Tao Upanishad #90

Lao Tzu is very fond of the symbol of theft. Let us understand this symbol a little, then enter the sutra.

There was a Sufi fakir, Junnaid. He was passing through a village. The village qazi had sentenced a thief to life imprisonment. The qazi was a devotee of Junnaid. Hearing the news, Junnaid went to the court and pleaded with the qazi to release the man; however great the sin, do not destroy his whole life. He is still young; he might yet be transformed. The qazi forgave the thief.

Junnaid took the thief outside the court and said to him, Enough now. Gather yourself. Stop stealing. I saved your life so that prayer and Paramatma might be born in you. The thief said, Why should I stop stealing? Does one failure mean I must always fail? And since I have been given life, one more effort is necessary.

Those were very difficult days in Junnaid’s life. He was in great crisis. For years he had been seeking Paramatma, and only that very morning he had decided, Enough—He is not found; perhaps He does not exist. Hearing the thief’s words, Junnaid closed his eyes right there in the middle of the road and thought: A thief, too, says—if life is given, make one more attempt. So far I have failed—what certainty is there that I must fail ahead as well? Success is possible. The future is always open. It is necessary to use the chance. Junnaid opened his eyes, said to the thief, Thank you! and started on his way.

The thief said, Wait! What are you thanking me for? Junnaid said, I too had reached that moment when despair had gripped my mind. I was thinking to drop this effort; there is no Paramatma, there is no moksha. Enough is enough. I have searched much and found nothing. I am losing the world, I am losing my strength, life is slipping away, and there is no news of Him. But you awakened my courage. If even a thief is not ready to give up stealing—because another opportunity has come and he wishes to use it—then I too still have life, and I too will use it until the last moment remains. You are my guru. Thank you!

Some twenty years after this event, when Junnaid attained knowing, his disciples asked him, Who is your guru? By whose grace? He remembered that thief. And Junnaid said, To attain Paramatma is also a theft. And one needs the courage of a thief—the courage to walk in the dark, to travel in a dark night. The danger is the same as for a thief. Whether one finds or not—nothing is certain. Life may be lost and nothing found. One may be imprisoned for life, hanged—and no treasure be obtained. It is the work of the courageous, like thieves. One has to move in another’s house as if it is one’s own—in the darkness of night. This world is another’s house, Junnaid said; it is not our home. Here we must keep courage alive. Let not darkness become despair, let not failure settle deep. Keep hope alight—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after; it shall be. Let this never break within, let this thread never slip. That thief saved me. On that day I had decided to return to the world.

Lao Tzu too loves the word theft. The Hindus also—whoever has searched—have used this word somewhere. The Hindus chose one of Paramatma’s names, Hari, precisely because of theft. Hari means one who snatches away, who steals. Hari means thief—the supreme thief. He has stolen you away. And until you steal Him, the journey is incomplete. As He has played a trick on you, so must you respond with a trick. Until you steal Him, you are losing the game. Hence the Hindus call Paramatma, Hari.

Lao Tzu says, Even the Supreme Truth has to be stolen. Why stolen? Because He is the heart of our heart, yet He has become very far from us. He is our own, but so alien now that to attain Him will be called stealing. You yourself have made Him so alien, so distant. It is your own treasure, but you have placed such a distance that to obtain it you will have to pass through almost the state of a thief. You have completely squandered it, completely lost it. Now when you go to regain it, no claim remains yours; your ownership ended long ago. That is why you wander like a beggar. If this beggar now wishes to become an emperor again, it is almost the condition of theft. Because that empire has not been his for long. Who knows in what moments of the past, in which births, you lost it. It has to be regained, the claim reasserted. That claim is like a thief’s claim. And the effort is like a thief’s. One has to grope in the dark; there is no light yet. One has to create light gradually. And others must not come to know. Because if others come to know, obstacles arise. Hence it is like theft.

The Sufis say, When you pray, do it in the deep darkness of night—when even your children and your wife are asleep. Why? It does not harm anyone if they know you are praying; but if anyone comes to know that you are praying, a taste is born in you and your ego is nourished. Then you begin to pray so that someone will know. Then the search for Paramatma recedes, and prayer becomes an affirmation of ego. Let people know that you are an aspirant, that you are a seeker, that you have set out on the journey toward Paramatma—this urge itself becomes an obstacle.

Jesus has said, When you give with your left hand, let not the right hand know. Give alms so that it is not known; do merit so that it is not known—not even to you; not a whisper. Give, then forget.

