Tao Upanishad #82

Utterly simple, yet utterly intricate—such is this sutra.

Extremes become alike. Zero and the Whole are exactly the same. The very definition of the void is the definition of the whole. Shunya is beginningless and endless; Purna is beginningless and endless. Neither has a boundary. Shunya cannot have a boundary because it is the smallest of the small; if you try to draw a line, there is no ‘small enough’ on which to draw it. Purna is boundless because it is the greatest of the great; if you try to fence the vast, there is no circumference.

To the eyes they appear opposed; they seem to negate each other. But whether one descends into the void or into the whole, one arrives at the same place.

Shankara speaks of the whole, Buddha of the void. Those who remain entangled only in scriptures will feel Shankara and Buddha are opposites. Those who have known through experience will find both saying the same. Their choice of words differs; their pointing is one. Shankara says, ‘everything.’ Buddha says, ‘nothing.’ Both point to the infinite, to the indefinable, to the inexpressible.

Birth and death appear opposite to us. But birth and death are exactly alike. What you were before birth, that you will be after death. Before birth there was no body; after death there will be no body. You have no memory of before birth; you will have no awareness after death. Before birth you were one with the infinite; after death you will again be one with the infinite. As birth is beyond explanation, so is death. Birth appears first to us, death later; that alone makes no difference.

Understand it like this: one begins a journey on a circle. The point from which one starts is the point at which one ends. The first point of setting out is the last point of arriving. And here in this world everything is circular. Not only earth, moon, stars, sun—the entire movement of life is circular. Seasons turn in a circle; the earth moves in a circle; the sun revolves around some great sun. And according to Einstein, the whole cosmos is revolving around some center. All revolution is circular. Where the journey begins, there it ends.

Human life cannot be different. Birth and death are one. But we love birth, we long for it; we are afraid of death, we want to escape it. Buddha has said, whoever desires birth has already asked for death. And if one wants to be free of death, he must drop the desire for birth—because they are one. They appear different because we do not see life’s circle. Childhood, youth, old age—are parts of one circle. The old man again becomes childlike. His understanding, his conduct, all become like a child’s. Children resemble the old. Youth is like the upper arc of the circle, and after youth the circle descends again. Birth and death are names of the same place.

Lao Tzu insists greatly on this. Whoever understands this will no longer see opposites anywhere. And to whom nothing in the world appears opposite—he attains ultimate knowing. For opposition is a delusion; contradiction appears only in ignorance. In knowing there is no opposition. However different the paths, however diverse the visions, wherever we see opposition, there the opposition appears only because of our ignorance.

There are so many religions in the world—not because of knowledge, but because of man’s ignorance. They appear vastly opposed. The Hindu seer, knower of the Upanishads and Vedas, says: there is Paramatma. He created the world, he is the creator. And without a creator there can be no notion of religion at all. Mahavira says: there is no creator. Mahavira says: if there were a creator, there could be no way for dharma to be. Very opposite statements. Mahavira says: the Atman alone is the supreme, to be realized. And Buddha says: whoever drops the delusion of Atman attains supreme knowledge. So long as the idea of Atman persists, there will be ignorance, says Buddha. And Mahavira says: so long as the Atman is not found, there is ignorance. Very opposite statements.

But I would say: Buddha and Mahavira are wanting to say the same thing, for Shunya and Purna carry the same meaning. Either become utterly full of Atman—or be utterly empty of Atman—you will arrive at the same state. That state can be expressed by both words.

If you understand this sutra of Lao Tzu, many depths and mysteries will be revealed.

‘The highest perfection is like imperfection.’

There cannot be a more paradoxical statement!

‘The highest perfection is like imperfection.’

There is an ancient dispute in which the theologians of the whole world have remained engaged; perhaps the answer lies with Lao Tzu. Theology is continually entangled in one question: if Paramatma is perfect, then no development can occur in the world—because how can there be development in the perfect? Perfec­tion means: all that could be has already been; there is not even an inch of possibility for further growth.

Therefore Christianity in the West opposed Darwin’s theory of evolution. This was the reason. Darwin said: life is evolving; we are moving ahead; something new is happening—what was not in the past will be in the future. Christianity could not accept this, for Christianity holds that the world is the creation of a perfect God; there can be no mistakes in it, no lack. Then how can development be? How can there be evolution? Where there is deficiency, where there are errors, there development can be. But if this world has been made by perfect hands, there is no possibility of development. And if development is possible, it means the hands that created the world were not perfect; they were imperfect. Development can be in imperfection. What development in perfection? Hence Christianity maintains: the world was created once for all; it is not evolving.

There is opposition between creation and evolution. God made the world in one stroke. There is no development occurring in it—nor can there be. For development would then mean God is discovering mistakes and correcting them, making it better.

With an imperfect person this can be accepted: a painter paints one picture, then a second, then a third—refining as he goes—and each new painting shows greater improvement, because the painter is imperfect. But if God makes the world, how can there be any possibility of development? And if development is happening, God becomes imperfect. And if God is imperfect, who then can be perfect! If God himself is imperfect, then there remains no means for perfection. An imperfect God cannot be conceived; imperfection snatches away his very godhood. God must be perfect—if he is. If he is imperfect, better to say he is not.

