Tao Upanishad #94

A character like a child is the goal of Tao. To become like a child again, to turn back toward the source, to become one with the root; to regain that state when there was no division.
First, let us understand the notion of the child.
There are three states. One state is before division, before duality—when there was no inkling of two; the state of the innocent, the unknowing. The second state is that of duality—when division happened, when we came to know two, when things broke apart and were parceled out. This is the state of the so‑called wise. And then a third state—what had been broken joins again; what had fallen apart becomes one again; the rhythm that had been torn is once more bound into a cadence. Distances end. Nonduality reappears. The One becomes visible again. This is the state of the supremely wise.
The supremely wise is childlike. Supreme knowing is like unknowing. Vastly different from ignorance—yet somehow like it. Its difference is discrimination, its difference is the state of awakening—the difference is of knowing the One while knowing.
The child too knows only the One, but he does not know that he knows. There is no recognition. He cannot make two; hence he knows one. His state is unknowing. He does not even know that there can be two. Division has not yet happened. It will happen; things will break. Everything will start appearing separate. One will come to know I and thou. It will be known: I am separate, you are separate. Distinctions will arise between success and failure. One will see the difference between money and mud. Gold will be apart, diamonds apart, pebbles apart. Pleasure and pain will be different. There will be distance between heaven and hell. ‘This I desire, that I do not desire’—craving will arise, and the whole world will stand up.
The child will disappear; he is to disappear. It is a state before dissolving. The child will descend into sin—must descend. Because without sin there is no maturity. The child will have to lose this innocence, because this innocence is unearned, it has been received for free. And remember, what comes free can never truly be yours. Only what you have gained is yours. The child’s saintliness is a free gift; he has not earned it. It is nature’s donation. He will have to let it go.
Understand this very deeply: only that which you earn by your own labor, your own awareness, your own life‑energy, will be yours. All else is deception. Here today—gone tomorrow.
The child’s saintliness is a deception. Because it is slipping away—slipping away; already gone, already gone. It won’t be long. It is a matter of a moment. It is like sleep—bound to break. How long can one sleep? Morning is coming closer each instant; sleep will break. In sleep even the sinner appears saintly. In sleep even the unrighteous becomes as quiet as the righteous; neither violence nor murder nor theft. But sleep will break. Division will begin. Childhood will go. It is a wave of water. The child is getting ready to break, to descend into the world. It is the moment before the preparation.
The saint is not preparing for the world; the saint has passed through the world. He has gone beyond the world. He has known what was to be known; he has wandered and found it futile—because in futile wandering the search for the essential was hidden. He has known the non‑essential, hence the essential is recognized. He has fallen among thorns, for without falling there is no way to know the flowers. He has sifted pebbles and stones, for there was no other facility to assay diamonds. Now discrimination has arisen.
Discrimination arises through experience. The child is inexperienced. He is innocent, but innocent because of lack of experience. Hence childhood’s innocence is negative—understand this rightly. It is not creative. The saint’s innocence is creative. It is because of knowing, not because of unknowing. It is not due to darkness; it is due to light. He is not saintly because of sleep in a dark night; he is saintly in the open brightness of noonday because of his awareness. Yet he is like a child. What was happening to the child in ignorance is now happening to him in knowledge. The child’s would be lost; his will never be lost again. He has attained the eternal. The child received it as a gift of nature; he has earned it. He searched, he suffered, he passed through fire, he was refined. This refinement can no longer desert him. It is not someone else’s donation that may be snatched away. Nor is it a gift from outside that can be stolen. It has now arisen within; no one can take it away. It cannot be stolen; no rust can corrode it. Because it is the advent of consciousness. Whatever nature gives is subject to rust—because it comes from matter. Childhood comes from the body; saintliness from consciousness. The child’s innocence is linked to nature; the saint’s to Paramatma. The child is helpless; the saint is not helpless—he is in his own mastery.
Yet there is one commonality between the two. And that is: both live in nonduality. Therefore the saint is childlike. Not a child, but childlike. Keep this difference in mind, otherwise, in the idea of becoming childlike, you may begin to behave like a child. That would be stupidity. If you have seen fools, they too are like children. Go to the madhouses and you can see them. Their growth never happened—they got stuck. Their energy got entangled somewhere; they could never become mature. They never wandered in the world.
Who is a moron? A moron is a child whose childhood has got stuck. Hence we call him retarded; undeveloped. Childhood looks beautiful in a child, but in a moron it becomes very ugly. Do not impose idiocy upon yourself.
This has happened. In India there are many morons who are worshipped as saints. They are only morons. In any other country they would be in madhouses or psychiatric clinics, under treatment. Here they are worshipped like saints. Because of their stupidity they have no discrimination.
Once I was a guest in a village. There a certain ‘saint’ was worshipped greatly. I went to see. He was no saint—he was a moron. But people were interpreting. For instance, he would defecate right there and sit and eat there; people thought, ‘He has attained the state of a Paramhansa.’ This is not the state of a Paramhansa; it is merely stupidity. Awareness has not been born in him; he is like a small child. As a small child might do—defecate, and then sit there eating. He has not yet known the difference between feces and food. These saints were in the same condition. Saliva was dripping from their mouth, as from small children. People were taking that saliva as prasada. And that saliva was dripping because their jaw had sagged. Morons have sagging jaws.
You may not know—physiologists are amazed about the jaw. You keep your jaw held up for twenty‑four hours; only then does it stay up. Otherwise, due to gravity, it should hang down. Ordinarily your mouth should remain open. And if you let everything loose, you will find your mouth opens.
A sign of a moron is an open jaw; his jaw will be like that of a small child. That is why a towel has to be tied around a small child’s neck—so that if drool flows there is no problem. Saliva is being produced in your mouth for twenty‑four hours as well, but you swallow it. If the jaw hangs open it flows outward.
Saliva was dripping, and people were receiving it as prasada in their hands. That man was an utter moron.
But even a moron can look like a saint—because he too seems to be without discrimination. Many morons have been worshipped in India. Even now they are worshipped. Because there is some resemblance between a Paramhansa and a moron. The Paramhansa loses discrimination.
But the loss of discrimination does not mean he starts eating mud instead of food. He knows food too is mud, born of mud. After all, mud becomes wheat; wheat becomes bread. He knows there is not the slightest essential difference. Yet he does not begin to eat mud—because this is not unknowing, this is discrimination. Mud cannot be digested. There is no ultimate difference—mud becomes wheat—but wheat is that form of mud which the body can digest. This discrimination remains.
What difference is there between feces and food? Food turns into feces. No difference at all. What you push in through the mouth, that ultimately comes out as feces. But this does not mean that a saint will start eating feces. Because we eat so that the body may be sustained. All those elements that were useful for the body have been extracted from the food; what is left is the inessential.
