Tao Upanishad #97

Government is an unavoidable evil, a necessary evil; hard to escape.
But the more we can avoid it, the more auspicious.
The very foundation of government is violence; government cannot be nonviolent. Hence, wherever government is, there is disease. Government is not medicine; it is the deception of a cure.
Government does exactly what the very evil is that it claims to eradicate. One man commits a murder; the government hangs him. Murder isn’t erased, it is doubled. The man’s mistake was that he killed someone; now the government kills him. It does not seem that murder is bad in itself. Everything depends on who does the killing. If government kills, it is auspicious; if people kill, it is inauspicious. What kind of auspiciousness is this, and what kind of inauspiciousness?
When government orders killings through courts, judges do not feel themselves criminals in the least; on the contrary, they feel they are servants of society. A judge never feels in his conscience that he has done something wrong—because he has the sanction of the State. The judge is bringing order to the State; he is eliminating the wicked. But that elimination itself is wickedness—this never crosses his mind.
After the Second World War, when trials were held for German war criminals, this truth surfaced with great intensity. Those who had murdered in the millions under Hitler’s orders told the court, ‘We are not guilty; we were only obeying orders.’ And there is truth in it. The command came from above; they simply carried it out. The whole world was shocked to experience that people who in ordinary life were decent—who would not prick another with a thorn, who would not wish harm to anyone—those very people burned millions as if they were dry grass.
The man who was in charge of Hitler’s largest prison camp is said to have burned, on estimate, a million people. Hitler had built furnaces in which ten thousand could be incinerated in a single second. That man was the master of those furnaces. Yet every day he read the Bible, he went to church regularly; he gave charity as much as he could. No one ever knew him to be a bad man, or to have harmed anyone. He would sleep only after prayer. In his room hung a picture of Jesus on the cross. And this man was responsible for the murder of a million human beings. He said to the court, ‘I am not guilty. I am a simple, straight man. I merely obeyed orders. And obedience to orders is not evil.’
The court before which he said this also sentenced him to death. If someday there is a still higher court and it asks these judges, ‘What have you done?’ they too will say, ‘We only obeyed justice; we did what was right and just.’
What is the difference between the criminal and the judge?
Only this: both commit the act; one does it with society’s consent, the other without it. That is the only difference.
There is no greater criminal in the world than government. Because when you commit crime in the name of justice, there is a different thrill in doing it. Even the greatest criminal suffers pain; his conscience sometimes tells him, pricks him; even in his conscience a voice arises: what you are doing is wrong. But such a question never arises in the minds of judges. Their wrong is right; even what they do that is bad is okay—because they do it in the name of justice, truth, government, order.
Understand one thing clearly: evil is never more evil than when you do it in the name of good. Because the cloak of goodness hides it. Under the cloak of goodness, evil becomes more poisonous than ever—because you sugarcoat the poison. Then it slips easily down the throat. But sugar on poison does not turn poison into nectar.
The history of the world is full of two kinds of robbers. One kind are those who are against society; they are the bandits outside the law. And the other kind are those who are in accord with society. They climb the ladders of power. Even if they commit grave crimes, they do so in the name of religion. They kill you, too, for your welfare and your good. They fire bullets into you, pierce your chest; they crush your very soul under their boots—still they claim it is for your upliftment.
This is why what Lao Tzu says will seem very surprising to you. But it is the truth.
Lao Tzu says, ‘When the government is lazy and dull, its people are unspoiled.’
You will hardly believe that a saint would say such a thing!
‘When the government is lazy and dull, its people are unspoiled.’
What does this mean? Lazy, dull government? You want exactly the opposite: that government should be alert, efficient, industrious. You think there is so much evil in society because government is lazy. And Lao Tzu sees exactly the reverse. And Lao Tzu’s eyes see much farther than yours. He sees far deeper than you do. He says, when government is lazy and dull, people are innocent. What does this mean? It has to be understood very deeply.
Laziness sometimes carries a great dignity; even dullness has its virtues. Note at least this much: lazy people have never done anything very bad in the world. Curse the lazy as you like, but no great crime lies at their door—because to commit crime one has to break one’s laziness. The uproars and upheavals of the world are the handiwork of the industrious—those whom you even call karmayogis. The lazy man won’t take the trouble to cause trouble. To cause trouble, one needs resources, one must do things. Which lazy man ever became Timur? Which lazy man ever became Alexander? Which lazy man ever became Hitler?
