Tao Upanishad #91

Truth is simple. Because truth is nature. And the path of nature is everywhere. On every petal, in every star, in waterfalls and mountains, in animals and birds and humans, nature is threaded through just as beads are strung on a thread. As in every bead there is the thread, so in every life the way of nature runs within.
To attain it is not difficult; because you have already attained it. In fact, losing it is what is difficult. To walk upon it is not difficult either; walking is utterly easy. Even calling it easy is not quite right, because “easy” still hints at some relation to difficulty. There is no relation to difficulty at all. If it is difficult—then it is you who are difficult. The path in itself is simple. If there is complexity—then it is you who are complex. If you cannot walk, it is not because the path is far; you cannot walk because the very way you are brings an obstruction to walking. Understand it this way: the road is level, not strewn with thorns; but you are lame. Then what will the smoothness of the road do? You will still not be able to walk.
But the mind will always say the path is hard, hence we do not walk. Because the ego refuses to admit, “I am lame.” Call a blind man blind and he is offended; he is ready for a quarrel. But call a blind man Surdas, and he is pleased—because the word “Surdas” does not directly connect to his blindness. Or, if you are more clever, call the blind man pragyachakshu—“one with the eye of wisdom.” Then the blind man is even more delighted.
But losing the eyes of the body does not make one pragyachakshu; nor are all the blind Surdas. Formalities are ways to conceal truth. Whenever a woman is married, all say, “How beautiful she is!” Have you ever heard anyone say to a bride that she is not beautiful? And whenever a man dies, all say, “He has become heavenly.” Those who in life did not deserve even a place in hell, after death all go to heaven. To find a truly beautiful woman is difficult, but all brides are beautiful.
There is a net of formalities. And through that net you hide truth. If you cannot walk, you do not think, “I am lame”; if you cannot see, you do not think, “I am blind.” If you cannot see you say, “It is dark.” If you cannot walk you say, “The road is rough and broken.” You have heard the proverb: “When one cannot dance, one says the courtyard is crooked.” When you do not know how to dance, you say the courtyard is crooked—how can I dance? If you know how to dance, whether the courtyard is crooked or square, what difference does it make? What has the crookedness of the courtyard to do with dancing? The only question is—do you know how to dance?
The first point to understand, before we enter the sutra, is that truth is very simple. All complexity belongs to your mind. All entanglement is within you. Outside, all lies unentangled. The way is absolutely open. No one is stopping you; no door is closed. But you are so bound within yourself, your very bondage does not let your feet rise. Dancing is far away—even walking is difficult. Walking itself is far—simply standing up is difficult. Because where you are sitting you think a treasure is buried there. The hope of that treasure has shackled you. As you are, you think there is something here to be gained. That hope of gain will not let you move. Filled with desires, you have made the world, the illusion, the untrue, your home. And then you certainly talk about path and truth and religion—but you never walk. You settle it all with discussion. You only keep thinking while remaining seated.
This happened in a village: a wealthy man had a very precious horse. He was always afraid the horse would be stolen, because a thousand eyes were on it. He went to a philosopher who lived next door and asked, “What should I do to protect it? I cannot sleep at night; I keep worrying—is the horse in the stable or gone?”
The philosopher said, “Do not worry. I suffer from insomnia; sleep never comes to me. If you wish to keep a watchman, you will not find a better watchman than me. Anyway I keep watch—pacing about the house, getting up again and again—because sleep never comes.”
So many worries—how can a man sleep? And so many questions to solve. And life is a puzzle. How to rest until the answers are found? Such is the fate of philosophers! It is difficult to find a philosopher who is not afflicted with insomnia. For when you think excessively and get entangled in useless complexities, rest becomes impossible.
The rich man was delighted. He said, “Whatever pay you want, I will give you—so that at least I can sleep. Come on watch from tonight.”
The philosopher came on duty and sat down. The stable was locked, and he sat outside by the steps—thinking. It was the first night of watch, and the watchman is a philosopher, so the rich man was not fully assured. A little suspicious. For this man is not a man of action, not someone who can do something. He can think well enough, but what has thinking to do if the horse gets stolen? What if he just keeps sitting and thinking?
In the middle of the night the rich man got up and went out. Seeing the philosopher awake, he was pleased. “What are you doing?” he asked. The philosopher said, “A great puzzle has arisen. I am pondering: when people drive a nail into a wall, the portion of the wall that the nail enters—where does that portion go? It is a very intricate problem, and no solution is coming.” The rich man, very cheerfully, said, “Keep thinking, but stay awake.” And he thought, this fellow will never sleep; a man with such puzzles—how can he sleep? How will he ever solve this?
But after an hour he again felt uneasy; the man was not reliable. And one thinking such nonsense—what if he keeps thinking and someone takes the horse? He came again. “What are you doing? Awake?” “Absolutely awake,” said the philosopher. “Now the question is: we squeeze the toothpaste and it comes out—why can’t we push it back in?” The rich man said, “Keep thinking, but stay awake.” He was very pleased: this man is not one to sleep, for he is caught in the puzzle—if toothpaste comes out when pressed, how to put it back in? He will not sleep for a lifetime.
But around four in the morning he thought, this man is thinking upside-down things; what if the horse goes? He came again. “Tell me, are you awake?” “Perfectly awake. What am I thinking now? I am thinking: I am sitting here, the stable is locked—how did the horse get stolen?”
There are people who only keep thinking—and not only the horse gets stolen, life itself is stolen. They keep standing and thinking, and the whole soul inside slips away. They keep pondering lofty matters—and lose everything. In the moment of death they find: “I, such a thinker, such a prudent man, so wise and clever—no one could have cheated me out of a penny—and yet I just sat and lost the entire treasure! The horse got stolen! The soul got stolen!”
Cleverness has nothing to do with religion—not that cleverness which you think is cleverness. Your cleverness is only a part of your madness. Your questions arise from your derangement, and your answers are your fabrications. Your answers do not resolve; at most they give relief. Your answers only promise that the solution is near. The solution never comes near. Because solutions come only to those who solve with living energy. Solutions come only to those who undergo some profound process and are transformed. Solutions come only to those who put aside the footpaths of the mind and walk on the way of nature. The mind provides footpaths. The royal road of nature spreads all around you. It is everywhere. Tao means nature. Lao Tzu calls it Tao; the Vedas call it Rit; Buddha calls it Dharma.