There is no ultimate difference, but there is practical difference. There is no metaphysical difference; there is a functional difference. Your body accepts some things and does not accept others. The body has limits. It cannot eat stones, it cannot eat mud. All is made from mud, but in the process of becoming it becomes fit for your body to eat. What are plants doing? Plants are transforming mud into fruit. You can digest fruit. Plants can digest mud. Through plants, mud is digested and passes through a transformation—a chemical change—so that it becomes fit for your food.
The saint knows life is gathered—nondual. This tree is your companion; without it you could not live. Because it is making fruit for you. The whole existence is interconnected and one. Sunrays fall, the tree drinks them; gathers them into fruits. Gathered in fruits they become vitamins. You cannot drink the sun’s rays directly very much. A little through the skin; you can absorb some vitamin D through your skin. But not much. If you drink too much, your whole body will turn black. Hence, in hot countries the body becomes dark. If you soak too much vitamin D, the skin will become completely black. It cannot be imbibed directly by the body; but through fruits the burning power of vitamin D is softened. Then you can take as many fruits as you want; then they are life‑giving. Life is joint.
But this does not mean you stop distinguishing between things. A moron cannot distinguish. The wise can distinguish—he has attained discrimination—yet he knows the non‑difference within difference. A wise man will go out through the door, though there is no ultimate difference between door and wall. Both are parts of the same house. But he too will go out through the door. If one starts to pass through the wall, he is a moron. He will pass through the door—and still know that the door too is a part of the wall, both are joined, there is a practical difference between them. If there is to be passage, there is difference; if not, both are parts of one indivisible structure. There is no metaphysical difference. Ultimately there is no difference. But functionally there is a great difference. The wise distinguishes, and while distinguishing, keeps recognizing the non‑difference. Notes of sound are different, but the wise one’s gaze is not on notes—it is on the rhythm between notes. He can distinguish—he does—but he lives in non‑difference. The ignorant cannot distinguish; even if he wants to, he has no means. He too lives in non‑difference.
So in trying to become childlike, do not become like a moron. Otherwise you will miss; you will not understand.
Idiocy is not Paramhansahood. Paramhansahood contains one element of idiocy—and that is non‑difference. And it also contains one element of the ordinary worldly person—and that is difference. Paramhansa means one in whom the world and Paramatma have merged into one. One who distinguishes like the worldly, and lives in non‑difference like the moron; who is the supreme music of both. Lao Tzu calls this supreme music Tathata. All is acceptable to him. And through total acceptance he has discovered a rhythm. Now his music is unbroken.
To be childlike! We have two words—childhood and childishness. Do not become childish. That is the mark of idiocy. To be childlike is to attain to childhood. He is like a child, and yet far from a child—very different from a child.
‘One who is rich in character is childlike.’
Earlier we discussed what Lao Tzu calls real character. He says: that life which arises from the inner nature—this is character.
Now he says: ‘One who is rich in character is childlike.’
One whose character is coming from within, whose current flows from the center outward—who is flowing from center to circumference—like sunrays that rise from his innermost and pervade the whole world; one who flows from the center to the periphery like the sun—such a rich person, rich in character, will have a nature like a child’s. What are the marks of a child?
One mark is that he is still in non‑difference; he has no mine and thine. A small child sees a toy in another’s hand and begins to cry and scream, ‘I want it.’ We do not get angry at him. We say, ‘He is a child.’ But the same child, if he becomes twenty years old and still screams seeing others’ things, we will be angry. We will say, ‘Why are you behaving childishly? It is not yours. Make the distinction between mine and thine. What is yours you can ask for; what belongs to another, to ask for it is improper. You are the owner of what is yours; to take another’s thing is theft.’
Hence courts do not punish small children even if they steal. Because for one who has no distinction between mine and thine, what question of theft? He does not know that things belong to someone—what ownership is.
The saint too does not accept ownership. But this does not mean he will pick up your things. The saint does not accept ownership. But that does not mean he will enter your house and steal. He knows that nothing belongs to anyone; all belongs to Paramatma. All claims of ownership are false; knowing this he will live in awareness, and above all, he will hold no ownership claim even on his own things. And if someone snatches his things, you will not find him crying. If someone snatches his thing, you will not find him going to court. He will not snatch anyone’s things. Because those living in unawareness hold the notion of ownership; according to them, those things are theirs. If you snatch his thing, he will not claim ownership. That claim is outside him. The feeling of ownership has dropped in him. Because he has known the Supreme Owner; only He is the master.
He will be childlike, but there will be differences. He will be rich in character. His nature will flow from within; in his character it will be present. And one who holds the wealth of character has no longing for any other wealth. Therefore you may often not understand a saint. Often you will mistake him.
Kabir had separated his son because the son was very rebellious. Kabir understood—surely he did. Who else would, if not Kabir! But Kabir’s disciples were troubled. So Kabir said to him, ‘Kamāl, do this: live separate. Why trouble them again and again?’ So Kamal began to live in a separate hut nearby. The king of Kashi used to come to meet Kabir. He asked, ‘Kamal is not seen!’ Kabir said, ‘I have separated him. He does not fit with the disciples.’ The king went to meet him. He asked the disciples and they said, ‘He is greedy. It is not right for him to be with Kabir. Someone brings offerings; Kabir says, “No need,” but he keeps them carefully. He is accumulating.’
The king asked Kamal, ‘Why do you do this?’ He said, ‘When things have no value at all, why return them? The poor fellow has brought them, carried the burden all the way here; why send him back? Kabir is Kabir—let him be understood by Kabir. As for me, I have understood that when nothing has any meaning and nothing belongs to anyone—not to you, not to me—what difference does it make where it remains?’
The king felt some doubt: he speaks of knowledge, but seems clever. He took out a very precious diamond and said, ‘Keep this.’ Kamal said, ‘It is a stone; but since you have brought it, leave it.’ ‘Where shall I put it?’ asked the king. Kamal said, ‘You have not understood. Because when you ask “where shall I put it,” it is not a stone to you—you still take it as a diamond. Put it anywhere; it is only a stone!’ So the king tucked it into the thatch of the hut.
After fifteen days he came back to see what had happened. He was sure: the moment I left, he must have taken it out. By now it would be sold, in the market. It was worth lakhs. He arrived, sat down. Asked, ‘What happened to the diamond?’ Kamal said, ‘Again the same thing! When it is a stone, why don’t you forget it! And moreover, you gave it as an offering—yet you go on remembering. If you are very eager, see where you put it. If no one has taken it, it will be there.’ The king understood—he is indeed clever. ‘He says “if no one has taken it”—he himself must have!’ He stood up and looked. The diamond was exactly where he had put it.
This is the saint’s behavior. It is very difficult to recognize this rich person.
