Tao Upanishad #92

First thing: one who has attained knowing does not worry about what will happen afterward. Worry belongs to the ignorant; the knower does not worry at all. Only when worry dissolves does knowing happen. The knower simply lives. Let what happens, happen. Let what does not happen, not happen.

The life of the knower is not a project. It is a spontaneous flow. The knower is the way plants are, trees are, mountains are. There is nothing ahead, nothing behind. Nothing bad, nothing good. The knower lives in utter innocence; therefore he cannot worry. And even if he did worry, it would not prevent a sect from forming. Without worrying, knowers have lived in such a way that a sect should not be formed; yet sects have formed.

Buddha lived like that—not out of worry, for a knower cannot worry—but in a way meant to prevent a sect. He said there is no God, and said, do not call me God. He said there is no method of worship; do not worship me. He said no benefit comes from idols; do not make my idol. But it made no difference. It only evoked even more love in people. The reverse happened. More images were made of Buddha than of anyone. More people called Buddha God than anyone else. And more people took refuge in Buddha than in any other.

A sect will form regardless. The cause does not lie in the knower’s life or manner; the cause lies in the minds of the ignorant who come afterward. There is no way to stop it. The only way would be that no one be ignorant. How could that be done? It depends on the ignorant one as to when he becomes a knower. The ignorant will come after; the ignorant will worship; the ignorant will make idols.

Therefore there are other knowers who accepted this silently and lived. Krishna did not say, make my idol or don’t make it. Krishna did not say, worship me or do not worship me. Whatever you are going to do, you will do anyway. Whether someone says do it or don’t do it makes no difference, because in your ignorance only what can happen will happen. You do not move because a knower says so; if you did, you would no longer be ignorant.

It is not your fault either. You are as you are. Put a straight stick into water and it appears bent. That is the nature of water. As a ray of light enters water, it refracts. You can only see the stick through that ray; thus a straight stick appears bent in water.

Footpaths are formed behind the knowers who walk the royal road because the ignorant mind has its own laws. And there are only two options for the knowers; both have already been tried.

One is Buddha’s way, which Krishnamurti is pursuing: do not worship, do not accept a guru, do not say “God.” It makes no difference. Those who follow Krishnamurti are devotees who accept only him and no one else, and who will worship his scriptures. They are already worshipping; a sect has already arisen in their hearts. The moment Krishnamurti dies, a sect will crystallize. This is one way—the way of Buddha and Krishnamurti.

The other way is Krishna’s and Mahavira’s—which I am following. Since you are going to make a sect anyway, it is better that I make it myself. At least I can make it better than you would. And since it is bound to happen, better I prepare it while I am still here. It will be better than what you would build.

You will create Krishnamurti’s sect; I am creating mine.

And know for certain: the sect that will arise behind Krishnamurti will be more dangerous—inevitably so, because Krishnamurti gave no help in its making. The one that will arise behind me will be as dangerous as any sect is, but less dangerous than Krishnamurti’s, because I have supported you. I have given you robes, names, sannyas. I have given you every facility for forming a sect. Because I know that what is bound to happen will happen; the best is that I cooperate. It will be a little more well-shaped, a little more far-reaching. The footpath will be a little closer to the royal road. What you would build on your own would wander very far afield. If it is built leaning on the royal road, it will remain alongside it. From that footpath it will not be too difficult to come onto the royal road. Whenever you wish, one leap—and you are on the royal road.

If I say, “Do not form a sect,” and you still form one, you will form it in opposition to me—as happened in opposition to Buddha, as is happening and will happen in opposition to Krishnamurti. When you form it in opposition to me, you will build it far from the royal road. You will have to, because it will be against me. Near the royal road I would not allow you to build it. Then returning from that footpath will become very difficult.

So there are only these two approaches. Knowers have tried both. It makes no difference; it is a matter of choice. The issue is not the knower’s concern; the issue is your understanding. Your understanding will ultimately be decisive. For the knower will have gone; only his remembrance will go on echoing in your heart. What will you do with that memory? Will you use it to form a sect? Or will you, through that remembrance, enter the royal road of dharma? Will that memory call you toward your nature and dharma? Or will you hide it in your strongbox and begin to worship it? Will that remembrance become a call, an invocation, a thirst—or will it become a toy with which you amuse your mind? It depends on you. The knower lives in dharma. It depends on you whether you live in dharma or in a sect. It is your decision. And what can the knower do?

There are two options for the knower; both have been employed.

What suits me is to give you support, so that you build your footpath close by—so there is not much distance between your footpath and me. Then when you awaken, or even come to a little awareness, you can take the leap; the royal road will be right nearby.

The second question is:

Certainly, only in prosperity does religion arise. But the fewer your cravings, the sooner you become prosperous. The more cravings you have, the longer it takes to become prosperous; if cravings are too many, you never become prosperous at all. So prosperity will not be measured by your money. Prosperity is the distance between your wealth and your desires. When the distance is small, you are prosperous. If there is no distance at all, you are an emperor, a sovereign. If the distance is vast, you are poor, a beggar. Understand this.

If your needs are fulfilled with one rupee and you have ten, and there is another man whose needs are tied to non-needs, whose essence is entangled with the inessential—even if he were given ten billion rupees he would still not be fulfilled—and he has five billion; his cravings are such that even ten billion would not suffice. You have ten rupees; your needs are so few that one rupee is enough. Who is more prosperous? The one with ten rupees is far more prosperous than the one with five billion, because the billionaire has only half of what his desires demand, while you have ten times what your needs require. Who is truly prosperous?