The Sufis say, Do good and throw it into the well. Do the good and cast it into the well. Do not bring it home. Do not keep it in your heart that I did good, I worshipped, I prayed, I earned merit, I gave, I served. If the doer enters, you have lost; you have attained nothing. Let no one come to know. Because seeing your reflection in another’s eyes inflates the ego.

The work is theft—finish it silently. Not a whisper of news. When all are asleep—and all are asleep—finish the work so quietly that no one’s sleep breaks. Hence it is an act like theft, and it must be done with great care. A thief has to move with great care.

You have never really seen it; you have never even thought about it. You have never given a thief his full due; you have only condemned him. In your own house you walk and bump into tables and chairs—in broad daylight. A vessel slips from your hand—in broad daylight, in full awareness. The thief moves in another’s house where he does not know the pathways, does not know the doors of the rooms. He moves in the darkness of night; there is not the slightest sound, no hint; nothing strikes against anything. He breaks walls and the residents keep snoring happily—fast asleep, in deep slumber. Without lighting a lamp he finds the treasure. If you yourself were to dig up a treasure you had buried, there would be much noise; he has not even buried it. By understanding the rules of another’s mind and another’s consciousness—where it might be hidden, how it might be hidden—he settles everything silently. You keep sleeping and the theft is done. A thief must keep great alertness, great awareness. What is called awareness, samyak bodh—a thief must have it.

It happened once that a thief went to a Zen fakir, the great Lin-chi. The thief said, Teach me meditation. Lin-chi did not know who he was. But Lin-chi said, Meditation? You already know meditation; meditation is in your very air. Seeing you, it seems so—do not try to deceive me; you have learned meditation before. The man said, You are mistaken, and it is not right that I should call you wrong. But what has meditation to do with me? You do not know me; I have never meditated.

Lin-chi fell into thought. He closed his eyes, searched deeply. He said, You must have done something. Do you know how to wield the sword?

Because Zen fakirs take people into meditation through the sword as well. The art of the sword is the art of meditation. Miss awareness for even a fraction and you are gone. Before the other lifts his sword, your defense must be ready. Before the other strikes, your preparation must have happened. Great alertness is needed. And there is no time-gap—the sword stands before you. In Japan a great experiment of meditation through the sword has been done.

So, do you know swordsmanship?

No, my work needs no sword. I have nothing to do with it.

Then what do you do? Lin-chi asked again; because I simply cannot understand. And I have never erred in my life. I can well recognize what the aura of meditation is. Around you there is a circle of meditation.

The man began to weep. He said, Certainly, some mistake is happening; even if it has never happened before, it is happening now. I am a simple thief. Do not raise that subject anymore; it brings guilt to my heart.

Lin-chi laughed. He said, Now it is clear; I am not mistaken. For a thief must practice meditation. But you are not an ordinary thief—you are a master thief. You are extraordinary. And what have you come to learn from me? What you have known in theft, pour into your life. With the same alertness with which you have stolen, do your other acts. That is all, it will be solved. You already have the sutra; you are not aware of what you possess. Lift your foot as you used to lift it in another’s house in the darkness of night, breathe as you used to breathe…

Even a thief cannot breathe loudly in another’s house; he must practice pranayama. And you know, whenever you do any act that brings nervousness, the breath increases. A thief must regulate his breath so it does not rise, so there remains a rhythm. Even the breath must not be noticed. A thief does not cough, does not clear his throat. You know that when a sannyasi sits to meditate and a cough comes, he cannot stop it—but a thief must stop it. For if he coughs, the whole thing is spoiled. How right! The work is wrong, but in doing it the process requires awareness.

Lao Tzu too loves the symbol of the thief. And Lao Tzu says, Paramatma has to be stolen; one must move like a thief in the darkness in another’s house. This world is wholly another’s house; nothing here is ours. Here, at every step, is the possibility of collision—strife, conflict. You must avoid that conflict, avoid that strife. Everywhere is the possibility of getting lost—for the darkness is dense. You must avoid that losing, and learn to move in such a way that even in darkness you begin to see. Slowly, slowly, a thief begins to see in the dark.

You too, if you sit a few days in the dark and try to look silently, will find that as your effort deepens a faint perception begins to arise. Because no darkness is absolute darkness; all darknesses are forms of light. What we call darkness—if we say it properly, in scientific language, asking Einstein—we would say: it is less light. Relative. Darkness is not precise—rather, a little less light. For even in that darkness a cat sees. A cat’s eyes are more alert. If you ever look into a cat’s eyes you will feel much restlessness—they have therefore become a symbol of the demonic. They are very alert. And so those who travel in the black arts have taken the cat as their companion. It can see in the dark—that is its deep art.