You will recognize if he says, ‘Take it away, I do not touch.’ You will say, ‘He is a supreme sadhu.’ You call the renouncer the supreme sadhu. But the renouncer is only the opposite pole of the enjoyer. The enjoyer clutches, the renouncer drops; but both value wealth in the middle. Whether you clutch or drop, you accept that wealth has value. The saint is childlike. Wealth has no value—he is neither eager to hold nor eager to discard. Because eagerness to discard also shows that awakening has not happened yet, discrimination has not dawned yet.
Hence a saint may sometimes look to you like an enjoyer, sometimes like a renouncer. It depends on how you interpret. But the saint is neither an enjoyer nor a renouncer—he is childlike. Life is like a play. There is no seriousness in that play. How can there be seriousness in play?
Therefore, whenever you see a sadhu serious, know something has gone wrong; some disease has set in—the disease of renunciation. First there was the disease of indulgence; now the disease of renunciation. And if indulgence is pneumonia, renunciation is double pneumonia. When indulgence is wrong, then to drop indulgence is even more wrong. One has to go beyond indulgence; not become obsessed with dropping.
Therefore it is difficult to recognize a saint. These two you can recognize. You know the enjoyer well; your own experience is of indulgence. You also know the renouncer—because he is your opposite. It is not difficult to measure him. You are walking east, he is going west. It is obvious—his back is visible. The direction in which your face is turned, toward that he shows his back. Where you are turned, he is turned away. The language is the same; the path is the same; the steps are the same. Clear recognition happens. But a saint you will not recognize.
Therefore saints often die unrecognized. Because where are they going? You cannot be sure. If you ask them, ‘Come east,’ they join you: ‘Come, at least we will have a little walk.’ At once your suspicion arises: what kind of saint is this! We wanted to take him west—and he comes with us and says, ‘A little stroll will happen.’
A Zen story. An emperor was in love with a fakir. And emperors often fall in love with fakirs. Because the fakir seems a stranger from another world—very different from oneself; fascinatingly different. The stranger has a magnetism. When someone is utterly opposite, curiosity to know him arises. He is a resident of another realm. As if news arrived that a man from the moon has descended in the bazaar and is standing in Manik Chowk—the whole crowd would rush to see the stranger, the man from the moon. So emperors often fall in love with fakirs.
This emperor was in love. Out of love one day he petitioned: ‘I feel great pain that you lie under a tree. I am here for your service; my palace is here, empty. Hundreds of chambers have no one living in them. I am alone. Come!’
But never had he thought the fakir would agree. The fakir tied up his bundle and stood up. He did not even say, ‘I will think.’ The emperor was disheartened: this man turned out like us. Caught! What illusion we were in! He looks like an enjoyer. He did not even say no once—as if he were waiting. As if all this fakirdom was arranged in the hope of an invitation to the palace. Caught—we are entangled in his net. Now how to take back our word? He had to bring him—but reluctantly. The joy was gone. He housed him—but reluctantly. Now how to withdraw his word?
For six months the fakir lived in the emperor’s palace. Slowly the emperor stopped coming: ‘What to listen to him—he is just like us. Fine, he stays; arrangements have been made,’ and he completely forgot him. After six months, one morning he saw the fakir walking in the garden; he came and said, ‘Maharaj, now there is no difference between you and me; as I am, so are you. What difference remains?’
The fakir said, ‘Come, let’s go outside the town; I will tell you the difference there.’ The emperor went along; they reached the river that formed the town’s boundary. The fakir said, ‘Let us go across.’ They crossed the river. The emperor said, ‘It is getting late; the sun is high. Tell me now. Why go far? Here, under this tree, tell me—there is no one around.’ He said, ‘A little further.’ He made the emperor walk till noon. Finally the emperor stopped: ‘Enough. You are leading me without reason. Say what you have to say!’
The fakir said, ‘Now I will not return. Will you come with me?’ The emperor said, ‘How can I come? There is the kingdom, the palace, the arrangements, work and affairs, a thousand entanglements. What is it to you?’ The fakir said, ‘Now, if you can understand, understand: I go—you cannot; that is the difference. We were in the palace; the palace was not in us. You are in the palace—and the palace is in you. The difference is subtle. Understand if you can.’
The emperor began to weep, took hold of his feet, and said, ‘I could not recognize. And you were there six months and I gradually forgot you. I took you to be an enjoyer. Come back!’
The fakir said, ‘I have no trouble in going; but then the same mistake will happen again. There is no obstacle on my side. Say the word, and I will come.’ The emperor was startled again. The fakir said, ‘See—you can understand indulgence; you can understand renunciation; you cannot understand a saint. For me, what obstacle? Whether here or there, all is the same. All directions are His. Whether in a palace or in a hut—both the palace and the hut are His. Whether wearing rags or royal robes, sleeping on the earth or on a costly bed—also His. Whatever He gives, I accept. Whatever He shows, I see. I have no will of my own. Say—what is your intention? If you say, I will return. But then it will go badly for you. Better you let me go; at least your reverence will remain. You will at least, once in a while, remember that you met a renunciate. Perhaps that remembrance will be useful for you.’
Because of you, many saints have lived in renunciation, in huts, under trees—because of you! Because you cannot understand. You can only understand the vain. You have no recognition of the meaningful. The meaningful cannot be recognized until you yourself attain it. How will you recognize a saint without being a saint? When the same quality becomes the fragrance of your consciousness—only then will you recognize. Without being Krishna, it is difficult to recognize Krishna. Without being Lao Tzu, difficult to recognize Lao Tzu.
You are here near me; you listen to me continuously; in every way you are dyed in my color; yet you cannot recognize me until you become just like me. Until then, all your recognition is external; until then, all your recognition is incomplete; until then, all your recognition is your own interpretation—nothing to do with me. If you can understand even this much, it is enough. Because this understanding will become a step toward further understanding.
‘One who is rich in character is childlike.’
Not childish—childlike. Not undeveloped; not stuck in childhood, unable to grow. He has grown and grown and grown—so much that he becomes a child again. Because all things, upon fully growing, return to their original source.
Life is circular. All movements of life are circular. The moon and stars move in circles; the earth moves in a circle; the sun moves in a circle. The earth completes its round around the sun in a year; a circle completes. The sun itself is circling around some Great Sun in twenty‑five hundred years. That is why every twenty‑five hundred years there is once again a high tide in consciousness—the completion of the sun’s year. The earth circles in a year; hence the seasons are born. Summer comes, rains come, winter comes; and again summer returns. This alternation of seasons that you see is due to the earth’s circling. Your consciousness too is circling in the same way. Thus you become a child, then youth, then old. These are your seasons.
The sun is circling some unknown center of a Great Sun. In twenty‑five hundred years one of its circles is complete. Thus in that ultimate realm of consciousness too, childhood comes, youth comes, old age comes. Every twenty‑five hundred years the world’s consciousness reaches its highest peak. At that time doors are open; whoever can enter, enters. At that time you can go with the flood. At that time fierce waves move toward Paramatma; with them you can flow. At that time Buddhas are born, Mahaviras are born, Krishnas, Patanjalis, Zarathustras. In their profound current anyone can be swept along.