No. A lazy man cannot be a politician at all. How will a lazy person go about doing evil? He doesn’t even have the time to get up and go. The lazy may not have done much good, but they haven’t done much harm either. The lazy have passed through society innocent, without any marks of good or evil upon them.
Nadir Shah once asked an astrologer—Nadir Shah used to feel very sleepy—so he asked: ‘I get so much sleep, and all the scriptures say laziness is bad. I sleep a lot. What is the way out?’ The astrologer said, ‘Do not listen to the scriptures; they are meant for someone else. You should sleep twenty-four hours; that is your virtue.’
Nadir Shah could not understand. Politicians are generally not gifted with intelligence; usually their intellect is rusted—otherwise, why would they be politicians?
Nadir Shah said, ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’ The astrologer said, ‘If I explain more, I will land in trouble.’ Nadir Shah insisted, ‘I won’t trouble you. Tell me clearly.’ Then the astrologer said, ‘It is simple. The longer you are awake, the more evil happens. The more you are awake, the more turmoil there is. If you would sleep day and night, the world would be more peaceful. Your laziness is a great blessing. The scriptures are meant for someone else; they were not written for you.’
What the astrologer was saying is: the best would have been if you had never been born. Next best: since you are born, please sleep. And the third best that can happen in your life is—die as soon as possible.
This is why Lao Tzu says: let government be lazy and dull.
Lazy means: government should be indirect, not always in your face. Lazy means: government should not insert itself between you and everything you do—if you stand up, it stands with you, if you walk, it walks with you, if you move, you are bound by it. There should not be so much law that you live inside a prison.
Those who are in prison today are in a sense more free than you are—only you cannot see it, because their walls are gross. Your walls are transparent—the laws—and so you think you are free. You are not. Law surrounds you on all sides. You are hemmed in. You have no freedom even to move a little. You are bound. Your throat is choking.
For government to be lazy means: it gives you some ease, some freedom, and does not come in between. Until you become positively harmful to someone, government should not step in. When you begin to trespass upon another’s freedom, then it should intervene—but not in your freedom. So long as you are living within yourself, government should be such as if it is not there at all.
But if you are standing quietly by the road at night with closed eyes, a policeman will arrive: ‘Why are you standing here? Why are your eyes closed? What does it mean? What are you doing?’ You are not harming anyone. You are simply standing with eyes closed at the roadside. Even that much freedom is not there; there is not even that much space left to simply be. The law is everywhere—corners, nooks, hidden or open—pursuing you.
Lao Tzu says: let government be lazy. Meaning: let there be the least government. The least government is the best. The less it is—almost to the point of not being—the more auspicious. Because only then will you be free. Only then will you be able to be yourself. Only then will the dignity of your individuality remain unviolated.
Government is no good fortune to be ever increased. Government is a misfortune to be minimized. Government means dependency. Government means: the individual’s value is small, the society’s value is greater. Government means: the individual must follow society at any cost; and if there is any conflict, the individual will be sacrificed for society. This is exactly the opposite of dharma.
Dharma’s dictum is: the dignity of the person is ultimate; nothing is above the individual. And the value of the individual’s Atman is supreme; it cannot be offered on any altar. ‘Society’ is only a word, ‘State’ only a word. Neither society nor State has an Atman. These are dead institutions. For their sake a living person cannot be sacrificed. The living person is the final value. And to keep the dignity of individuality intact, the less government, the better.
The more government there is, the less the person becomes. If government becomes perfect, the person is utterly lost—no trace remains. In Nazi Germany or Fascist Italy, the person had no dignity; the person as such did not exist. Everything was sacrificed to the Nation. The individual was wiped out. Only a crowd remained—soulless. For without freedom, there is no soul. That is why we call the soul’s ultimate state moksha—liberation. Moksha means: the Atman becomes so free, so utterly free, that there remains no gap between being and freedom; the two become one. You are freedom. And the deepest experience of the person is freedom. That is his longing—his search for moksha.