And certainly—let me repeat it—only the prosperous will enter religion. But do not take prosperity to mean that when you become an Alexander, then you will enter religion. In that case, you will never enter. Prosperity means your needs are so few that wherever you are, as you are, you find yourself prosperous. When needs are fulfilled—and when they are few, they are fulfilled quickly; it does not take long—you realize they are already fulfilled. Then what will your life-energy do? That very life-energy sets out on the journey of religion. Your needs are fulfilled—now what will you do? In which direction will your being flow? The worldly needs are met; they were so few that they are done. Now you are free for the journey to the other world. Now nothing can hold you here. There is no need to keep your boat tied to this shore. You are ready to go to the other shore: you can untie the moorings, loosen the pegs, raise the sails. The needs of this shore are complete.

So be alert. This is precisely my concern: there is every doubt whether you will hear what I am saying, whether you will understand what I mean. I keep saying again and again that until you are prosperous you cannot be religious. And you go on interpreting it to mean—hence this question—that first you must become an Alexander, conquer the whole world, and then you will be religious. I never said that; you have understood it upside down. You think you must go on increasing your needs to become prosperous.

I have said: go on reducing your needs; drop the futile. What is truly necessary is very little. With very little a man can be content. Your thirst does not need an ocean; a small spring is enough. And has anyone’s thirst ever been quenched by the sea? It only looks grand. If you go there you will find it does not quench thirst; it increases it. Has anyone ever been satisfied by wealth? Wealth is the salty water of the ocean: the more you drink, the more your thirst increases, because it is nothing but salt. The throat grows drier. A man can die drinking seawater; he cannot live on it. If you want to drink, a small well that you can dig in your own courtyard, for which even your little yard is big enough—a small spring, a tiny seep that can yield a handful of water when needed—that is enough.

How can you remain poor if you are content with a little?

And when I say “be content with a little,” do not take it to mean I am telling you to suppress your needs, to sleep hungry, to go naked. I am not saying that. I am only saying: understand your needs rightly—what they are—and fulfill them. Do not let nonessential needs interfere, because they have no end. Listen to the body; do not listen to the mind. All religions have taught you just the opposite: they say, listen to the mind, do not merely listen to the body. But the body is satisfied with very little; the mind is insatiable. How much can you eat? How much water can you drink? What does the body really need?

That is why you see animals and birds, who live at the level of the body, so content—because their need is very small. Only man is discontented, because man’s need is the mind’s need. The mind has no limit. It goes on desiring, goes on inflaming craving. Wherever you reach, it says, “This is not the goal; the goal is still far. Where have you arrived? Run a little more.” You go on running till you die; fulfillment never comes to hand.

So first understand this: prosperous is the one who recognizes needs as needs and non-needs as non-needs; who provides for the foundational needs, and drops the futile matters of mere display. Thirst is not quenched by gold and silver; hunger is not sated by diamonds and jewels. You may die crushed under them, but hunger will not die. Whoever has understood clearly that the expansion of the futile must be dropped and what is necessary must be given to the body—his life tastes the flavor of supreme fulfillment. That fulfillment is prosperity; only after that is there any possibility of religion. Otherwise, there is none.

And you ask, what then will become of civilization and prosperity?

True civilizational amenities will arise. Real prosperity will come; a real culture will be born. Right now, it is all fake, because it is born of the ambitions of a counterfeit man. The whole expansion rests on that. You are running; it appears that much is happening, that great prosperity and development are happening. Nothing is happening. Of it, fifty percent of labor is spent producing utterly useless things that nobody needs—women’s cosmetics! They are not needed at all. They do not make women beautiful; rather, even their natural beauty is lost, their natural luster is lost.

Do you consider the face of a woman with lipstick on her lips beautiful? Then there is a flaw in your definition of beauty. A lip with lipstick announces that its natural rosiness is gone, the lip is sick; now it must be covered by an external polish. When the lip glows with the circulation of blood, that is a different matter. When the lip looks red because of paint, you are a fool if you call that beautiful. It is merely a declaration that the lip’s own luster is gone—this is a cover-up.

When someone is truly beautiful, no adornment is needed; then external paints have no purpose. Birds, plants, animals—how beautiful they are without cosmetics! What need has man? Man has lost all reality. Everything is deception. And it is astonishing that you even call this beauty. Health can be beauty; externally smeared, artificial cosmetics cannot be beauty.

When a person is truly beautiful—calm, content, radiant—then a fragrance arises from the body, a very earthy fragrance, like the scent that arises from the soil when the first rains fall: the earth becomes happy, satisfied, her thirst quenched. Such a fragrance arises from the body when one is fulfilled and serene. You have lost that fragrance. It no longer arises. The body emits stench, and to hide it you must use store-bought perfumes. Those perfumes merely announce that your body must be full of stench—otherwise why hide, why suppress?

The more you try, the more it is all deception. And this entire hustle and bustle that you see throughout the world, as if great work were happening, great prosperity, great development—nothing at all is happening. Of it, fifty percent is absolutely futile. Of the remaining fifty, forty percent is going into preparations for war, conflict, strife. Fifty percent are the means of cosmetic deceit—how to save the beauty that has been lost, or how to show that it has not been lost, how to make man an actor: deception. The remaining forty percent is for war. Fifty percent to cheat about life’s lost beauty; and forty percent to end life—how to drop hydrogen bombs and atomic bombs on the little that remains. This is ninety percent of human civilization. Of the ten percent left, half the world goes hungry. People have not a single full meal; they have no roof, no medicine. Life is like that of insects. This is our civilization.