The word “Dharma” is very dear. It has many meanings; its deepest meaning is “nature”—as we say, the dharma of fire is to be hot, the dharma of water is to flow downward. That is its nature. And another meaning of dharma is very significant: that which upholds all, that which sustains all. What sustains all must be within all—threaded like a string through every garland, through every bead of every garland.
Wherever you look, the royal road stands open. Infinite, boundless is that way. So straight and simple that you are sitting upon it. To find that way you need not move even a hair’s breadth. But the mind suggests footpaths. Those paths go nowhere; they move in circles. Observe the mind and you will understand.
The mind moves in circles—like the ox at the oil-press. The owner of the oil-press keeps the ox in a system: he ties blinders over both eyes. The ox cannot see the surroundings; it can only see ahead. So it cannot even surmise that it is going round and round. Otherwise it would stand still. If the blinders were not there you could not yoke the ox to the press. It would say, “What madness is this!” It too would understand what madness it is to keep circling in the same place. Therefore the blinders—so it cannot see the sides. It sees only ahead; always shown that the road is straight, that it is going somewhere. Even the ox has to be reassured: you are reaching somewhere, a destination draws near; you are not walking in vain.
In exactly this way your mind wears blinders. The mind cannot see the sides; it sees only ahead. Try to understand the mind. Your condition is the ox at the oil-press—circling, yet thinking you are reaching somewhere. Yesterday you were angry; the day before you were angry. The day before you repented; yesterday you repented. Today you will be angry and today you will repent. And unless the good fortune arises by which you awaken, tomorrow you will be angry and tomorrow you will repent. You will repeat the same, the same. Repetition means we are going round and round. We start from the same place and reach the same place. Then we start again and reach again. There is some deep blinder over the eyes.
And that blinder is this: the eyes cannot see in all directions at once. The mind cannot see in all directions at once; it can look only one way. The mind is one-dimensional. Consciousness is multi-dimensional. Until you put the mind aside you cannot see the multi-dimensional royal road that is open in all directions—where there is no wall anywhere, no obstacle anywhere. Just rise and walk—and you are already on it.
Meditation is multi-dimensional. This is the difference between meditation and mind. The mind keeps looking one way. When it is in anger, it sees only anger, it cannot see compassion. When it is in love, it sees only love, it cannot see hatred. When it is happy, it sees happiness; it cannot see unhappiness, cannot see gloom. When it is joyful, it sees joy; it cannot see the sadness standing at the edge—nearby—part of the joy—its other face. It cannot see the opposite; it sees only one. The moment you put the mind aside and the multi-dimensional doors of your consciousness open, you can see all together—simultaneously. Joy comes—and you also see the sorrow hidden behind it. Then joy is no longer joy, sorrow no longer sorrow. Sorrow comes—and you also see the happiness hidden within it. In the night you can see the morning; in the blaze of noon you can see the night—for they are one. Then in your sorrow there remains no pain; in your happiness there remains no excitement. Then you know happiness is sorrow, sorrow is happiness. Then you stand apart from both. Then you settle into nature.
Nature is neither happiness nor sorrow. Nature is supreme peace, supreme silence, supreme rest—where all excitements are lost—pleasant and unpleasant. This nature is already with you. But the mind keeps offering you footpaths. And the mind says, “That road is very long. I will tell you a shortcut. Go this way; you will reach quickly. Leave the road; I will show you a secret lane.” The mind is always searching for shortcuts. Remember: toward Paramatma there is no shortcut. Whoever seeks a short road toward God...
People come to me and say, “Tell us some trick so it happens quickly.” The mind is always in a hurry. If you hurry, you will always err. Patience is needed—not haste. Because of your haste you fall into the obstacles and entanglements of mind. The mind says, “This is the quick way; on that way it will take much time. The way is so vast—you will not reach quickly. In such an immense nature, without beginning and end, you will be lost. Why launch your little boat upon the ocean! I will show you a small canal; travel will be smooth and safe; there will be no danger of drowning.” The mind gives you assurances of safety. Deluded by those assurances, you go astray. The mind is very skilled at reassuring. Even if you forget again and again, even if you stray again and again, the mind reassures—yet again you believe it. Within you the only reason for believing is your own wish to hurry.
Therefore I tell seekers: drop the desire to hurry; only then will you be able to walk the way of nature. Haste is of the devil. Whoever hastens reaches the devil. Whoever walks with patience reaches Paramatma; because only in the field of patience can the seeds of God be sown. And one whose patience is so vast that he is in no hurry at all—who says, “If it has to be in eternity, fine; if it takes endless time, we are still content”—then a unique thing happens: the one who is ready to wait for eternity arrives this very moment. Because on this path of nature, path and goal are not separate; the way itself is the goal. Where you are standing, there too stands God. There is not the slightest distance. You consented to rest; you consented to dropping tension; you left the hankering for haste; your mind stopped wandering here and there because of hurry; you sat in your own home-nest—like a bird at eventide returning to its nest—you left the world and came into your inner nest and sat in rest, and you said, “I am in no hurry”—and the happening can occur this very instant.
The school, the gurukul, where Jesus studied was called the Essenes. Those who followed that tradition were called Essenes. The word is wonderful—it means: those who can be patient. That was their single virtue. And whoever can be patient receives all. Because with patience the mind’s footpaths lose their charm. The mind says, “I will make it quick”; we say, “We are not in a hurry.” The mind says, “I will show a shorter way”; we say, “We have nowhere to go; we are content where we are; as we are is fine. His will is our will. Now we have no path; His path is our path.” Then it is simple. Nothing could be simpler.
But simplicity has become difficult. Why? Because in simplicity you feel no challenge. There cannot be a challenge in simplicity. Challenge hides in difficulty. Remember: you often choose the difficult thing—for the very reason that it is difficult. Because when something looks hard, you feel there will be a chance to win—you will prove yourself. The ego is gratified; the ego is always attracted to the difficult. In the simple, what attraction is there for the ego? Even if you accomplish the simple, the sense of “doer” will not be aroused. If you do the difficult, the sense of doership arises. If you do the very difficult, a great sense of authorship is born. If you climb the peak of Gaurishankar, your ego will have no limits.