In the coming twenty‑five years, by the end of this century, that moment of profundity will come. All my labor with you is to prepare you for that moment—so that the moment may find you ready. Therefore I am in such a hurry; the time may come—and you may go on only listening, only thinking; the doors open—and close again.
All things move in a circle; where they begin, there they return. If your consciousness goes on growing, growing—then it becomes again childlike. If you go far enough, you will reach the very place from which you came.
Therefore when you ask whether following Lao Tzu is to return backward—is this going forward? Should we go forward or back? If you go rightly forward you will reach back. If you rightly aim to reach back, you will go beyond forward. There is no opposition there. In a circle there is no opposition. The one who misses the circle is the one who sits and never moves—not backward, not forward.
‘One who is rich in character is childlike. Poisonous insects do not sting him, wild beasts do not attack him, and birds of prey do not swoop upon him.’
It is difficult to attack a child. Not that it cannot be done—it is difficult. Why? Many times you see it happen: a house catches fire, all die, but one small child survives. A small child falls from a height—and is not hurt at all. People say, ‘Whom He protects, no one can kill!’ No—Paramatma need do nothing in it. The Master has nothing to do with it. There is a certain virtue in being childlike. Children fall yet do not break. Because they do not understand falling. Even while falling they take it as a game. They have not tensed up, not panicked; the bones have not been pulled taut; there is no stress in the brain. When you fall and hit the earth from a window, the earth will not kill you—your tension will. If you are tight, the blow on your tautness you will not be able to bear, and you will break.
A hard thing breaks; a soft thing bends for a moment, then returns to its place. The softer the thing, the more flexible it is. A child is flexible. He will take the blow but not break. The storm comes; small plants bend and stand again. They defeat the storm—their art is in bending. Big trees fall—and cannot rise. First the big tree fights; first it tries with all its strength to stand against the storm. In that fight, in that resistance, its roots are uprooted. Where is the storm? Small plants do not get into this fuss. They consider themselves small—and bend. They bend; the storm passes by. It wipes out the great ones; it gives new life to the small. They stand again, lush and green. In the storm, only their dust is shaken off; the storm can do nothing else.
It is surprising that small plants are saved and big trees are not. No—there is nothing of God’s hand in it. The small plant’s glory is its flexibility. Small children are flexible. That is why they keep falling all day. Try to fall all day with a child—you will not be able to rise for life.
In the West they did an experiment on a great wrestler. A psychologist was reading Lao Tzu. He felt this deserves an experiment. At Harvard University they called the biggest wrestler, a very powerful body. He was given a task: for eight hours he must imitate a child—whatever the child does, he also does. Nothing else: if the child sits, he sits; if the child stands, he stands; if the child crawls, he crawls; if the child rolls, he rolls; if the child jumps, he jumps; if he cries he cries, if he shouts he shouts. Whatever the child does—just imitate.
Within six hours the wrestler was down on all fours, flattened. The child, enjoying himself, did even more. When someone was imitating him, he did such things that he exhausted the wrestler—he was finished in six hours. ‘I have no courage to go on,’ he said, ‘this boy will kill me.’ And the child is delighted; nothing has happened to him. He is taking it as a game.
Lao Tzu is right. For the child, life is still a play. The day life becomes work, that very day tiredness begins. The day work enters the mind, tiredness begins. As long as it is play, all is joy. Who gets tired in play?
I lived in a village. A lawyer lived near me—the biggest lawyer there. He returned in the evening worn out from court; a big High Court practice. And he would arrive saying, ‘I am so tired—now I am going to play tennis.’ I asked him, ‘Think a little: you have come tired, and going to play tennis you will tire more.’ He said, ‘No, I never thought about it, because tennis is play.’ Then I said, ‘Why don’t you go to court also as a play—so that you don’t get tired? And the matter is clear: you do so much work and then go to play tennis—the body will be tired! Yet he says, ‘No—after playing tennis for an hour I return completely fresh.’ Then why don’t you understand the key: make court a play too.’
No one is tired by labor; one is tired by work. For if labor tired, play would also tire—because play is also labor. One is tired by ‘work.’ And the work you love becomes play. The work you do not love remains work. If you do not love play either, it too becomes work. Professional players exist—they get tired. Because it is their business; they have to play an hour. It is work; it must earn.
There is only one difference between play and work. Play is living in the moment. Here is the beginning; here is the end. Here are the means; here is the goal. Work means: a means here; the end is ahead—in the result. If there is any essence to Krishna’s Gita, it is this much: make life a play; do not desire the fruits. Desire for results turns everything into work. In play there is no result; playing is itself the result.
The child does not tire. His energy flows continually. The parents are tired—the whole house is tired; one little child makes everyone dance, exhausts them thoroughly. And when they, tired, are going to rest, he is still sitting on his bed—sleep does not yet come to him. Now one must even try to make him sleep. What is the secret of his tireless energy?
Lao Tzu says: make the same key. And where energy is flexible, simple, innocent—no one wants to attack such a one. Someone may pick your pocket—but no one picks a child’s pocket. Give a child a coin in his hand; he walks; it slips and falls. Even a thief standing nearby picks it up and gives it back to him. If a child is lost, people carry him on their shoulders, ‘Whose child is this?’ They feed him sweets, buy him a toy. What is the matter with a child? The very same men would pick his pocket if he were grown up. People do not attack a child. Where is the secret? If you see it, you can use it as a key for your sadhana.
Because the child does not attack anyone. The child is non‑aggressive. Therefore compassion arises toward him; the flow of kindness goes toward him; love arises for him. He is nonviolent. He does not want to harm anyone. Therefore no one feels like harming him.
You suffer harm because you want to harm. It may be that today you do not want to harm—but earlier you did. Hence the Hindus say: whatever is done must be settled. If you harmed in the past, you must taste the fruit. Or if you are planning to harm in the future, you will have to taste the fruit.
Now, you walk utterly innocently on the road; you do not intend any harm now; not even a thought. But you are one who harms. No one feels love for you. If you fall, people laugh and are pleased. If you lose, people distribute sweets.
If a child falls, no one laughs; people run to pick him up. What is the child’s secret? That same secret must become the formula of your sadhana: non‑aggression! His energy is within itself; he does not want to strike at anyone. He lives in himself. He is neither in taking nor in giving—neither in Mādhō’s taking nor in Sādhō’s giving. He is enough unto himself. A small child has a sufficiency; he is complete in himself. No lack. No rush of craving. No future. He lives wholly in this moment. If he is running after a butterfly—that running is all in all. If he is picking pebbles on the riverbank—that picking is all in all. In this moment is his totality; his whole being is absorbed.
