaces are yours, but the earth is empty—what use? A great palace pleases only when there is a small house nearby. You were racing to sit on thrones—now all thrones are yours; you can stack thrones upon thrones and sit alone—but there will be no taste, only labor and sweat, no essence. The joy of being on a throne is when someone writhes below it trying to get it—when millions stand in line and you have attained and they have not. The taste of the throne is in the eyes of others.
Innerness means: how you would be if the whole world were not. The seeker begins to live within, as if the world were not—even while it is. He drops and breaks all that is related to others, and saves only that which would remain even if all were lost. That alone is innerness—that is Atman.
Lao Tzu asks: Does man love more his good name, or his own innerness? The reputation in others’ eyes—honor, respect—or his own being? Which does he love more?
Is it more important to me what others say about me—or what I am? If others consider me good, I do not become good; if others consider me bad, I do not become bad. My being is a thing apart from others’ opinions. I give value to others’ opinions only because I have no clue of my own innerness. What I take as my innerness is only borrowed ego—collected from what others have said about me. Therefore there is great fear. If you are a "holy man" you fear lest someone call you unholy. Out of this fear many remain "holy"—lest someone call them unholy.
But what kind of holiness is this, and what is its worth? It has none. It is impotent—borrowed, begged—dependent on others. Its roots are not within; it is the sum of reflections held in others’ eyes—stale, dead. Yet the "holy" are more afraid of being called unholy than the unholy are of anything.
Psychologists say: whether you are "holy" or unholy, good or bad, if your gaze remains fixed on what others say, you will remain unacquainted with your own self, your own being. And Lao Tzu asks: Where is your love—toward people’s thoughts, or toward your pure existence? Because upon these two your life’s direction depends.
If once you decide that others should say good things about me, that others should deem me good—you will become more and more false. Your whole life will be a long hypocrisy. The lives of thousands of "good" people are nothing but hypocrisy—because a basic error has occurred. At the first crossroads, where life’s roads diverged, they chose the wrong direction. All the time they worry about what others will say.
This is what we are teaching children: parents say, Beware—that no one thinks ill of you. What does it matter what others say? You are born in a high family; your house has prestige, your parents have a name. Mind what you do—how you sit and stand—do not allow others to point a finger at you.
We are prepared for this—as if we are born for others. Once life takes this direction, it goes on to the end. It does everything—even the best—but its gaze remains fixed on the lowest.
A friend of mine, Seth Govind Das—today I saw his statement. Fifty years in parliament were completed for him—perhaps nowhere else has this happened, to be a member continuously for fifty years. The parliament honored him. What he said in response is worth pondering here. He said: People who sacrificed less than I did reached higher positions; injustice has been done to me. Some deep wound—People of lesser sacrifice reached higher than me. As if sacrifice were done to reach positions. Even if consciously he did not think so while sacrificing, unconsciously position lurked behind—it still haunts him. And if sacrifice does not receive honor, I have been wronged—that too is his feeling. So the sacrifice is not inward; it did not spring from joy. It too is a bargain. If its reward is not fully paid, there is pain.
If we brought martyrs up from their graves and asked them, they would be pained too: We died—and what did you do afterward? No prestige, no posts, no honor. Even if at the time of dying they were not consciously thinking of it, they too had heard that fairs would gather every year upon a martyr’s pyres. Those fairs are not gathering. Where their bodies lie, there will be pain—What happened to those fairs? Around those who did not die, fairs are crowded.
Even when man renounces, he keeps his eyes on how others will evaluate him. Whose worth depends on others’ assessment is not an inner worth; it did not arise from within, it is not a flowering of my own life. Otherwise, the matter ends there—it was delightful, I did it. It was my joy, I did it. If it was living, I lived—and if dying, I died. It was my insight—to go to the cross. It was not for some fair that would gather after my death. But ask the renouncers—the same wound persists: I left so much.
Lao Tzu is asking: Whom does a man love more—good name, or his own innerness?