Difficulty calls; simplicity does not call. And remember, just as in difficulty the ego finds gratification and the lure of victory, the exact opposite is the face of simplicity. In simplicity there is no challenge; there is no way to win. Only one who is ready to lose can enter the simple. For entering the simple is surrender—not challenge. In entering the simple there is no resolve—there is rest. In difficulty there is doership. In simplicity there is surrender. In difficulty there is you; in simplicity you will not remain. Difficulty is like swimming; simplicity is like floating. The current carries you. Hence you prefer to choose the difficult. You say so much, “How can it happen quickly? Tell us some simple path,” but deep within you is a lust for the difficult. Until someone prescribes a difficulty you will keep saying, “This is so simple—what will it do?”
People come to me and say, “What will happen? By just sitting silently what will happen? They have neither sat nor tasted. ‘Just sitting with eyes closed—will God be found through that? Dancing and leaping—will God be found through that? Then only dancers would find him.’”
They do not know that a dancer is not dancing in order to find God; the dancer is dancing for money. A meditator dances for something else. Outwardly both are dancing. Meera is seen dancing. A film actress is seen dancing. Perhaps the actress dances with greater skill. Meera’s dance will be untutored; she did not learn it in any academy. Her dance is of ecstasy. It is not for show. And Meera is not dancing before you—Meera dances before her God. There, art is not recognized—the heart is. Meera’s dance is a prayer, a worship. But from the outside they look the same.
So people say to me, “What will happen by dancing? If dancing led to God, dancers would have found him.” What are these people saying? They are saying, “These things are too simple; through them it cannot be.” Tell us something topsy-turvy, something difficult—something that holds a challenge.
Because of such unintelligence, methods have arisen in the world whose only charm is that they are very hard—arduous. Through them no one ever reaches anywhere, yet because of their arduousness they attract. Egos are stirred toward them. Understand this well. The ego wants challenge, a chance for struggle, the means to fight, the convenience to say, “I have won.” Then you do not wrestle with a child! If a child challenges Gama the wrestler, Gama will quietly walk away. Why wrestle? If he defeats the child, people will laugh—there was no question of victory. And if he loses, he is finished. Smiling, patting the child’s back, Gama will go away. That is not a challenge.
For the ego, surrender is childlike; it offers no challenge, there is no point in fighting it. “Tell something difficult! Something very arduous. Something only rare ones can do. Something like walking on the razor’s edge.” Then—then you feel, “Yes—this is worth doing.”
But this is not worth doing. Worth doing is that in which there is no challenge, where not a whisper will reach anyone’s ears that you have done anything—what is almost non-doing. What is rest; where there is surrender; where you are ready to float, and you can say to the river, “Now, wherever you take me—thy will.” Then it is simple.
Now let us try to understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.
"If, by walking on the main Way (Tao), I obtain the pure knowledge born of tapas, then I will not walk the footpaths."
When knowledge is available—and life is ready to share, to give—still you choose footpaths. Tao is Dharma. Tao is nature. Sects are footpaths. If I give you Dharma, you are not ready to take it. You want Hindu Dharma. You want Islam. You want Buddhist Dharma. A few days ago I was speaking on Nanak; a few Sikhs could be seen. They had never appeared before; after that they vanished—no longer to be seen. When I speak on Mahavira I start seeing Jaina faces. When I do not speak on Mahavira, they dissolve and disappear. People have no concern with Dharma; their concern is with footpaths. Not with the Way, but with the ways. Dharma is one; sects are many. No kinship with the one—only hunger for the many.
People want to know: What is Jainism? What is Hinduism? What is Islam?
Can Dharma be Hindu, Muslim, Islamic? Does Dharma have adjectives—names? But these sects lure the mind. And all sects are difficult. Dharma is utterly simple—so simple that it is like the Ganges flowing right past your door while you stand there thirsty. Sects are very difficult. The reason is clear: Dharma is the nature of existence itself; sects are man-made. Dharma is not man-made—Dharma has made man. Man has come out of Dharma. It is his source and origin. But sects are man-made. And what is man-made cannot take you to truth. The man-made is precisely what must be dropped. One must rise beyond the man-made. One must move away from it.
Yet whatever man makes attracts us—because it fits our mind. We made it; it is our toy. The idols of God in temples are made by man. We can bow before them—because we know we are not bowing before anyone at all; it is our own creation. The bowing is false; the surrender delusion. For we ourselves bought this idol and installed it. And the day we wish we can throw it away. Such surrender is a game; it is not real. And the idol can say nothing. If we carry it out of the temple and toss it away—what will the idol do?
Yet we bow before it. Whereas the God of existence is all around us—and there we never bow. Because there, whoever bows will never be able to stand again. There, the one who bows is gone. There, the one who bows is lost. There is no hour of return. Entry into that temple is only when that which could have returned is left outside. That is the ego—the only thing that could have come back.
But can stone images erase your ego? What power do they have? You carved them. And man is very cunning. He kneels before his own crafted images. This is not prayer; this is acting a prayer. Whom are you deceiving? The whole existence laughs at you. When little children celebrate the marriage of their dolls, you smile and say, “What madness!” You think in your mind: they are children. But when you stage the Ram Lila and make a boy into Rama and a girl into Sita, and you place your heads at the actors’ feet, and take out a procession, a showy parade, the wedding of Rama, and you become highly excited—are you doing anything different from the children? Is there any difference? These are toys and games. You grew old—but your childishness did not go.
In temples you bow—that is childishness. Bow before existence. There you stand stiff. There you try to impose your will. And you know that if you bow there, you are gone—because bowing there can only be real. To bow before the real God must also be real. There only genuine coins are accepted. Bow before a counterfeit god and counterfeit coins will do—the real is not required. Your temples, your mosques, your gurudwaras—are of your making.
And God’s temple is already present. Before you were—it was; after you are gone—it will remain. This sky is its dome. This earth its foundation stone. It needs no building. It is already built. More ancient than you. More eternal than you. You have come out of it. Into it you will return. But there, only the coin of truth works.