Love arises toward such a one. And the day you become childlike, love will arise toward you too. Hence a great love arises for saints. Simply being near them, one becomes full of love. Some inner connection begins to form. You will want to protect him. You will behave with a saint just as you would with a small child. You will bow at his feet—because his height is infinite. And you will also spread your wings to shelter him—because he is childlike. Therefore a rare confluence arises toward a saint—a combined feeling of reverence, love, compassion. Only one who knows, knows. If such a feeling has not arisen in you, it will be very difficult. You will want to hide the saint, to protect him—that no thorn pierce him, no stone strike him. Because he has become childlike. You will lay your head at his feet—because there is no height greater than his. Your whole heart will flow toward him—because you will find no greater beloved.
Those who have killed saints are certainly extraordinary—worthy of consideration. Because near saintliness love arises spontaneously; the urge to protect arises. You will want to bless the saint—from your deepest heart! You will want to receive blessing from him, and also to bless him. You will be ready to lose your life to save his. Therefore it is an astonishing event when a Judas betrays Jesus. Because it seems impossible—yet it happens. It shows how great can be man’s height—and how low his lowness. Jesus‑like height is possible; Judas‑like lowness is possible.
Thus the name Judas itself became disgraced. Among Jews it was a very common name. Among Jesus’ twelve disciples two were named Judas. A very common name. In any village you would find a hundred and fifty Judases. Some names are common everywhere. But after Jesus’ crucifixion, to keep that name became difficult. The name itself became a reproach. The name itself turned into a curse. What happened? Because what could be lower than this—that one betrays a childlike person? One who had such trust in you that he washed your feet; one who had such love for you that even when you were going to have him killed, he said, ‘Now quickly do what you have to do—night is passing.’ He received only thirty silver coins—the price—and in that blindness betrayed him.
And one such man is Jesus who, before leaving, washed everyone’s feet—even Judas’ feet. A disciple asked, ‘What are you doing? You—and you are washing our feet! We could wash with our tears, with our life—and even that would be too little. Why are you doing this?’ Jesus said, ‘So that you may remember. These are my last moments. Soon one among you will betray me. This is the last night. So that you may remember. And what I have done to you, you do to those lower than you. For if I can wash your feet, then you are fit to wash anyone’s feet, and anyone is fit to have his feet washed by you. Become the smallest. What I have done to you, do to others, and always remember. And also remember, I am washing even the feet of the one who will betray me a moment later. Do not be angry even with him.’
Such a height is possible!
And then Jesus, after washing Judas’ feet, said, ‘Now hurry—whatever you have to do, do quickly; night is nearly over.’ No one understood what he was saying. ‘Do quickly what you must do—night is passing.’ And Judas slipped away; he took the thirty coins and informed the authorities where Jesus was. When Jesus was arrested, his heart was pierced. He understood what he had done—out of blindness for thirty coins he had done this! These thirty pieces—what are they for? He woke up. He ran and threw the thirty coins at the chief priest who had given them: ‘Take your coins back.’ And he went and committed suicide. Judas killed himself the same day Jesus was hanged.
These are the two poles. If you go to the lowest, at the end nothing remains but suicide. And what could be lower—betraying a childlike person! One who had such trust in you that he washed your feet; and one for whom you were arranging murder, yet he said, ‘Now do quickly what you must do, for the night is nearly over.’
The priest who had given the thirty coins, and had Jesus hanged, was also frightened: how to keep these thirty coins? He too felt that though they are coins, they are very filthy; they cannot be used. He gathered his priests and asked, ‘What to do with them?’ They said, ‘Nothing can be done with them. Only one thing is possible: a plot of land is for sale—buy it with these coins, and since the poor have no cremation ground, let it be a burial ground for beggars and the poor. Only a cremation ground can be bought with these coins.’
That cremation ground still exists in Jerusalem. Only a cremation ground can be bought with those thirty coins. To buy anything of life with them would be to defile life. Only corpses can be buried with those thirty coins. Even the priest who had Jesus hanged could not keep the coins. They were heavy with sin—heavier than the greatest sin. Because to a childlike one… A small child walking on the road—you kill him.
Lao Tzu says: ‘Poisonous insects do not sting him, wild beasts do not attack him, and birds of prey do not swoop upon him.’
But man has fallen below them all. Man has killed even childlike ones; he has even given them poison. Keep this in mind: man’s height is beyond any animal’s—and man’s lowness is beyond any animal’s. If man wants to rise, the height of Paramatma becomes his height. And if he wants to fall, no beast can compete with him. No beast can compete—the most ferocious animals lag behind. Man has no rival. If he falls, he can go to hell; if he rises, heaven infuses his every breath.
But Lao Tzu says: when you become childlike, the whole of existence seems to protect you. When you are not aggressive, why will anyone be aggressive to you?
‘Though his bones are soft and his tendons tender, his grip is strong.’
Have you noticed a small child’s grip? Offer him a finger; he grips it—and then you know how strong his grip is. Softness with a strong grip! A small plant bends—and yet the roots’ grip is strong. The roots are small and very tender. Yet tenderness has a grip more powerful than anything else. Truly, nothing is more powerful than softness. Nothing stronger than purity. Nothing stronger than simplicity. Innocence is supreme strength; its grip is strong. And if your character has flowed out of your heart, that character’s grip too will be equally strong; no one will be able to shake you. The storms will come and go—no bruise, no scar will remain on you.
‘Though he is ignorant of the union of male and female, yet his limbs are complete.’
This is very significant. The small child is not yet divided even in terms of sex. Within the small child the feminine and the masculine are still together. Hence even a small boy looks feminine. Up to a certain age there is no difference between boys and girls; both are equally tender. The only difference is in the clothes we put on them. Their potentials are different, but up to a limit there is no difference; they are the same. Because the inner woman and inner man are united. The circle is still whole. Not yet broken anywhere.
Therefore the child’s every limb is complete. And the child lives in a deep Brahmacharya. Passion has not yet arisen. With the arising of passion, division begins. When passion arises, then he becomes man or woman. With the arising of passion, the inner circle breaks. The union with the inner woman is lost; the union with the inner man is lost. Then the search outside begins—for that which we have lost inside.
The child is enough. The child is a state of contentment. His life‑energy is joined within. Therefore you will not find any child ugly. All children are beautiful. What happens later? These very beautiful children turn into very ugly people. That beauty returns only when saintliness is attained; otherwise not. When once again the inner woman and man reunite, then Brahmacharya returns. Then there is no need for outer seeking. That is the meaning of Brahmacharya.
Thus there are two kinds of Brahmacharya: one—the child’s Brahmacharya, because it is before division; and the other—the saint’s Brahmacharya, because it is after division.
‘Though he is ignorant of the union of male and female…’ He has no knowledge that there is any union of male and female. He is already united; within he is complete.