He who loves good name is on the path of politics—whether of wealth or of position, it is power-politics. His way is toward power. He who loves innerness—his path is religion. He cares what I am in my own eyes. For who is closer to me than myself? How will you see me and know me?
All your knowing will be shallow—superficial—external. You can be deceived. I can act, perform the behaviors of goodness. I can falsify you, delude you. But how shall I delude myself? Only if I am good can I appear good to myself. Before others there is the possibility of deception; therefore the gaze of others has no value. How I appear to myself in the mirror; when I go within, how I find myself—that alone is ultimate.
And Lao Tzu says: "Which has greater value—one’s own innerness, or material things?"
He who gives much value to others’ opinions will also give much value to material objects. The value of non-material experiences will not be much in his eyes, because non-material experiences cannot be exhibited to others. How peaceful I am—no exhibition can be made of it. But how splendid my palace is—its exhibition is perpetual. What I possess can be seen by others; what I am cannot be seen by anyone. So he who values the gaze of others will be absorbed in collecting objects. And the more one collects, the more one forgets that besides objects there was something within me. The higher the pile of objects, the more the connection to oneself breaks. Slowly we become merely the watchmen of the very things we have piled up. We neither sleep, nor wake, nor live—we go on guarding those objects.
There are ancient tales: if the miser dies, even after death he sits as a snake over his treasure. The tale is meaningful. If we understand the miser’s mind, the tale seems true. It will be so—one who has kept watch all his life cannot drop the watch suddenly at death. His soul may not know anything else to do. He will become a snake and sit upon the treasure; his soul will wander as a ghost. All his life he did only this. While in the body too he was like a ghost—hovering around his safe. All his life-breaths were in the safe, not in his heart; in what he had, not in what he was.
"Which has greater value—one’s innerness, or material things? And which is the greater evil—loss of oneself, or ownership of objects?"
Jesus has said almost the same: You may gain the whole earth, but if you lose your own self, what is the worth of your gain? You gain the entire empire, and in that race forget what you are—shall we call it gain, or loss? But man is in a deep delusion. There are deep reasons. First: You assume—What question is there of attaining oneself? I am already myself. As if Atman is given to you with birth.
It is given—but like a seed. To grow it into a tree is in your hands. The seed can also rot. Gurdjieff, a very important man of this century, even went so far as to deny—he said not all men have souls. There is truth in his statement—startling though it is. Soul can be born, but labor is required. Maybe one in millions manages to give birth; the rest die as they are. Man is only a possibility—the soul can be born. It is true: you are a seed that can become a tree—or not.
But the religions of the East have proclaimed that every man has a soul. There was truth in the proclamation—because what is possible, is. Yet even this truth brought harm. All took it for granted: whatever is to be attained is already within; there is nothing to be done. The world is to be achieved; Atman is already attained. And what is already attained—why worry about it? Let us care for what is not attained. So we run after objects.
Remember: Atman may be within you—this is only a potentiality. When you were born you were born only as body and mind. The soul is very hidden—very far and deep. Not even a sprout has arisen from it. Body and mind have made the arrangements; they are like the soil. The sprout can arise—if some effort is made, the soul can become a tree, and flowers can blossom upon it.
Only when flowers blossom on that tree do we say: one has attained Buddhahood. All are not Buddhas. All can be Buddhas, but scarcely anyone becomes one. The belief that the soul is already within is dangerous. Effort is needed. What sleeps must be awakened; what is hidden must be revealed. The spring buried under rocks must be given a path by removing stones. For this reason too, most of us pour our life-energy into accumulating objects.
There is another deep reason. We have no taste of the soul, no experience. Without taste, without any experience, how will we strive to attain it? How will the longing arise? How shall we recognize the thirst? And all around is a society of madmen. They are all running after things. If we do not run with them, we seem mad. The crowd is large, and we are born amid it. Before the child is filled with awareness, the mad have already arranged to make him properly mad.
