Tao Upanishad #88

What you know as life is hiding death within it. Life is only the upper layer; within, death stands with open mouth. And if you know life only as life, if you do not recognize the death concealed within, you will remain deprived of knowing life itself.

Death is not the opposite of life. Death is life's companion. They are not two; they are two ends of the same event. Where life begins, death completes. Gangotri and Gangasagar are not separate. The source is also the end. The very day you were born you began to die. If this is not recognized, you will never be related to that which is true, to life's suchness. If you take life as life and death as separate and opposite to life, you have missed. Then you will wander again and again. And you will not recognize that which is beyond both. For when you have not known life and death, how will you know that which transcends both? And that beyondness is you.

Kabir has said: 'Marte-marte jag mua, auras mara na koy.'
The whole world dies the way of dying, yet none knows how to die rightly.
'Ek sayani aapni, phir bahuri na marna hoy.'
But Kabir died a wise death, and thereafter he never had to return to die again. Whoever learns the secret of right dying, learns the secret of right living too. For they are not two. And in knowing, he goes beyond both. To go beyond is liberation. To go beyond is the supreme truth.

You are neither life nor death. You have taken yourself to be life; hence you will also have to take yourself to be death. You have tied yourself to life—who else will tie you to death? You will have to. As long as you clutch life in attachment, death will remain hidden within you. The day you throw life away like rubbish, that very day death will separate from you. Only then will your true image shine. Only then will you appear in your full polish, in your full glory. Before that you will remain on the periphery.

Death is a periphery and life also. You are within both, beyond both, transcending both. This principle of transcending—call it Atman if you wish, Paramatman if you wish, Nirvana, call it Moksha—whatever you like. Different knowers have given different names; the message is one.

'Sabai sayane ek mat.' All the wise are of one accord.
And if you see differences among the wise, know it as your mistake. The difference appears because of your uncomprehending mind. The wise will speak in different styles. They must. Their personalities are different. Whatever they sing will carry different words. Their instruments may differ; but their music is one, their rhythm one. What Kabir has said, Lao Tzu is saying—in his own way.

Let us try to understand Lao Tzu's every word.

'From life, death enters. Out of life, death enters.'
So do not think death stands somewhere apart. Do not think death is an accident. Do not think death comes from outside, sent by someone. Death is growing within you; it is walking with you. If you are the left step, death is the right; if you are the right, death is the left. It is your other side. If one foot is your life, the other is your death. It is growing with you. When you eat, not only life is being nourished—death too is being nourished. When you breathe in, not only life is strengthened—death too. It hides in every breath. If the incoming breath is life, the outgoing is death.

Therefore do not think death is in some far future—seventy or eighty years away. By postponing thus you have squandered life; by thinking it will happen sometime—what hurry now?—you go on missing. Death is happening now. Existence knows no time other than this instant; there is no future. For existence, the present is the only time. Whatever happens, happens now. This very moment you are being born, this very moment you are dying. This very moment life, this very moment death. They are the two banks; your river of life is flowing between them this very moment. So whatever you do becomes food for both. You rise—life rises and death too; you sit—life sits and death too.

Thus the first thing Lao Tzu says is: never take death as separate from yourself.

In the whole world, in all the Puranas, there are stories. All stories deceive. They deceive by suggesting that someone sends death. A messenger of Yama arrives, riding a buffalo; or Yama, the lord of death, sends death to fetch you. These are stories. Death arrived the very day you were born; it was hidden in the seed of your birth.

Now scientists say that soon there will be ways by which, as soon as a child is conceived, we will know how long he will live. For in that first seed there is a blueprint; the whole tale is hidden—whether seventy years or eighty, fifty, ten, five. Astrologers failed by guessing about the future; science will soon be fully capable of telling. Then, along with the birth certificate, you will bring home from the scientist a certificate of how long the child will live. Death came on the day he was born. Death is not going to occur somewhere else. Therefore you cannot postpone. There is no way to delay.

And yet you postpone. And you also know well that every day you are aging, every day you are dying. Every day life-energy slips from your hands; every day you are being emptied. Still you postpone. Those stories help you—death is somewhere at the end; what is the hurry? Do other things for now.

Hence you postpone religion too. Whoever postpones death postpones religion. One who has looked death in the eye cannot postpone religion. For religion is the science of going beyond death. If you postpone the disease itself, what difficulty is there in postponing the medicine?