‘Yet his limbs are complete.’
The limbs are complete—because he is complete. When there is inner completeness, every pore is complete.
‘Which means his strength is intact.’
His strength is not yet divided; his circle will break. At fourteen, a girl’s menses begin—the circle is broken. A boy attains sexual maturity at fourteen—now he can father children. His circle is broken. When the inner circle breaks, that with which we had a relationship within, we begin to search without. Restlessness begins.
Therefore fourteen is the most restless age. The most restless. One does not understand what is happening—or why. Boys and girls of fourteen are in a crisis. They do not know what is happening. The past has disappeared; the joy, the peace—all lost. There is a restlessness, an unknown thirst. What water will quench it? No idea. Whether it will be quenched—no idea. How will it be quenched—no idea. All dreams are full of passion. The whole mind is filled with passion. And one cannot even tell anyone; there is none to listen. One cannot even tell another about the state within. Even if one wants to tell, one has no words to say what is happening. Only restlessness. Something is lost.
Look into the eyes of fourteen‑year‑old boys and girls—you will see it: something is lost. Something was, and it is gone. And something is sought whose whereabouts are unknown—where it will be found. The circle is broken. The inner energy is now fragmented. Therefore boys and girls of fourteen are in a very excited state. Even to tolerate them becomes difficult for their parents. Wherever they go they carry an atmosphere of agitation. Because they are no longer children—and not yet adults. It is a very awkward time. Boys’ voices become harsh, hoarse. That hoarseness is due to the breaking of inner music. Girls become shy, wish to cover themselves. Something is happening in the body that is beyond understanding. Girls are greatly troubled when menses begin. What is happening? Why is it happening? No answer around. One must find one’s own way in the dark.
In these very moments the deviation happens. We need a society that gives great support in this moment—parents, teachers. Because no more important moment will come. If a mistake happens here, the whole life will go astray. And the sad thing is that at this very moment the wrong people come to help—never the right people. You cannot go to a saint to ask—you should. You will ask the local mischief‑makers, loafers—you will take their company. Because only they can tell of these things. The teaching of the wrong comes from the wrong people.
I say to my sannyasins, bring all your concerns—all your worry—to me. Sometimes an elder is sitting with me; he becomes very uneasy. One gentleman said to me, ‘What is this? You should only teach them meditation. About God. This boy is talking about his sexuality—why are you instructing him? What have you to do with it?’
If the right people do not tell, the wrong will tell. He will learn anyway. If there is no right way to know, he will know—from the wrong. And people learn the most important matters of life from the wrong people. Then lifelong hindrance remains. Saints are being condemned—hence how will they teach? Sadhus are abused—how will one learn there? The non‑saints are ready to teach. But whatever is learned from them is water from a dirty well—to drink it is poisonous.
Society is so perverted because at fourteen—this very important moment, when the child breaks—if this moment is missed, the moment to rejoin becomes very difficult. Because how it broke will determine how it can be joined. If the break can happen in an orderly way—if the inner separation of woman and man can occur consciously, with understanding of what is happening—then the day he has to join them again he will have the key. Because as they separated, in that very reverse way they can be joined.
Therefore there are two critical moments: around fourteen, and around forty‑nine. At about fourteen, one breaks; around forty‑nine, the second moment comes when one should join. And there are stages every seven years. Hence I do not say fifty, but forty‑nine.
For seven years the child is a child. After seven years, the sexual energy begins to condense. At fourteen it expresses. At twenty‑one it reaches its full climax. At twenty‑eight it becomes organized; the height of twenty‑one falls, and a balance comes. At thirty‑five the decline begins; youth begins to descend. The valley begins. At forty‑two, reflection begins again, as at seven. Hence a sense of Dharma begins to arise in most people around forty‑two—some variation, but on average.
Jung, a great Western psychologist, has said: among the patients I have seen after forty, their disease is religious; they need religion.
Around forty‑two begins the reflection toward Dharma. ‘I have seen life, I have understood it; found nothing essential.’ This state is again like that at seven—some new undertaking is beginning. At forty‑nine comes the moment of joining, as at fourteen came separation. If the fourteen‑year event happened rightly, the forty‑nine‑year event happens easily. What had been broken is joined again.
Therefore we considered fifty as the beginning of Vanaprastha—at fifty, one should be turned toward the forest. Vanaprastha means: one’s face turns toward the forest. One may not go, but one’s face turns away from the world. The time is over; the dream, the painful dream—whatever it was—has passed. It has been seen and known. Now again one joins within. This inner joining is the rise of a new Brahmacharya. In this moment one should become childlike again. If not, some mistake has happened in life.
‘Though he is ignorant of the union of male and female, yet his limbs are whole and whole.’
At fifty, the outer union of male and female becomes futile. Now the inner male and female will join again. He will become childlike again. His limbs will again be whole and whole. And whenever this event happens, you cannot find greater beauty than this. His old age will be full of beauty.
Ordinarily old age is full of poverty—because the circle does not rejoin. How it broke is unknown—so how to join it?
‘Which means his strength is intact. And though he cries the whole day long, his voice does not grow hoarse.’
A child cries and shouts the whole day; his voice does not grow hoarse—because within an unceasing nada is resounding; the inner woman and man are meeting. There is no incompleteness.
‘Which means his natural rhythm is complete.’
What is rhythm? Rhythm means: you are whole—nothing is lacking. Your beloved is within you; both I and thou are within, together. The music born of their union—that is rhythm.
In sexual union you get only a glimpse of it for a moment. And that glimpse is only for a moment—because how long can you remain united with an outer woman? Even a moment’s union is much. With the stranger you are far; even to come near for a moment is great. In Samadhi the same happens continuously which in sex happens for a moment. Samadhi means: now the inner union has happened; now the rhythm begins to resound; the inner string is fully joined. Now there is no lack.
The saint is the whole of existence within himself. No need remains; no lack remains. Therefore around a saint there is a rain of contentment. Even if you only sit by him, or only look at him, you will find that something is showering—unceasingly showering. Therefore Hindus—the oldest investigators of religion—have given such value to darshan. Westerners cannot understand: what is the meaning of darshan? A Westerner comes asking questions, not to see a saint. What is the point of seeing? Let me see a picture. Why come here? He comes with questions. The West comes with questions, comes to ask, to think. The East has known the secret. The East says: if one has seen the saint, one’s eyes are filled—that is enough. What is there to ask? And what is not revealed by seeing—how will it be revealed by asking? It is not with questions that one goes to a saint—one goes with an open mind so that darshan happens.
This phenomenon of darshan has not happened anywhere outside India. Because they have not recognized this secret—that a saint is an unceasing rain, a contentment, a satisfaction; where there is no lack, where all is full. And whose fullness is such that it overflows; a flood has come. What are you going to ask? Just sit—and bathe a little in the flood; be filled a little with the fragrance. The saint is sharing—take a little, and carry it with you.