Small children do laugh at your possessions. In their innocent eyes it is visible—some madness is going on. For them it is beyond understanding that a man should waste his life in building a big house, should lose everything to stuff his safe with money. But before the child’s innocence can become strong, we gather from all sides and choke his throat. Our education, our schools and universities, our society—everything teaches ambition: Run! Run fast! And collect as much as you can. Time is passing, and property is the only support. Thus each person begins to run in this trance.
But the wise is he who becomes a little alert to this obsession, this derangement—who stands aside and asks: Why am I running? And if I attain what I’m running for, then what?
Alexander is coming to India. He meets a fakir, Diogenes. Diogenes asks him some questions. One question: If you conquer the whole world—then what will you do? It is said that Alexander became sad hearing this. He said, Diogenes, you have filled me with great despair. Truly, if I conquer the whole world—then what will I do? I never thought of it. And there is no second world, said Diogenes. You will be in great trouble.
When Alexander took leave he said to Diogenes: It is hard to stop now; half the world I have already conquered. But when I conquer the whole world I will return. I am impressed by you—your peace and your bliss have touched me. Diogenes said: If you are impressed, then stay—this will be the only proof of impression. Alexander said: Now it is not proper to abandon a plan halfway. I do see that even after conquering the whole world, what will happen? But I cannot drop half-finished work. I will complete it and return. Diogenes said: Till now, no one has ever completed any plan. You will die halfway.
Coincidentally, Alexander died on the way back—he could not even reach home. But everyone dies in the middle. Plans are so vast they never complete. And before one plan completes, the mind has built a bigger one. So no one ever dies with all plans fulfilled. Everyone dies halfway—though knowing that even if all plans were completed—then what?
Alexander told Diogenes: If I am born again, I will ask God to make me a Diogenes. Diogenes was utterly naked, just like Mahavira—he had not even a begging bowl. Earlier he kept a bowl—for drinking water or receiving alms. One day he saw dogs drinking from the river. The same day he threw the bowl. He said: When dogs are so capable they live without a bowl—how weak am I, being a man! Then he began to drink water with his palm; he became Karapatri—one who uses the hand as a bowl.
Alexander said: If I get another chance, I will ask to be made a Diogenes. Diogenes said: And if I get a chance, I will say—Make me whatever you like; even make me this dog—his dog sat beside him—but by mistake, do not make me an Alexander.
Alexander is a symbol of our running ambition—our mad race.
Lao Tzu asks: "Which is the greater evil—loss of oneself, or ownership of things? Therefore…"
This is delightful: he only raises questions—and leaves the answer to you. These three questions he raises; he does not answer. For he believes the answer is so clear, it needs no saying. And to whom it is not clear—no matter how much you say, he will not get it. So he only asks.
Whom does man love more—good name or innerness? Which has more value—innerness or material things? Which is the greater evil—loss of oneself or ownership? These are question marks. He does not answer, because the answer is plain; and to whom it is not plain, there is no use giving it. He jumps straight to the conclusion.
And the conclusion is: "Therefore, he who loves most, spends most."
It seems a gap in between. This "therefore" appears to leap. A logician would say: Some lines have gone missing—what does this "therefore" mean? First, there must be a full chain of reasoning; "therefore" is the last step. But Lao Tzu raises questions and does not answer. The answer is clear. Whoever thinks over these quietly will find it clear.
One more thing: if any question is thought properly, the answer is hidden within the question itself. Those who know the art of questioning never need go elsewhere to find answers—they discover the answer concealed at the bottom of the question. These have been asked of you not to answer you, but so that you may raise them rightly within, and measure your life by their depth and expanse. The answer is with you.
You know very well that to gain the whole world is worthless—if the price is to lose yourself. Yet you keep losing yourself. Because you have not consciously raised this question—you have not placed it before your own mind. And this question is to be asked every moment. With every step you take, you must ask: What am I doing? Will this increase my innerness—or my possessions? Will I grow—or will the stuff around me grow? Will this deepen and heighten my life—or will it only increase prestige in others’ eyes? For what am I doing this? This question is to be asked each moment. It is not a logical puzzle to be answered once and for all; it is a method. If you go on asking it, slowly a refinement will arise in your life—that refinement is the answer.