If we were to devote ourselves only to fulfilling life’s needs—as Lao Tzu wants, as I would want—then the fifty percent of labor that goes into false beauty, false prestige, and the satisfaction of false ambition would end. And from that very competition and rivalry arises war, which consumes the other forty percent. If this entire ninety percent of energy were invested in fulfilling the needs of life, needs would be fulfilled, and such a vast energy would remain available to humanity that from it culture would be created.

But that culture would be very different. That energy would flow into prayer; it would move into meditation; it would become music; it would be absorbed in creative activities. And whenever you create something—a small statue, a little painting, a new song, a fresh melody—and when that melody arises from your inner fulfillment, then culture is born. Culture is literature; culture is art; culture is the search for truth. Culture is the creation of a society of love—a society eager for a peaceful, joyous, celebrative samadhi.

But only if there is energy. Right now, no energy is left over. You spend your time in futile enterprises. You return at night exhausted; you cannot even sleep properly, because the worries you gathered during the day pursue you through the night. Nights become sorrow-dreams; days are a pointless scramble. In this way you are depleted. One day you find life is over; death stands at the door. And you call this culture? You call this civilization?

This is neither civilization nor culture—because it contains no love, no prayer, no worship, no fragrance of samadhi, no dignity of meditation. There is no inner nobility. Everything is outer show, the glitter of the court, while the fields lie dry. In the court there is great lighting; people stand with swords, wearing costly robes; the emperor sits on a jewel-encrusted throne. They are overfed, surfeited, and sick. Meanwhile, the fields are empty and the basic needs of man go unmet.

Some are sick because they overeat; some are sick because of hunger. The whole world is ill: some because there are no means to support life; some because they have so much that they do not know what to do with it, and they are being crushed by the excess. You call this civilization? What could be more barbaric than this? It is an uncivilized condition. And how can culture be born from it? Whatever is produced from it is also barbaric. You can see the difference.

Consider the old music—Eastern or Western—Beethoven or Mozart: that music has a different quality. There is a peace in it; listening to it, you become peaceful; listening to it, you feel fulfilled. Then there is today’s new music, produced by modern youth in the West: it is an uproar, an anarchy. Listening to it creates anarchy within you; you become violent or lustful.

Consider the old paintings: Ajanta, Ellora, the Taj Mahal—they were born from a different state of mind. If you look at the Taj Mahal, even in agitation, after a while you will find the inside turning calm. Then there is modern painting—Picasso. If you look at such a painting for a while, you will feel you are going mad. You cannot gaze at it long; if you fix your eyes on it, you are in trouble—because the painting is only restlessness, derangement, tension, turmoil.

When civilization is diseased, culture too becomes diseased—because culture is fragrance. When the flower is sick, its scent is no longer a perfume; it becomes a stench. Civilization is the flower; culture is its fragrance. But when the flower itself is rotten, where can fragrance be? Therefore in every direction culture has also fallen ill.

No, culture will arise only when people are so fulfilled that they have much life left over. What little remains now is lost to war. Is war a culture? War is a dreadful disease; it proclaims how many ulcers fester within us. The disease is a cancer in the body of society.

But first we nurture the disease. Look at the budgets of governments around the world; fifty to sixty percent goes to preparations for war. This is astonishing. Are these governments meant to safeguard life or to bring death? What is their purpose? They invest sixty percent of the nation’s wealth in war. For life, nothing is left. As if we had formed governments to organize dying. What kind of life is this, where the preparation for death proceeds with such intensity; where nothing seems more important than killing and being killed?

If we listen to Lao Tzu, if we understand the sages, an entirely different order of life will arise. Its fundamental basis will be that your needs must indeed be fulfilled—but needs are fulfilled with very little. The real work is to sift out the non-needs from the needs—separate the weeds. Your garden has too many weeds; roses cannot bloom there. The weeds consume all the earth’s strength. Remove them if you want flowers. Flowers can bloom on very little—but even that little is not spared.

Prosperous is the person whose needs are so few that they are fulfilled with little, and whose whole life and energy are left over. He can engage that energy in creation, in music, in samadhi. That very energy will take him to the Divine.

Only the prosperous can be religious. But understand well what prosperity means.

Desire is not bad at all; nothing is getting spoiled because of desire. Desire is a way to ripen your life. It is the university where you learn, where you grow, where your consciousness becomes strong, centered, crystallized. Without desire you would remain immature. Only by passing through desire do you attain awakening. Desire is like fire. Gold must pass through fire to be refined and purified.

Do not think of desire as evil. If you do, you will get stuck. Live desire—consciously—pass through it with understanding. For this is precisely the will of the divine: that you go through it. Do not run away at the sight of fire, as many do. Generally there are two kinds of people; and God’s will is that you become the third kind.

First, the one who takes fire itself to be life—like leaving gold in the furnace forever. It is necessary to put the gold in, and it is equally necessary to take it out. Putting it in is only half the work. When the dross has burned away, the gold must be drawn out. There is a kind of person who thinks the fire is all there is to life: he throws the gold in and forgets to take it out. His gold will burn, it will be purified, and then it will again become impure—because ash will mix back into it. Once the impurity has been burned away, remaining even a moment longer in desire becomes impurity again.

Second, seeing that some people, lying in the fire, have become filled with ash and rubbish, another person runs from the fire—flees to the Himalayas, takes sannyas, becomes a sadhu-muni. He has run away; he is afraid of the fire. He too will remain full of rubbish—because the fire was there to burn it away. He will never grow to maturity. If you observe those who have fled from life, you will find something unfinished in them. Look closely at your sadhus and renunciates who have in truth run away—you will always find a trace of childishness in them. Life has not tempered them; they remain in a small, stunted state.