And have you ever watched a cat walk? A thief walks just like that. When a cat goes to catch a mouse, watch her—so does a thief walk, without a sound. And when a thief reaches close to the treasure, to another’s property, he is as alert as a cat by the mouse-hole. You cannot tell that she is there. Not even the faintest quiver, yet so ready that even competitors in the Olympics are not so prepared. The mouse emerges and she does not pounce—she flashes. And the flash is soundless. The other mice do not even know that one has been caught—otherwise they would stop coming out.

Have you seen a cat’s sleep? Deeply absorbed; perhaps she is seeing some deep dream; she licks her whiskers—perhaps she is eating a mouse in the dream; absorbed in deep sleep. But the faintest rustle, the slightest movement of a mouse—and the eyes open. A yogi’s sleep should be like a cat’s. And a cat is the thief of thieves among animals. There is no other thief like the cat. She lives by stealing; her entire trade is theft.

Remember, the whole world is alien, another’s house. All around is darkness. But if you learn to steady your gaze—and what is meditation other than steadying the gaze—if your vision becomes somewhat still, then this darkness slowly, slowly becomes less dark, and light begins to appear. A moment comes when your attention becomes utterly still and no darkness remains. The lamp within you is lit; its radiance begins to fall in all directions. And unless you become available to that inner light, Paramatma cannot be stolen. Hence the symbol of the thief.

One more thing before the sutra. You have heard the proverb: to know a tree, know its fruits. We all say the father is judged by the son. But Lao Tzu says exactly the reverse. He says: to know the fruit, know the tree; to know the son, recognize the father or the mother.

The common proverb is understandable—common people made it. Lao Tzu’s saying looks reverse, but it is very deep. We cannot be greater than that from which we are born. Not greater than the source, not greater than the origin. For how can we be greater than what we come from? We can be smaller. And if we make of life a sadhana, we can become like it—but there is no way to be greater. If we go astray, we can become smaller. Hence the father cannot be fully known by the son, because the father is always greater than the son.

That is why, in the countries of the East, we give such reverence to the father and the mother. In the West there is not such reverence. The reason is that the West trusts only what is grossly visible—their logic. If you go to Gangotri, the Ganga is very small, very subtle. In Kashi she is vast. Lao Tzu says, If you wish to know the Ganga, go to Gangotri! But we say, What is there at Gangotri? A tiny stream trickles; drop by drop the water seeps out. From Gaumukh the Ganga flows at Gangotri—how small she must be. What is the point there? What is in the roots of the tree? If you want to see the tree, see it in its flowers and fruits. There is great expanse there.

Granted there is expanse, but what appears in expanse was hidden in the sprout, hidden in the seed, hidden in the root. And remember, more than what is visible is always hidden in the source. The source is infinite. What is visible… This tree stands here—it is not the whole. For every year these leaves fall; new leaves come again. It has happened hundreds of times; it will happen hundreds of times. Each time thousands and millions of seeds appear—again they appear. The source keeps giving and giving. The Ganga goes on flowing. Gangotri is subtle, not small. He who has recognized the subtle alone can understand the vast. The vast is visible; gross eyes can see it. The source is not visible, but in it everything is hidden. And in the source infinite possibilities are hidden. In the source is what has happened; in it is what is happening; in it is what will happen. The expanse is a moment; the source is eternal. The expanse is now, limited; the source is unlimited. All beginnings and ends lie hidden in it.

All the processes of Lao Tzu move toward the source. Lao Tzu says, Seek the primal origin. Paramatma, in Lao Tzu’s vision, is not the last flower of evolution. Paramatma is the primal origin of all things, the primal source. The nearer you go to the source, the smaller it seems to become, the more invisible. To see that invisible, your gaze must be steadied. With your present eyes you cannot see it; you need a very subtle, keen vision. Your eyes must be still, your attention unmoving. The more unmoving the attention, the more you can see the subtle. And one who has seen the subtle has seen all.

This means that meditation is a return toward the back. Patanjali calls this kriya, pratyahara. Pratyahara means returning. Mahavir calls the same process pratikraman. Pratikraman also means returning back, turning around. Attack is to go outward—strike, rush, move out; pratikraman is to return inward. Pratyahara—merging into the source; going in the direction from which you have come.

In the West a very important experiment is underway. A great psychologist, Janov—among the few significant happenings in the West, Janov is important. He has given birth to a new psychology of therapy—Primal Therapy. The whole therapy is a return to the source. If Janov succeeds, Lao Tzu’s influence will greatly increase in the West through him.