Therefore Lao Tzu leaps: "Therefore—he who loves most, spends most. He who hoards much, loses much. The contented man is not dishonored. He who knows where to stop is without danger. He may live long."
First: "He who loves most, spends most."
For many reasons. First, because only the one who loves has anything to spend. He who does not love—he has nothing to spend, nothing to give. And if sometimes he gives, he only hides his inner poverty. See it in daily life. If a husband cannot give love to his wife, he gives diamonds and gold, ornaments. Not because something inner is there which he longs to give via gold and silver—but because inside there is nothing to give. And if he does not give gold and silver, the inner poverty will be revealed starkly. He is covering up—veiling inner beggary. If love were there to give, gold and silver would seem worthless, petty. What value have diamonds if there is even a small piece of love to give? But it is not there. And no one wants to admit: I have no love to give. So we give something else—these are excuses.
Psychologists go so far as to say: the day a husband feels guilty, he brings a gift home. He saw a beautiful woman on the way; that day he buys flowers. A wound in the conscience: some error, some slip. So when the husband brings flowers home, the wife should become alert—without guilt he would not. If nothing needs to be covered, there is no need to give. Among hundreds of affluent families I meet women whose sorrow is exactly this: their husbands give them everything, yet they receive nothing. Everything visible that can be given is being given.
But here the minds of woman and man differ fundamentally; their logics are different. It is hard to deceive a woman. Give her as much as you will—if it is being given to cover the absence of love, she will expose it. Her grip on love is deep and clear. However dazzling the diamond, she will recognize that love is not behind it. So I see men telling me: we do everything for the wife, yet there is no satisfaction. And wives say: the husband gives everything—no lack—but what was to be received has not been received.
But love can be given only when it is there—and that is intricate. In this world we make no mistake with anything else like the mistake we make about love. If you do not have money, you know you cannot give it—you know it. But with love we make a deep error. We never ask whether it is with us; without asking, we set out to give it.
Love is deep alchemy. No one brings it ready-made. It is the music of life that must be discovered, created. Hidden like an unhewn stone, it must be carved with a chisel. Then the sculpture appears. In the unhewn stone the statue is hidden—but not for everyone; only for the one who can bring it out. We are born with love like a rough stone; all life it must be refined. Blessed are those whose statue of love is refined even by life’s end. When it is with us, then we can give.
But all are giving each other love without asking whether it is with them. So all give, and no one receives. Almost all are giving—more than needed—and all think no one gives like them; yet no one receives. People come to me and say, We give love. No one comes who says, We receive love. If you are giving, someone must be receiving; receiving will be the proof. Or perhaps you are only pretending to give—deceiving yourself. In truth, all want to take. All try to take, and giving is only a strategy for taking. But no one has anything to give.
Understand also: so long as there is a craving in your life to receive love—so long as you crave that someone should love you—you will not be able to give love. Because you yourself are a beggar. To give, one must be an emperor.
This is an upside-down truth. In this world only those give love who do not ask for it, for whom love is no longer a need. And those who need love, who live in the hope that someone will love them and their life will dance—they cannot give. They do not have it. I say again and again: our condition is like two beggars facing each other with bowls outstretched. There is no giver—both are takers. Both will be miserable. The whole world is miserable.
"He who loves most, spends most."
This spending is not about objects; it is about existence. He lavishes his very being. In the lavishing of being, if there are objects, they too are spent—but they are secondary, mere excuses. Through them he gives something else. What he gives is invisible. Even if he gives something visible, through it he gives the invisible which cannot be seen. Existence can be lavished.
Let us understand this in two or three ways. When you are cheerful, blissful, you may not notice that your whole presence radiates—your whole personality throws out rays of being all around. Try a small experiment and it will become clear. Sit in a dark room. Sit a friend before you in the dark so that you cannot see him. Do only this: sit silently and try to feel whether your friend sitting in the dark is at this moment cheerful or sad. In seven days of practice you will begin to catch those rays even in darkness, by which you can unerringly say whether your friend is cheerful or sad. If he is sad, a sad person pulls something out of you—that is why no one wishes to go near the sad. If you must go, it is formal. But upon going to the unhappy, you want to escape—as quickly as possible.