This event happens only when the inner woman and man unite. Then a child is born again; a new birth. This is the state of the dvija, which Jesus called rebirth.
Jesus said to Nicodemus: ‘Unless you are born again, you shall not enter my kingdom of God.’ Nicodemus said, ‘To be born again means I must die and be born again.’ Jesus said, ‘No—it is a method of dying while living.’
Then birth happens; then the child comes again into the world. His hair may be white, his face wrinkled—and yet, the world has never seen a greater beauty. When an old man again becomes a child, then an incomparable beauty is born. Because now the beauty is inner. Character was inner—now beauty too is inner. Nothing is external now. He does not take—he only gives. He only distributes. He is connected to the source of the Infinite. The more he gives, the more it grows. A saint is continuous prasada. He is giving, distributing. Whoever can take, let him take. Whoever can see, let him see. Whoever can hear, let him hear.
‘To know the rhythm is to be in Tathata with the Eternal.’
And the moment there is rhythm within, all the discord outside disappears. One who is joined to oneself is joined to Paramatma. That is why childhood is remembered again and again. Again and again you regret—if only childhood could have lingered a little longer. Again and again you dream—how sweet were those days! Each moment was full of dignity. No anxiety, no sorrow, no duty, no tormenting thoughts. Every moment so blissful! You look back again and again toward childhood.
There is no essence in looking back. Another childhood is waiting ahead—far greater than the first. The day you know that childhood, the first will become utterly pale. It was merely a pointer to the coming supreme childhood—only information, only a glimpse. As long as you look back, you do not know that a greater childhood can come ahead. That hour is in your hands.
If you attain that childhood, there will be no more birth and death for you. If you do not attain it, the childhood you ask for will come again—but it will again come from outside. Until you can bring childhood from within, childhood will keep coming from outside. And until you can bring death from within, you will have to endure the death that comes from outside. You will be born and die—coming and going will continue. The day you bring childhood from within, then there is no need for the childhood from outside. You become your own womb and give birth to yourself from yourself. You become self‑born. You are not only your own child—you become your own parents. Now you are complete. Now there is no lack. Now you need not die. Now you have attained the nectar.
‘To know eternity is called discrimination. But to make improvements upon life is an ill omen; and letting mental impulses run their course is aggression.’
Lao Tzu says: to make improvements upon life is inauspicious.
To improve upon life is called an ill omen.
He does not say, ‘Take care of your character; improve, purify, be moral, be virtuous.’ He says, ‘All this is inauspicious—because all this will be on the surface. You must be born again. Not improvement—rebirth; not reform—a new birth.’
By reform nothing will happen. It is only decorating the house; there will be no revolution in the soul. You can become as good as you want, respectable to the utmost—yet you will not be a saint. You will not remain a villain—you will become respectable. Villains die; respectable people also die—because the wealth of both is outside. Villains are born again; respectable people are born again—because both have their wealth outside. Only one whose wealth is within is not born again.
So do not get busy with reforms. Nothing less than revolution will do. A total transformation is needed. Not a whit less will suffice. Do not apply paint on the surface. Do not suppress anger and exhibit compassion. Do not trim greed and then donate. Nothing will happen thus. You need a new birth. You, as you are, are wholly wrong. You are not a house that needs a little plaster here and a pole replaced there. Renovation will not do. You are a wholly worn‑out building. You are a ruin. However much one tries to improve you on the surface—you will not improve. By the time you fix one corner, the other crumbles. You go to repair the other—the first has already decayed.
No. The whole building has to be brought down. Rebirth is needed. The structure must be razed; new foundations laid. Do not worry about improving this ‘as you are.’ That is what respectable people are doing all over the world. Think rather of building a wholly new house. This is called Sannyas.
Sannyas means: I am ready to change from the roots. Sannyas is revolution—not reform. Sannyas is not changing clothes. Sannyas is not changing the name. Sannyas is a total revolution—change everything. Not even a grain of this is worth saving. All you have is poisonous. Your anger alone is not bad—even your love is infected by your anger; it too is poisoned. Your hatred is bad, yes—but your love too is overshadowed by the shadow of hatred; it too is ruined. If you think you will cut off hatred and save love, you are mistaken. In that ‘love,’ your hatred will survive. Its shadow has fallen upon it. That love has absorbed much of your hate. They have lived together long; both are distorted. What is bad in you is bad; and what you call good is also bad. Therefore—from the roots!
Lao Tzu says, ‘To make improvements upon life is an ill omen.’
Do not fall into this mistake. You will waste your life—and nothing will happen. It is inauspicious.
‘And to give way to mental impulses is aggression.’
But do not take this to mean that you should give free rein to what is bad. Lao Tzu says: cutting anger will not help; by cutting anger compassion will not come. And immediately Lao Tzu adds: this does not mean you should get busy doing anger. Because by doing, compassion will not come either.
Only two roads are visible to you: either express anger, or suppress it. If someone says, ‘Do not suppress!’ you understand immediately, ‘Then express.’ Because you do not know of the third alternative. That third alternative is the formula of new life: be a witness. Neither express nor suppress. Because in both you become the doer. And the doer is your disease. The ego is your disease.
It happened that Alexander was coming on his journey toward India. He received news while crossing a desert that in an oasis named Shiva there was a small temple and the priest of that temple was a very extraordinary man. Alexander did not accept any man as extraordinary but himself. When people kept insisting that truly he is a rare man and deserves a visit, he went.
The saint did not know Greek. Alexander’s men gave him a few Greek words in advance: ‘Alexander is coming—at least speak a few words to him.’ The saint protested: ‘Speaking always creates mistakes. I prefer silence—because in silence at least you will see what I am. In words there is a danger—you will make your own interpretation.’ But they did not agree. ‘Alexander will come—if he asks something, and at least in greeting say a couple of words.’ The saint agreed. A saint is always agreeable. ‘Fine,’ he said. They taught him some words.
Alexander came—his arrogance… How could Alexander leave his arrogance behind? He had nothing else but his arrogance. He came with his courtiers, with drawn naked swords, wearing his crown.
The fakir said, ‘Paydiyan!’—‘My son!’ Alexander was delighted. ‘Now there is no need to say more,’ he said. ‘What I came to hear, I have heard.’ Because Alexander understood he had said: ‘Paydiyaz’—son of God. He had said ‘my son’—paydiyan. Alexander understood he said ‘son of God’—paydiyaz.
There is only a slight difference between paydiyan and paydiyaz. People said much to Alexander later: no, he had said paydiyan. Alexander said, ‘Shut your mouths—or I will have your tongues torn out. Write paydiyaz.’ And his historians wrote: ‘Yes—he said paydiyaz.’
You hear only what you want to hear. You understand only what you want to understand.