You do not wish to be religious; hence you have built temples. It is your trick to avoid. You want to remain as you are. Within that, you carved out a corner for a temple too. But that is only a part of your own being—a part of your dishonesty and your deception. You are persuading yourself. And you have deceived yourself deeply. By going to the temple you think the matter is complete—you have become religious. Sometimes you fast, do a vow. Sometimes you offer a few coins at the temple. And even that you offer four expecting four thousand in return. Your shop does not close—it is open in your temple too. Your shopkeeper sits there too at his work. Recognize this deception clearly. These are footpaths by which you are lost.
To know truth, no scripture is needed. Scriptures can only give words. How will taste come through words? Words have no flavor. How will fragrance come through words? Words have no scent. Have you seen anything in the world more lifeless than words? No word is alive—all words are dead. Lines arising in the air and lost. Bubbles on water—at least those are more real than words. Words are bubbles in air. A bubble on water has at least a thin transparent wall of water; a word has not even that. It is a bubble of air—an undulation in air—vanishing. All scriptures are words. You cling to scriptures. You have no longing for truth. Scriptures are footpaths. Truth is the royal road of Tao—open. To know truth you must walk exactly reverse to the way you walk to know scriptures.
To know scripture you need skillful memory, good recall, logical mind, capacity for thought, rumination, calculation, dialectic. To know truth you need none of these—not reflection, not thinking, not logic, not intellect. To know truth you need emptiness. You must be like a mirror—so that truth can be reflected. Not your fullness, but your emptiness is required. Hence Lao Tzu says: what can be obtained by learning is not knowledge. Saints do not teach; saints make you forget. A saint teaches you only one thing—how to put away all that you have learned. A saint removes your mind, so that the blinders like those of the ox at the oil-press fall from your eyes, and you can see open on all sides.
A Hindu can read the Gita but not the Quran. That is the ox at the press—one-sided. He can read the Gita because the Hindus have left that much eye open; the other sides are bandaged. In those bandages Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—all are hidden.
A Muslim can read the Quran, not the Gita. It is not that he cannot read—of course he can. He can read the Gita because he can read the language. If the Gita is written in Urdu or Arabic, he can read. But nowhere will his heart be touched. Rather, many times he will see mistakes in the Gita. Again and again he will see errors. When Krishna says, “Sarva-dharman parityajya mamekam sharanam vraja—abandon all dharmas and come to my sole refuge,” a Muslim will laugh: “Ego! This man speaks kufr—blasphemy. A sinner.” It was for such as Mansoor that the Muslims killed him. He was talking the same ‘nonsense’ as Krishna—saying: “Ana’l-Haqq; Aham Brahmasmi.” Speaking the Hindu tongue. The Muslim does not like it. “This is wrong talk. You can reach the feet of God—but you can never be God.” That is the Muslim’s eye.
The Hindu says, “If only to the feet you can reach and cannot become God—then you have not reached. The matter remains incomplete; the journey unfinished. Until the proclamation ‘Aham Brahmasmi’ resounds—until your whole being does not say, ‘I am Brahman’—the matter remains incomplete.” When a Hindu reads the Quran he smiles: “All right; serviceable—but nothing deep. Because Mohammed says, ‘I am only his prophet, his messenger, his envoy.’ The Hindu mind says, ‘Why listen to a messenger? Why not listen to Krishna who says, Aham Brahmasmi—I myself am That. A messenger can make mistakes. Why bring middlemen into it? What need for brokers? And those who dare not say “I am That”—what trust in their words? What authority do they have?’”
When a Muslim reads Krishna he thinks, “Claimant—egoist. Does a knower ever claim? The knower is humble. He says, ‘I am nothing’—as Mohammed says: ‘I am nothing—only a messenger; a bringer of news, a postman. I delivered his letter to you—finished. Nothing more is my authority.’ That is the mark of humility, of saintliness. This Krishna—he seems vain—the ultimate vanity. These Upanishads—the proclamations of egotists.”
A Jain cannot read the Hindu; it all looks madness. When the Jain reads the Gita, he sees nothing but great violence. “And this man Krishna assists in committing violence. Arjuna seems Jain-like—he says, ‘Why should I kill? Why should I murder?’ The first Gandhian. He says, ‘I want to refrain from violence—why kill? They are my own people. And for wealth? For status? For prestige? For kingdom? What use is the kingdom?’ He speaks words of wisdom.”
So a Jain, or a Gandhian, when reading the Gita—Gandhi himself used to read—finds Arjuna appealing. He cannot say so openly, but seeks a device. He cannot say Krishna is wrong; he is a Hindu—this is Gandhi’s dilemma. Ninety percent of Gandhi’s mind is Jain—born in Gujarat. In Gujarat even Hindus are Jains. The air is Jain. He cannot say Krishna is wrong—Hindus will be hurt.
Jains did say Krishna is wrong—they have no stake. They have consigned Krishna to hell; Krishna went to hell after death—according to Jaina scriptures. Still lying there. And will lie till the end of this cosmic cycle. Because Arjuna was fleeing from violence—from great sin—and this man, through every argument, every persuasion... How hard Arjuna tried to escape his net! Thus eighteen chapters were born! He kept asking, kept pleading, “Let me go; let me be saved.” But Krishna seems like the greatest salesman of violence. In the end, after being coaxed, tutored, brainwashed, Arjuna got caught. Finally he said, “All my delusions are gone; I will fight.” How can a Jain read the Hindu Gita?
Gandhi says, “The Gita is only a story; the war did not actually happen.” Because if it did, then Krishna instigated violence. “It never happened; it is a Purana—a myth. And the war is not between Kauravas and Pandavas; the war is between evil and good.” Then Gandhi found the way out. “Now there is no violence. In killing evil there is no violence. It is a war between sat and asat. No real blood was shed.” So Krishna urges, “Cut!”—but not to cut real people—only to cut the unreal, evil. By calling it myth he found an exit. The Mahabharata is a truth that happened; even that truth he falsified.
No follower of one sect can read another. Hindus do not mention the Jaina Tirthankaras at all—except the first. And the first perhaps is mentioned because he was almost a Hindu—born in a Hindu home; Jains had not yet arisen. So the first, Rishabhadeva, is mentioned in the Vedas. After that, no one is mentioned. Twenty-three Tirthankaras—men of supreme glory for the Jains, none higher upon earth—yet the Hindus do not mention them in their books. A terrible neglect. Not even raising the subject. Not deeming them worth even opposing. Whom we oppose, we at least accept that he has some stature. Whom we neglect, we do not deem even worthy of opposition—“Why oppose! It’s all rubbish.” We do not even say that. Hindus have passed by the twenty-three Tirthankaras as if they never were. Look into Hindu scriptures—you will find no mention. Astonishing!