Darwin created a great problem for Christianity. If the world is evolving, God becomes imperfect—and an imperfect God cannot be accepted.

There are further amusing implications to be understood. If God too is imperfect and man too is imperfect, then what difference remains between them? Worship is meaningless; prayer is futile. And if the imperfect begs from the imperfect, folds his hands before the imperfect—what will he get? If God is imperfect, he cannot be omnipotent. Imperfection cannot be all-powerful. If God is imperfect, he cannot be omniscient. Imperfection will be imperfect on every side. And if God has not yet become perfect, then man’s dreams are in vain—that any man can ever become perfect, that any Mahavira, any Buddha can ever attain perfection. Then perfection cannot happen at all in this world.

If perfection cannot be, the very notion of religion collapses. For religion is the search to be perfect—how to cut away imperfection and how consciousness may become perfect; how we may reach that point beyond which there remains no way further, how we may find that point beyond which no longing remains. If God is imperfect he cannot be free of desire—because the imperfect will certainly desire, he will desire to be perfect; wherever there is lack he will want to be filled. If there is a lack in God’s knowing, the search for knowledge will continue; if there is a lack in God’s love, the search for love will continue; if there is a lack in God’s being, in his very beingness, the search to be will continue. And if even God is desiring, then to tell people to enter desirelessness is utterly meaningless.

God must be perfect—if he is. An imperfect God will be filled with desire. And what meaning in a God filled with desire? Then he is but a part of the world, pressed under ignorance as we are.

Another point needs to be understood: ignorance, if it is, is entire; knowledge too, if it is, is entire. Just as one is either alive or dead—there is no division. You cannot say a man is a little alive and a little dead. Even if he lies unconscious he is wholly alive. So long as he is, he is entirely alive; and when dead, entirely dead. As there can be no division between death and life, there can be no division between knowledge and ignorance. Either you know, or you do not. Knowing little by little has no meaning. If God is imperfect, he is not. Perfection is his essential mark. Imperfection is the world. Then there is no need for the notion of God; the imperfect world alone is enough.

But Lao Tzu speaks a most wondrous word:

Lao Tzu says, ‘The highest perfection is like imperfection.’

For Lao Tzu there is no hurdle. He says: when perfection is perfect it too evolves—just as evolution happens in imperfection. It will be difficult to understand, because logic will not help here. This arithmetic is beyond mathematics. It is the same arithmetic the Upanishads point to. Ishavasya says: from that whole, take away the whole, and the whole still remains. This is outside mathematics, for mathematics says: if you take anything away, it will be less than it was; and if you take away the whole, then zero remains, nothing at all. But Ishavasya says: from that Purna, even if you remove the Purna—not to speak of a little—even if you remove the whole, the whole remains. This is beyond mathematics. Logic cannot prove it, but experience does.

In our experience there is one element we can recognize that is beyond mathematics—love. Pour out as much love as you like, distribute it to people—there will not be the slightest decrease within you. Or will there be a decrease? According to mathematics there should be, because whatever is given out is subtracted. But experience says: love does not diminish, the more you share, the more it grows.

So there is the world of logic, where adding increases and subtracting reduces. And there is also the world of love, of poetry, of the heart—where subtracting does not reduce but, on the contrary, increases; and where hoarding reduces. If a person hoards his love, he will rot. Within days he will find love has disappeared. Love grows only by being given away.

Lao Tzu says, ‘The highest perfection is like imperfection.’

The only mark of imperfection is that it is evolving—dynamic, in motion, flowing, moving ahead. The perfection of this world too is a perfection that keeps on moving—moving from perfection to more perfection, and always from perfection to perfection. Then God can be both perfect and evolving. And unless he is both, the notion of God cannot help us to understand existence.

Let us try to understand this through other aspects of life—for we do not know God directly; there is no direct acquaintance, hence it is not easy to understand him straightaway. Look elsewhere, where perfection resembles imperfection. Great painters say: when someone becomes totally accomplished in painting, he begins to paint like a child. Look at Picasso’s paintings. Not only in this century, in the whole history of humankind it is hard to find such trained fingers, such a painter. Yet his paintings are like children’s. What a small child would make—that is what Picasso makes. And you might think: with a little effort you too could make it! You cannot. Those who make a business of copying paintings can copy the greatest painters; but Picasso’s paintings are very difficult to copy, because they are so simple. Complex paintings can be copied; simple paintings are very difficult. Picasso paints as if he does not know how to paint. Painting is complete only when whatever you have learnt is forgotten when you paint.

In Japan and China, where painting has been used for meditation, and where in the search for meditation many dimensions were tried—painting being one—there the Zen master trains a disciple for ten or twelve years. Then for a few years he tells him: throw away the brush, throw away the colors and forget. Return to that place where you knew absolutely nothing of painting. And when the painter has completely forgotten, the master says: now paint; now something can be born from you. For now your perfection has become like imperfection. Now you will paint with simplicity. Now there will be no technique in your painting.