But if government is too much, you will be bound; you cannot be free. That is why the sannyasi had to escape to the forests—not because of some special virtue in the forest. What is there in the forest? It was because of the vulgarity of society that one had to go into solitude. Society is so excessive that it won’t let you be.
Bertrand Russell wrote in his last days that in a tribal village he felt: would that I too were so free that when the mood arose I could sing! Or dance on the road, and nobody would hinder me!
But you cannot dance on the streets of London. You will be taken to the jail immediately. You cannot even sing loudly on the street, because others will be inconvenienced. To say nothing of song—you stand silently on the street of London or Delhi or Bombay and do nothing; you just stand in silence—trouble will begin.
Only three days ago a letter was printed in a Poona newspaper against one of my sannyasins: he was standing quietly on the road. A crowd gathered and people were inconvenienced. He was doing nothing. The writer himself admits he was standing with eyes closed, doing nothing to anybody. But it disturbed the traffic, people had to avoid him, a crowd gathered. And therefore it caused trouble. Such incidents should be prevented.
You don’t even allow a person the chance to stand silently. You are that afraid of the freedom of the individual. You have become virtually parts of a crowd. You have no being of your own.
Lao Tzu is a partisan of sannyas; therefore he is opposed to government. Whoever in this world supports sannyas will be opposed to government—because sannyas declares: the ultimate value is the individual; society has no value in itself. Society is only a device. Society is for the person; the person is not for society. Such an ultimate proclamation is sannyas.
The greatest accusation of the Jews against Jesus was precisely that he broke laws. Laws which, by breaking, he harmed no one—indeed helped—but that is not the point; the law was broken.
Jews hold that one day of the week, the Sabbath, no work should be done—because God rested that day. Whoever works on the Sabbath is a great sinner, because he breaks the rule.
Jesus was going to the temple in Jerusalem when a blind man cried out, ‘Hear me! Hear my call! I am blind. I have heard that your touch can restore sight!’ Jesus turned back. He was on his way to prayer—he put that aside. He returned; he touched the man’s eyes. The story says his eyes were healed. The temple priests were angry, gathered a crowd and said, ‘How did you do this? On the Sabbath no act can be performed.’
Jesus said, ‘I harmed no one, I didn’t blind anyone. This blind man cried out, and in that moment of prayer this miracle could happen. Should I go to pray or restore his eyes?’ They said, ‘It is the day of prayer.’ Jesus’ famous saying: ‘The Sabbath is for man, not man for the Sabbath.’ Law is for man, man is not for law.
This was the greatest crime for which the Jews never forgave him—because a law was broken.
Is humanity for rules, or are rules for you?
This is Lao Tzu’s intention when he says: let the State be lazy and dull. Asleep, not standing over you. No need of overactivity—resting. Only when absolutely needed should it rise and intervene. This is the meaning of ‘lazy’. If there is a fire in the house, even a lazy man will be seen moving; but if a wedding procession passes outside, the lazy will not come to watch. If a brawl breaks out outside, the lazy will not get up to see. But if the house catches fire, he may get up and do something.
Laziness is a symbol. It symbolizes this: only when your need is unavoidable should the State please make itself visible; otherwise there is no need for its presence. Capitals should be like cremation grounds—outside the village. Only when there is great need should one even be aware there is a capital. Politicians should be kept hidden—like lepers used to be kept outside the village—untouchables; bring them in only when absolutely necessary, otherwise outside. Only when needed should they be allowed in.
But they are excessive—needed or not, they are always there, always up front. Where there is no need for them, they are present. Excessive—they have surrounded you from all sides. Such excessive industriousness is not needed. Their action cannot bring good. The very nature of government cannot be auspicious.
Government means: suppress someone, make him dependent; do not allow him to do what he wishes; make him do what you want. All right—one can see a need for it in one place; therefore it is an unavoidable disease. Until human beings—all of them—attain saintliness, government will remain. But there is no virtue, no glory in government. You go to a physician only when you are ill. Politicians, government, the State should come to you only when you are doing such a thing as harms others; otherwise, no. There should be only one place for their intervention: when you overstep your boundary and injure another’s freedom. So long as you are within your bounds, harming no one, absorbed in your joy, the State should be lazy.