A Jain muni once stayed with me as a guest. When we became close and intimate, he said he wanted to see a movie once—just once. “I became a monk when I was nine. My father was a Jain monk. My mother had died; my father took sannyas. There was no other arrangement for me, so I too was initiated.”

A nine-year-old child becoming a monk—and a Jain monk at that! For Jain sannyas means digging a deep trench around one’s life, building a high wall. A Hindu renunciate still has some leeway to slip into a cinema hall; a Jain monk has none. Society watches him twenty-four hours—where he goes, where he sits, what he does, how he sits, when he sleeps.

So a nine-year-old boy—his mind remained stuck at nine. He told me, “I feel such curiosity: what must be happening inside? I pass by and see long lines outside, a crowd gathered. If there is a queue, there must be something... But what happens inside, I don’t know.” This is the state of a small child; nothing wrong in it. But if this man were to tell his devotees he wanted to see a movie, they would say, “What are you saying? A Jain muni and a cinema?”

I said, “All right, I’ll arrange it. What’s the harm? See it once and be done.” I asked a friend to take him.

The friend was also a Jain. He said, “What are you saying? You’ll entangle me too!” But he was sensible: “I understand—if he has such curiosity, there’s no harm in seeing it once; he’ll be free of it.” He said, “I can take him, but to the cantonment area—nobody knows me there.”

But there they show English films. The Jain muni didn’t know English. He said, “No problem; at least I’ll see. Whether English or Hindi is not the real question; I’ll see.” Somehow they hid him and took him to a movie.

When he returned, the Jain muni told me, “My heart feels so light, as if a weight has dropped. There’s nothing to it. But outside I would always see the lines, the crowd, and think: something important must be happening, something full of flavor. Why else would so many people go mad for it? And I could not say this to anyone.”

If this is the state regarding a cinema, you can imagine how it will be regarding relationships. If a nine-year-old has taken sannyas, has left the world, of course he will wonder why everyone falls in love with a woman—what must be happening? And inside him too there is the energy of sexual desire knocking at his chest. His body is designed just like everyone else’s. The same sexual energy is produced daily in his body as in others’. He will be disturbed, agitated within; yet he can tell no one. And the more he is disturbed, the more he will preach brahmacharya in the temple in the morning. It’s a vicious circle, a devil’s wheel: the more he feels shaken by sexual desire, the more he will condemn it—because it seems to be unsettling him.

When I spoke on “From Sex to Samadhi,” all the fugitives in the land opposed it. Jain monks were at the forefront: “What is he saying—sex to samadhi!” Yet there was not one Jain monk who didn’t read that book secretly. It sold the most; many editions were printed. And those who were a bit honest even wrote to me—Jain monks too—saying, “Don’t tell anyone, but this has opened a clear path in our minds; we feel lighter. But don’t tell anyone.” They didn’t even sign, lest the letter be traced to them.

The one who runs away from entering the fire will be deprived; the one who remains lying in the fire will also be deprived. Entering the fire is necessary—and coming out is necessary. Only then will you get the full benefit of fire.

Desires are like fire; they are there to refine you. Passing through them, you become pure gold. Your gold becomes clean; you are purified. No desire is bad. If you run, you are in trouble; if you get stuck, you are in trouble. To go without getting stuck and to come out—that is the art. You must enter the room of lampblack, the kajal ki kothari; but it is not necessary to stay there.

And if you pass through that sooty room and come out without staining yourself—if you can, like Kabir, say, “Jyon ki tyon dhar dinhi chadariya, khub jatan se odhi”—“I returned the cloth just as You gave it to me; I wore it with great care.”

Kabir is a householder. He has a wife, a child; yet he says, “I wore it with great care.”

What does it mean? Kabir is not a runaway. The runaway throws away the sheet and flees—he never wore it at all. Nor is Kabir a mere enjoyer who keeps wearing the sheet until it becomes his shroud. Kabir wore it—carefully—and then put it away. And he says, “I returned it to God just as He gave it, not letting it get even a little soiled.”

Your body is your sheet; wear it with care. Your desires are your sheet; wear them with care. And see God’s gift in them too. For without them you could never attain refinement. You must pass through the wrong so that you can recognize the right as right. The wrong is the background, the blackboard on which we draw a white line. Your desire is the black blackboard; upon it the white line of your soul will be drawn. Do not become an enemy of the blackboard, or you will never be able to draw the white line.

Desire and the soul are a contrast, a polarity. Make desire the background and make your soul the white line. Then you will be able to thank God; then you will not say, “Why did You give me so many desires?” You will say, “It is Your great grace that You gave desires; otherwise how would we have recognized this soul? You gave this dark night—great is Your grace—for without the dark night, how would the stars of the soul shine? How would we recognize them? In the day they are not seen at all.”

If God made you pure straightaway, you would have no experience of purity. Purity would be there, but you would be deprived of the knowing. Therefore God makes you pure—and also gives you the opportunity for impurity. If you pass through that opportunity with care—passing with care is saintliness; passing with care is sannyas. Running away is not sannyas; indulgence is not sannyas. Turning enjoyment into yoga is sannyas. Creating dispassion while living in the world is sannyas. Be in the world in such a way that the world is not in you. Then you will wear the sheet carefully and return it with gratitude.

And if, at the time of returning life, you cannot give thanks to God, then you will have to come again and again—because you have not matured; you remained half-baked. The half-baked cannot be accepted. Be fully cooked—and then you will be received.