A great difficulty arises, because people often take art and technique to be the same—the art and the method. Someone may know how to hold the brush rightly, may have a perfect understanding of colors, may have practiced for years—he too will paint. He is skilled, technically competent; but his paintings will be like the rhymes of a versifier who knows grammar, knows meters and prosody, and can put together a rhyme. It will be hard to find a mistake in his verse—but there will be no life in it. His poetry will be mathematically correct, but behind it there will be no soul—like a corpse lying there, the body absolutely complete, every bone and every nerve in place—and yet a corpse, no soul within.

Technique gives the body. With technique anyone can construct the body of any craft. But the soul does not arise from technique. Even so, to reveal the soul you must first know technique. If you imagine you can paint like Picasso without learning, you are mistaken. First you must learn, and then forget—only then can you come to Picasso’s state.

A man learns music, learns the sitar; years are needed. He will learn the entire method, the fingers will be trained, the whole arithmetic will be in his grasp. Still a sitar player is not born from that. So much a computer could do. If you were to feed a computer the entire information, the computer too would play—perfectly, classically, without a single error. But there will be no soul behind it. A person becomes an artist when he has learnt to play completely, and then forgets the entire technique—becomes simple like a child, as if he knows nothing. Then whatever he knows has become natural. From that naturalness art is born.

Therefore the difference between a technician and an artist is great. From thousands of technicians perhaps one artist is born. Ordinarily it is even difficult to recognize. The difference is only this: the artist will be simple like a child; his perfection will be like imperfection. The technician will be absolutely perfect; there will be no imperfection in him. He cannot commit an error; everything will be correct to the last grain. But the artist may make mistakes; he will be childlike. His knowledge has merged into his blood and flesh; it is no longer in his head, and he does not move through the mediation of that knowledge.

Be it art, music, dance—or the words of Buddha and Jesus—in all these directions Lao Tzu’s statement is exactly true—a hundred percent. Buddha’s words are childlike. There is no erudition in Jesus’ words. Jesus’ words are utterly rustic, like a villager talking; there is no pundit’s dexterity in them, nor the burden of scriptures, nor any argument. Jesus speaks parables, little stories to the people—little stories that children can understand, and which even the old may find difficult. Stories with many layers, many meanings. The deeper the person, the deeper the meaning he will be able to grasp. But in themselves the utterances are plain and simple.

The day Jesus was crucified—Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor who ordered the crucifixion—was a student of philosophy, well-read in great books. About Jesus it was being said that he is the son of God, and for this ‘false’ claim he was being executed. Yet Pilate too, on seeing Jesus, felt there was something divine in this man—so simple and straightforward! So he thought to ask one question. He had read in the scriptures—and this is the question of all philosophy—‘What is truth?’ So just before death—lest this man indeed be the son of God—he thought to ask him one question. Pilate came near and, a moment before the cross, asked Jesus: before you go to the cross, tell me, what is truth?

Jesus, who never tired of speaking, who would speak through the night, explaining to simple villagers, suddenly fell silent. He gave no answer to Pilate.

Nietzsche, in mockery, has written: Pilate received no answer because Jesus did not know. Pilate was intelligent, learned, cultured, educated—a Roman viceroy. Jesus, rustic, unlettered, a carpenter’s son—perhaps he did not even understand what Pilate was asking: What is truth?

There is no way to ask Jesus why he kept silent. It is the first time in Jesus’ whole life that someone asked and he remained silent. Otherwise he himself sought people that someone may ask and he could say. Nietzsche’s point cannot be accepted—for Jesus has spoken much about truth, about the ultimate truth, and nothing else. It cannot be that he did not understand the question. The reason is different: Pilate asked like a technician—what is truth? There was no heart in the question, no thirst. It was the scholar’s question, accustomed to seeking answers in books. In this question Jesus could see no feeling of the heart; it did not arise from the heart—it was merely an itch of the intellect. Therefore Jesus remained silent.

By this silence he also gave an answer: when mind asks, silence is the only reply. And through mind no answer has ever been found. Until the mind falls silent, as Jesus fell silent, no glimmer of truth is possible.

Jesus’ perfection appears very imperfect. His devotees believed that when he is raised on the cross, some miracle will happen—because the perfect man will reveal a miracle. At Jesus’ touch the sick had been cured. The story was: Lazarus was dead and became alive. Jesus touched the eyes of a blind man and they opened. Around Jesus hundreds of such things had happened. It was natural to expect that on the cross some miracle would occur. But Jesus died quietly on the cross—as any ordinary man dies. Not a trace of extraordinariness appeared.

Nor was Jesus crucified alone; two thieves, one on each side, were crucified with him—three men hung together. As the two thieves died, so did Jesus. Not a thing special happened. It was a shock. The disciples must have been deeply shocked, for the disciples’ master is not the master—miracle is the master. They must have been disheartened. So many hopes had been woven. He who had claimed to be the son of God proved in the end to be only the son of man.

But in my view, understand Lao Tzu’s saying rightly and then think of Jesus: the highest perfection is like imperfection. The highest perfection will not claim to be perfect. The most extraordinary event was that Jesus died like an ordinary man. Anyone else in his place would have tried to do a little something—some magic. Even a street conjurer would have done something. Jesus did nothing at all. This perfection—this extraordinariness—was very ordinary.