Therefore animals have no religion, trees have no religion. Because they have no sense of death. Little children too cannot be religious at birth; they are bound to be irreligious—like plants, like animals. They know nothing of death. In truth, the day a child first comes to know death, that day childhood ends, fear enters, and he is no longer part of the world of plants and animals. Adam is cast out of the Garden of Eden. The day a child knows death, that day he becomes old.

But then, your whole life you keep postponing—yes, death is, but not yet. 'Not yet'—with this you console yourself. And you see too: whoever dies is always someone else; you never die. Sometimes this neighbor dies, sometimes that neighbor. So mind hoards a delusion that death happens always to the other, never to oneself. And the human mind does not have the capacity to think thirty, forty, fifty years ahead. The light of the mind is like a small clay lamp; it falls two or four feet—no more. Four steps are visible; that suffices.

So whenever you push something too far ahead, it becomes as if it does not exist. If someone were to tell you: your death is about to happen—within the hour—you would tremble in every pore. But if someone says: you will die in seventy years—nothing trembles. Seventy years is such a long distance that it feels almost like infinity. No need to fear now. Seventy years are in hand; we can find some way to escape. But if death were happening now, there is no remedy; there is no time. Then you shake; you are afraid.

But what difference does it make—whether death occurs after seventy years or after seven moments? Death will occur. If it will occur, then it has occurred. That is what Buddha said on seeing a corpse. You do not say it; therefore you cannot be a Buddha. Seeing a corpse Buddha said only this: if death is—and mine will also be—then, he told his charioteer, turn the chariot back! He was going to inaugurate a youth festival—the grandest of the year. The prince himself opened it. 'Turn back the chariot! If death is certain—and mine too—then no festival remains for me. In my life there is no festival now, there is death. I have to settle accounts with death.'

The charioteer said: granted death is, but it is far away. No need to turn the chariot home. This festival is but for an hour. Death is far.

The charioteer did not understand Buddha. That charioteer must have been like you.

Buddha said: far or near, what is, is. What difference do near and far make? I will die. And if this is true, I am already dead. Now I must search for that essence which does not die. Whatever time remains to me must be invested in the search that takes one beyond death. This life is now futile for me.

It is astonishing: you will die; you see people die every day; still your life does not become futile! How skillful you are at deceiving yourself!

Kabir says, 'Dhoka kasun kahiye?' Whom shall I accuse of deception?
Who is deceiving? You are deceiving yourself. Had it been another, perhaps you could have been saved; since it is you yourself, there is no defense. You are unarmed, and you deprive yourself.

Whatever you accumulate, death will snatch. If death becomes visible, the urge to hoard will drop. Relationships and ties you weave, death will tear. If death is seen, attachment will fall today; it will not need to be broken—it will be broken by the very awareness of death. You become non-attached. This body—death will snatch it too. It will burn, blazing, on the funeral pyre, or rot in some grave. If the realization of death dawns, any identification with the body, any fondness for it, is gone today—you have died today.

The wise man, knowing death, counts himself already a corpse. The ignorant says: what is the hurry—when it comes we shall see. The ignorant says: when the fire breaks out we will dig a well. The wise says: if the fire is bound to break out, the well should be ready; dig it today. Who will dig a well when the fire is already raging? When the house is burning will you begin to dig a well for water to douse it?

You postpone death. The fire will catch—you know it; yet you do not dig the well. You have no means to quench it. In truth, you know the fire will catch, and meanwhile you are storing barrels of ghee in the house, so that when the fire comes it will be impossible to put out. Whatever you accumulate in life becomes ghee in the fire.

Lao Tzu says: 'From life, death arises.'
Within you it grows. Death is your own child. As a child grows in a mother's womb and comes out of the mother, so your death—everyone's death—grows within you and emerges from you. There is no messenger of Yama, no Yama riding buffaloes coming, no god of death dispatching death. Life itself is the god of death. And death rides on you; you are the buffalo it rides. You will not find it coming from outside.

If death came from outside, there would be ways to escape. We could lock ourselves in an impregnable fort so that nothing from outside could enter. Even then you would die. Shut yourself behind glass walls where even air cannot enter—you will still die. Because death is growing within you. Yes—if you could also leave yourself outside, then you would not die. That is what the wise do; they leave themselves outside and slip within.