But if we understand the human mind, all astonishment dissolves. Blindfolds on every eye. The Hindu, blindfolded, passed by; the Tirthankaras did not fall within the focus of his blinders. In his focus, there are Rama and Krishna; Rishabhadeva slips in as first, because he was a Hindu. After Rishabh’s death, slowly Jainism organized and became a separate stream. Just as Jesus is mentioned among Jews, but after Jesus, the saints of his followers are not mentioned; no relation remained—they became a separate stream.
Men search for footpaths even when the royal road spreads from the door. The Ganges flows, yet you sit by a tap, praying to that tap, from which even drops rarely drip. The Ganges at the door, and you sit by your tap pleading, “O tap, give water!” If, from a sect, a few drops drip, even that is a lot—because even that much water is rarely in sects.
It happened that a Jewish dervish had a great reputation: when he spoke he touched people’s inner strings in such a way—someone would weep, someone would laugh; deep emotion arose. In a village, a rich man died. As happens with the rich—the whole village used to flatter him—though inwardly filled with envy. Outwardly they said, “What a loss!” but secretly they were glad—good that this evil man died; a nuisance ended. As he had died, his family invited the Sufi mystic to speak at his passing. He spoke, as always—singing great praise. But not a single eye moistened. Leave aside strangers—even the family shed no tears.
People were amazed. When he finished, someone asked, “What happened today? You always inflame hearts! You speak not words; arrows pierce the heart—people weep. Today not a single eye was wet!” The mystic said, “What can I do? My work is to turn the spigot. But if there is no water? I opened the spigot. If there is no water—what can I do? That is not my responsibility.”
You may sit opening the spigot of sect; the water is not there. However much you worship before the tap of sect, you will receive nothing. For a sect is man-made. Mahavira stands upon the great Way of Dharma; but the follower of Mahavira follows with his focus pasted onto Mahavira’s back. He knows nothing of the Way. This is the difference between sect and Dharma. Mahavira walks in Dharma. The sectarian is the one who walks looking at Mahavira’s back—“Where is he going?” His gaze is fixed on the back, not on the royal road upon which Mahavira walks. A great difference. Do not think that by following Mahavira’s back you will arrive. That which carries Mahavira will also carry you—but you are not seeing that Way. And if your eyes get too fixed, frozen upon Mahavira’s back, you will never see the Way. You can become so sectarian that the very capacity to see Dharma is lost.
The more sectarian a man becomes, the less the possibility of Dharma remains. The sky is open—but his eyes are petrified. Now Mahavira is gone; he still stares at that back. Now even that back is not there. He goes on in darkness. Only his own imagination remains.
Have you noticed: stare at a window, then close your eyes; a negative image of the window forms within the eye. Sect is like that. Once there was a majestic Mahavira. Once there was a Buddha, a Rama, a Krishna, a Mohammed—who knew. Then their follower fixes his eye on their backs. Slowly, slowly, Mahavira disappears into the infinite. Now a negative remains in your eye. Even now when you close your eyes, the back is seen. And you chase that back. Now you will enter madness. You cannot reach anywhere; that back is nowhere—only a figure inside your eye remains. Even that a negative figure. The positive has vanished; you clutch the negative. It is in your mind.
Sect is your commentary, your scripture. Sect means—yourself. Now, in the name of Mahavira, you sit there. In the name of Buddha—you. Buddha went long ago. Mahavira went long ago. Jesus has been lost in infinity. You keep worshiping. You worship the clouds that have already rained. In the empty sky a streak of smoke remains. When a jet passes across the sky, the jet has gone; a streak of smoke remains. So when Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna pass across the sky, they pass swiftly—do not tarry—a smoky streak is left behind; footprints are left. Worship of footprints goes on. You keep following those footprints. That is sect.
The way to be like Mahavira is not to walk behind Mahavira. The way to be like Buddha is not to walk behind Buddha. Buddha was not walking behind any Buddha. If you want to be a Buddha, you will have to seek, in your own way, your own path to nature. The day you reach nature, you reach where everyone who ever arrived—arrived. Where all Buddhas arrived, all Jinas, all avatars and prophets arrived—you too will arrive. But the way to arrive will be: find that path which is present all around. Your awareness will take you. Your Samadhi will connect you. Following will not do.
"If, by walking on the main Way (Tao), I obtain the pure knowledge born of tapas, then I will not walk the footpaths. The main Way is easy to walk; yet people prefer small footpaths."
Why do people prefer small footpaths? Because they seem convenient. Through them, you seem bigger. On those little paths you appear large. And it feels as if the path is under your control; it will go wherever you wish. You remain the master. The truth is—you do not walk the footpath; the footpath walks behind you. Because a footpath is man-made. You keep interpreting according to yourself. The footpath trails after you.
Do not think you are walking behind Krishna. First you interpret Krishna—the interpretation is yours—and then you follow your own interpretation. That is why many follow Krishna, yet all walk differently. Because everyone’s interpretation differs. Nimbarka, Vallabha, Ramanuja—walk by devotion and claim Krishna; they extract bhakti from the Gita. They spin a web of words; devotion comes out of the Gita—then they walk devotion. They say, “We follow Krishna.” The footpath follows them, for they carve out their own footpath. Shankara and the non-dualists extract jnana—knowledge—and walk that way. Lokmanya Tilak extracted karma from the Gita and then followed action; behind Lokmanya came Gandhi and Vinoba in a line—they all worshiped karma. Does anyone care about Krishna? You walk behind your own interpretation and tell yourself you are walking behind Krishna. Whom to tell this deception to?
You listen to me. Do not be under the delusion that you are hearing exactly what I say. Do not fall into that illusion. That is easy. But you will not do what is easy—you will do what is difficult. Not only difficult—delusive, wrong. But you will do that. First, whatever I say, you will interpret; by interpreting, you will make it suit you; then you will follow that.