Someone has died in a house—you go to offer condolences. But you want to run away. You speak a few formal words—The soul is immortal, do not be frightened—and you flee. There is restlessness there; you feel suffocated. Why? Because wherever someone is unhappy, he drains your being. Sorrow is violent; it empties you. You lose something by force. When you return home you will find yourself tired.
Go to a hospital; roam for fifteen minutes and return—as if someone has sucked your life-energy; you are empty. Doctors and nurses become hard; if they do not, they will die. Hardness is their way to survive. If they remained as sensitive as you, twenty-four hours of unhappy people would drain their energy—they could not live. So they become indifferent—that indifference is their armor. Through that armor, however sorrowful the patient, his sorrow cannot draw from them. They do not flow; they hold themselves.
An amusing fact: epidemics spread—malaria, plague, cholera—but the doctor works among hundreds of patients and often does not catch the infection. Because through constant practice among the unhappy, he has created that armor through which they cannot pull his being. Until you are weak, no infection can catch hold. As soon as your being begins to flow out, doors open, and infections enter through those doors.
The unhappy person sucks you. Therefore, if people are moving away from you, understand that you are unhappy—and no one will want to be near you.
This creates great trouble: the unhappy person wants people to sit with him, to sympathize, not to leave him. Yet he finds even those who love him keep a formal presence and try somehow to escape. The more they avoid, the more unhappy he becomes. The more unhappy, the more his demand that someone come near. And the more unhappy he becomes, the more difficult it is for anyone to come near. If you find people withdraw from you, know you are unhappy. If you find people are drawn to you, know you are happy—that is a sign of happiness.
Happiness is a magnet. When you are happy, no one pulls from you—you share. This is a fundamental difference: when someone pulls from you, your life-energy is forced out and you become tired; when you share out of exuberance, you expand—you do not tire. The same work, if forced, brings pain; if done out of your own joy, it brings bliss. The work is the same outwardly; on the inner plane there is a foundational difference.
This is what Lao Tzu says: therefore, he who loves most spends most. He shares himself, he pours himself out, he lavishes himself. And the more he pours himself, the more he finds life becoming richer from new sources. A man’s being is like a well: draw water out, and fresh water flows in from new springs; do not draw, and the springs slowly close, and the water that remains becomes stale, foul, and stinking. Empty the well—the well remains forever fresh and new.
The more one pours out love, the more one finds new springs of love opening. Slowly such a person becomes an ocean of love; there is no way to empty him. Those who, out of fear, guard their love, thinking it may lessen if shared—who fear that spending it will deplete it—know nothing of life’s infinite riches. They know only the petty wealth that decreases when spent. In the safe, whatever you spend decreases—because the safe is not connected to the ocean’s springs. The human heart is connected to the Divine. Spend here—and there it is replenished.
"He who hoards much, loses much."
The more one gathers objects and wealth, the more one loses oneself. Because in the system of hoarding one forgets the art of sharing. And only by sharing does one grow. This loss is the real happening. You keep on adding, and it does not even occur to you that you are losing.
Nicodemus, a rich youth, came to Jesus at night—at night because during the day the villagers might see, and trouble might arise. Who knows what Jesus will say—and what answer he will give—more trouble. So when it was dark, when no one was around and the disciples had gone, he came. He said: Tell me something! I too want to attain myself—some way! I am a good man. The rules of society I follow completely; there is no flaw in my character. The religious rituals I perform. All the festivals—I go to the temple. Worship and prayer—whatever is scriptural—I do it all.
So there is no evil in my life. What more should I do to attain myself? Jesus said: None of this will help; this is all deception. Do one thing: whatever you have, distribute it and come. The youth said: That is a little difficult. Is there no other way? Jesus said: So long as you want to save what you have, you will not be able to attain yourself.