Only then will your offering be accepted at God’s feet; only then will you be part of His heart—when you take leave with gratitude, when at the moment of death you can say, “Great is Your compassion that You gave such vast possibility for purity and such a great opportunity for impurity.”

Both. Returning is the further evolution. Going back is going forward—because behind you lies the original source. The very place from which you have come is the ultimate goal. The original origin is the final destination. You become a circle; only then are you complete. When you draw a circle, the point from which you begin is the very point to which you return. And the circle is the symbol of completeness in this world. That is why we have also taken the circle as the symbol of zero. Zero and the whole are two ways of saying the same thing. You have to return to where you came from. And remember: when you return, you will not be the same as when you came. This whole journey—this path—will ripen you, awaken you, fill you with awareness.

One must pass through the world and return to the original source. Hence the saying: when, in old age, someone becomes a child again—when an old person becomes childlike—sainthood has dawned. The circle is complete. If by old age you are still clever, as usually happens, the circle is not complete. You will be thrown back again and again; you cannot be accepted. You are not yet worthy; you are still half. When, on the verge of old age, someone becomes as simple as a small child—this we call saintliness. This Lao Tzu calls the supreme attainment. A child has everything except awareness. Awareness comes through experience. If you become childlike again, but now with awareness, you have attained all.

So returning is going forward; it is to attain the original, for that is the end. It is to realize your own nature. Your nature was always with you, but then you were not aware. To regain your nature consciously—that is the key. There is a saying: only when a person goes to other lands and then returns to his own country does he truly understand his homeland. Earlier, because it was only one’s own country, there was no way to measure it—right or wrong, good or bad, beautiful or ugly, moral or immoral—nothing could be seen clearly, because there was no comparison. When one wanders through many countries—that is the very purpose of travel—and then comes back home, only then does one truly recognize one’s own land.

Exactly this is the journey of the world. That is why we call it coming and going—transmigration. It is a journey. And when you return to your own country... As the swan comes from Manasarovar: it wanders through many, many places, and in all that wandering the memory of Manasarovar begins to arise—the remembrance of home. And when it returns to Manasarovar—then you know its joy! Having passed through so many impurities, through such tainted atmospheres, through so much dust and din and the futile bustle of the world—only then, for the first time, does the purity, the clarity, the innocence, the great bliss of Manasarovar reveal itself.

Kabir says again and again: “Come, O swan, to that land!” Let us return home—to the country from which we have come. Enough of wandering; we have seen it all and gained nothing. Now let us go back home.

This homecoming is to the very home from which you set out, and yet it is utterly new—because you have become new; experience has refined you. Returning is going forward. And the only way to go forward is to return. To arrive in one’s own nature is the ultimate flowering of man. That is what it is to become God.

There is no question of when and how; understanding is being.
But the question arises in you because you think understanding is one thing and being is another. You think understanding is the beginning of the journey and being is the end. No. Between understanding and being there is not even a hair’s breadth of distance. Yes, you feel that you understand many things and yet you cannot be them. That can only mean one thing: you did not understand.

Intellectual grasp is not what I call understanding. I speak, you follow—because you know the language. You may even follow better than me; you understand the grammar of language, its logic. You are educated, intelligent, capable of argument; so everything seems clear. I am not speaking riddles; it all looks straightforward.

Then immediately the question arises: Now how to do it? The very moment the “how to do” arises, it shows you have not understood. You have understood with the intellect, with thought, but it has not been assimilated; it has not reached your heart—it got stuck in the skull. There is no understanding there; there is only the illusion of understanding. Let it descend into the heart.

Suppose your house is on fire and I tell you, “Your house is burning.” Will you say to me, “I understand. Now how do I get out? I’ve understood—that’s the beginning—now slowly show me the methods”? Will you say that? The moment you see the house on fire you will leave me behind—you will leap out first. The understanding that arises when the house is burning is not of the intellect. Your body-breath, every hair on your skin, every breath in you understands; your whole being understands. It is a total understanding. The head is not consulted—there is no time. And the head takes time.

Wherever immediate action is needed, you do not allow the intellect to start thinking; you push it aside and act—you jump out the window.

A snake appears on the path; the very sight and you leap aside. Not even the words form inside, “This is a snake; snakes are dangerous; experience says jump away.” No argument, no thought. Thought gets no chance. With your totality—here the snake appears, and there you jump. There is no gap between the two. Later, after you have climbed a tree and caught your breath, you can sit and philosophize about snakes. But when the snake was in front, you jumped. You did not ask the master—nor would a master be available there anyway. You did not consult the scriptures—where would you go to study with a snake right there! You did not even consult memory—perhaps you never faced a snake before, so what would memory say? You asked no one; your totality acted.

Understanding is an act of totality.

When I say, “Your life is on fire,” you understand with the intellect. When I say, “Your house is burning,” you understand with your totality. When I say, “This life is like a snake—beware,” you understand with the intellect. But when the snake is on the path—then! The day you understand religion in that way, that very day you have understood. Then there is no gap between understanding and doing. Understanding is the doing. Understanding is liberation.

If you have really seen that anger is poison, will you ask me, “Now how to stop anger?” If you ask, it is clear you have not yet seen; attachment still persists; you still think, “Yes, people say it is poison,” but it has not become your experience. You still have a taste for it; you still have investments in anger. You still believe, “Sometimes anger is necessary. The child misbehaves—how can I not be angry? If I am not angry, the wife doesn’t listen. Without anger how will people improve?”