Janov’s process is: if anywhere in your life there is an obstruction, a dilemma, a disease, mental tension, anxiety—he says, return to childhood. Close your eyes and go back. Take attention back. Do pratikraman, do pratyahara. Go back. At first you will not be able to go far—perhaps up to age four. Three years, if very alert. Then all becomes hazy; nothing further comes, no memory arises. But if day after day you keep the remembering alive, gradually the darkness lessens; tiny memories begin to appear. If you keep returning, some people succeed in remembering the moment of their birth—when they were born, when they came out of the mother’s womb. Memory reaches that far. And as soon as memory reaches it, as soon as it is remembered rightly—this Janov calls the primary event, the primal. When you came out of the womb, the world began. The expansion of things began. The seed broke, the shell cracked, and the bird flew. If you reach that moment, you were absolutely innocent. No disease, no tension, no anxiety. If you return and know that moment again, suddenly you will understand your original nature—that anxiety is not your nature. Anxiety is an accident, it came from outside. You did not bring it with you.

But Janov’s experiment is not yet complete; it is half. The Hindus—Lao Tzu’s kindred—Patanjali, Mahavir—took it much deeper. They say even on the day you were born you were already nine months old. Even that day you were not completely pure. By then the Ganga had flowed far from Gangotri; Gangotri had already made a long journey. Nine months is a long time. Therefore Mahavir says, Pratikraman must go back to the moment of conception—where you entered the body. There you were even more pure. For in nine months the child accumulates memories. If the mother falls ill, the child suffers; memory is formed. If the mother slips in the bath, the child is hurt—and memory is formed. When the mother is happy, a memory forms. If the mother, while pregnant, still indulges in intercourse with the husband, a memory forms for the child.

Therefore the Hindus utterly forbade intercourse with a pregnant woman. Now a very great scientist in the West has worked and expressed agreement with the Hindus—that when the mother is pregnant there should be no intercourse. For the event of intercourse is harmful to the child; it produces kamavasana in the child from this very stage. The child’s innocence is destroyed from the start. Then you cry that children are sexual; you cry that children are dirty, that they have gone astray, become corrupt. And you do not know that you corrupted them. When they were utterly innocent, when nothing of the world had yet entered, when they were still utterly tender—then the atmosphere of sexuality gathered around them.

And you do not know—now it is confirmed on scientific grounds—when the pregnant mother has intercourse, the chemistry of the body is altered. The breath grows rapid; oxygen becomes scarce in the body. That is why couples breathe fast in intercourse—more oxygen is needed. As in running, so in intercourse. Oxygen runs short. And the child takes oxygen from the mother. When oxygen becomes scarce in the mother, the child is suddenly suffocated; he has no facility for breathing within, his throat is completely choked. It is very harmful to him. It may even happen that if intercourse occurs with a nine-month pregnant mother, sometimes the child dies in the womb for this reason. Then it is murder—because his breath is cut off. And if this goes on for long, or happens every day, it is terribly harmful—violence.

So Mahavir and Lao Tzu take it deeper. They say, birth truly happens at the moment of conception. But even that is not enough; one can go further back. For conception is one side of the coin; the other side is the death of an old man. There the body and the soul separate, and here they join again. When an old man is dying, half the birth is there, and half is in conception. These are the two sides. If you go deeper, you will reach the previous life. Then the door opens. Then the source will not be found in these births. There are infinite births. And beyond them, beyond and beyond, when you reach the primal origin—when your first emergence happened—Lao Tzu says, there you will meet the Mother; when the first appearance occurred, when for the first time consciousness entered a body. That which is primal—that alone is truly primal.

Janov still has a long journey to find the primal. This is not primary enough; the journey is already very old. Yet it is useful. Many diseases vanish simply by reaching back to birth. By remembering alone—you will be amazed—the mind drops its tension and again the child arises in you.

Imagine the purity of those who have reached the first moment of their birth—prior to endless journeys! Such a one’s mind becomes utterly immaculate. That one we have called a saint—who has found the original origin. His purity is supreme. He has stolen Paramatma. Now nothing remains to be attained. What remains for the one who has stolen Paramatma? All is attained. No one has ever been fulfilled without attaining Paramatma. Nor should anyone be. Those who feel fulfilled without Him are unwise. They never found the diamond; they were satisfied with pebbles. Do not be content with less—do not be content with anything less than Paramatma. However long the journey, however much the labor, however much the wandering, however dense the darkness—keep the effort on.

Now let us try to understand the sutra:

‘There was a beginning of the universe which may be called the Mother of the universe. From the Mother we can know her sons, but not from the sons the Mother. Even knowing the sons, remain joined to the Mother; thus a man’s whole life can be preserved from harm.’