Ego is ready for reform, not for revolution. Because reform gives the ego more ornaments; the ego becomes more egotistic. Even character becomes an ornament. You speak truth, you are honest, you are a sadhu, you do not steal, you are not corrupt—then the ego acquires its own stiffness. The sadhus get their own pride.
In Patna someone asked Jayaprakash whether he would be willing to meet Indira Gandhi. He said, ‘Yes, I am willing. And if Indira Gandhi wishes to meet, I am prepared to come to Delhi—because I am not such a big man that Indira Gandhi should have to come to Patna.’
But even to have the thought arise: ‘I am not such a big man!’—and the manner in which it was said! No one was asking whether you are big or not. That was not the issue. ‘I am not such a big man.’ Ambition, craving, ego become subtler in saintliness. Jayaprakash lived like a sadhu; his ego is subtler. He can take this country into even greater danger—because his ego is the ego of a sadhu. The stiffness is of having kicked positions away. And in old age—having kicked positions away all life, outwardly—within, when life is running out, the deep craving for position arises.
It will be so. If one practices Brahmacharya on the surface, then at the time of death sex will torture him so badly he will go mad. Because life is slipping out, and all the suppressed passion will surge. If someone fasts a lot, then at the time of death he will die thinking of food and nothing else; he will die eating in his mind.
Jayaprakash has been leaving positions all his life—because leaving positions also brings great respect in India. But gradually he began to feel in these latter days that no one is caring; and life is slipping away—so now the deep craving for position has arisen. Someone should go to Jayaprakash and say: ‘Jai Jai Jayaprakash—went to chant God’s name, got busy carding cotton!’
But it happens. If you suppress anger on the surface, inwardly anger will collect. And someday you will be carding cotton. Suppress sex—you will card cotton someday. Do not get into suppression. But this does not mean ‘expression’ either. Then you will say, ‘You put us in a bind. Do not suppress; do not express. Then what are we to do?’
That is the whole art. Be a witness. Do not be the doer—just see. When there is anger, just see. What is the need to do? Nor is there any need to suppress. Close your eyes and watch the anger. Look with love; in peace. ‘This anger is rising; this smoke rising; it is spreading; it wants to kill; it wants to create turmoil; it wants to seize position—this and that…’ Watch it. Quietly hide within your cave and, from there, watch intently. This whole traffic of anger passes by. Anger is a great caravan—let it pass. Neither for nor against; become impartial.
From that impartiality—from that mere seeing—you will find that this caravan slowly becomes smaller; it drifts away from you. A moment comes when, neither suppressing nor expressing, you suddenly become free. Just by seeing—by darshan, by being a drashta, a Sakshi. There is your new birth—when you are liberated by witness‑consciousness.
Otherwise, whatever you do—if you do anger you will be in trouble; doing anger breeds a chain—practice becomes dense. If you suppress anger you will be in trouble—because suppression collects anger inside; its ulcer grows. Do not try to become respectable. There is no essence in being wicked; there is also no essence in being respectable. Try to be a saint. Do not agree to anything less.
And the saint is beyond both the wicked and the respectable. The saint is a child again. Difference dissolved. Now there is neither wicked nor respectable. Now there is neither good nor bad. Now only witness‑consciousness remains as the sole music.
‘And to give way to mental impulses is aggression.’
Reform is inauspicious. To give way to impulses is aggression.
‘And things, reaching their prime, grow old. That aggressive claim is against Tao.’
Do not take anything to its extreme—because at the extreme, things grow old. Do not take indulgence to its extreme, nor renunciation. Because when anything becomes excessive, your life’s balance is lost. Where balance is lost, there your life‑energy is dead. You cease to flow. You become like ice, not like a river’s current.
‘Things, reaching their prime, grow old.’
When you pull anything to its fullness, it dies right there. So what to do?
Lao Tzu says: do not take anything to the extreme; stop in time. Stay in the middle. Neither this side, nor that. There the witness‑consciousness arises—in the middle.
If a fourteen‑year‑old child could be rightly educated we would teach him the trick: enter life, but do not go to the extreme; remain in the middle. Pass through the experience of life—but do not go to excess. Because one excess leads to the opposite excess. If he goes too deep into indulgence, someday he will become a renouncer. Both are wrong. If he is wicked, someday he will become respectable. If respectable, someday wicked. Because when things reach the extreme, they grow old. Then one has to return to the opposite extreme. Because when you go to one extreme, it appears to you that life is at the other.
The enjoyer thinks: the renunciate is in great bliss. You do not know the renunciate. The renunciate thinks: the enjoyer is relishing all the fun of the world; we are ruined for nothing. I know both. The enjoyer is miserable—with the anxieties of indulgence. The renunciate is miserable—with the anxieties of renunciation. The enjoyer is miserable because of craving—because it entangles. The renunciate is miserable because of suppressing craving—because it grows like pus within.
If a person takes the right, the proper path, he will not go so far into indulgence that renunciation is born. He will halt in the middle so that from indulgence the witness‑consciousness arises—that is enough. Stop there. Such a person never grows old. Within him the current of life remains forever young. Within him life remains ever in its excellence, balance, dignity. Such a person never runs out. Such a person is always full.
‘Because things, reaching their prime, grow old—such aggressive claim is against Tao.’
And whenever you go to extremes, you move against your inner nature. Nature is in the middle—in balance, in restraint. Not indulgence, not renunciation. In the middle of both—in witness‑consciousness.
‘And what is against Tao perishes in youth.’
And whoever moves against his nature dies before dying. His death comes later—he dies at thirty; death comes at seventy; he lives forty years like a corpse. His life becomes a burden. He drags himself like a dead man. He becomes a tomb. Many times Jesus has said: you are like whitewashed tombs—white above; inside nothing but bones.
You are dead. You appear to be living. Are you living? Where is the dignity of your living? Where the glory? Where is the joy of your life? Where the dance? Where is the song? Do you call anxieties life? Do you call sorrow life? Do you call despair life? Then what is death?
In one sense you are not living—you are half‑dead. And if you cannot know life, how will you know death? You are being deprived.
Lao Tzu says: one who lives in nature attains the ever‑eternal life. Within him nothing ever dies.
Within, nothing ever dies. You are so stuck outside—hence death seems to you. And within, only one reaches who escapes the two—the wicked and the respectable; who escapes indulgence and renunciation. Who escapes extremes—he attains the eternal life.
Beware of extremes! And bring as much immersion into witness‑consciousness as possible. Through witness‑consciousness your rebirth will happen—you will become new. And so new that this newness never goes stale. So new that this virginity remains forever virgin. So new that this newness contains eternity. It does not grow old. It abides—abides forever. And without attaining it, no one ever attains contentment. What will satisfy you which is destined to be lost? Only what will never be lost—there the house can be made. That alone is the house.
Enough for today.