Tao Upanishad #93

Character has two dimensions. One is a character imposed from the outside. Such a character has no firmness. However strong it may appear, the strength is deceptive. It can break at any moment. In truth, it is already broken, because behind such a character its opposite stands present with great force. Such a character is not one-taste; its breaking element is only suppressed, not transformed.
The second kind of character arises from within and spreads outward. It is not painted on from above like varnish and color, but surges outward like an inner dignity, like an inner fire; it is born in your inner being, in your heart. Its roots are hidden in your swabhava; it comes from your Atman.
One is a character that is imposed; the other is a character awakened from the inner being. That which is awakened from within is firm; it cannot be broken. There remains no method to break it, because the opposing element is not present within. You cannot even shake it. For no one else shakes anyone. When you are shaken, the cause is within you. No one shakes you; you are ready to be shaken, that is why someone succeeds in shaking you.
A woman went into a police station and said, 'I have been raped, and the man who did it was a first-rate idiot.' The officer on duty was astonished. He said, 'I can understand the first part; such incidents occur daily. But how did you find out he was an utter fool?' The woman said, 'He certainly was. I had to tell him how to do it.'
No one shakes you. Even rape cannot happen if the note is not already hiding within you. Even for rape your cooperation will be required; otherwise even that is not possible.
This will sound difficult. Because you think rape is a forced act.
But you also invite force. Psychologists say there are women who invite rape; there are women who, until they are raped, do not feel satisfied. They arrange in every possible way that they may be raped. And even in rape cooperation is needed, because if a woman were totally non-cooperative she would become like a corpse; rape could not be performed upon her. If her non-cooperation were absolute, then at the precise moment of rape life-breath would separate from the body.
In the old scriptures of India it is said: a Sati cannot be raped; the chastity of a Sati cannot be corrupted.
From the surface the statement seems strange. One thinks: if ten men use force, why can they not destroy a woman's chastity? But if chastity is authentically chastity, then a woman's life-birds will fly away, but rape will not be possible. It happens only with cooperation. There may be outer resistance, but inside there is a deep longing.
You cannot be shaken if the roots of character are in swabhava. How will you tempt someone if nothing of greed remains within?
Every person has a different limit of greed. If someone offers you a bribe of five rupees, you may say, 'No. What do you take me for? I am not corrupt.' But if it is five thousand, it may not be so easy to refuse. And if it is five lakhs, it will be very difficult. And if it is five crores, perhaps the thought will not even arise in your mind that this is corruption.
What difference does it make whether you took five rupees or five crores? The difference is only of number. It only reveals this: the boundary of your greed begins after five rupees. Up to five rupees you are without greed; that is the depth of your character. Five rupees deep is your character. At the depth of five crores your character is absent; there you begin to wobble.
I have heard that the village 'emperor' established illicit relations with Mulla Nasruddin's daughter and she became pregnant. Mulla was furious, raged and shouted. He picked up his sword and set off for the emperor's house—blazing, burning with anger. He said, 'What have you done? You will have to pay with your life. What do you think of me?' But the village king said, 'Sit down calmly; first listen to me. What is the matter exactly?' Nasruddin said, 'You made my daughter pregnant; you corrupted her—this I cannot tolerate.' The king said, 'Don't worry. If your daughter is truly pregnant, I will give you fifty thousand rupees so you can raise the child; and five lakhs I have already deposited in the bank for the child's future.' Nasruddin instantly became light. The anger vanished. He said, 'And if this time a child is not born—some mistake happens, it is stillborn, premature, dies—will you give one more opportunity or not? I actually came to ask whether you will give my daughter one more opportunity or not.'
There is a limit. If someone calls you something and you do not get angry, and then he uses a stronger abuse and you flare up—do not imagine you have attained non-anger. Only understand this: there is an arrangement between your anger and the thin layer of your non-anger. Up to a certain limit you do not get angry; that much is your conduct. Inside, anger is boiling—that is your real state. Until you are beyond all shaking, your character is like skin—on the surface. A small thorn pricks and it peels off. The day it becomes impossible to shake you—not just difficult, but impossible—only then...
So these are the two dimensions of character. One dimension is imposed from above. That is social cleverness, not character. To live among people you must learn a little etiquette. To be angry everywhere, in every situation, is costly. You are cunning; you know where to be angry and where not to, with whom and with whom not. You even keep smiling in anger if the person you are angry with is strong, powerful. If the same thing had been said by a weak person, you would have twisted his neck. This may be your cunning; it is not character. To live in society you need skill. You are not alone; around you are thousands. You have to walk, sit, deal with them. You must learn a kind of arithmetic. You cannot give absolute freedom to your impulses; otherwise living will become difficult, and you will be in trouble twenty-four hours a day.
But do not mistake this arithmetic for character. It is only superficial arithmetic. That is why it constantly happens that as soon as you become a little more powerful, this arithmetic changes. It worked only as long as you were weak. When your power increases, a little money increases, a little position increases, the whole situation changes. Those who were strong yesterday become weak; now you can be angry at them. Those who were weak become weaker; now you can place your feet on their heads and make steps out of them.
What Lord Acton said—'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely'—is in one sense right and in another not. It happens, certainly. His observation is correct that whoever comes into power becomes corrupt. And yet it is not correct, because power does not corrupt anyone; the person was already corrupt. He was weak, therefore he could not express his corruption. Power only gives expression to what was hidden. He always wanted to do it, but the facility was not available. Now the facility is there.