‘The highest perfection is like imperfection—and its usefulness never diminishes.’

Surely, if you have become perfect and cannot live again as imperfection, you are dead. Such perfection would be death—full-stop. For beyond it no sprouting would be possible.

Buddha attained enlightenment and yet lived forty years. In those forty years after enlightenment flowers kept on blossoming. This perfection is not a dead perfection; it can evolve. This perfection goes on becoming more and more perfect. And it has no end; its utility has no end. If you understand me, I know that wherever Buddha may be, he is still becoming more perfect. That flowering cannot stop. Buddhahood is less like a flower, more like flowering. The flowering will continue—if not on this earth, somewhere else; if not in this body, somewhere else; if not in form, somewhere else. But that flowering—existence has no way to lose it.

Lao Tzu says: ‘and its usefulness never diminishes.’

Buddha is still happening. Development, evolution, is the very nature of existence. But we usually think: a person becomes perfect, the story is over—what remains to happen!

Bertrand Russell has made a satire on this—and it is worth making. Russell said: Hindu moksha frightens me, for there all are perfect; nothing remains to be done. What could be happening there? Jain moksha—the liberated ones are sitting on siddha-shilas. Nothing is happening there. Even the wind cannot blow there; there can be no vibration—for all that could happen has happened. Russell says: such a state would be sheer boredom, a great ennui—and not for a day or two, but eternal. For from moksha there is no return; once freed there is a way to be free of bondage, but no way to be free of freedom. You cannot come back; you cannot go beyond. It is a hanging. And nothing can happen there, because happening is only where there is something lacking. All is finished. Russell says: such moksha would be suicide.

If moksha is like that, it is suicide. Then the world is more alive, and then even hell is preferable. Moksha would be chosen only by those who have no intelligence at all, only by the dull—because such perfection would be like deadness. What difference would remain between this perfection and insensateness?

But Lao Tzu says: perfection—ultimate perfection—is like imperfection.

I wish someone had given Russell the news of Lao Tzu. Even in moksha growth continues—for growth is an essential mark. It has no dependence on the world; it is the very style of your being. The flowering will go on, and there is no end to it. Eternity is not a static state; it is an endless expanse of growth.

The difficulty is that in our linguistic understanding the word ‘perfect’ means a stop, a full-stop—nothing remains beyond. If our kind of perfection were happening anywhere in existence, the cosmos would have become inert long ago. The cosmos has existed from the beginningless; by now all would have become perfect.

But in this sense perfection never happens. Perfection happens in another sense: you no longer feel imperfect; nothing remains to achieve; there is no desire to attain. Yet your way of being is such that flowering goes on—development without desire. There is no race, no hurry to reach anywhere, no goal. As rivers flow, so you too flow—from perfection to perfection. Siddhahood is not inertia; it is eternal aliveness.

‘The highest perfection is like imperfection.’

The only likeness to imperfection is this: in it, development always remains.

‘And its usefulness never diminishes. The greatest abundance is like paucity, and its usefulness too never comes to an end.’

‘The greatest abundance is like paucity’—understand this a little. Those who possess a little are the ones who think they have enough; those who possess much never think they have enough. Only the ignorant fall into the delusion that they are wise; the wise never fall into that delusion. Only the poor keep accounts of their wealth; if an emperor keeps accounts he is poor, a beggar. Accounting is the mark of a poor mind, the sign of the beggar that he is counting how much he has—and he always boasts of more than he has.

If you visit the poor, the poor try their best to hide their poverty. They will borrow a sofa from the neighbor, a carpet, decorate the house. The poor try from every side to hide their poverty and want to show that they are rich. Enter a rich man’s house and it will be as it is—only then is it a rich man’s house. If arrangements have to be made, it is a poor man’s house. It is a strange fact: the poor find it very difficult to be simple, because if they are simple their poverty will be exposed. Only the rich can be simple. And unless simplicity begins to flower in richness, understand that poverty has not yet disappeared. The rich will be simple; there is no question of display. Display is only a device to hide.

Those who know a little keep playing it. Those who have a few small coins jingle them on the road so that it may be known they have something. Think of it: what you lack is what you over-show. You are yourself afraid someone may notice how little there is—so you overdo. But what you truly have and trust, you do not even display, for there is no purpose in displaying it. The poor display their riches. The ignorant display their knowledge. The sensualist displays his renunciation. The miser displays his charity. What we are not—that we show; what we are—that does not even arise to be shown.

‘The greatest abundance is like paucity—and its usefulness never ends.’

When there is that much, there is not even a fear that someone will think it is not there. Thus the knower can be silent. Perhaps Jesus fell silent when Pilate asked him...

If someone asks you, what is truth?—it is very difficult to be silent, although you do not know. Ask anyone anything—you cannot remain silent. Even on matters you know nothing about, you will say something. I ask people: Is there God? Someone says, yes; someone says, no. But I never meet a man who says, I do not know. That would be the mark of honesty; the other two are marks of dishonesty. There is no clue of God, and they loudly say, yes—or they say, no. Both are marks of dishonesty.