There is only one way to save yourself from harm: return—regain the moment from which the harm began. As when a traveler takes a wrong turn at a crossroad; where he was to go, he did not take that road—he took another. After walking many miles, he realizes a mistake has been made—what then? He must return to the crossroad. If he says, I have come so far—how can I go back now? So much has already been staked—where can I go? And if he is afraid to go back… Fear will arise. Some have walked thirty years, some fifty years, some fifty births, some fifty thousand births. So much of our life is invested in it. Suddenly you discover that you have chosen the wrong path; the crossroad was left far behind.

That is why people are afraid to go to the saints. For with them bliss will come—but much later. First, great pain will come. The first pain is this: you are wrong. Until now you believed you were right. The whole world might be wrong—but you, never. Going to a saint, the first pain you must suffer—you suddenly see: your whole life is futile; you have done nothing but make mistakes. Wherever you walked, you strayed. What you think is a journey is not a journey—only wandering. You have reached nowhere; the goal has not come closer; perhaps it has receded. The saint will say to you: Return. And you were walking with great swagger. You thought the dust of the road was gold. The dust that had settled on you—you thought it was experience. That was your treasure. Suddenly someone meets you and says, Open your eyes! Look! In your hands there is nothing but stones.

Therefore the worldly person fears to go to a saint. And if by chance he goes—by mistake, in someone’s company, out of curiosity—even then he cannot remain the same as when he went. Some blow will land. Some wall of his fort will crumble. Doubt will arise about his experience. Doubt will arise about himself. The whole process of religion is this: first, let doubt arise about yourself—only then can you have shraddha in someone. If you remain full of faith in yourself that you are right, you will have no faith in anyone else. And if you are right, then your suffering, your pain, your anguish—all are right. Then do not make a fuss; do not say you are miserable. You want someone to tell you that your suffering is due to others. There are those who will tell you this. Hence their crowd grows very large.

Today nearly half the world is communist. What is the appeal of communism? No other ideology has ever had such appeal. The followers of Mahavir are in the hundreds of thousands; even among them, how many truly follow? But the followers of Marx are in the hundreds of millions. Why? The appeal lies here: Marx says—you are not responsible for your suffering; society is responsible. This is the essence. The responsibility is not yours. If you suffer, others are the cause, not you.

But Mahavir, Patanjali, Lao Tzu, Nanak, Kabir—that entire fraternity does not attract you. For on going to them, the first thing they say is: You are responsible; this hell is of your own making. This hurts the mind. That someone else made this hell is acceptable. Why would we make our own hell? And it hurts your experience, your ego, your cleverness. You want to be the maker of heaven, while others make your hell.

Communism will spread—because it aligns with man’s self-ignorance. The ignorant man savors communism. For communism does not call the ignorant man ignorant; it calls him exploited. And all the wise say: you are ignorant, not exploited. The pain you suffer—your own hands arranged it. The pits you fall into—you dug them yourself. Perhaps you dug them yesterday—perhaps in a past life. You have forgotten that once you dug them.

I was a guest in a village. A murder occurred there—a peculiar murder. A small hill village. A small station. Only one train comes and goes each day, at night around nine. A man—carrying a lot of money—came to catch the train. The station master got wind of it. The train was three hours late; it would come at twelve. The station was deserted. Hardly anyone about. The station master was there, a porter—two or three people. The three of them made a plan to finish the man. They persuaded the porter. No one would know. The man lay down on a bench on the platform to rest. The train would come at twelve. He was afraid for his money. Can anyone with money sleep? So again and again he touched the purse tied around his waist—full of money. As the night deepened and silence spread, he got up to pace. The station master came to look. The man was walking. Only if he sat could anything be done. If he lay down and slept, it would be easy—no cries. The station master sat on that same bench to watch where the man would sit, what he would do. The station master dozed off. He lay down on the bench and slept.

At exactly eleven the porter killed him. The porter thought he had killed the same man—lying there in the darkness of night. There was no electricity; a small lantern burned on the station. And the porter must have been so frightened, so anxious, that he did not even consider what was happening. The station master was murdered—the one who had arranged it all.

Almost this is what happens. Your murder is happening—arranged by you. You dug the pit. Now you have fallen in and you cry. The mind refuses to accept that we would dig a pit for ourselves. Therefore those who tell you that you dug it do not appeal; those who tell you someone else dug it do appeal. In them your ego is saved.

Lao Tzu says your whole life can be saved from harm—but you must return. The crossroad lies behind you. You kept going forward. The farther you have come, the greater the distance. If you keep going, the distance will grow. Stop and turn back—look toward the primal source. Turn your back to the direction you were going; turn your face toward where you came from—toward the origin.