You see it happened in India. The politicians who were servants before independence became exploiters afterwards. Those who seemed great renunciates before independence turned into great hedonists after it. Their renunciation was imposed conduct from above, compulsion of circumstance, not real. Their nonviolence was on the surface. You will be surprised to know that in these twenty-five years these very politicians, who day and night shout about nonviolence, have committed more killings than the British ever did in India. No one even imagines it. They have fired more bullets than a foreign power ever fired. If the British had been willing to fire that much, you would never have become independent. As many people as you have put into jails—if the British had been ready to do this and to repress this brutally—slavery could never have been broken.
Firing bullets has become a game. Every day somewhere in India bullets are fired. The death of two, four, five people is no longer special. Lathis rain every day. The jails are in very bad condition. And all this is happening at so-called nonviolent hands. If the violent do such things, it matches; but if claimants of nonviolence—raised in Gandhi's shadow, singing his praises day and night—do all this, then it must be understood that Gandhi could not give this country character. He gave skill, gave cunning. Things remained above; they did not go deep within. And all his followers proved corrupt.
But the corruption was not visible before '47. It could not be, for the power was not in hand. Then they appeared pure. In snow-white khadi they seemed like saints. The clothes are still the same; the whiteness even greater. But the inner blackness has been totally exposed.
There is a conduct one learns as social behavior—how to speak, sit, walk—so that you do not unnecessarily collide with anyone, do not make enemies, work with skill, so that the ambition you have for your life may be fulfilled.
When a politician comes to you during elections, how he stands with folded hands and a smile! Seeing that smile and those folded hands, even the humility of Buddha and Mahavira seems small. He becomes utterly humble—water-like. It seems he is eager to lay his head at your feet. Then, after reaching the post, he will not recognize you. He will not accept that he ever came to your door. Do not make the mistake of going to him and saying, 'You came to our door, we voted for you, you stood with folded hands.' In truth, because he had to fold his hands, he will take revenge on you; he will humiliate you. The situation forced him to fold his hands; he cannot forget it; he will insult you.
This is conduct. Such conduct, on top, is deep hypocrisy within. Jesus repeatedly says in his words, 'O you hypocrites!' He says to his disciples: do not be filled with the conduct of hypocrites; even vice is better than that—at least it is honest, at least it is true. Jesus says to his disciples: beware, the immoral will reach before your moralists, because the immoral are at least straight and simple; they are not cunning. Your moralists are purely cunning and hypocritical; whatever they are showing is precisely what they are hiding.
If a window could be made in the heads of your sadhus and you could peep in, you would be utterly surprised. There you would see great crimes happening—though not in deed, yet happening in thought. But to religion there is no difference between thought and act. If you have thought, it has happened; whether you did it or not is not the question. Religion has nothing to do with what you did; it has everything to do with what you wanted to do, what thought arose within. If you thought adultery, adultery has happened. The law of the land may not catch you, but you will not escape the law of God. This earth's law cannot catch you. Sit in your mind and go on murdering—no court can prosecute you. At least dreams are free; you can dream murders and no one can say anything. Until you act, you are not caught, because the world lives by acts and thinks by acts. The coin of the world is act. But God's coin is different. There the final account is not of what you did, but of what you wanted to do.
Then you will not find much difference between sinners and virtuous ones. You will find your virtuous ones even greater sinners—because the sinner does and passes, is finished; the virtuous keeps on thinking and thinking, repeating the same thing. His soul falls into a pit; around his soul only one smoke goes on circling—the smoke of sin.
Such conduct is without foundation. It is like a house built on sand; sooner or later it will fall. It is only a coincidence if it stands a while. A paper boat—you cannot journey in it; it will drown you. Better to journey without a boat, because one who travels without a boat makes arrangements to swim. One who rides a paper boat thinks, 'The boat is here; what need to swim? What need to learn?' But paper boats do not cross; they sink midway.
And this conduct trained on the surface will throw you into great inner conflict. A conflict will go on within. Whatever you want to do, you will not do; whatever you do, you will not want to do. You will smile on the surface and burn with anger within. Your life will become hell, stretched in two directions.
What is unrest? The seeds of hypocrisy bring unrest. What is torment? You are pulled between two so that you can be neither here nor there. On the surface you feel anger is bad and should not be done; inside anger boils. Then you put on a mask, hide your face, cover your mouth with false faces. But whom are you deceiving? Even if you succeed in deceiving the other, before your own inner soul you will remain naked. No mask will work there. And there you will know what the reality is. Truth is never attained by such masks. And they can be shaken in a moment.
Lao Tzu says there is also a character that is not easily shaken. Its foundation is in your swabhava; not in cunning but in your prajna; not in arithmetic but in your inner consciousness. Not in cleverness; do not mistake cleverness for great intelligence. Cleverness ends up as great foolishness. Not in cleverness—in awareness the foundation of real character is laid. Understand the difference. Then this sutra will be easy to grasp.
Anger is in your life—a fact. There are two ways with anger. One is to repress it, hide it within yourself. But what is hidden within has not been destroyed. And what is hidden within you will have to be hidden again and again; every day it will try to come out. And what you go on stuffing inside will slowly begin to overflow, because there is also a limit to filling. Space is limited within you.
Hence understand a very strange point. Psychologists say: those who express anger day by day and do not repress it—rarely, if ever, does any of them commit murder. Rarely. Almost impossible. But those who go on repressing anger—many of them commit murder. Because so much anger accumulates that small incidents no longer satisfy; then only murder will do. Until you break someone’s neck, smash someone’s head, make someone bleed—until you see life itself writhing and disappearing before your eyes—your soul will not find peace.
If someone were to ask me, 'If anger must be done and there is no way to avoid it, then what to do?' I would say, whenever it arises, do it; do not store it. Do it like small children. When anger comes, pour it out completely. That is why little children are laughing a moment later. The very child with whom they fought a moment ago and swore never to speak again—now both sit together gossiping. As if it came and went—a gust of wind that swept the dust away.