Lao Tzu says, ‘When the government is lazy and dull, its people are unspoiled.’
It is a bit startling. You will agree to the reverse proposition easily: when people are unspoiled, the government becomes lazy and dull. That you can grasp; it is simple arithmetic: when people are pure, there is no need for government to intervene. But Lao Tzu says the opposite—and it is equally true. It is like the question: which came first, the chicken or the egg? Hard to decide. The chicken produces the egg; the egg produces the chicken; they are interdependent.
Lao Tzu says: make the people unspoiled, and make the government lazy—because they are interdependent. Make the people innocent, and the government inactive—because they are linked like egg and chicken. When people are innocent, government is not needed. When government withdraws, does not create its own necessity, people begin to become innocent on their own.
Here one more thing must be understood: government will not allow people to become innocent. Because if people become innocent, government is less needed. Therefore the whole effort of government is to prevent the people from ever becoming unspoiled. It creates new laws so new laws can be broken. Government creates such a situation that you cannot live without breaking the law. When you cannot live, then government becomes necessary. Then government says, ‘How can we relax? People are immoral.’ And government makes so many laws that either people must be immoral or they must die, commit suicide—there remains no other way.
Now there are so many laws, so many levies, so much taxation that if a person is honest, he would have to pay more in tax than he earns. Then why should he earn? How will he live? If he remains innocent, he will be robbed. And still no one will trust him.
If you go to the income-tax officer and you have earned only ten thousand rupees and you tell him the full amount—ten thousand—he will still say, ‘You must have earned at least fifty thousand.’ Because who speaks the truth? No one will trust you. In these days a truthful man appears more false than the false—because no one is truthful. So you too have to start from two thousand; you say two, he says five; after tugging at each other you settle somewhere around three or four. You know he will not accept if you tell the truth. He knows you will not tell the truth, so settlement is not easy. The tug-of-war continues.
If law is excessive, it turns people into criminals; because no one can bear so much law that living becomes impossible. Law is meant to assist living, not to destroy it. Therefore there should be minimal taxes and minimal laws. With the least law, the fewest criminals will be. Do not make laws until unavoidable. This is Lao Tzu’s meaning when he says: let government be lazy and dull. Let it appear only in the most necessary hour; in unnecessary moments, withdraw—give people the breath of freedom. Then they will be unspoiled.
What is defilement after all? Have you noticed: the more laws you make, the more defilement grows—because the greater the possibility that laws will be broken.
I see it in homes. The child says, ‘I want to go out to play.’ The mother says, ‘No.’ The child asks for ice cream; the mother says, ‘Your throat will get sore.’ The child says, ‘Then let me have sweets’; the mother says, ‘Too many sweets will cause this and that harm.’ You erect laws on all sides; do you leave the child any way to be? Is there any facility for him to be a child? If he plays in sand, clothes get dirty; if he plays in mud, there is filth; if he plays with neighborhood children, they are corrupt—he will be spoiled. A woman asked a small boy, ‘You are a good boy, aren’t you?’ He said, ‘If you really ask, I am the kind of boy my mother will never allow me to play with.’
No facility at all. Then the child begins to seem a criminal. He must go out. He is a child; he will go out. He must breathe under the open sky. If he goes, he becomes a criminal; if he doesn’t, he begins to become old already. You put him in such a bind. Forbidding him from going into fire is understandable. But let him play under the open sky. Clothes are not as valuable as playing with sand. This age will not come again. Clothes can be washed; but the child deprived of play will always feel a lack; his life will never be whole. A child who could not roll in the mud and play will have less capacity for celebration. He will never dance, he will never sing. You are killing him. If the child declares his freedom, he is a rebel; if he does not, if he obeys, he is committing suicide. What should he do?
And what you do to the child at home, the State does to you. Nowhere is there any facility. Nowhere any space where you can open, be free. You are harming no one; you injure no one.
In my camps I had given people the freedom that if it felt right to them and they felt joyous, they could remove their clothes. Politicians became very disturbed. The assemblies discussed it. The law became strict.
If you become naked, you are not making anyone else naked. You are becoming naked yourself. You have no freedom to stand your body under the open sun! You are not obstructing anyone’s life. You are not telling anyone to come and look at you. If they look, it is their choice. If they don’t want to, they can avert their eyes. You are forcing no one.