‘There was a beginning of the universe which may be called the Mother of the universe.’

For Lao Tzu the supreme symbol is not the father, but the mother. And it is fitting. Existence is a womb. Existence is feminine. Man is incidental. Woman is indispensable. Now artificial insemination is possible. The man’s work can be done by an injection. The male is not indispensable; one can proceed without him. The woman is indispensable. And the man remains outside the event after a moment. The woman must carry the child nine months within the belly and then for years outside the belly.

Nature is a womb. Hence for Lao Tzu, Paramatma is feminine, not like a male. In truth, male ego has given Paramatma the form of a male. So we say, God the Father. That is only because of male ego. Essentially, Paramatma will be mother-like. For existence is a womb—and out of the womb of existence all emerges.

‘There was a beginning of the universe…’

And that is your beginning as well. For you and the universe are not two. Existence is one and together. Here nothing is divided into fragments. You are connected with the tree, with the stream, with the stones, with the mountains. Existence is one connectedness, a togetherness. No one is separate here. Could you be separate? If the whole existence were to vanish, could you remain? Impossible. All things are together here.

Yesterday I was reading the Bible. And I laughed a lot at a passage that says: on the first day God created light and darkness, and on the fourth day He created sun, moon, and stars.

How could light and darkness be on the first day? And sun, moon, and stars on the fourth! The very notion that first day something was done, second day something else—this is fragmentation. Existence is together. If you make a little on the first day, a little on the second, you will be in trouble. If you create light and darkness on the first day, how will you do it without sun, without moon and stars? And on the fourth day create sun and stars? No. Existence is whole. All of existence is together.

A great thinker in the West, Ludwig Wittgenstein—someone asked him to write his autobiography. He said, Very difficult. Then I would have to write the autobiography of the whole existence, because everything is connected. Where would I begin, and where would I end?

This passage of the Bible is all right for explaining to children, but not for explaining to the wise—this done on the first day, that on the second, then on the third, and in six days creation completed; on the seventh day He rested, the holiday came. For children it is fine. But existence is simultaneous; you cannot partition it. Everything is connected here. Touch a flower here, and the news reaches the moon and stars. Pluck a flower here, and a tremor reaches the heart of Paramatma. All is conjoined. To know this togetherness is to know Paramatma. And if you wish to recognize this togetherness, recognize it at the source—because there, things are all together, organized, subtle, pure. The dust of travel is absent. Later, much gets mixed in. At Gangotri the Ganga is the purest; then many rivers and streams fall in. The Ganga is lost in them. At Kashi she becomes impure—where you go to worship! How many rivers, how many Kanpurs and Allahabads, how much refuse—all has entered. At Gangotri she is pure; there is only Ganga, Ganga. As expanse grows, things grow impure. One must know the subtle.

‘Which may be called the Mother of the universe.’

From that we will understand the expanse. But from the expanse you will not understand That.

‘Remain joined to the Mother—to the primal origin—and there will be no harm in your life.’

Find Gangotri within you and remain joined to it. Do whatever you do—remain joined to that from which consciousness was born. Catch that first moment of light—that first supramundane, luminous instant; you go outside time. If you understand the source, the origin—then, understanding it, you will do one thing:

‘Plug the openings, shut the doors, and a man’s whole life becomes free of strain.’

What are the openings? Where are the doors? Your openings are there; your doors are there. The doors are your vāsanās. Think a little. A wave of kamavasana arises in your mind; the mind becomes enveloped in the smoke of lust; thoughts begin to run; excitation deepens. This is a door—because through here you go out. All your doors are in the mind, and your openings are in the body. When lust becomes dense, there remains no other way; you throw your life-energy out through the openings of the body. Only then do you feel relief. Lust arises in the mind; it is completed in the body. The door is in the mind; the opening is in the body. The genitals are an opening; lust is the door. Whenever you fill with vāsanā, the door opens—you go out. The final result will be that you return having lost something. Hence it is difficult to find a man who is not touched with a shade of sadness after intercourse. Because something has been lost; nothing has been gained. Something was squandered; life-energy went out; you became a little poorer. It is also hard to find a man at death who is not full of sorrow; for the whole life has been nothing but loss. Sometimes squandered in this vāsanā, sometimes in that.

Lao Tzu says, ‘Plug the openings.’

Nirvasana—freedom from vāsanā—will be the plugging of the openings.

‘Shut the doors.’

Do not let the mind run; for when the mind’s horses run, soon the body will follow. The body must follow where the mind goes.

‘And a man’s whole life becomes free of strain.’