If you must be angry, do it like children—do it and do not store it. Because the one who stores will be in trouble. He will murder; he will commit some terrible crime. When anger becomes too much, small acts do not satisfy; it will flow causelessly. One who expresses when needed is not an angry person. He has acts of anger, but only acts; twenty-four hours he remains light. One who does not express, who stores, does not have anger in his act, but in his very personality. The poison spreads everywhere; he is angry twenty-four hours. The shadow of anger falls on his whole day. Even keeping things he will put them down with a bang; opening a door he will fling it open. He will take off his shoes as if throwing an enemy. He will speak, and there will be poison in his words. He will look, and there will be thorns in his eyes. He will even love, and in his love there will be violence.
Vatsyayana, the first to reflect on Kama-shastra, wrote: love is incomplete until lovers bite and scratch each other; until the marks of nails and teeth remain on the beloved, love is not complete. But would you want to bite in love, to scratch? Yet lovers do this.
Certainly, this poison is coming from somewhere else. Otherwise, in love one would be utterly delicate. The very talk of biting is absurd. Even animals do not do it in love; why should humans?
But humans do. And such events have happened that sometimes lovers have killed each other in love. There are cases on record where on the very first wedding night the husband strangled his wife. He loved her deeply. He himself could not believe what happened. In court he said, and no one believed him, 'I loved her so much'—and he cried and cried—'What overtook me? What demon possessed me? I was overshadowed; I was not myself. This cannot be me. Why would I kill my beloved? There was no reason. And it was the very first night, long awaited!'
But if you go on storing anger, it can flow at any moment. And the moment of love is a moment of great opening. In love you open all windows and doors. If anger is much inside, it will pour out. What will you do? Whatever is filled in the pot comes out when it is opened. In love you cannot keep yourself guarded; if you do, you cannot love. And as the guard drops, whatever is within flows out.
With anger one path is repression; pushing it into the unconscious, until your unconscious is brimming with anger. Then you become an angry person. Whether you act angrily or not, the poison of anger pervades your personality. Among your sadhus and sannyasins you will find such people—Durvasa everywhere. Rishi Durvasa is a representative rishi. Rishis like him you will meet in many places. A small thing sets them ablaze; a molehill becomes a mountain. A trivial thing fills them with rage. They become intent on destruction; curses flow from them. If you repress anger, your unconscious becomes poisonous.
And that is what the first kind of character does—represses anger, sex, greed, attachment. Garbage fills within. The more this garbage fills within, the more your soul goes far away from you. Then you will begin to fear going inward, because when you go in you first encounter this junk. You will remain on the porch, circling the house outside. You will lose the courage to go within.
After all, you hear again and again: the wise of the world say, 'Go within, know yourself, Atma-jnana, self-recognition.' You do not go. You hear and say, 'Right—someday we will go.' But you do not. You know that if you go in, there seems no possibility of meeting Brahman; you will meet the garbage you have repressed. Whenever you have gone a little within, you encountered only this junk. That is why you fear being alone. When another is present, the mask remains. For the other you keep acting. When you are absolutely alone, the mask slips. When there is no one to show to, then the relationship with yourself begins. And you are very afraid of yourself. You know some mischief will occur.
Many experiments have been done scientifically. People were kept in absolute solitude for three weeks—in a dark cell. All facilities provided; no lack of anything. In three weeks people go mad. What happens? Mad? The person was healthy, ordinary; why suddenly mad?
Three weeks is too much to be with oneself. And three weeks in darkness, only seeing oneself, only meeting oneself—then all the garbage becomes visible. All wounds become green again; there seems only pus. Panic arises, and in panic one goes mad.
No one wants to be with himself. You avoid aloneness. I traveled by train for years and was surprised to see people reading the same newspaper four times, unable to sit idle. They first read it thoroughly—from the corner where the Lipton Tea ad sits to the very end where the name of the editor and publisher is printed. Then they begin again, put it aside, and begin again—keeping themselves engaged. They open the window, then shut it; then open it again after a while. They open the suitcase, rearrange a few things, close it again.
On a long journey if you quietly watch someone, you will be amazed: what is he doing? Why? If he himself knew, he would be amazed. But he is doing everything possible to escape himself in this aloneness. That is why strangers begin talking—a conversation about nothing. The weather becomes the topic. Both can see it is raining outside; there is nothing to say—and yet something is needed.
Strangers begin with the weather, because any other topic can be dangerous. It is not yet known whether the stranger is communist, Hindu, or Muslim. Weather is neutral; there is no question of opinion, no chance of quarrel. Because when the moon has risen the other will also say, 'Yes, beautiful'—we will be of one mind. Any other topic is risky; there may be opposition. And this is not the time to oppose; here one needs companionship.
Nasruddin's son once asked him, 'Whenever you go to the barber for a haircut, why do you always talk about the weather? Why not something else? At home you talk of many things.' Nasruddin said, 'You don’t understand. When a man has a razor in his hand, it is not wise to talk of anything that may lead to opposition. Weather is perfectly fine. In politics there can be differences, in religion opposition, in philosophy diverse views. And that man has a knife! Do I want my neck cut? He may get angry! Best to choose a topic that is utterly neutral and cannot lead to a fight.'
Man is afraid of himself. The reason for fear is that all that is bad has been repressed inside.
How many roots can such a character have? None. It is rootless character. Is there any difficulty in shaking it? Anyone can shake it. You say you love only your wife. If your love is only that, any beautiful woman passing on the street can shake it. There is no need to shake it; she will not even know that you are shaken—that thoughts have started, that lust has arisen. A small incident will agitate you.