Death is growing within you moment to moment. Stay awake.

It so happened that a Jewish fakir was practicing a meditation one dark night. The practice was: while walking, to keep the remembrance 'I am.' The remembrance would slip again and again. On that dark road, while he practiced, he saw another man pacing. He thought, perhaps he too is absorbed in sadhana. He asked: what are you remembering while you wander? Why are you walking? What is your practice? The man said: I have no practice; I am a watchman of a rich man's mansion. I stand guard before the master's gate. All night, awake, I have to remember one thing—the master's door.

The fakir kept walking with him. Finally the man asked: and I never asked you—whose watch are you keeping? The fakir said: hard to say—my Master is within; I am guarding Him. But not as skillfully as you. Twenty-four hours is far; I cannot keep watch even for twenty-four moments. If for a moment it remains, that is much. Then it slips; again it slips; again it slips.

They walked on. While departing, the fakir said: would you like to be my servant? The man said: with great joy. You appear lovable; being near you was blissful. Such peace I have never known near anyone. Gladly. But what will the work be? The fakir said: work only this—remind me. When I fall asleep, shake me awake. When I lose awareness, nudge me. Keep my remembrance alive. He asked: but what is it you are remembering? What is the remembrance? He said: on one side, remembrance of death; on the other, remembrance of Paramatman.

And these two are two sides of one coin. When you remember death totally on this side, on that side the remembrance of Paramatman thickens by itself. If death becomes visible to you now, instantly a call, a thirst for Paramatman will arise from your heart—like the remembrance of water in a thirsty man. Death is thirst; do not be afraid of death. Death is the remembrance of water. Therefore do not avoid death; do not hide from death. You cannot hide, you cannot escape. No one ever did. Yes, you can go beyond death. Death is sprouting within you, growing. You are nursing it. It is your pregnancy. This is the first point.

'From life death arises. Life's companions (organs) are thirteen. Death's companions are thirteen. And those that, while living, send man to the house of death are also thirteen.'

In China, in Lao Tzu's time, such a notion prevailed. And it is apt: there are nine openings in the human body; through them life enters and exits. And there are four limbs. Together, thirteen. Two eyes, two nostrils, the mouth, two ears, the genitals, the anus—these nine are the orifices. And four—two hands and two feet. These thirteen are life's companions and death's companions. These thirteen bring you into life and lead you out of life. Thirteen means the entire body. Through them you eat; through them you receive life; through them you stand, sit, walk; on them rests your health. And on them will rest your death too. For life and death are two names of one thing. Through these life enters you; through these it will go out. Through these you are held within the body. With these the body will break; by these it will break.

It is a marvel: these that support you will erase you. Food gives you life, strength. And by the very power of food you go on growing your inner death. Food will carry you to old age, to death. Through eyes, ears, nose, the breath of life comes in; through them it goes out. Nine gates and four limbs.

Lao Tzu says: thirteen are life's companions; thirteen are death's. These thirteen bring you; these thirteen take you. If you become aware, you are the fourteenth. You are not among these thirteen; you are beyond them.

Because of this number thirteen, in China—and then gradually across the world—thirteen became an ill omen. It spread from China. In the West where thirteen is unlucky, they do not even know why. Its birth was in China; the superstition was born there—for a meaningful reason. These thirteen are indeed ill-omened. You are the fourteenth, and you have no inkling of the fourteenth. You are neither life nor death; you are beyond both. As you become alert to these thirteen, the body will recede. As your awareness grows, your distance from the body will grow. You will see: I am separate, I am other. Body—one thing; I—another. And this inner distinction, the arising of consciousness separate from the body—this has no death and no life. It was never born; it never dies.

'Ek sayani aapni, phir bahuri na marna hoy.' He who, knowing this, died—he is wise, he is a knower. He has known. Those who die without knowing, their death is not right. They simply die. They lived in vain and died in vain. They ran for no reason, walked much and reached nowhere. Searched much and found nothing; lost only themselves in the seeking. In the end when they go, their hands are empty. Jesus said: empty-handed you come, and empty-handed I see you go. And Jesus was willing to fill your hands. But you think your hands are already full. If empty, they could be filled. Your hands are full of pebbles and stones. And if Jesus or Lao Tzu tries to fill your hands with diamonds and jewels, you say: my hands are not empty! You go on gathering pebbles and trash. All of it will burn with you. Your wealth proves to be your calamity. You are harassed by it; you gain no peace, no rest, no joy.