Then you become complete within. Neither does energy go out, nor does your consciousness go out; you become fulfilled in your solitude, you become self-contained. You are no longer poor. You are no longer dependent on anyone. Your joy is your own. There is no longing for someone to give it. You are no longer a beggar. You will no longer hold out a bowl before anyone; you will not ask. This is the dignity of sannyas. This is the glory of the saint—that he becomes so full in himself. You too could be full, but you are a bucket full of holes. You too fill up—but through the holes all flows away. Fill the holes, shut the doors. But you will be able to do this only when you remain joined to the primal source. Keep this in mind, because many try to plug the holes without being joined to the source. They get into worse trouble. Better you remain as you are than become like them. They go mad.

Psychiatrists say ninety percent of those confined in asylums went mad by repressing sexuality. So do not do this—without joining to the source, if you begin to fight vāsanā, your state will become like that of a kettle when you make tea—the lid tight, will not open; all openings and doors closed, steam ferocious, and the fire burning below. There will be an explosion. That is insanity. The same when an explosion happens in you—the power increases within; you close doors and openings; many sannyasis hiding in ashrams and in the Himalayas are doing just this—then an explosion comes. Everything breaks. That explosion is not meeting Paramatma. That explosion is the greatest distance of all. Then the path is utterly lost.

First join the primal source. Meditation comes first. Only then can life-energy be transformed. First lead consciousness to the pure, pristine, first moment. Sitting in that first moment, it is effortless to shut the door. For in that first moment you are so blissful that there is no longing; there is no need to force anything; the doors close by themselves. The openings too, not being used, gradually close of their own accord. You become contained in yourself. You become sufficient, enough, within. And you are so full of energy—a flood has come. Your poverty, your indigence—all vanish. For the first time you become an emperor.

‘Leave his openings open, busy yourself with your trade, and then there is no way to lifelong liberation.’

Make vāsanā your trade—as you have done—then keep busy in it all life; the openings remain open, the doors open; you will keep leaking; slowly you will die empty. If you die empty, you die in sorrow. If you die full—then as Kabir says: The death from which the world is afraid, my mind is in bliss; when shall I die, when shall I meet the Perfect Bliss?

And from what all the world is afraid—who are they that are afraid? They are empty pots, pots with holes, whose whole life has leaked away and now death stands at the door. They have nothing to offer to death; they have come to death’s door as beggars. Life has come to its close and they have not even tasted wealth. If these do not tremble, who will tremble? If these do not weep and wail, who will?

Only he who has saved himself—who at the moment of death stands fulfilled. Therefore Kabir says: With such care I wore the sheet, as it was received so I returned it. As I received it at birth, pure, so I offered it to Paramatma at death, pure—as it was—did not let it be stained even a little. With such care I wore the sheet. That care is the very essence of yoga. That careful wearing is the sutra of sadhana.

And he who leaves the openings open and remains busy in the trade of vāsanā—then there is no way to lifelong liberation.

‘He who can see the small…’

The subtle, the atomic, the source—for at the source all things are very subtle; one who can see Gangotri—

‘…he is the one of clear vision.’

He alone has vision.

‘He who lives with nobility—he is the strong.’

What is nobility? Nobility does not mean being born in a noble house. Nobility means the one whose inner wealth is inviolate. You can recognize him. It is not necessary for him to sit on thrones. You can recognize him even in the garb of a beggar. Have you ever met such a man? If you have not, you have missed a rare experience—one who stands in a beggar’s dress, but around whom the air is of kingship! His clothes may be torn, ragged, but in his eyes there is the sheen of an emperor! This is what Lao Tzu calls nobility. No relation with any family, no tie with the wealth of this world, no question of position; whatever is, is within. You cannot snatch it. Wherever he walks, a breeze walks with him; an aura encircles him. Enter his aura and you will suddenly find yourself becoming quiet. He is like a cloud over the desert—full of rain. As clouds shower on a parched earth, near him you will feel such a rain. Every pore of your being begins to fill with an unexperienced contentment. His presence, his satsang, enriches you. Some subtle energy is being shared. He is giving something. His whole life is a gift. But the gift is not of coins or things—it is of life.

This is what Lao Tzu calls nobility. Until such nobility is attained, sannyas has not borne fruit. Until you are joyous without any cause—uncaused—you are not a sannyasi in the true sense. When you are joyous without cause, when nothing is visibly yours and yet you appear as if a possessor of infinite wealth—when even from your tattered garments the dignity of your within shines—that is nobility.