A footpath means: what follows you. The vast Way of Tao will not follow you; you will have to dissolve into it. You cannot turn it into a shadow trailing you. Mahavira said one thing; the Digambaras make one interpretation, the Shvetambaras another. Among Digambaras there are sub-sects with their own interpretations; among Shvetambaras too, sub-sects with their own interpretations. And if you look closely—every individual has his own sect; he makes his own interpretation. You do not shape yourself according to Dharma; you shape Dharma according to yourself.
There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who follow truth—and those who try to make truth follow them. It will seem easier to make truth follow you. Because you keep the claim of truth, and you also avoid the trouble of becoming true. People enjoy the taste of being religious without being religious.
Do not interpret. How will you interpret anyway? Truth cannot be interpreted; truth is experienced. Experience needs no commentary. And when you, in your state of ignorance, interpret—whatever you interpret will be wrong, delusive. Then you will follow that interpretation—and reach nowhere.
People come and say, “We have been listening to you for ten years and walking as you say—but we have not reached.” I tell them, “You never walked as I say.” They argue, “No—we have.” I say, “See—even what I am saying now you are not accepting! I am saying you did not follow—and you say, ‘We did.’ You persist in your obstinacy.”
Your obstinacy is your ego. You walk by your interpretation. If you reach, you will say, “We reached by our interpretation.” If you do not, then “the guru was wrong.” Your arithmetic is clear. If you reach, you will pat your own back; if you do not, you will say, “We have followed you for ten years and wandered.” If you reach, you will say, “How skillful we were! We interpreted correctly—and reached.” Then you will not even come to offer thanks.
"The main Way is easy to walk; yet people prefer small footpaths."
Small—smaller than you. You will prefer the path that is smaller than you. People like things smaller than themselves. Through them they feel big. People seek the company of those smaller than themselves. Among them they appear great. Always they seek the small. Standing beside the small, they feel grand and glorious.
The path of Dharma is the exact opposite—you seek those greater than you. It will be painful—for you will feel small. The greater the one near whom you go, the smaller you will feel. They say, camels do not like to go near the Himalayas; that is why they live in deserts—where there are no mountains. Even small sand-hills do not scare them; their height remains intact. But when a camel approaches a mountain, it feels very wretched. So it is when a disciple approaches the guru—the very effort to approach begins a revolution. To come is the revolution. For you have realized that by seeking the small you become small. Only by seeking the great can you become great. Yet becoming great will first take you through the deep pain of smallness. You must pass through that pain.
By seeking the company of small people you will get much pleasure—but it is a two-penny pleasure. For because of it you will fall into greater miseries. You will have to seek smaller and smaller people—because you will keep becoming small. With whom you live—so will you become. Company has great consequence: consciousness has the habit of becoming co-mingled. If you live among petty people, soon you will co-mingle with them.
Have you noticed—if two or four very cheerful people meet you—laughing, gossiping—even if you are sad, you forget you are sad; you too begin to laugh. Laughter is contagious. Sit for a while with two or four despondent gentlemen—you will become despondent. Thoughts will arise: “How to join this club of sadness!” A mood of renunciation arises—“The world is futile, life is vain.” Thoughts of suicide begin to stir. Your consciousness is not confined to your body. It flows around you and mixes. Always seek the mountain; always seek the higher than yourself. Then your height and depth will grow. You will become like those with whom you live.
That is why satsang is so greatly praised. Satsang means—continually seek the superior, live in his air; drink his aura; let his consciousness flow into you. This is the meaning of guru: one in whose presence you are lifted up—and whom you cannot pull down. If you can pull him down, he is not a guru. For when you go to a guru, see from two sides: you go to one greater than you—but he is permitting you to come near—he permits the lesser to approach. The test of a guru is this: that you cannot bring him down to your plane—however much you try. In sects you will find that followers run their monks. Jaina congregations have councils that keep an eye on the monk—whether his conduct is being corrupted.
How will you decide whether his conduct is corrupted? He is willing that you govern him; you are his controller; you lay down the code; he follows. And then you call him guru! First you pull him down to your plane—even below you—only then do you accept him as guru.
Guru is the one who does not listen to you—who will not descend to your plane. Do what you will, you cannot bring him down; his consciousness has crystallized at a height from which it cannot be scattered. That is his gurudom—that density by which you cannot dissipate him. When you go to him—you will have to rise. Though you will try every device. Not knowingly; it is all unconscious. You will try every device to bring him to your plane.
Many friends come to me and say, “Your words feel right—but can it not be that we keep a feeling of friendship toward you—not of discipleship? Will there not still be transformation?”
They say nothing wrong; it sounds right. Who would call it wrong? And if I say, “No—friendliness will not do”—then naturally their mind thinks, “This man is very egotistic—he wants to be a guru.” And if I say, “All right—keep friendship,” they are at work bringing me to their plane. Today they will say, “Friendship.” Tomorrow they will want to put a hand on my shoulder and joke.
When a disciple comes to a guru, he brings his unconscious illnesses with him. It is no fault of his; he comes as he is—he cannot come already changed. He has come to change. He is ill—therefore he has come. But he brings his illness too. And if the guru even slightly descends to his plane, he will not be able to transform him. Even without descending—if the guru gives the least assent—“All right—be a friend; friendship is precious, and from the guru’s side there is no barrier; from the guru’s side you are indeed a friend”—even that assent will prevent lifting you up.
Krishnamurti, after forty years of continuous effort, could raise no one—because he granted a delusion which, from his side, was perfectly right. He said, “I am not your guru—at most, a friend.” From Krishnamurti’s side the statement is right—on the guru’s side it is friendship indeed. But in the listener, the ego was fortified. Those who came to be disciples, went away as friends. The matter ended. There was then no way for revolution. For revolution happens only when you can see someone above—so high that even if you bend low you cannot see the whole—his highest peak lost in the far sky. Only then will you climb; only then rise; only then set out on the journey.
People prefer small footpaths. Hence they prefer small gurus—those whom they can manage, whom they can regulate, who do not move here or there without your permission. If Kabir were here, he would say: “One wonder I have seen—that the disciple instructs the guru in knowledge.” But it is happening. Disciples are running gurus. Sects have become religion. Footpaths claim to be the royal road. And you feel pleased—because on those paths you remain bigger. Even bigger than your guru.