The second character is not born out of repression but out of awakening. Anger is not to be repressed but understood. Greed is not to be repressed but understood. What is greed? You need not take sides, need not condemn it, because whatever God has given has a purpose. In existence nothing is purposeless. If anger is given there must be a foundation; there must be a cause; there must be a right use. From this energy something can be created. Perhaps you do not yet know how.
You do not know that the instrument in the house is a sitar and that music can arise from it. You have never seen music arise from it. Sometimes a mouse nudges it and your sleep breaks at night. Sometimes a child plucks a string and only noise spreads in the house. You have not seen music arising from it because the hands of a musician have not touched it. You are unacquainted. Even the sitar makes noise if you do not know how to play it. Such noise is happening in your personality. You do not know how to play life—how beauty, how music should arise from the flute of life. From the same, anger arises, greed arises. Greed and anger are only lacks; they show that you did not know how to play the raga, that you could not arrange what you were given.
Your condition is like this: flour is there, water is there, ghee is there, the hearth is burning—and you are sitting hungry because you do not know how to make bread. Everything is present; only the proportion must be right, it must be placed on the fire, time given. Where there is hunger, somewhere nearby food is hidden, because hunger cannot be given without food. And we have seen those who are satisfied—Buddhas whose hunger has disappeared. They have prepared the meal; they have made the bread. Flour cannot be eaten alone; if you do, the stomach will ache and you will become an enemy of flour. If you drink only water, hunger will not be sated; for a while the belly will be full, then empty; hunger will bite stronger. If you only warm your hands at the fire, you will sweat, but hunger will not be satisfied. The elements are present; bread is to be made. The sitar is ready; only the fingers are to be trained.
What you are calling anger becomes karuna. The very energy you call greed becomes dana. The same energy—on the day you become a musician, the day you learn to play—what you call sex becomes Brahmacharya. The same energy! There is only one energy; when you allow it to be corrupted it becomes anger, when you hold and transform it it becomes compassion. The same energy—when it flows out through holes it becomes lust, when you become without holes and bring it into discipline—discipline meaning music—the same energy becomes Brahmacharya.
Whatever you have is meaningful. You are very rich. Existence is so abundant that no one is born poor here. If you are poor, it is your own doing. If you weep, it is your own doing. This whole world is laughing; if you weep, some mistake is happening. Do not do this: 'Flour is wrong—throw it away; fire is wrong—extinguish it; water does not quench hunger—pour it out.' Then you will never satisfy hunger, because you destroyed the means.
So I do not tell you to throw anger away—that is flour. I do not tell you to extinguish lust—that is fire. I do not tell you to become an enemy of greed—that is water. With all these your hunger will be satisfied. Understand them, recognize them, find their right proportion. Awareness towards them.
Awareness is hindered because you are already sitting with enmity. One who has bound enmity with flour will sit with his back to it. Why look at an enemy? You have become enemies to the energies of life. Drop enmity. Take hold of understanding. First recognize—do not condemn. One who condemns cannot recognize. Can we recognize an enemy? With whom we are at odds, we do not want to recognize; we want him not to be. Where is the question of recognizing? If we meet him on the road, we pass with downcast eyes. If he extends his hand, we turn our back.
Do not be hostile to life’s energies. Life’s energies are life’s energies. Nothing is meaningless. In this existence not even a small straw is meaningless. Meaningfulness you may not know; that is your deficiency. Increase your understanding; you will see the meaning. Do not fight—awake.
As you awaken, you will be surprised: here you awaken and anger begins to thin—without doing anything, without touching it. As your awakening grows, you find anger is becoming impossible. Because the energy that awakens you is drawn from anger, drawn from greed. One who begins to meditate finds his rush towards wealth naturally decreases. Because now greater wealth is available; the smaller race drops. When diamonds are found, who collects pebbles? Do not fight the small; awaken the vast. If you fight the petty you will go astray. Join with the vast; the small will dissolve in the vast. And dissolving, the small also becomes vast.
Buddha had anger, as you have; dissolving into the vast it became karuna. Anger means: the desire that the other be destroyed. Compassion means: the desire that the other flourish. The thing is the same—either the other should disappear, or the other should be. The energy is the same; the direction has changed. Greed means to snatch; dana means to give. The same hands snatch, the same hands give. The same things are snatched, the same are given. Nothing changes. The staircase is the same by which you go down and by which you rise. Heaven and hell are directions; the staircase is one.
The more you understand life’s energies, the more blessed you will feel—graced by God: 'How much has been given! What music was possible!' The instrument was in the house; you could not play it. You could not dance; the sky was there, flowers bloomed, birds sang—and your feet did not dance, you could not understand the whole melody that was happening. Existence is a celebration. As your awareness grows, you will see celebration all around. Existence is not poor; it is immensely rich. Its riches are endless. Flowers do not get exhausted—blooming for billions upon billions of years. The moon and stars do not get exhausted—pouring light for billions upon billions of years. Life has neither beginning nor end. With that you are connected.
You are connected with such vastness. But your eyes are fixed on the petty.
Turn the gaze back. Move upstream—to the Ganga’s source, to the origin, within. Do pratikraman. Then you will be established in swabhava. And such a character becomes available that cannot be shaken. Where anger has become compassion, how will you make him angry? Anger is not there. One who has known compassion, who has known the supreme music of the transformation of anger—if you abuse him he will smile. For one who has gained the treasure of compassion from the energy of anger will not spend that energy in anger now.
Someone abuses Buddha. He says, 'You have come a little late; you should have come earlier. Now it is difficult. Now you cannot make me angry. And I feel great compassion for you, because you will return empty-handed. You must have come with many assumptions—that you will insult, abuse, humiliate me—and you will return unsuccessful. I cannot help you; you came a little late. Come ten years ago; then I would also have been angry. On your abuse I would have hurled a heavier abuse. Then I was unwise; I was throwing away life-energy without knowing what could be bought with it.'