But politics is much too much. Even this little freedom—which is a personal right. If I feel it right to walk naked, no one should have the right to stop me. Yes, if I pressure someone else to be naked, then the State should intervene: wrong is being done; do not force another. If it is your joy, walk naked. What does my nakedness have to do with anyone else?
You would not allow even Mahavira to be naked. Good that Mahavira happened earlier; government was a bit lazy then. The sky was open; there was freedom. People did not hinder Mahavira’s glory; no law intervened. Today it would be very difficult; great obstacles would arise.
There are a small number of Digambara Jain monks—twenty or twenty-two. In India at present there are about twenty-two Digambara Jain monks who are naked. In big cities they face restrictions. In Bombay or Delhi they cannot move as they are; the police must be informed. So their followers inform the police that our master will pass through such and such route, at such and such time. And even then they cannot go openly; their disciples form a ring around them so that they are not visible.
Have you ever seen a straight-standing photograph of a Jain muni in any newspaper? No. Every photo you see shows him sitting cross-legged in such a way that his nakedness is not visible. Because a straight-standing photo would be dangerous. The law is against it.
It is understandable that law should intervene when you harm someone; but when you are not doing anything, what is the need for law to come between? No need for parliamentary discussion. If someone wants to stand naked in meditation, it is nobody’s business. And if it is somebody’s business, it is his sickness; he needs therapy. If he feels that seeing someone naked arouses lust in him, that is his disease; it has nothing to do with the one who is naked. And do you think the one in whom lust arises on seeing a naked body will not feel lust on seeing a body hidden in clothes? He will feel a bit more. Whatever is hidden provokes the wish to unveil it; what is already unveiled does not provoke unveiling.
The truth is: a naked man or woman arouses the least lust. A hidden body becomes a taboo and arouses more lust. Women are not as beautiful as they appear when covered with clothes. If you see a row of naked women, you will be surprised—perhaps hardly one will appear beautiful. But when covered, nothing is apparent; covered, all women appear beautiful. And if they are veiled, what to say! The ugliest woman under a burqa passes along the road and every man becomes alert. All peek to see what the matter is. The same woman, without the burqa, no one bothers to look at.
These are simple truths of life: what is hidden becomes alluring; what is revealed loses allure. Go and see among the tribes; they are naked. You too will feel nothing criminal in their nakedness. Within a few days you will agree; you will feel that if anything stirs in you, it is your own restlessness needing treatment.
Those who sit in parliament and are worried that some meditator should not stand naked—these people need psychotherapy. But no—the burden of the whole country is on them. Nobody has given them that burden; they have picked it up themselves. They must think of the welfare of the entire nation.
Lao Tzu says: please, secure your own welfare; that is enough. Do not try to secure everyone’s welfare—because through you, harm will be done.
‘When the government is lazy and dull, its people are unspoiled.’
Fewer laws; less government; more freedom. Because without freedom, the flower of innocence does not bloom. Innocence needs the soil of freedom.
‘When the government is efficient and smart, its people are discontented.’
Why so? Because the more efficient the government, the greater the bondage. The more skillful the government, the tighter the noose around your neck. Governmental skill means: dependence has become very skillful, and it will bind you from all sides. It will bind you in such a way you will not even notice; you will feel you are free—when you are not.
Your freedom is almost a hoax. Government has tightened you from all sides. And it has made all arrangements that if you even slightly declare your freedom, it will tighten further. At once the emergency is declared. If people declare a little freedom, immediately an emergency. The entire government forgets democracy and becomes dictatorship.
The more efficient the government, the more fetters on your soul. We do not need efficient government. Government should be like God—unseen. Neither seen, nor does it come in between, nor does it declare rules and discipline. You hardly know it is there. The day government becomes such that there is no sense of it, no sting, then the right government has been found. And not only is this true about outer government, it is true about discipline as well.
You are around me. Many come to me and say, ‘Why don’t you give your sannyasins a strict discipline?’