Jaina monks have come to me and said many times, “It is difficult—society does not allow us to come to you. Our followers say, ‘Do not go there.’” And they have to obey their followers. Some have come to meet me in secrecy, for they cannot come openly. “Let no one know. If someone finds out, they will ask, ‘Why did you go there?’”
That is what I mean by “those you can manage.” What can you receive from such a guru? He is your puppet. He is afraid of you—he fears you. One who fears you—what relation has he to God? If he is afraid of you, he is lower than you. Your gurus are lower than you. But upon footpaths this is the pleasure—that you can even run your gurus.
"The courts are full of glitter, while the fields lie untilled and the granaries are empty."
Lao Tzu says, man is so divorced from nature that he no longer remembers how he has filled his life with the insubstantial by leaving nature. And the insubstantial has begun to look so substantial that you must be utterly blind—without a ray of awareness—for such a thing to happen.
Think a little. People are mad behind hoarding gold. You cannot eat gold, nor drink it, nor wear it. Yet the precious opportunity of life is wasted in gathering it. Bread is necessary—but people will go hungry for bread and still demand gold. They will sleep hungry—but they must have gold. What is the reason that people, leaving their real needs, strive first to fill non-essential needs? The reason is: essentials are ordinary; even if you fulfill them you will not look extraordinary. If you fill your belly—animals fill their bellies too—birds and beasts manage it; what is the glory in that? If you heap up gold—no animal does that. Animals are not so foolish.
And gold is scarce—and the ego feeds on scarcity. The scarcer the thing, the more valuable. Astonishing! The value of a thing is not by its utility, but by its rarity. White gold is rarer—so it costs more. Then platinum is still rarer—so its price is higher. The scarcer something is, the greater its price. No one asks whether it is useful.
The ego cares nothing for utility. The ego wants only one proclamation in the world: that I am extraordinary. The belly may be empty; the throat thirsty—no worry. The body must be adorned with jewels. The deepest needs of life may be left empty—love may be missing—no worry; diamonds and gems are needed.
Otherwise, life’s needs are very few. If the ego does not interfere, there will be great contentment on earth. The voice of discontent arises from ego. What is your need? That the belly is filled!
Jesus told his disciples—many times it seems strange that Jesus added this small sentence into prayer. He taught them: “Pray thus every day.” In it is one line: “O Lord, give me my daily bread.” It seems too small to ask for bread. But Jesus chose “bread” as a symbol. He is saying: my small daily needs—if there is thirst, water; if there is hunger, bread; if there is life, love—this is my daily bread: water, bread, love, a roof. That is all life needs—and life becomes available to supreme glory, to the nobility Lao Tzu speaks of: even if outside there is nothing, inside there is a wealth; even if the clothes are torn, within the emperor shines.
No, but the world moves in the opposite direction. Inside there is nothing—inside, a beggar’s bowl—a ruined soul; outside, glitter. Because the inner soul is not visible to anyone; outer things are seen. Throw away the soul. Exchange the soul for wealth; fill the safe; empty yourself.
Lao Tzu says: hence people are broken from nature. For to be in nature, at least this much understanding is needed: that what is necessary is necessary; what is unnecessary is unnecessary.
And one who once starts running after the unnecessary—is going into maya. There is no end to it. Whatever you gain, much remains to be gained. That hour never comes when you can say, “I have gained all.” It did not come to Alexander—how will it come to you? It has not come to the greatest rich men—how will it come to you? Kubera still cries. Solomon, at death, is troubled—“All did not happen; all was not obtained.”
Jesus said to his disciples, “Look at the lilies of the field—how they grow! Consider their glory. Even Solomon in all his splendor was not arrayed like one of these.”
What does a lily have? A simple wildflower. But what is lacking? Have you ever seen a lily complain that something is missing? Water comes from the earth—thirst is quenched. The sun’s rays arrive—life blossoms; fragrance arises. What more is needed?
Lao Tzu says: one who is content with life’s simple needs—he attains the great Way. Because his life-energy is not spent in useless pursuit. It remains saved. That energy makes him truly rich—fills him with inner dignity—like every flower is filled. The lamp within him is lit.
"The courts are full of glitter, while the fields lie untilled and the granaries are empty."
No one cares for the fields. The threshing floors are empty. The barns are bare. People miss the basic needs of life—and futile things—courts, capitals—become important. All run toward the capital. Politicians run; those who think they are not politicians also run. Sadhus and sannyasins run. What is in the court? For Lao Tzu, the court is the symbol of futility, of the insubstantial. What is in capitals? They are pillars of human stupidity—symbols of man’s unintelligence. Yet all run. In the mind is one race—how to reach the court. And what will happen there? Empty belly, empty soul. Even if you are gold-plated on the outside—what will it do?
"Yet, robed in brocades, with gleaming swords in hand, gorged on the best foods and drinks, they are surfeited with wealth. From this the world falls into plunder. Is this not the corruption of Tao?"
There is only one corruption of Tao—only one way to be deprived of Tao: to mistake the unnecessary for the necessary. Then all becomes corrupt. Every society wants to become free of corruption—but cannot.
In India this talk goes on: there is corruption; we must be free of it. Corruption has always been—and people have always tried to be free of it. And they try without listening to Lao Tzu’s voice. Corruption cannot end until the insubstantial stops appearing substantial. Therefore, the way to end corruption is not to make laws in parliament, nor will it end through a movement like Jayaprakash’s. For that movement too will press to change laws. What else will it do? And those who run movements are as corrupt as those who sit in office—no difference. Because the root of corruption is the same in both. And that root is this: the futile appears meaningful.
Corruption can end only when people connect with Tao—when people become religious—not before. So long as diamonds seem valuable, gold seems valuable, status, prestige, politics, capitals, thrones hold any value—till then corruption cannot end. Corruption means you have deviated from your nature. From what place did you deviate? Where is the first mistake?
The first mistake is this: you were not willing to be ordinary in life. You want to be extraordinary. And the human mind is strange—you may even try to be extraordinary through saintliness; then too you are a corrupt one. No one will recognize your corruption. People will say, “This man has nothing—he stands naked. How is he corrupt? He has never gone to the capital, not into politics; he has not hoarded wealth, made no license rackets—nothing. He stands naked—singing God’s name.”