'How does this happen?'
How does death arise within life? How does death happen on the path of living?

'Because of the intense activity of multiplying life.'

If you look within, you will find I have seen two kinds of people. One, in whose being the mantra of 'more, more, more' goes on. Whatever is, must become more. Whatever is, does not satisfy. Within them one note is heard, one music they recognize: more, more. Whether they have a crore or a cowrie—more. Whether nothing, or an empire—more. Their mouths, their very life-force, are filled with lack. Whatever is, must increase.

Lao Tzu says: by this they are deprived of the element beyond life and death. Life is a race for more; and death is the end of this race for more. If you stop this running, in that very instant death stops too. 'Phir bahuri na marna hoy'—then there is no dying again.

Search within: what chant runs in you twenty-four hours? What mantra works? You will find, in every pore, in every breath, one craving: whatever is, should be enlarged.

What will you do by making it large? If you do not know how to live, you will be restless in a small house; you will be restless in a palace. If you do not know how to sleep, whether on a poor man's cot or in a king's mansion—what difference? If you do not know how to eat, whether dry bread or the most exquisite cuisine—what difference?

There is a second kind of man who does not run after 'more.' Whatever he has—whatever—he is content, satisfied. A deep contentment surrounds him. Around him is an atmosphere of supreme satisfaction. Whatever is given is much—this is the inner note. Because of it he gives thanks incessantly. Gratitude arises within him. He keeps saying to Paramatman: thank you. Whatever you have given, I had no worthiness for it. Whatever you have given is always more than my capacity. Within him an Ahobhav—a cry of wonder and gratitude—resounds. Walking, sitting, standing, he is filled with supreme thankfulness.

These are the only two kinds. In whom the note of 'more' resounds—they are worldly. In whom the note of Ahobhav resounds—they are sannyasins. Where you live makes no difference. If Ahobhav is within, you are a supreme sannyasin. And if within you there is only the race of 'more,' then whether you live in an ashram or on the Himalayas, you remain worldly. If you are filled with Ahobhav, heaven is here and now. If you are filled with 'more,' wherever you go you will find hell. For hell is within you; heaven too is within you.

It happened: a Sufi fakir dreamt one night. A few days earlier his master had died. In the dream he saw he had gone to heaven and was searching for his master. Then under a tree he saw his master praying and was amazed—now what for is he praying? What had to be attained is attained; the final goal is reached. There is nothing above heaven. What is he praying for now?

But the master was in prayer, so he waited. An angel passed by. He asked: I am astonished! I thought people on earth pray to go to heaven. That is why we beat our chests and pray, bow our heads. My master reached heaven—and he sits so absorbed, so ecstatic, in prayer. Now what for? What remains to be attained? I thought in heaven there is no prayer.

The angel said: in heaven there is no prayer; prayer itself is heaven. The moment his prayer slips, that moment heaven will be lost. Prayer is not the gate to heaven; prayer is heaven. Prayer is not the path; prayer is the goal. Prayer is not a means; it is the end. It is not the state of a seeker; it is the Ahobhav of the fulfilled.

But Ahobhav is possible only when 'more' is dropped. Understand this: the man who says 'more, more, more' cannot give thanks; he can only complain. He is always troubled, always in lack. What Ahobhav? What prayer? What worship? Thanks for whom? The man who cries 'more' will remain full of complaint toward Paramatman. A thorn of complaint will remain in his very life, pricking like a pain, stinging.

Do not go to the temple with complaint. For one who goes with complaint never reaches the temple. Do not try to go to Paramatman with complaint; complaint is a device to lead you away from Him. Do not go to His door to beg; to beg means it is not yet the moment for thanks—you still want 'more.'

Lao Tzu says: how does it happen that death grows in your life? It happens because you keep asking 'more, more, more.'

'Because of the intense activity of multiplying life.'

You run—more, more, more. Some day it may all be given to you. A great miracle of this world is that even your foolishness is fulfilled. And Paramatman is so compassionate that he goes on blessing even your stupidity. He arranges to satisfy your petty and meaningless desires. Then suddenly you find: everything is in the hand—but somewhere on the way you left yourself; somewhere in the distant past you lost yourself. You reached the destination, gathered everything—but your soul was left on the road. Then again a restlessness seizes you, a peacelessness. Even after gaining all, you remain a beggar.