Only the dishonest are divided into theist and atheist. How can the honest be a theist? How can he be an atheist? The honest man will first understand: I do not know—how can I choose this side or that? Is there God or not? I do not even know about my own being—how can I make a statement about God’s being? The honest man will be agnostic. He will admit: I do not know; the unknown is—about it I know nothing; I am ignorant. And such a person may perhaps be capable of attaining truth. But those two dishonest categories—never.

Lao Tzu says: ‘The greatest abundance is like paucity.’

The more there is, the more the awareness of having it disappears. If everything is yours, you will not even know that you have anything. So long as you know, it is obvious that you have very little and are suffering from it. Only pain is known. When a thorn pricks the foot, the foot is known. When the head aches, the head is known. When the head does not ache, the head is not known. When no thorn pricks the foot, the foot is not known. When the body is healthy, you do not know it; when it is ill, you know. Pain alone is known.

If you are aware of your wealth, some pain is attached to it—some suffering, some thorn, some wound. Those who have newly acquired wealth are easy to recognize, because they flaunt it everywhere. The sign of old aristocracy used to be: those who have much, and do not flaunt it. It meant the wealth is by tradition, through centuries, through generations—the wealth is no longer noticed. One who has earned wealth only today goes mad with it, tries to display it in every direction. He has not yet forgotten his poverty. Hence there is no difficulty in recognizing the new rich.

Richness—in any dimension—fruits only when the pain attached to it is lost. If Buddha and Mahavira could leave their kingdoms, it was for this reason. We think they had so much—we calculate; but they must have ceased to notice it. It had become so small that to leave it or not was the same.

There is a very sweet anecdote in Mahavira’s life. He wished to take sannyas. His mother said: so long as I live, do not even speak of it. Ordinarily a son who wants to renounce cannot be stopped like this—rather if such an obstacle is put, he will take sannyas today instead of tomorrow. There is deep tension between fathers and sons, between generations. But Mahavira did not raise the matter again. The mother must also have been puzzled—what kind of renunciation is this! He asked once and I said, not while I live; Mahavira stopped speaking of it.

Then the mother died, the father also. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira asked his elder brother: may I now take sannyas? The elder brother said: are you mad? A great calamity has come upon the house; mother and father are gone, we are orphaned—do not raise this issue; do not strike me a further blow. Mahavira again fell silent. It could even have happened that Mahavira never took sannyas—for one who falls so silent! But two years later the family felt we are restraining him in vain. Mahavira is in the house and yet not. He gets up, sits, walks, but like a gust of wind coming and going and none aware of it; he neither opposes anyone, nor gives counsel, nor interferes—his being in the house is as if not, absent. The family prayed to Mahavira: if you have to live in the house as if you are not here, then we shall not take upon ourselves the sin of restraining you—go! Mahavira left that very day.

It does not seem like an event of leaving a kingdom. ‘Kingdom’ itself had ceased to be any question. There was nothing valuable there.

For Mahavira that entire empire, the comforts, the riches—had become paucity. To leave it was like leaving a cowrie shell and moving on—not even worth looking back at. We think a great kingdom was left—for we are people who keep accounts. We measure by ourselves.

Whoever has renounced has had so much that it turned into ‘little’. And when the much becomes little, then renunciation flowers. When the urge to display the ‘much’ ceases, when even the feeling ‘much is much’ disappears. The Upanishads say: he who says ‘I know God’—understand he does not know; for one who knows will not proclaim this knowing. The proclamation has no value; it is futile. Behind proclamation there is some pain.

‘The greatest abundance is like paucity—and its usefulness never ends. What is most straight appears crooked. The highest skill looks like clumsiness. The highest eloquence seems like stammering.’

Each point is worth understanding.

‘What is most straight appears crooked.’

Why so? Straightness will appear crooked because we are all crooked. We are crooked, and we are the norm—the average. Among us, if a truly straight person appears, he will look crooked.

Understand it this way: where everyone is standing on his head, if someone stands on his feet, people will say he is upside down. And they are not wrong—for by their standard he is. We all assume ourselves to be straight. We are utterly slanted, every inch.

You must have heard the story of Ashtavakra. King Janaka announced: he was in search of knowledge and wished to know what truth is. He invited all the great scholars of the land to debate and decide—he wanted a conclusion. A great prize was placed: the horns of a thousand cows gilded with gold stood at the gate. Ashtavakra received no invitation, being a poor, insignificant man; his name was Ashtavakra because his body was bent in eight places. But on hearing such a great disputation was on and truth was being sought, he came. As soon as he entered the assembly, the pundits laughed, seeing him bent in eight places. Even Janaka must have smiled. All the scholars burst into laughter. Then Ashtavakra too, it is said, laughed loudly—so loudly that people were startled. Janaka asked: why do you laugh? He said: I had thought this was an assembly of scholars; here cobblers have gathered who see only the body. How will they search for truth? They are all crooked in a thousand ways—only my body is crooked. And this is all they can see; they have no clue of the inner simplicity.

Lao Tzu says: ‘What is most straight appears crooked.’