This youth is ready to do everything: follow the rules, go to temple, pray—everything tradition says—he follows the beaten path without fault. He does not go to the tavern or the brothel. In every way, he is what we call noble, of good character, respectable. No one in the village can find fault or stain. Yet Jesus says: From all this, nothing will happen—it is useless, it is deception. Whatever you have—leave it and come. Leave all and come.
Do not misunderstand: this does not mean if you leave everything, you will attain the soul. You cannot leave everything. It is this clutching at everything, the exaggerated value you give to objects—because of that, the soul can have no value in your life. Nicodemus is asking about attaining the soul—he wants to make it another item in his collection. I have money, I have position, I have character—let me have soul too. He wants to add it to his long list of possessions. Jesus stands him straight: Either leave all this. Jesus said the famous saying to Nicodemus: A camel may pass through the eye of a needle; it will be harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.
This opposition to the rich is not opposition to wealth; it is opposition to clinging. Understand it thus: if someone says, A man clutching pebbles will never hold diamonds—this is all it means. Because as long as he clutches pebbles, he cannot see diamonds; he takes the pebbles as diamonds—that is why he clutches them. And while his hands are full of pebbles and not empty to receive diamonds—how will he hold them? A deep clutching at things is a sign that the call of the soul is not being heard—not even a small taste. Otherwise, the clutching would drop. Whether wealth drops or not is not the point; clinging must drop.
I feel: had Nicodemus said, Fine—I will go and give all away and return—perhaps Jesus would have said, No need. But Nicodemus could not gather that courage. For there was in fact no need. If King Janaka could live amidst wealth and yet know the soul, Nicodemus too could. But that was not the issue—clinging was. If Nicodemus had said, I will, Jesus might have said, Then there is no need. Let the wealth remain where it is; you can proceed on the search. There is no grip—no clinging.
"He who hoards much, loses much. The contented man is not dishonored."
This is a little hard to grasp—honor and dishonor come from others. But Lao Tzu says: "The contented man is not dishonored." Meaning—however much you try to dishonor him, you cannot. You have no means in your hands to dishonor the contented. You cannot shake him; you cannot drop him even a grain from where he is. Contented means: whatever happens, you cannot make him discontent. And one whom you cannot make discontent—how will you dishonor him?
Understand contentment. Whatever is, he is at ease with it. What is not—he does not hanker after it. If you dishonor him, he will be at ease with dishonor. Defame him—he will be at ease with defamation. Abuse him—he will accept the abuse.
I keep telling this story: In a Japanese village a young sannyasi is accused—A girl became pregnant, bore a child, and named the sannyasi as the father. The whole village gathered. The girl’s father placed the one-day-old child in the sannyasi’s lap: Take care, it is your child! The sannyasi only said: "Is it so?" And when the child cried, he began to soothe him. The crowd burned his hut and went away.
This happened in the morning. The child began to cry more—hungry. He needed milk. The sannyasi went out to beg. In that village now it was difficult to get alms. No one gives to the sannyasi; they give to his prestige. Doors were shut in his face. Children ran after him, mocking. Such a thing had never happened: a sannyasi begging with a little child in arms. He also went to the very house whose daughter had borne the child. He said: Do not give to me—I can remain hungry—but this child will die.
The mother awoke. She fell at her father’s feet: I lied—to save the real father, I named the innocent sannyasi. I did not think it would go so far. I thought you would harass him, drive him out, and return. But things went too far. And the sannyasi’s not denying pricks my heart even more.
The father came down and began to take the child back. The sannyasi asked: Why? He said: Forgive me, the child is not yours. The sannyasi again said only: "Is it so?"
Just these words he had spoken in the morning—and these again now. He did not say the child is mine, nor that it is not. Whatever the situation, he was at ease. Such a one cannot be dishonored. Because whatever you do, he accepts the situation totally. His acceptance is entire.
"The contented man is not dishonored."