And in this very race to gain all, your death is growing. Because you are spending life. You are not conserving life. You are selling life's energy—for shards. With this very life-energy Paramatman can be attained. You are using this opportunity to fill the safe. With this very opportunity the soul can be filled. The opportunity is precious. Each moment lost will not return.

Save yourself from the race of 'more.' Begin to see that which is already given. Do not be overly concerned with what is not yet given. Whoever worries about what is not, will never come to rest. For however much is attained, something will always remain unachieved. Do you think such a moment will come when nothing remains to attain?

Never. The expanse is infinite. How will you have it all? With your small hands how will you contain the infinite? You may attain something; much will remain. Attain however much; infinitely more will still remain. And that moment when you can give thanks will never arrive. The emperor's complaint becomes greater than the poor man's. The larger the craving, the larger the complaint. Complaint is the mark of the irreligious.

If someone asks me, I do not call an atheist the one who says 'there is no God.' I call an atheist the one in whose life there is nothing but complaint. He may go to temple, mosque, gurdwara, but there too he complains. There too he says: what are you doing? What are you making me do? The dishonest thrive; I, honest, am defeated. The unworthy sit on the throne, and a worthy man like me wanders the streets. There is injustice.

Your whole prayer is your complaint. Can prayer ever be complaint?

You will reach the temple the day you go to give thanks, the day you say: I was worthy of nothing; I had no capacity, and you gave me so much! The day what you have appears more than your worthiness, the birth of prayer happens. Then that prayer has no end. It goes on growing. And a moment comes when your worthiness becomes zero. Into that empty vessel the whole existence pours. The day you can say: I have no worth whatsoever, I was not even worthy to breathe one breath of existence, and you gave me infinite life—the day you see nothing in this but the grace of Paramatman, you become utterly empty; in that very instant there is no death for you.

Death belongs to craving. Your life is craving; therefore death grows within you. Your craving itself is your inner death. One who attains to nirvasana—desirelessness—attains to amrita, the deathless nectar.

'It is said: one who rightly protects life—on the earth he meets neither tiger nor bull; on the battlefield no weapon can pierce him. The wild bull's horns are powerless before him; the tiger's claws are futile; the soldiers' arms are useless. How does this happen? Because he is beyond death.'

Krishna has said in the Gita the same: 'Nainam chindanti shastrani'—weapons cannot cut you; 'nainam dahati pavakah'—nor can fire burn you.

But the body burns. Weapons do pierce the body. And Krishna says this to Arjuna on the battlefield! What a lie? On the battlefield—where death manifests in its intensity—where Arjuna clearly sees: these dear ones, my kin, my elders, my gurus, in a little while they will bite dust; in a little while we will be too, our blood on the ground, bodies cut down, heaps of corpses—and there Krishna says: neither can weapons cut you nor fire burn you. It is as if, at the cremation ground while a corpse burns, I tell you: do not fear; fire cannot burn you.

But Krishna is right. He is neither jesting nor lying. For what you are, you do not know. That which burns in fire is not you. That which weapons pierce is outside you. It may be your abode, your garment—but not you. It is an inn for a while—a wayside shelter—but it is not your being. You are consciousness—pure consciousness. How will weapons pierce pure consciousness? How will fire touch consciousness? Between consciousness and fire there is no meeting. People say water and oil cannot be mixed. Even then you can try to mix them. But between fire and consciousness—there can be no attempt at mixing. How will consciousness burn?

Lao Tzu says the same. He says: 'It is said, one who rightly protects life...'

One who uses life rightly, does not squander it in vasana, does not waste time in the race of more, does not run after lack—one who protects life. What is protection?

You can live in two ways. One—like a cracked bucket. Lower it into the well; there is much noise, it seems to fill when it sinks into water. Then you pull—it makes a great sound, for water is falling out from all sides. It appears the bucket is bringing the whole ocean. But by the time it reaches your hands, it is empty. That din was not the ocean's; it was the din of the holes. The noise did not happen because the bucket was carrying something vast; it happened because it was full of a thousand cracks.

So one kind of life is like a leaky bucket. At the last breath you will find everything has leaked away; whatever you brought has been squandered—and you carry nothing with you. Life has gone like that. The other kind is a bucket without holes. That is what Lao Tzu calls protection.