Because we are not straight, though we pretend to be. We have kept up a show of straightness. Our every move is crooked. We say one thing, think another, do a third—that is our crookedness. Have you noticed how many layers are within you? What you say is not what you think; what you think is not what you say; and what you do will be a third thing. Yet you do not see this clearly—so much fragmentation within! So much deception! Whenever you go to do something you never go straight—you take big detours. If you have to go north, you begin by going south. But people around are also crooked, and perhaps only thus is it possible to live among them. If a straightforward man appears he creates difficulty for himself and for you.

Small children get into trouble with us for this very reason. A father tells his son: never lie. A guest comes to the door and the father says to the boy: go tell him father is not at home. This is beyond the child’s comprehension—what is happening? The father says anger is bad, and he can be angry at the son precisely for being angry.

I was a guest in a house. The father was beating his son and saying: I have told you a thousand times—never hit your younger brother; hitting the younger is very bad. And he is beating his son! If hitting the younger is bad, then this son is much younger to this father; proportionately even more so. But we do not see it.

And among us, those most crooked within succeed the most—be it the race for wealth or for power. I know many politicians; the secret of their success is nothing but dishonesty and deceit. As much cunning as is possible, as much backstabbing and knife-work as possible, they do all of it. But once they have reached office they begin to sermonize to the whole country about honesty, truth, character—and sitting on the chair they weep that the nation’s character is declining. And had character not declined, they could not have been on the chair—there would not be a single person to vote for them. The nation listens happily; and all know all. But there seems to be a conspiracy, an atmosphere of shared silence—that if you are in power, whatever you say is right. The moment they are out of power the talk begins about all their fraud and juggling. While they are in office they are utterly virtuous, saints; to be in power is saintliness. Outside power you become unholy.

This is our world, where to walk crooked is the only way to walk straight—and we teach only one thing: walk skillfully; walk as crookedly as you need, but reach the goal—by any means. No one asks how you reached the post. How you reached wealth—no one will ask. If you fail, you will be in trouble; then everyone knows you are bad. If you succeed, success washes all sins. There is only one sin—failure. Commit all sins—but succeed. Then at the end of life there will be no one to call you bad. Walk rightly as much as you will—if you fail, people know you are bad.

Success and failure—by these everything is weighed. Among us if a straight man appears he will be in difficulty—he will look foolish, stupid—and we will try to correct him. Often we succeed. But if someone is stubborn—like a Jesus or a Buddha who does not listen—then in the end we worship him. Yet even then we know: you do not belong to our world; you are an exception, not a rule; we cannot live by you.

‘What is most straight appears crooked. The highest skill looks like clumsiness.’

Skill that appears as skill is not skill—because it should not appear; it should be forgotten—even the remembrance should not be there.

‘The highest eloquence seems like stammering.’

The Upanishads sound like stammering. The rishis who speak know while speaking that they will not be able to say it—because that which they are trying to say is beyond saying; it is an impossible effort—to say the unsayable.

Lao Tzu’s own utterances sound like stammering. It is not clear what he is saying; he seems to stagger; and he adds the opposite of whatever he says. He says: God is near—and immediately he says: God is far. He cancels whatever he says because he fears it may be misunderstood—so he adds the opposite to keep a balance.

All great utterances sound like stammering. The Vedic words, the Upanishadic words—utterly like stammering. As if those who spoke did not know how to speak—not so; they knew how to speak very well. But what they are saying is not sayable. It is so far from words that when, pulling and stretching, they bring it to words—it comes half-dead. By the time they push it into words, they find its breath is gone. And by the time the word reaches you, looking at your face the speaker feels: better to be silent.

Jesus says again and again: if you have ears—hear what I say; if you have eyes—see what I show.

Buddha once said in a discourse: if you are present here—then hear what I am saying.

You are present here! Those who were present were present—but merely sitting does not prove presence. You can be in a thousand places. You are very skilled in being in a thousand places. The probability is that wherever you are—you are not. Where you are, you are already fallen like a bomb; you will be somewhere else. For one who speaks to you the condition becomes like stammering—because you are not present. You have to be dragged in; and what is being said has also to be dragged down. In this, speech stammers.

Therefore the words of the rishis sound childlike—like little children who do not know language and are learning to use it for the first time; or little children, who do not know how to walk, walking for the first time—staggering. Small children are in a better state. In that unknown world, when for the first time someone enters, there the feet do not find any ground; there one’s own mind is no longer in hand; all connections of the mind with its institutions drop. And that which must be known in silence—how to say it in words? So speech trembles; words become stammering.

‘What is most straight appears crooked. The highest skill looks like clumsiness. The highest eloquence seems like stammering. Motion dispels cold, but stillness conquers heat.’

This sutra is very essential and useful for sadhana: ‘Motion dispels cold.’

Whenever you are filled with cold you create some movement. In fever one begins to shiver—that shivering is the body’s arrangement so that through trembling movement arises and the cold the body feels is reduced. In severe cold your teeth chatter, hands and feet tremble—this is the body’s device. Through tremors the blood circulation increases; with increased circulation warmth arises—the body safeguards itself.

‘Motion dispels cold.’

This is common experience.

‘But stillness conquers heat.’