The reverse is also true: the discontented is never honored. Give him anything, he never becomes satisfied. His hunger does not lessen; his thirst has no end. His craving is insatiable.
"He who knows where to stop is without danger."
The life-formula of the contented is this: he knows where to stop—then there is no danger. The contented knows where to stop; necessity is his limit.
Necessity is not our limit. You sit to eat; you have no idea where to stop. You do not eat according to the body’s need; you eat according to the demand of taste. Taste has no end—no limit. Taste does not ask the belly where to stop. Taste is crazy; it obeys no control.
Needs are essential; desires are not. The difference between need and desire is only this: need is that limit which is sufficient for life—to keep breath going, the body going, and the search for the soul—what is enough for that. Beyond that is insanity. Beyond that there is no meaning. The race beyond has no end. Need can be bounded; desire has no boundary. There is no reason for a boundary—because it is play of the mind. Where to stop? The mind never stops anywhere.
Lao Tzu says: "He who knows where to stop is without danger."
Danger begins where we do not know where to stop, and we keep going. Needs are complete—and we keep going. Danger means: we are lost in madness; from here, return will be very hard. If you want to return you must find the point where your needs ended and yet you kept running. To return to your needs is sannyas. To forget needs and go on—that is the world.
"He who knows where to stop is without danger. He may live long."
Even this little life of his is then not small; it is enough. In this brief life he can know all that life gives opportunity for. In this relation with the body for a few days, he will recognize that which is immortal—without death. But only such a man will do it, only he will have long life—who stops at need. He who does not stop at need—his life is short. Desires are so many, and time so little. The mind runs to the billions, and life is short. Life gets exhausted in the run.
Life is enough—if rightly understood. A hundred years is sufficient. Seventy years is more than enough—no need for more. If a man walks rightly, knows where to stop, does not run with the unnecessary, stands by the necessary and is content, then seventy years are enough. No need for seventy million births to be free. Otherwise even seventy million are too few—because every time the same race starts. What is to be done never gets done; what is not to be done consumes life. The essential never comes to hand; in the non-essential we run and are finished.
I heard a Greek tale. There was a god who ran very fast—none could match his speed. He made a wager with another god. The other was clever—he knew some sutras of life. The first god laughed: No one runs faster than I. The race began. The second god did one thing: he placed gold bricks all along the path where the contest would be run.
The race began. The first god knew no one runs faster than he. When he saw gold bricks lying all around, he thought: There is no harm picking a few up—I will make up later. He picked one brick; by then the second god had gone ahead. He overtook him—but the bricks lay across the path. The burden grew. And what he had picked became hard to drop. It is hard for you; it was hard for him. The bricks were everywhere, and fascination would not release him. He kept picking—and kept running. Many times he surpassed the other god, and again began to gather. The bricks piled up. At the last moment he lost.
Later it was revealed that the god who beat him was the slowest of all. The two were at opposite ends—the fastest and the slowest. But the slower won—he had used a trick of the worldly mind.
For arriving where we must arrive, life is enough; our speed is enough. But on the path there are many gold bricks, many temptations. Many byways lead off into useless forests—and every byway has golden gates, very alluring.
Hence Lao Tzu says: "He who knows where to stop is without danger. He may live long."
Even this little life is enough for him. He who does not know where to stop—for him countless lives are insufficient.
Keep the essence of this whole sutra in your heart: innerness has value. And whatever you do, do it with the awareness that my innerness must grow, my Atman must grow, my being must become dense. And avoid, stop at anything that endangers this being, diminishes it, thins it. And remain aware—where to stop. Not for good name, not for prestige, not for ambition, but for the joy of being, for the joy of one’s own existence—within these few words the whole teaching can be completed. What others say is not valuable; what you are—that is valuable. What you have is not valuable; that in whatever you have you are content—that is valuable. "What will I get—then I will be content"—this is futile. Only if you are content with what has already come will you attain innerness.
Love shares bliss. And the more you can share, pour yourself out, the richer your being becomes.
Enough for today.