He too is corrupt—if he wants to be special. If he chants God’s name in the marketplace so people hear—if he sings louder when people are near—he is corrupt. Because the root source of corruption is one: the desire to be extraordinary.
Lao Tzu says: in this world, the art is to become ordinary. And he who becomes ordinary—ordinary in every sense—who has no claim—who craves no position in this world or the next—who has understood the futility—who is pleased with the very small things of life: that bread came, that water came, that breath flows, that love came, that prayer came—enough—one who is content with such next to nothing—only he will be truly content; and in his life the extraordinary is born. The one who is willing to be ordinary—none is more extraordinary than he.
Otherwise, corruption. And until we understand this root, we will keep working on the surface—nothing will happen. Those in office appear corrupt. When they were not in office, they too were revolutionaries. Then others arise—not in office—who talk revolution—who are against corruption. Give them office—and they become corrupt. All revolutions so far have failed. Man’s hope is astonishing! No revolution has ever succeeded—still man thinks revolution will set things right. Those who make revolutions are hidden corrupt ones, waiting for their time. Today they oppose corruption because people are hurt by it—the crowd supports them. Tomorrow, when in power, all will be the same. Because they know nothing of the fundamental error. That primal error is the desire to be special. Then there are a thousand ways—by wealth, by office, by knowledge, by renunciation—but to be special.
Lao Tzu says: there is only one corruption of nature—when you want to be special. The moment you wish to be special—you are corrupt, and you create the atmosphere of corruption. Remain ordinary! If hungry—eat; thirsty—drink; prayerful—pray. Why show anyone? Why tell anyone? Live in such a way as if you are not. Live quietly so that not even a trace of you remains.
But the mind says, “Let my name remain in history.” If you want your name in history, you will never be free of corruption. Because history is only of the corrupt. In history, the more corrupt you are, the greater your name—because you cause that much disturbance, that many events. Has a good man any history? He does nothing by which history is made. Or what he does is not worthy of headlines; there are no big letters for it.
You are meditating. Will any newspaper publish on page one: “So-and-so is sitting in meditation”? No paper will print it. If you go and stab someone—you will make headlines. In this world, stabbing a chest is more valuable than meditating. Create a disturbance, destroy something—you will be in the news. Build something—who cares? Your being has no value. Create interruptions, agitations—then you are noticed.
If you want to remain in history—you will have to lose your soul. For the soul has no place in history. If you want to remain in history—you will have to lose Tao. For Tao finds no mention in history. If you want to remain in history—you will have to live in sorrow and pain and restlessness and hell. Because only hell’s history is written. What history of heaven? Are there newspapers in heaven? They’re printed in hell. There, nothing happens; where nothing happens, what paper is printed?
No—if the world is silent and joyous, history will slowly disappear. If people simply live, and people are simply content in their non-being, and there is no race to get ahead, people are satisfied in their place—history will vanish. That is why the Eastern lands have no history. We did not care to write it. We did not deem it worth writing. What seemed worth writing was rubbish; what was worth writing left no waves—could not be written.
So we wrote the Puranas; we did not write history. Purana is another kind of thing. Purana is the essence. It means we did not write about one Buddha or another—we wrote of Buddhahood. We crafted a story into which the tale of Buddhahood fits—the essence enters. That is why Westerners say, “Your Buddhas are suspicious—did they happen or not? Your Tirthankaras are suspect. There is no mention in history. On what stone is their name?” No—we did not care for individual Tirthankaras. For what is the use of each? The inner that they found is so one, so essential, the story so similar—we made one story, one image. We gathered all Buddhas into one event and all avatars into one avatar. We made the essence the principle. We left the worry of history—for history cares for events. We cared for that which is inner; which does not “happen”—which is; which is not an event—but existence.
Hence we created the Puranas. Purana is extremely unique. Purana does not mean “what happened long ago.” Purana means: what happened long ago, is happening now, and will happen again. History means: what happened and is over; not happening now; something else is happening; something else will happen. History is unnecessary detail. Purana is soul—essence.
Lao Tzu says, there is plunder in this world, exploitation, violence, hatred, competition. And the reason? One only: no one is willing to be ordinary.
Understand this well. One who becomes ordinary is a sannyasin. One who runs to be extraordinary is worldly. And if you run to be extraordinary even through sannyas—you are worldly.
Two days ago, a young man came to me and said that when he goes back to London, his mind does not settle—he keeps wanting to come here. I asked him, “Think clearly—what could be the reason? What difference between London and here? Meditation you must do there; meditation here. Life there; breath taken there; breath here.” He said, “That is not it. There I am an ordinary laborer; here I am a special sannyasin. There I am just a common man; here, everyone looks at me—‘a special sannyasin from the West!’ Here is a specialness.”
If someone is a sannyasin for such reasons—he is worldly. For sannyas means: become ordinary; become such that it is as if you are not; as if, if you were not, nothing would change; as if your going leaves no lack. When someone dies, we say, “This loss can never be filled; this place will forever be empty.” These are the marks of the worldly. Live so that when you move away, no one even knows; when you depart, no one feels your absence. Because when you were, your presence was not felt—how will your absence be felt? No one should mention you; no one should talk of you. No one should raise your name. Be forgotten as if you never were. Dissolve like vapor dissolves in the sky—leaving no trace. Such becoming ordinary is called sannyas.
And until the world becomes sannyas, corruption will continue. As of now, those whom we call sannyasins are also worldly. However much they talk of eradicating corruption—this and that—they are worldly. Their race is the same as the worldly. They too are after being something.
There is no need to be anything. What you could be—you already are. Not a grain needs to be added to your glory; your glory is infinite. No lamps need be added to your light; you are the great Light, you are Paramatma. This is the meaning of “Aham Brahmasmi.” This proclamation says: now you have nothing to do. Never had anything to do. You are supreme already. You are the ultimate. There is no way to go above you.
When one becomes ordinary, breath by breath is filled with such joy; struggle vanishes; surrender flowers; then the whole life fills with such contentment, such fulfillment, such radiance—that in that very radiance and fulfillment you recognize your inner nature—Tao.
Otherwise you will live in corruption. And in that corruption you will gain nothing—only lose yourself. The way to lose is the race to get; the way to gain is the readiness to lose.
Enough for today.