With the life by which you can purchase God, what are you purchasing? You are wasting it on trivia; you are losing it, not earning. The world is upside down. The worldly who lose are thought to be earning; the sannyasin who earns is thought to be losing. There is only one earning: that your life be filled with the supreme music whose entire apparatus is within you, with which you are born. Sing that song before you go—that is the only earning. Play that music before you go—that is the only earning. Then you will go laughing. Then you will go saying with Kabir: 'That death which the world fears, my mind rejoices—when shall I die and meet the Perfect Bliss?' Then even death you will welcome with a dance. Till now you have welcomed even life with anger, greed, trivialities, illnesses. These are the two dimensions.
'What is firmly established cannot be easily shaken.'
You are shaken. Do not blame the other; just understand that you are not firmly established. When someone abuses you and you fill with anger, do not think he has harmed you; know this much—that your character is not firmly established. And thank this man: 'Your grace, that you revealed how deep my character goes. Alone I would not have known. How would I have found out alone that I am not firmly established?'
Often those who leave home for the Himalayas begin to think they have attained character. Because there is no one there to shake them. When they return, they are immediately shaken. Then they begin to fear coming to you; they think you cause their fall. You are not the cause; you are the test. Coming to you gives the touchstone; one comes to know the measure.
A sannyasin lived in the Himalayas for thirty years. He became assured: all is well—no anger, no greed, no attachment, no sex; I am peaceful. 'What is there to fear now?' There was a Kumbha Mela; he came down, thinking there is no fear of the world anymore. In the fair someone stepped on his foot. It was crowded; pushing and shoving—someone stepped on his foot. In one instant the thirty years of Himalaya were lost. Not even a moment; thirty years were erased like a line drawn on water. He leapt up, grabbed the man by the neck and said, 'What do you think you are? Blind? Can’t you see?' Then awareness dawned: 'What am I doing?' But that sannyasin must have been honest; he did not go back to the Himalayas. He said, 'What is the worth of such a Himalaya? I will remain in the crowd; my sadhana will be here. Thirty years of Himalaya created the illusion that I had attained; the crowd erased it in a moment.'
The crowd is not at fault. There were no foundations of firmness. Sadhana in society, in the crowd, while remaining in the world. Because where the touchstone is constantly at work, only there will you know whether firmness is deepening, whether roots are available. Do not leave your wife, children, shop or market. Live where you are and hold to awareness. Then you will be amazed that all—friends, dear ones, relatives, enemies, the crowd, the market—no one is your opponent; all are supporting you. Because all are tests for you; all are your touchstones. Then at the time of death you will thank not only your friends, you will thank your enemies too—because without them you could not have attained.
'He whose grip is firm does not easily let go.'
Your grip slips again and again. It does not exist.
'Generation after generation his ancestors’ renunciations continue uninterrupted.'
There are two lineages of ancestors. One: your father, your father’s father—your body’s lineage. And the other: this birth of yours, your previous birth, and so on—your soul’s lineage. You are born with two inheritances. Both are ancient, because you have been since forever. Your body too carries forward its accumulations, and your soul carries forward its accumulations. What you did in past lives—the wind of that is with you even today, because your entire past is condensed into this present moment. Do not think the past is destroyed; nothing is destroyed. Your whole past is contained in this present.
Hence the Hindus have reflected deeply on karma. Karma means: whatever you have ever done is contained in today. You are not born today; your past is hidden in today. Not only yours alone. In this matter Lao Tzu is very different from the Hindus—and more right. The Hindus talk only of your past. Lao Tzu says: not only is your past contained in you; the past of your ancestors is also contained, because from whom you were born, whose particle became the basis of your life, whose seed-energy gave your body and mind their mold—they too are hidden in you. And in your character all of them are expressed. If your lineage has been hypocritical, that hypocrisy will appear.
So you are not alone. Do not think only for yourself. The whole existence is woven behind you. Life is a warp and weft; no person is isolated. Whatever you do is not only for you; your act will tell the story of your entire past.
The Hindus say every person carries a debt—the debt to father, mother, guru. What is this debt? It is this: if you blossom in reality, your mother and father and your infinite lineage will blossom through you. Until you bloom, they too cannot fully bloom, because they are contained in you. Their blossoming remains incomplete.
From this you can understand some things, because each thing is connected to many things.
Most Buddhas remained unmarried. One reason is this: if you want complete Buddhahood, then until your children also attain Buddhahood your chain remains incomplete, because what is born from me—until that too attains, I remain incomplete, for it is my own journey. Most Buddhas remained unmarried. There are many reasons; one basic reason is this—I say it in passing. Until you become free, your father and his father and his father remain bound. Your liberation becomes their liberation too. The person is not separate; we are not split, not cut off. We are threads in one great tapestry.
Buddha took this to its ultimate logical conclusion. The story is: when Buddha reached the gates of heaven, of moksha, the doors opened to welcome him—but he turned his back. The gatekeeper said, 'Please enter.' Buddha said, 'It is not possible. Until the last person is free I will wait at the door.'
It is a story, but in a very deep sense true. If existence is one, how can one person attain Buddhahood? If we are all connected, not separate islands but a continent, how can one be liberated? The liberation of one is the liberation of all. If one were separate, he could be free separately.
Lao Tzu says: the day you blossom, the day you become grounded, attain the center, your roots reach swabhava—on that day not only you, but the unbroken chain of your ancestors’ renunciations will come to their fulfillment. And on your foundation the future that comes will cross a new step.
'Cultivated in the individual, character will become genuine.'
Lao Tzu tells the whole story of the fabric.
'Cultivated in the individual, character will become authentic.'