I was reading the reminiscences of an English physician—a scientist, a great doctor. He had come East to learn methods of hypnosis for use in surgery. He met many sadhus and sannyasis. In Burma he met a bhikkhu, a fakir, who lived in a ruin. In the second world war the house had been ruined by a bomb; all around there was nothing but refuse and broken debris. The walls had no roof. The area had been laid waste. People had left it; it had not been repaired. He had made it his dwelling. The doctor wrote: The first thing that struck me was that in that ruin he lived as one might live in a splendid palace. There was no end to his grace. He sat in such majesty in that ruin that the palaces of great emperors would pale. The ruin itself was luminous with his presence. And the physician wrote: I was astonished—never had I seen such a man. So unique.

This is what Lao Tzu calls nobility. Why nobility? The word comes from lineage. He calls it nobility because your true lineage, where you were born from, is Paramatma—not your family. That is your lineage; truly that is your womb. That place from which the whole existence has come—that is the Mother. That is your family. And the day you begin to walk, to sit, to live like Paramatma—that day you are noble. Not before. Your body may be old—no matter. The body is nothing more than clothing. Wrinkles may have come—no matter; your inner radiance will shine even through the wrinkles. Outer poverty will not be able to make you poor. Your wealth will no longer be of this world; it will be otherworldly.

That alone is wealth. The wealth of this world hides your poverty; it does not erase it. Look at the rich—piles of money around them—and if you look closely, you will find them poor. Look at the great politicians—great power in their hands, they can destroy, kill millions. But look at them—you will find them very poor. Whoever has taken outer wealth to be wealth is never truly wealthy. Within there is an inexhaustible source of wealth.

‘He who can see the small is clear-sighted. He who lives with nobility is strong. Bring the light into use…’

You come from light; light is your nature. Bring it into use.

‘…and recover clear vision.’

Because once you had it—therefore Lao Tzu says, recover. It is not something new. You have lost it; it was yours. Perhaps it is necessary to lose what we have in order to know that we have it. Otherwise we never know what is ours—until we lose it. Nothing is closer to you than that light. To call it close is not right, for even in closeness there is a little distance. You are light. You have forgotten it. That forgetting was necessary. When you gain it again through labor and sadhana, only then will you truly attain it for the first time. Only then will you understand—Ah, such a great treasure, and I had thrown it away so casually! Losing is a part of maturity. Once losing is necessary. But to sit lost is not right. Having lost, now the search is necessary.

‘Bring the light into use and recover clear vision—thus you can save yourself from the sufferings to come.’

Behind—there has been much suffering. There is no way now to change it. The past is gone; nothing can be done. Do not sit lamenting it. The future is coming. Leave the worry of the past. Bring the light into use, so that what happened in the past will not happen in the future—that it is not repeated. People sit crying for the past. They keep exposing their wounds, probing them with fingers. What is gone is gone; nothing can be done. What is coming, what is happening, what is about to happen—this can be changed.

But if you keep repenting the past, the future will not wait for you—coming, it is coming. And you sit repenting. While repenting, you do not transform yourself. Then you will repeat the past. Your future will be a re-enactment of your past. This is the misfortune. What you did yesterday, you will do tomorrow. Because you are wasting today. You are not bringing the light into use; you are not connecting life-energy to its source. That alone is meditation.

What do we teach in meditation? Only this—that you fall back into your primal source. You are carrying it within you. The lake is with you. Take a dip—and you will be new. All the dust of the past will drop. All your darkness will be gone. Remember—even if there is darkness of millions of lives—when the lamp is lit, it vanishes. Darkness does not say, I am ancient—how can this small lamp erase me? And though you have traveled so many roads, gathered so much dust—one dip in the water and the dust washes away. One dip into yourself—and all the past is cleansed.

Do not sit in remorse. Bring the light into use. Then the past is not repeated; then there is no repetition. Then your future will be new—fresh like the dew of morning, new like a new sprout. Give the new a door. It is knocking at your door.

You are repenting, you are weeping. Either you do wrong, or you repent for doing wrong—both are wrong. Doing wrong is wrong; repenting the wrong is even more wrong. What is done is done; what is gone is gone. Bury the dead. There is no need to carry them.

Lao Tzu says, This is what is called resting in the Supreme.

To bring the light into use, to descend into the source, the plugging of the openings, the shutting of the doors by themselves, the gathering of inner energy, the attainment of nobility, a wealth that is within, a treasure that belongs to the soul—this is called resting in the Supreme. And only such a person succeeds in stealing Paramatma.

If you must steal, then steal Paramatma. Why be occupied with stealing the worthless? If you must gather, then gather Paramatma. What will come of gathering trash? If you must live, live in Paramatma. If you must die, die in Paramatma. Do not be content with the small. Do not be content with the trivial, the petty.

Enough for today.