Your inner attachments to anger are intact. You have not yet seen anger’s poison. For if poison is seen, you won’t say, “Granted, it is poison, but to reform the child a little dose may be given.” Who gives poison to reform anyone? Has anyone ever been improved by poison? Has any child ever been improved by anger? You know the truth: he can be spoiled, yes; he is never improved by anger.

Has any order ever been truly established by anger? It may be disturbed—that is likely; how will it be created? And even if some order is produced by anger, it will be deception, false. If your wife becomes quiet out of fear of your anger, that quiet is not peace; inside her fire will go on burning. From such quietness no love can be born. She may become your slave, but not your beloved. And a slave hates; a slave does not love.

Even if you somehow force something to happen on the basis of anger, it will be utterly temporary. Its negation is already built into it and will destroy it. You have built a house without foundation, standing on sand—it will collapse any day. Better you had slept under the open sky; at least there was no danger. This palace is dangerous; it will fall, and in its fall you will be crushed.

See anger completely. By seeing it, a certain understanding will arise. Look at lust fully; know it, recognize it. There is no hurry. Don’t act on someone else’s words. Then you will find: it is futile. So utterly futile that its very futility is enough for freedom from it. If you still need something extra—like going to a temple to swear a vow of celibacy—your vow itself shows you have not understood, and the lack of understanding you are trying to cover with a vow. Will one who has known take a vow of celibacy? If one has known, the matter is finished. Will he go to a temple? Will he make public declarations?

Such declarations, temples, vows before a guru—these are tricks. The trick is: now that four people know, your prestige is at stake, so somehow you will try to restrain yourself in the name of reputation. But does celibacy come from respectability? Celibacy comes from understanding. Does it come from ego and status—“People think I am celibate, how can I drop it now”? Such celibacy is worth two pennies; it cannot be. Then you will find ways; you will protect your reputation and also find secret ways to escape celibacy. Then hypocrisy will enter your life. And hypocrisy is the greatest downfall in this world. Not sin—sin is simple. The hypocrite is in the most difficult state; his life becomes complicated. He shows one thing, does another; says one thing, and something else happens. His life is in disarray.

First, understand what understanding is. Only when it is of the totality do we call it understanding. Do not mistake intellectual grasp for understanding. It is not enough, because you are far bigger than the intellect.

That is why many times you have decided, with your intellect, “Now I won’t get angry.” And the next day the decision breaks—perhaps in an hour. You were sitting there resolved not to be angry, someone arrives and insults you, and you don’t even remember your resolution. In that moment all is forgotten. Then you repent; then you swear again. This is what you are doing—doing, repenting, swearing—again the vow breaks, again repentance. Thus you have grown increasingly miserable.

The intellect is very small. What the intellect decides never reaches your life-breath. It is like this: the owner of the house sits inside; there is a watchman at the gate; you meet the watchman and return. The watchman says, “Fine, the house is sold to you,” and the owner knows nothing. Your intellect is no more than a sentry. It is a radar, meant to scan the outside. The owner is within. How can the intellect decide without asking the owner? The owner decides—what decision will the intellect make? That is why intellectual decisions break daily; even small ones collapse.

A man smokes; he takes a vow. To take a vow about smoking is foolish to begin with. For such a trivial matter to take a vow is idiocy. The very vow shows how uncomprehending you are. You are just puffing smoke in and out, doing nothing special, nothing of value—and for this you need a vow, and even that breaks.

Mulla Nasruddin is wiser than you. He told me, “I read everything—how bad smoking is, how dangerous, how it can cause asthma, cancer—read it all. Then I made a decision.” I asked, “What decision— to stop smoking?” He said, “No—to stop reading. I fixed it: I won’t read anymore.” He is wiser than you; at least he won’t have to repent.

I have a friend—mind a bit cracked. Often the so-called mad are wiser than the so-called wise. He is a Jain. He went on a pilgrimage. A Jain monk was staying there; he went to pay respects. As Jain monks do, he was told, “Take a rule, take a vow—since you have come on pilgrimage, do something.” He said, “All right, I have taken a vow.” The monk asked, “What vow?” He replied, “Till now I did not smoke; from now on I will.”

He is crazy. But when he came to me I asked, “Why did you do that?” He said, “At least this way there will be no occasion to repent. If you vow to quit something, it doesn’t quit, then you repent and the vow breaks. This one at least won’t break; that much is certain. I’ll keep smoking till my last breath. At least one vow fulfilled.”

Your vows break because you think with the intellect. It is the intellect that takes vows, not knowing it is only the sentry, not the owner. Without asking the owner, what are you doing? If, after hearing me, you think you have understood, you will be mistaken. If understanding could come by listening to me, it would be cheap. If it could come by reading scriptures, it would be cheap. Understanding will come by living life.

I do not tell you, “Anger is bad.” I tell you, “Examine anger—know it, recognize it.” What is the hurry? Be angry. Bear the pain of anger. Live it. Know its every limb. Look at it from every direction. Then understanding will dawn. That understanding will not come by listening to me; it will come only by being in satsang with anger itself. Yes, I do say one thing: be aware. Otherwise you have lived with anger for lifetimes and understanding has not come—because when you are angry you drop all accounts of understanding; you become unconscious. Only this much I ask: don’t do that. When anger arises, hold the thread of awareness.

At first it will be difficult. Slowly it will become easy. Gradually you will be angry and at the same time inside you will know what is happening. This knower within is your true owner. This witnessing presence sitting inside is the owner. Awaken this witness. Don’t worry about dropping anger—awaken the witness. It sleeps within; open the doors, wake it, and place it face to face with anger—enough. Then one day you will see: no snake is as poisonous as anger.