Vasanas—cravings—are your cracks through which your life-energy drains. When you are filled with vasana, you lose yourself. Nirvasana is protection. Therefore Buddha, Mahavira—all insist: drop trishna, drop vasana. Do not ask. What is, is enough. Live what is. And make do with as little as possible. For that 'little' only appears little because of your vasana. Once vasana is gone you will find: it was never little.

I have often told you: one day Akbar drew a line in court and said, make it shorter without touching it. Courtiers were baffled; how to make it shorter without touching? Then Birbal came and drew a longer line beneath it. Without being touched, the first line became shorter instantly.

What you have appears too little because you have drawn a very long line of vasana. It is not little. It is more than enough. Existence always gives more than needed. It is no miser. Existence is not bargaining with you. Existence's giving is its joy, its overflowing. Existence overflows. Existence exists because Paramatman has more than enough. It is His bliss to share. He cannot remain without sharing.

So do not think you are being given according to your need. You are always being given more than you need. But you keep drawing a longer line of vasana. However much you get, your line grows longer. So whatever you receive always seems little. As long as there is vasana you will remain poor, a beggar. The day there is no vasana, your emperor within appears. That day you are king.

Ram—Swami Ram—called himself an emperor. He had only a loincloth. Someone asked in America: why do you call yourself an emperor? You have nothing!

Ram Tirtha said: precisely therefore. I have no need and no demand—how can you call me a beggar? And one who is not a beggar is an emperor.

A rich man once lodged at a fakir's hut. There was little furniture—only essentials. Just enough to do. Fakirs know the art of managing with less. The rich guest was troubled. At night, when he lay to sleep, the fakir came to the door and said: look—if there is anything missing here that you feel is needed, tell me. The rich man joked: what will happen by telling? What will you do? If a thing is not here, even if I tell you, what will you do? The fakir said: I will show you how to do without it. How to do without it. I am not going to bring anything; I know nothing is here. But if I am living—see—then you also can live. If any difficulty appears, tell me; I will show you the trick of how to manage without it.

In Greece there was a fakir, Diogenes—like Mahavira—he moved naked. When he became a fakir and roamed naked, he kept a begging bowl to drink water and take bread. One day he saw a dog drinking at a stream; he threw away the bowl at once and bowed to the dog: you have outdone me too—you have given me a lesson. I thought: without a bowl how will I drink? From that day he drank water like a dog. And when people asked: what is this? he said: if a dog can manage without a bowl, am I worse than a dog? If the dog is so wise as to manage without, I may be worse in many ways, but not worse than a dog—we too will manage. If a dog keeps the dignity of such fakiri, am I less than a dog?

And the dog whose feet he touched and from whom he learned—people say—that dog remained with Diogenes always. When Alexander met Diogenes, the dog sat beside him. They both dwelt under a great tin tub near the rubbish heap—such a tub he found, he set it on its side and lived in it. When Alexander came, the dog sat near. When Alexander asked questions, Diogenes answered, and now and then he would also say to the dog: 'Listen!'

Alexander asked: what nonsense is this? You speak to me—why do you say to this dog 'listen'?

And the dog sat in such a way it seemed he listened. When Diogenes said 'listen' the dog nodded.

Diogenes said: I have not found men worthy of understanding wise talk. With men you can talk foolishness unlimited; wise talk—you cannot. This dog is very wise. And the greatest wisdom is that however much I speak, he remains silent. He is wiser than I. Sometimes he nods at the right time; he speaks in gestures. A great knower.

With nothing, you can manage; with everything, you may fail. So surely the question is not of nothing or everything. It depends on you—entirely on you. With everything you may not manage; with nothing you may. The more you learn to manage with nothing, the shorter your line of vasana becomes. The day the line disappears, suddenly within you the image of consciousness—the Atman—appears in its full dignity. There is no smoke to hide it. All clouds have dispersed. The sky—the blue sky—stands before you.

'One who rightly protects life...'

It means: one who is free of trishna and does not waste his life-energy in trishna, whose bucket has no holes—

'On the earth he meets neither tiger nor bull; on the battlefield no weapon can pierce him. The wild bull's horns are powerless before him; the tiger's claws are helpless; the soldiers' weapons are ineffectual.'