This we do not notice; this is the seeker’s experience. In your present state not only the body is heated, your mind too is feverish. The heat of the mind is called unrest. People come and say: the mind is restless, there is pain, unease. It is nothing but heat—the result of excessive motion. Day and night you are in motion with the mind. The body sometimes sits; the mind never. At night you may sleep, but the mind does not—it keeps moving. Half the time you are awake.

There is a fish in the Pacific—very strange, yet a perfect symbol for man. The arrangement of its brain is unique; some day if scientists could manage it, man too would want it. That fish sleeps at night with one eye closed and keeps watch with the other. Half the brain sleeps and half remains awake. In the middle of the night the shift changes—the other eye closes, the other half sleeps, and the first half wakes. For safety it keeps swimming because half its brain is awake; thus no enemy can attack it unawares. A very skillful fish. Its brain is divided into two; when one eye closes, half the brain sleeps, half remains awake.

Your eyes are not so divided, but your skull is. You are never entirely asleep. The brain goes on churning. In fact, often when you lie down the brain runs faster than in the day—for during the day some energy is also consumed by the body; at night the body’s energy is available to the brain, and it races. It travels thousands of miles, goes into space, makes innumerable plans, past and future—does all kinds of things. And it is not that you are doing it willingly—you are helpless. Even if you want to stop it, it does not stop. Your mind is not yours; you have no ownership.

It is because of this excessive motion of mind that you are so heated and so restless.

Lao Tzu says: ‘Stillness conquers heat.’

You know how to create motion. When the body feels cold you move—run, exercise. Even if you do nothing, the body’s natural device triggers—tremors arise, and through tremors there is warm circulation; cold is defeated.

But there is an opposite art—that is yoga: when there is too much heat, when the mind runs too fast, when the body is overactive—how to descend into stillness, into non-action. All methods of meditation are devices to reduce the mind’s heat by stillness. As the heat decreases and coolness increases, peace grows. Peace and coolness are synonyms—in the inner world. When peace is total, shunyata flowers.

We say Shiva’s abode is on Kailash—because it is utterly cool there. Within you too Shiva’s abode is on Kailash; when such coolness arises within, you will have a glimpse of your inner Shivahood. Within, a Kailash is formed—so much coolness arises. But stillness is needed. Not a single fiber of the brain should be moving or vibrating; all must become still. Once you experience how non-action brings coolness, then catch this thread and go on refining it—entering subtler and subtler, deeper and deeper. You will find within yourself step upon step a way to Kailash.

Do one thing. As I said earlier—begin to descend into non-action for one hour. For descending into non-action it will be helpful that the body too be absolutely inactive—because body and mind are linked. When the body moves, the mind moves; when the mind moves, the body moves. What happens in the mind is reflected in the body; what happens in the body is reflected in the mind. So first sit. If you can sit in siddhasana, very good; no compulsion though. If that is a bother, sit in an easy chair. What is important is to leave the body utterly relaxed.

For ten minutes simply feel that the body has become a corpse. Even if I want to lift my hand it will not rise; even if I want to move my foot it will not move. Leave the body loose and limp. Within a few days the knack is grasped that by leaving the body loose it becomes loose.

As you let the body be loose, let the breath also be slow. The slower the breath, the less the movement. See: if you run, the body moves—the breath speeds up. Ordinarily if you breathe twelve times in a minute, while running you will breathe twenty-four; if you run fast, thirty-six. Breath will be rapid, jerky, quick—because the body needs more oxygen. While running you are burning oxygen; the breath speeds to supply more.

Now, when sitting relaxed in a chair or in siddhasana, the opposite of running is happening. If ordinarily you breathe twelve times in a minute, in relaxation you will breathe six; relaxing deeper, four. Those who learn the art of relaxing the body breathe four times in a minute—breath going in slowly and returning slowly. The body needs little oxygen; the metabolism is not demanding. When someone becomes utterly cool within, the breath becomes almost nil. Another person, to know whether it is going or not, would have to hold a mirror to your nostrils—otherwise it will not be known. You yourself will not know.

Many friends come and say: I feel frightened—perhaps the breath has stopped?

Who will be frightened if it stops? Do not be frightened at all, because you are. But it has become very little; so little that it is not recognized. It comes and goes very slightly. Sometimes, when you reach the exact center of inner coolness, the breath stops altogether for a moment. In that single moment you will have such an experience of inner coolness as if you have reached the Himalayas. Seeking the outer Himalayas will not help much; the inner Himalaya is needed.

After loosening the body, slow the breath. Along with breath, carry the feeling that it is becoming less, less, less. After a while you will find the body has come to rest, and in the mind a peace and freshness begins to be felt. Now catch hold of this thread of peace and deepen only this within—not in words, but as experience. That which is being felt—of peace, of joy—hold to it and deepen only that.

In the beginning it will be difficult. And by my saying it you will not understand; by doing it you certainly will. In a few days you will have the inner key—whenever you wish, by relaxing and becoming quiet, you can descend into stillness. And when you descend into total stillness you will return utterly fresh. This freshness will be deeper than sleep; sleep does not go so deep.