In fact, ninety-seven percent of snakes have no venom; only three percent are poisonous. Yet people die even from the bites of non-venomous snakes. They die out of their own idea; nobody kills them. The snake bites, and they die just for that reason. It is a great marvel—a real puzzle for medical science. Very few snakes can kill—three percent. And generally those snakes don’t bite you; they stay hidden. The snakes you see around are not venomous; their bite is no issue. But you may die if bitten—because the mind says, “A snake has bitten—now we die! How can we be saved?” It is hypnosis.

A Sufi story: A fakir sat at a city gate and saw a huge dark shadow pass. He said, “Stop—who are you?” A Sufi must be answered; the figure replied, “I am Death. I am going into the city. I have to kill five hundred people.” The fakir said, “All right.” A few days later, when Death returned, the fakir stopped her: “You deceived me—you said five hundred; five thousand died.” Death said, “The other four and a half thousand died on their own; I killed only five hundred. Do not hold me responsible—panic did the rest.”

Many lie in hospitals because of panic. Many die because others are dying. Plague spreads, cholera spreads—the contagion is more in the mind than in the body. The snake bites, and you die. “How can one survive after a snakebite?”—that suggestion kills.

The snake is not so poisonous. The snake’s bite can be survived; the bites of anger, greed, attachment, lust cannot. How many times have you died? When did a snake bite you? Why have you died so many times? No one gave you poison—you fed it to yourself. Greed, anger, illusion, attachment—all are poisons. Slowly you kept drinking these poisons—and kept dying of them.

If you want to attain nectar, wake up—see these poisons; rouse the witness. Then no decisions are needed. There is nothing to do. The witness just sees with full eyes—Where is the poison? Where is the fire? The matter ends there. No further question arises; you simply leap out. Understanding is revolution. Understanding is the only revolution. All other revolutions are superficial, deceptive. Do not trust them. You have wandered much by trusting in them. If you still wish to wander, it is your choice; otherwise do not trust the intellect’s talk. The intellect is the sentry. Awaken the owner. Ask the owner, “What is your will?” And the owner’s will becomes action instantaneously.

Last question:

Many things have to be understood; and it is right that they be understood.

For me there is no bad person, no enemy. The arrangements in the ashram are not to protect against any enemy. It may appear so to you—that is your interpretation. The arrangements here are to be protected from friends. And no one has ever been able to protect anyone from enemies; how could you?

Jesus was crucified; twelve guards, twelve disciples were keeping watch. What can you do with twelve disciples? The enemy came with a crowd of five hundred. All arrangements can be broken.

Jesus was a fakir, but even with all the arrangements America has to protect Lincoln and Kennedy—they still could not be saved. To save one from an enemy is almost impossible. It has never been done.

For Gandhi, every precaution was taken. What can you do? A single madman can finish it. Those you manage to protect yourself from are the very ones there was no need to be protected from, because they are not out to finish anything. But the one who wants to finish—you cannot protect yourself from him. In Lalit Narayan Mishra’s death only two months ago, a thousand soldiers stood all around. What can you do? A madman throws a bomb.

So there is no way to save anyone from enemies. Do not fall into the illusion that anyone can ever be saved from enemies; there is no need either. For me there are no enemies. There is no reason to think in that direction.

These arrangements are to be protected from friends. My difficulty is with friends. And the cause of the difficulty is not in me; that also needs to be understood.

For years I travelled alone throughout the country. Work became impossible—the work for which I have remained in this body. I would be sleeping at night, and at two in the morning someone would enter my room. He would say, “I must massage your feet.” He is a man full of feeling. He presses my feet the whole night; sleep itself becomes difficult. If I am doing something else at night, that becomes difficult too.

I board a train, four people climb in. They sit in the compartment; they talk. So many people have talked to me on trains that by the time I arrive where I have to speak, they have already ruined my throat! On trains one has to speak a little louder. And they get the convenience of spending eight or ten hours in conversation. However much I ask them, “Please, now let me be!” they are lovers, they say, “We don’t feel like leaving.”

Here too everything could be left open. I could sit under a tree. But then what I am doing would become impossible—absolutely impossible! And much of what I am doing you have no inkling of.

In Shankaracharya’s life there is a mention. There was a great, decisive debate with Mandan Mishra—two magnificent geniuses! It was difficult to find a chairperson, but Mandan’s wife seemed the only one who could preside. Shankara’s followers worried she might be biased, because her husband was a contestant. With no other way in sight—Shankara himself was unconcerned, he said fine—the debate happened. And Mandan Mishra’s wife gave an impartial verdict as few could: she declared Mandan defeated. But she added a condition that made things difficult. She said, “Mandan has lost, but the defeat is only half, because the wife is the husband’s other half. Shankara, you will have to defeat me too; only then can it be called a complete victory. Otherwise it is half.”

Shankara was not prepared for this. He had never imagined such a move. He had to agree. And Mandan Mishra’s wife was skillful: she did not ask about Brahman and maya; she raised questions about sex-energy and sexuality.

Shankara, a celibate, was in a fix. He said, “You are asking questions for which I have no experience.” She said, “Take time, if you wish. Go and gain experience, then return.”

Asking for six months, Shankara somehow took his leave. He was in great difficulty. For six months he left his body, and his twelve disciples kept constant vigil over his corpse, twenty-four hours a day. Because Shankara entered the body of another man—a householder, a king who had just died. He entered that body, experienced all the secrets of sex with the king’s wife, and returned to his own body. That watch had to be unbroken; if even for a moment there had been a lapse, that body would have been disturbed, and returning would have become difficult.