Do not think your body will not be pierced. Do not think your body cannot be burned. Do not think the bull's horn cannot enter your flesh. But you will not remain the body. One who has conserved his energy becomes bodiless. Then even if the bull's horn is thrust into your body, and a spear passes through your flesh, you remain the witness. You will know it is happening outside you—around you indeed, but not within you. As if someone pierced a wall in your house—does that make a hole in you? As if your garment became worn, full of holes—do you become full of holes? The holes of your body are not your holes.

And the body is the prey of death; it is mortal; it will die. Buddha's body dies; Krishna's body dies; Rama's body returns to dust. Yours too will. The body rises from dust. It came from earth; to earth it must return. That is its nature. But that death is not yours. You will know this the day you awaken within, free of trishna. Why free of trishna? Because one filled with trishna cannot awaken. Trishna is wine. It is unconsciousness, blindness.

It is told: a Jewish fakir in old age went blind. Passing through a village, someone took pity and said: good you have come—there is a great physician here who will cure your eyes. The fakir said: but what to do by curing eyes? Whatever can be seen with eyes, I have seen enough; I found nothing. And that which is seen without eyes—that we are seeing, and we are finding much.

There is a world that can be seen by these eyes. But the body's eyes can see only that which is like the body. They can see matter, the earthly, the earth. And there is that which is seen with eyes closed. To see that, no need of these eyes. To see that, no need of an eye at all. Your heart, your inner being, sees and knows it. It is seen with eyes shut.

The fakir was right: what could be seen with these eyes—I saw fully; I found nothing. And what can be seen without them—I am seeing fully; I am finding much. Who needs eyes to be cured? What will I do, cured?

'How does this happen?'

How does the inner eye open? How do the visions of amrita arise? How do you go beyond the body—where death does not reach, where weapons do not pierce, where fire does not burn? How? Where you do not grow old, where decay does not come?

Lao Tzu says: it happens by being beyond death.

'Because he is beyond death.'

The moment you know that you are beyond death... And you are. You may delay knowing, but there is no difficulty. Postpone as you like; the day you wish to know, you will know. It is a matter of closing the eyes. Of seeing your own self. You need not go anywhere; no journey is needed. No condition to fulfill. No bargain with another, no price to pay. Just close the eyes. Loosen trishna a little, so the race stops.

If the race goes on, how will you come home? If the race goes on, you are always elsewhere—always 'more.' This inner stream of 'more' must be slowed so you can sit still. When you sit in meditation, a thousand thoughts run. The mind keeps running; only the body sits. What will happen by sitting the body? That running mind must sit. If it sits, vision happens at once. Here the mind sits; there the Atman appears. And that Atman is amrita. It is neither life nor death; it is beyond both. When there was no life, that was; when all life will be lost, that will be. It is the eternal.

That Atman we call truth. Truth means: that which is eternal—always is, always was, always will be. Whose being is never altered; though all change, though the whole creation goes into dissolution and a new one arises—still it remains as it is; its nature is unaffected in the least. That is truth. Such truth you carry within you.

Paramatman has given you all. But even the treasure you have, you cannot see. Because of the race you cannot sit. Because of vasana you cannot be still. Because of the mantra of 'more' you cannot chant the mantra of Ram. See this; recognize this; analyze this within you. For Lao Tzu's words are not those of a philosopher. Lao Tzu's words are of a knower—a supreme knower. And whatever he tells you, he tells for experiment. He is not giving you a theory, nor binding you to a scripture, nor imposing a rigid discipline. He is only giving you a seeing. Catch the fragrance of that seeing within you; only then will Lao Tzu's true exposition be understood. When you awaken within yourself, you will find how unique is what Lao Tzu has said.

But without awakening, however much I explain and however much it seems to you that you are understanding—understanding will not be born. This is not a matter of writing; it is a matter of seeing. You must see with your own eyes—only then you will know. Taste—and only then you will know. Like the dumb tasting sugar—he eats and he smiles. Then a smile will fill your body and being. Every pore will smile—because you have tasted. Only by taste does true understanding come.

What I am explaining is only a pointing toward taste. It is not real understanding; it will not give real understanding. Do not take it for real understanding—otherwise you will stop. It will make you a pundit. Do not turn it into scholarship. Take it only as a sign—a milestone with an arrow marked on it. Do not sit there. Rest a little with these words if you must. But travel you must. All this explanation is only so that you may taste. And when taste is found, real understanding arrives. Before that—before that it has never come, and cannot.

Enough for today.