In this land we have spoken of three ordinary states of mind: waking, dreaming, and deep sleep. We reach deep sleep when there is no dream. The fourth state we have called Turiya. Turiya is the state into which one enters in meditation, in stillness. It is deeper than deep sleep. In sleep the body becomes fresh and new; in the morning you feel the energy has returned—the cells that were broken have been remade, the tissues renewed, the body is young again. The fatigue, the glitches in the instrument—night’s rest has repaired them. Exactly in the fourth state, reaching Turiya, reaching this stillness, the mind too becomes fresh. From a very deep source, all the distortions of the body, all the restlessness of the mind, wherever useless rubbish and junk have accumulated—all disappears, is dissolved. When you return from there you will see this body, this world, with a totally new eye and in a new way.

Who learns the art of descending from the world of motion into the world of stillness again and again—and returning from stillness into motion—and who, like day and night, balances motion and stillness, Lao Tzu says: between these two extremes one who catches the balance and the music, he attains the supreme Tao, the supreme nature.

To go into stillness does not mean you remain sitting in stillness forever. It means: you return to motion carrying all the freshness and all the joy. Slowly, slowly, even while acting, within you non-action will remain. Slowly, slowly, while working, within there will be no work. You will be running, and within no one will be running—within all will be still. The day these two are mastered together, liberation happens.

There are two kinds of people—and Lao Tzu wants you to be the third kind. One: those who are caught in motion and cannot enter stillness. Some of these escape into stillness, then become afraid of motion. They hide in the forest, in caves. They fear that if they come out, motion will catch hold of them again. Both are alike. Each has caught only one aspect of life.

But both are poor—because richness belongs to one who has both aspects of life; who can descend into stillness and can come into motion—fearlessly. He has no fear of losing stillness; his wealth is inner. He can stand even on the battlefield and his meditation will not be disturbed. He can sit in the shop and nothing will stir in his temple. When a person moves between the two, going and coming—slowly, slowly this becomes as natural as stepping out of one’s house and stepping back in, out and in.

‘Motion dispels cold, but stillness conquers heat. He who is tranquil and still becomes the guide of the world.’

Tranquil and still! One who catches that inner element which never moved and never moves—around which movement happens; the axle around which the whole wheel of change turns while the axle remains unmoving—that unmoving center; whoever recognizes that ultimate stillness becomes tranquil, becomes motionless.

This does not mean he becomes inert. It does not mean he sits like a stone idol. He will be in the world of action and work; he will stand in the marketplace. But now the marketplace will move—he will not. His body will move—he will not. The mechanism will work, but the owner hidden within will remain quiet.

Lao Tzu says: such a person, such consciousness, becomes the guide of the world.

Spontaneously, naturally, people begin to come to such a person. Some unknown force draws them—some invisible call brings them near. The peace that has happened in him becomes a magnetic force. Travellers stop under his shade, like a passerby rests under a thick tree; the tree neither calls nor invites—its being is invitation enough, and the tired wayfarer stops to rest. Exactly so, people begin to come near the tranquil one from many unknown paths, for many reasons. As natural as the thirsty going to the well—just so natural is the movement of the restless, the overheated, toward the place where peace can be found, where a cool breeze can be felt, where two sips of that peace can be drunk.

‘He who is tranquil and still becomes the guide of the world.’

And only such a one can be a guide; not those who want to be guides. The urge to become something is a sign of restlessness. Those who want to become gurus lose the very qualification of being a guru, because in that becoming there is ambition; in that becoming there is heat; that becoming is yet another dimension of desire. A true master is one who does not want to be a master, but by whom people want to become disciples.

The situation is reversed: no one wants to be a disciple; gurus are plenty. Among gurus there is great quarrel that no one steal another’s disciple. Gurus strive that their disciples not go elsewhere, not listen to anyone else, not wander. Wandering means: going to someone else. Except for themselves, everywhere is astray. Out of jealousy and fear they protect. From this sects arise. The cause of sectarianism is the jealousy of gurus. But the guru who has jealousy, who fears someone may leave—he is no guru.

A friend told me his guru had warned him that if he came to me it would not be right; it would be like a wife leaving her husband and going to someone else.

Husband-wife has become the model for guru-disciple. The guru is advising: do not go anywhere! This is like a wife leaving her husband. Once you have chosen one guru, stay here. Why the need to restrain? What purpose? And by restraining, does anyone ever stay?

There is some desire behind restraining; the guru is afraid, because without disciples he cannot be a guru. His guruship depends on his disciples.

Understand the difference well: the guruship of which Lao Tzu speaks does not require disciples; it requires inner tranquility. Even if not a single disciple is there, the person is a master. And if the inner tranquility is not there and there are millions of disciples, still he is not a master—for gathering a crowd of fools is not difficult; with a little cleverness, a little shopkeeping, people gather. It is very simple; that is why utterly unwise people can do it. Thus you will find heaps of gurus who are completely foolish but so cunning as to gather disciples.

Lao Tzu is saying: one who has attained stillness—the inner non-motion—who is tranquil, becomes the guide of the world.

This becoming happens naturally. People rest in his shade. They drink his being as cool water. His stillness and tranquility begin to enter others. People begin to be transformed around him—without any effort on his part. His very being—his mere being—becomes the guide.

Enough for today.