When a person goes deeply within, connects with his roots, becomes one with his swabhava; when character arises from his inner being, then character is authentic. Otherwise it is hypocrisy. If even one person attains authentic character, then on that basis his family can move toward authenticity—because we are not separate. The reverse is also true. If the family attains character, a person born in it will find it very difficult to go toward depravity, and very easy to go toward character.
This truth has now been accepted in the West by psychologists from another direction. Earlier, when someone became insane, deranged, mentally ill, we treated the person. Slowly psychologists discovered that nothing will happen by treating the individual unless his family changes. It was observed: keep the person in hospital—he gets well; send him home—within a month or two the illness begins again. Continuous study revealed: the person is only a part of the family; until there is a deep disease in the whole family, the individual cannot be sick. But the family looks normal; no one else is mad.
Then they searched: what is the reason? They found that in a family of ten, the weakest will first become the base for the manifestation of the whole family’s madness—the weakest. If this house falls, first the pillar that is weakest will fall. The family is one organic whole; the one who will fall is the weakest.
Therefore often small children go mad, or are born deranged. From birth there is some disturbance in mind or personality—because they are weak. Or it will show in women; women will go mad—because they are weaker. It reaches men last. First children; if not children, women; then men—because the weaker is the more likely site of manifestation.
So if one person goes mad, the whole house is mad. He is only the victim because of weakness—the weakest link breaks. And we hold him responsible. You do not know he is your outlet. If that person were to be removed forever from your house, someone else would go mad. If one drain is closed, another has to be made, because the garbage must flow out. There is garbage.
The health of the whole!
So Lao Tzu says: 'When character is cultivated in the individual—the real character that rises from swabhava—then it is authentic. Cultivated in the family, character becomes abundant.'
Because if one person practices character while the whole house is hypocritical, then he will find great difficulty, for the entire house will be against him. Outwardly they may praise him, but inwardly they will oppose. You will be surprised to know that in the families of the wise there has been great opposition to the wise.
Jesus said: a prophet has no honor in his own village. It happened that Jesus performed many miracles. Wherever he went, miracles happened; his personality was such. But when he came to his village, nothing happened. The Bible notes that his disciples were astonished: 'You did great miracles far and wide, thousands were touched—no one here is touched by you?' He said, 'In his village a prophet has no honor. They think—this Jesus? Joseph the carpenter’s son—his mind is a bit wrong; he babbles nonsense. No one here has faith. Without faith there is no miracle, for a miracle does not happen through the prophet, but through faith.' Jesus never went again, because the result in the village negatively affected his disciples, who had great expectations.
A prophet falls into the greatest difficulty in his own family. The entire family cannot believe that among us such a man can be born—that we remain so small and he goes so far! Unconsciously they want to pull him down to their level.
Therefore, when one person moves toward character and the family does not, he has to swim against the current. Much of his energy is spent in this. Even if character happens, it will not be abundant. He will be a tree barely alive, somehow getting water. Flowers will bloom half-bloomed, because everywhere is opposition—opposition in the winds, in the sun’s rays, in the soil.
Lao Tzu says, 'If cultivated in the family, character is abundant.'
Then it will be deep; there will be great richness. And in that current anyone can flow.
'Cultivated in the village, character is multiplied.'
If the whole village is not hypocritical, and people are settled in swabhava, then it becomes a thousand-fold. Do a little—and much happens. Walk one step—and a thousand are accomplished. The good also requires soil; truth also needs ground.
'Cultivated in the state, character attains great prosperity. Cultivated in the world, character becomes universal.'
That is why it happens that sometimes a profound current arises and a chain of knowers is born—as in the time of Buddha. One enlightened becomes the support for another, the second becomes support for a third. The air fills with a new excitement and dignity, and in that dignity people flow with ease. Buddha was there; at the same time Zarathustra, Heraclitus, Lao Tzu. Mahavira was there; Chuang Tzu too. A deep wave arose across the world and in that wave thousands crossed. In some other time they might not have crossed.
Therefore, when Hindus say that in the fifth age, in Kali Yuga, it is difficult to attain Buddhahood, there is a reason. Difficult, because the family is false, the village false, the state false, the society false, the whole world false. In the midst of such hypocrisy, if someone attains, he has to swim against a great current; all his energy is spent in that. Hence it is difficult—not because of time as such, but because of the milieu.
And that hour is coming again. As I have told you again and again, every twenty-five hundred years the history of mankind completes a circle. Twenty-five hundred before Buddha—Krishna, Patanjali. At Buddha’s time a chain of great knowers. Now twenty-five hundred are again complete. In the next twenty, twenty-five years a great surge will arise in the world; do not miss it. If you miss it, it is very difficult. Perhaps you will wait twenty-five hundred years for such a moment again. When the wind blows from the east, open your sail and without rowing the boat moves east. When the wind blows west and you must go east, you will have to labor hard; even if you reach, you will be utterly exhausted.
Again the hour is coming. A lofty wave is rising across the world; there is a new bustle in the inner being. People are rethinking truth and God. As if the night is on the verge of breaking and morning is near. Do not lose this moment. If you use it rightly, you only have to let go; the wave will carry you. If you miss it, then you will have to swim; the wave will not carry you.
Therefore, when such a moment comes, knowers arise who say: 'Let go.' When the wave is absent—in the middle twenty-five hundred—knowers arise who say: much effort is needed. If you fall in the middle, Patanjali is the path; if you fall at the rim, Lao Tzu is the path. That is why I keep saying: effort is not the big issue now, surrender is. No need for resolve; simply let go. The wave is forming and will soon leave the shore. If you are ready to let go, you will be carried. It is easy now.