For many moments I am outside the body. Now that I have initiated so many people, given sannyas to so many, I have many kinds of work to do with them. Someone thousands of miles away is in need; then I am outside this body. And if at that time anyone enters my room, my return becomes difficult. If someone shakes my body, starts pressing my feet, then there is no way for me to return.

You have no idea of any of this. So you think as far as your mind can reach. You see guards standing here—what is the need? You start raising big arguments in your mind.

These guards are still too few. For the work I am doing, more arrangements are needed. Even now people get through them. Only two months ago, when a meeting ended, two women reached the back gallery. I went into my room and they were knocking at the door from the back. They are all lovers, people filled with feeling! These guards are not to protect from enemies; they are to protect from you—and for your work. In your emotional overflow you might do something. Your emotion is not the issue; your emotion is perfectly fine. But you could do something that ultimately becomes harmful to you.

People ask me why there are so many obstacles to meeting you. With sadhus and saints there are no obstacles.

I know that too. I can also sit under a tree. But then I can only receive your worship; I cannot do anything for you. That is why your sadhus and saints are not doing anything for you. But you are delighted, because you can go whenever you like, meet them, and come away. But real work becomes impossible.

If I am to do something for you, I cannot be under a tree. According to your intelligence you think, “Why are you in an air-conditioned room? What need has a sadhu for an air-conditioned room?”

But you have no idea; hence your difficulties. And many things cannot be told to you. If I leave the body, the temperature of my room must remain exactly as it was. Only in the same temperature in which I left can I re-enter; otherwise it is not possible.

So there are only two ways. Either I go to a Himalayan cave where the temperature remains constant—which is why people sought Himalayan caves. But then I cannot work much on you. If I had only to work on myself, a Himalayan cave would be fine. But that work is complete. I have nothing to do upon myself. If I am to work on you, then I must be in the crowd, the marketplace, the settlement.

Your notions cannot go beyond your understanding. It is not your fault. But whenever you find something here that goes beyond your understanding, do not rush to a conclusion; try to expand your understanding a little. As your understanding grows, things will become clear; you will begin to see the purpose.

There is no question of protection from enemies; no one has ever saved anyone from enemies. There is no need. The question is protection from friends, because in their emotionality they can obstruct the whole work. So I shall have to become increasingly strict. If I truly want to help you arrive somewhere in this very life, I shall have to become even more strict. You will understand that only when you reach that height. Only then will you be able to thank me; before that you cannot. Until then, who knows how many kinds of criticism you will keep making. And do not think I am unaware of your criticism. I know your intelligence; therefore I know what questions can arise in it. Without your saying so, I know what your questions are.

Just do not decide. Do not form opinions. Do not be hasty. Let understanding grow a little, let it rise a little; let a little light spread. Then you will see clearly why it is so.

Lao Tzu could not do any work, because he sat under a tree. Many enlightened ones have left this world without doing any work—for your sake—because your beliefs are so strange. According to your beliefs, real work is difficult. Because of your own beliefs you have suffered a thousand harms.

I have known a sannyasin since my childhood; he attained to supreme knowledge. Some of you who have travelled to Jabalpur may have seen him. In Jabalpur there was a supreme yogi; no one knew his real name. But because he always carried a small water mug in his hand, people called him Magga Baba. He would sit anywhere—under an open tree, outside a shop under a lean-to, in someone’s veranda. Whenever I went to him, I found him in trouble—and the trouble was that people would not leave him alone. Night and day people sat with him, because they believed that pressing his feet earned great merit and that their wishes would be fulfilled!

You can imagine what you did to him! Twenty-four hours people pressed his feet. He could not sleep—the people had no interest in him; he could not do any work. There was no way. Lines formed there: one has pressed his feet, and the next is standing in queue. And at night, those who work by day—rickshaw pullers, drivers, and the like—they all gathered at night. At night their rickshaws had no work, so the rickshaw pullers stood in line pressing Magga Baba’s feet.

I told him, “Your life is just passing like this; the energy of this life is not being used.” He usually spoke to no one. One day, finding him alone, I said this to him. He said, “It will pass like this; the mistake was made earlier. Nothing can be gained now. And these people too are gaining nothing.”

They harbour small ideas—that pressing his feet will cure an illness. Even if an illness is cured, what is cured? Someone thinks he will win a court case. Even if you win, what has happened? A man like Magga Baba is not for such things. These would happen without him as well. And whether they happen or not, their value is nothing.

Seeing him, I decided then that the day I set to work, I must take precautions from the very beginning. So as long as I travelled, I made no arrangements, because I had not started that other kind of work. Until then I was inviting people, moving around alone. Security would have been needed then—if it were to protect from enemies—because I travelled the whole country without even a single person with me, in crowds twenty-four hours a day. But there was no question of security, because there are no enemies, so no need to protect from them.

As soon as I came to Poona, I changed the whole dimension of my arrangements. Now I am working. Now I have no interest in crowds, nor do I want a crowd here. I do not wish wrong people to enter for any reason. I do not have a single moment to give them. Now I am working only on those with whom something can happen. And my whole energy has to be poured into them. Therefore, so that not a particle of my energy is wasted here and there, all these arrangements are necessary.

I will live by arrangement. And it is for you, though it may not please you. You would prefer that I sit under a tree; whenever the mood takes you, you come, meet me, chatter away, press my feet, offer flowers. Though nothing would happen to you, you would be pleased!

Your ignorance knows no limits!

Enough for today.