Hence there are two streams of religion. One arises midway: it emphasizes effort, resolve, yoga, hatha. The other arises when twenty-five hundred complete: Zen, Lao Tzu—'Drop; you have nothing to do. No toil is required; just flow.' At such hours the whole existence supports you. A circle is near complete.
People ask me, 'You are making so many into sannyasins! Becoming a sannyasin is very difficult.'
They are right. There are times when it is extremely difficult. A time is near when becoming a sannyasin is extremely simple—and being worldly becomes extremely difficult. You need only consent, and the happening can happen. It is like this: in the morning you open your eyes and there is light everywhere—you see. At midnight open your eyes—what happens? Darkness. There are moments of night and moments of day. Twenty-five hundred years of night. In the middle, for a short time, existence relaxes; things attain rest. One who knows how to use that moment enters through the gate; otherwise you have to break through the wall, and that is great labor.
'Therefore: judge the person by the person’s character.'
Lao Tzu says: not by concepts, not by prior determinations—judge by the person’s character.
You do just the opposite. Someone says this man is Muslim and you are Hindu; the moment you hear 'Muslim' you assume the man is bad. Can a Muslim be good? You do not examine the person’s character. You carry a prior notion and move by that.
This is wrong. Examine each person directly. Do not divide into Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian. Look straight at the person. Because when you look straight at the person, you will be able to look straight at yourself. Do not pour anyone into preconceived molds. The man who was dishonest yesterday may have become honest today. Do not drag yesterday. The one who abused you yesterday is coming again today—do not stand with a stick upon seeing him, because perhaps he comes to ask forgiveness.
Let go of yesterday; look at today directly. Everything changes—why will man’s consciousness not change? Sinners become saints; the irreligious become religious. Those far become near; those near become far. This change happens daily. So do not form prior notions. Always look directly at the fact—what is today. Do not bring yesterday in between.
'Judge the person by the person’s character. Judge the family by the family’s character. Judge the village by the village’s character.'
Because what happens is that there are notions about families too. 'Such a family is noble; whoever is born there will be noble. Such a family is bad.' The Jews could not accept Jesus because of his village—Bethlehem. The notion was: has any knower ever arisen in Bethlehem? None had. People asked Jesus everywhere: 'In Bethlehem has any knower arisen that you should arise?'
Bethlehem’s status was like some villages in India—like Hoshiarpur in Punjab. People hold the notion that only donkeys live in Hoshiarpur; therefore they named it Hoshiarpur to hide it. If someone lives in Hoshiarpur and you ask, 'Where do you live?' he becomes ready to fight. 'What do you mean? What do you want? What is it to you? Anywhere.' He will not say directly 'Hoshiarpur,' because the moment he does, you fix a notion.
There is a story from Akbar’s time. The people of Hoshiarpur petitioned Akbar: 'We are maligned for no reason. We feel ashamed to say where we live. When we say Hoshiarpur, people begin to smile. Please investigate this illusion and break it.'
Akbar said, 'Right.' He had also heard—and he too smiled hearing 'Hoshiarpur.' He appointed a commission—seven thoughtful men—to go, stay a few days, investigate.
The people of Hoshiarpur made great preparations, because it was necessary. The commission’s final verdict would settle it. Once Akbar declared, the matter would be set right. They left not a crumb of mistake. The welcome was so meticulous that the commissioners were themselves stunned. Too much caution—excess becomes anxiety. All went well. On the third day the commission, very pleased, decided: 'No, this is wrong; people malign them for nothing,' and returned. The entire village went far to see them off.
When the commission had departed, all returned to the village. They asked, 'Any mistake? Nothing is spoiled yet; the commission is nearby. If any mistake happened, we can apologize.' The cook said, 'I forgot to put cumin seeds in the vegetable. Maybe they will think these donkeys do not know what cumin is. People say: what does a monkey know of the taste of ginger! So this is a serious mistake—the cumin was forgotten. What to do?' The whole village, gathering all the cumin they had, loaded it on carts, on horses, and ran. In the middle of the road they shouted, 'Stop! Stop! Do not think we do not know the taste of cumin. See—lines of carts, horses and donkeys laden with cumin!'
The commission had decided in their favor. They said, 'No, there is indeed something amiss. They are donkeys—no one is at fault.' What need was there to bring such cumin?
Excess breeds blunder. Such was the notion about Bethlehem: 'Has any knower arisen there?' People would ask Jesus: 'You were born in Bethlehem; has any knower ever been born there that you should be?'
A knower has nothing to do with village or family.
There is a Jain story, and with reason. Twenty-three Tirthankaras were born in Kshatriya families; the Jains hold the notion that a Tirthankara is born only in a Kshatriya house. A sweet story, foolish and yet useful to understand the human mind. Mahavira came into the womb of a Brahmani. Great commotion arose among the gods: 'Everything will be spoiled! Has a Tirthankara ever been born in a Brahmin household? And Jains are opponents of Brahmins. If a Tirthankara is born in a Brahmin house, everything will be spoiled. Tirthankaras are born in Kshatriya houses; so it has always been.' The story says the gods were restless; seeing no other way, they performed a great surgery. They took the fetus from the Brahmani’s womb and placed it in the queen’s womb, and took the girl there and placed her in the Brahmani’s womb. Then there was satisfaction and peace—because Mahavira could now be born in a Kshatriya house.
Those who wove this story wove it to insult the Brahmins: 'Has any Tirthankara ever been born in their house? Brahmins—beggars—have they ever produced a knower? Scholars, priests, beggars—what strength do they have to produce a Tirthankara? A mistake occurred—so it had to be corrected.'
Neither lineage nor village has anything to do with it. Do not think this way; look directly. Look at the person directly, the family directly, the village directly. Do not keep preconceived notions.
'Judge the state by the state’s character.'
But no one judges. We judge according to our notions. Have you noticed? India and China had a friendship—'Hindi-Chini bhai-bhai'—Chou En-lai and Nehru repeated it; all was well. Then enmity arose; China became a land of demons. Indian leaders shouted: 'They are demons, devils, utterly corrupt.' A moment earlier they were brothers. Chinese leaders shouted there: 'Indians must be destroyed; they are the root of capitalism in Asia. They must be eradicated; they are a great disease.' In a moment it all changed—and entire nations began repeating. Never do we think that to call a whole nation demonic is foolish. Friendship and quarrel are one thing; they come and go. But immediately extremes arise.
The man who was a friend yesterday—there was none better—today becomes an enemy—none worse. How in one day? The woman who until yesterday looked very beautiful—today, things fall out of joint; she becomes ugly. Now there is no greater witch in the world. Whole nations live like this; you stamp an entire nation as good or bad.
See directly. This net of notions is not right. It fills your eyes with smoke; you will never be able to see directly. Even the enemy can be good.
It is not necessary that Ravana was a demon. That is the notion of Ram’s devotees. Now, if they have burnt effigies of Rama in the south, a great unease spreads. You have been burning effigies of Ravana and will still do; no unease arises. Ravana need not have been demonic. No one is a demon. An enemy always looks demonic; friends look good, enemies demonic. So you make terrible images of Ravana. It is not necessary he was terrible; it is likely he was very handsome. There was fear—he was powerful; Ram’s friends and devotees feared that if Ravana were present at Sita’s swayamvara he would break Shiva’s bow. He was Shiva’s devotee; his devotion was immense. The story says he offered even his head—this is devotion, to lay your head down. There was fear—the bow was of Shiva; his devotee might break it. He was strong, handsome, prosperous, with a great kingdom—his Lanka of gold. So a conspiracy was woven: at the very moment of the swayamvara a false message was sent—that Lanka was on fire. False—and Ravana ran to his kingdom. Meanwhile the ceremony happened; Rama broke the bow; Sita was married and left.
Here the whole trouble starts. The stealing of Sita is only the reply. Ravana was not a bad man, because even after taking Sita he did no evil; he kept her safe. He did no force upon her. Rama did more force upon Sita than Ravana did. The story is strange. When Ravana was defeated and Sita was brought back, the words in Valmiki are painful. Rama said to Sita: 'Do not think we fought this war for you. We fought for tradition, for the honor of our lineage.' These words are crude. And then at the word of a washerman he threw Sita into the forest—left a pregnant woman in the jungle without concern.
Still, a devotee of Rama will not see any of this. He will only see Ravana’s bad and Rama’s good. Now in the south there are devotees of Ravana; they see only his good and Rama’s bad.
The eye must be clear; one must see directly. There is good in Rama and bad in Ravana; there is bad in Rama and good in Ravana. On this earth no one can be perfect. Those who become perfect dissolve. Here a man can become ninety-nine percent good, but one percent bad will remain—otherwise the link to earth breaks. Badness binds. And one can become ninety-nine percent bad, but one percent good will remain. You will not find anyone one hundred percent bad, nor one hundred percent good. In the virtuous a small sinner is hiding; in the sinner a small saint—hence the possibility of change; otherwise even that would be lost. There is no pure Ravana or pure god. All is mixed.
See directly. Do not look through your notions. The moment you form a notion, your eyes go blind. Notion is blindness.
'Judge the world by the world’s character. How do I know the world is thus?'
By this assessment: I look directly. I have no attachment. I have no side, no opposition.
Remember: sides and oppositions are games of the intellect. Only when you see without taking sides does your heart become capable of seeing. Do not stand in side or opposition. Look directly. Make your eyes a mirror. Let your eyes add nothing to what is seen. See that which is before you. If you see bad even in Rama—see it. If you see good even in Ravana—see it. Do not say, 'He is Ravana; how can good be in him!' Do not say, 'He is Rama; how can there be bad!' If you hold such notions, you are blind. Then you will neither see character nor attain to character. See without bias.
It is difficult to find an unbiased man, because if someone were unbiased, no one would be on his side. He would see so directly that he would neither call your Rama 'Rama' nor your Ravana 'Ravana.' The devotees of Ravana would be angry: 'You see some bad in Ravana?' The devotees of Rama would be angry: 'You see some bad in Rama?' All the blind will be angry at him. If a seeing man falls among the blind, all will be angry—and they will try to prove there is something wrong with his eyes. 'Why do you not see as we all see?' The blind will try to operate on his eyes: then you will be perfectly all right.
In a village it happened: a sorcerer cast a spell on a well, saying, 'Whoever drinks from it will go mad.' The whole village drank; there was only one well. There was another, in the king’s palace. The king was pleased, the vizier pleased: 'At least we have a separate well.' So the king and vizier did not go mad; the whole village went mad.
By evening great tension spread. The king’s guards, soldiers, all went mad. A rumor ran: 'It seems the king has gone mad.' By evening a movement gathered in the village; crowds surrounded the palace and shouted: 'The king has gone mad; we want to change the king!'
The king came to the roof. He asked the vizier: 'What now?' The vizier said, 'There is only one way—we too should drink from that well. These people are mad—who can explain to them now? They all agree; now we appear mad to them. Though we know we are not mad, it will not help. Do not delay.' The vizier told the king: 'Hold them off for a while; I will fetch water.' He ran and brought water from the well; both drank and both went mad. The village celebrated all night: 'Our king and vizier have regained their minds—thank God!'
The town you live in is of madmen, of hypocrites. Among such people it will be very difficult to create a pure eye. But that difficulty is to be endured. Create the pure eye, for without it there is no way to see God. Only the unbiased eye sees truth. All partialities are untruths.
Enough for today.