Who am I to give anyone discipline? And what discipline, imposed by another, will ever lead you to moksha? The aim is to reduce outer discipline and to increase inner self-discipline. The externally imposed government has to be removed; your inner prajna must become your only discipline—that is the situation to be brought about. I will not tell you when to get up, when to sit, when to sleep, what to eat. I will not burden you with such foolishness. I will only give you the method to discover your pure consciousness. Then your consciousness itself will shape your discipline.
But gurus are also like governors; they too bind. They worry about every ounce of you: what you eat, what you drink, when you sleep, when you rise. The guru is like a policeman. And the policeman does not go as deep as the guru goes, because he lacks that expertise. The guru binds you in every inner thing. In the name of your liberation, gurus have built prisons for you. You do not become free; you become slaves. You do not become soulful; you lose your soul. Your hope is that perhaps through this discipline you will find the soul. But if there is dependency at the very first step, how will there be freedom at the last? Freedom is freedom at the first step as it is at the last. The crop you wish to harvest, you must sow that seed.
So I sow the seed of freedom. I set you utterly free; I leave you to your own awareness. May your awareness awaken; then, from your own awareness, give your life its discipline. Only then is it possible someday to have a glimpse of liberation.
‘Misfortune is a shadowed path to good fortune; and good fortune is a hiding place for misfortune.’
Lao Tzu says: opposites are always joined. Whoever sees this has found the key to life.
When misfortune comes, do not panic. Because by the shaded path of misfortune, good fortune travels. Right behind misfortune, fortune comes. Hidden behind misfortune is the possibility of bliss. When misfortune comes, do not be agitated, do not be disturbed; soon fortune will knock at your door. Misfortune is the announcement of its coming—the omen, the messenger, the letter saying, ‘I am on my way.’
So when misfortune comes, do not get excited, do not be worried—very soon fortune is arriving. And when the flowers of fortune bloom, do not become intoxicated—because hidden behind fortune is misfortune. As night follows day and day follows night, so suffering follows happiness and happiness follows suffering; success follows failure and failure follows success. Opposites are paired.
Therefore let neither sorrow unnerve you, nor joy intoxicate you. In both states remain a witness. Because neither of them is going to stay. Whatever comes, goes. And soon its opposite will come. There is nothing here to cling to; no opportunity here to attach yourself to anything. Do not try to push misfortune away; for if you push misfortune away, you will push away the fortune that was following it. Do not try to hold onto fortune; if you cling to fortune, you will also grasp the misfortune hidden behind it. Then what to do?
Remain a witness. Keep seeing. Just laugh. Because if you can see both, you will begin to laugh. Someone insults you; you will not be hurt—because you know some praise is soon to arrive from somewhere. You fall down; do not be afraid. The same energy that pulls you down will lift you up as well. You have nothing to do with it. You become ill; the same energy that brings illness also brings health. You can do only one thing: keep watching. Let things come and go; you keep watching.
Slowly, as your capacity to watch becomes dense, as the seer in you puts down roots, you will find that nothing touches you. You have become like the lotus—rain falls, water drops upon it, yet does not cling; it passes untouched. You remain untouched.
And if you cannot do this, you will never be normal.
‘As things are, the normal will never come into existence.’
You will keep drifting from one extreme to the other: now sorrow, now joy; now shade, now sun; now day, now night; now birth, now death. You will go on wavering between the two. In between the two is hidden the secret of life.
‘As things are, the normal will never be. And the normal soon flips over into deception; the auspicious turns into inauspicious. To this extent mankind has gone astray.’
It does not even know that whatever we do always turns into its opposite. You think, ‘This is a most auspicious moment,’ and you grasp it. Soon you discover the auspicious moment has disappeared and only its inauspicious shadow remains. You see love and grasp it—before you can open your fist, love has vanished and hatred remains. Attraction disappears; repulsion remains. You tried to grasp the morning; evening came into your hand.
Lao Tzu says: this is the ultimate wandering. How much farther can one go astray? Turn back; be a little careful. And there is only one meaning of being careful: avoid duality. Only one care is needed—wherever you see two, don’t choose between them; become a choiceless witness. The mind will say, ‘Hold on to happiness. You’ve waited so long; now happiness is at the door—don’t let it go.’ The mind will say, ‘Remove sorrow. If you remove it, it will go away quickly; otherwise who knows how long it will linger.’
Nothing abides because you keep it, and nothing goes because you push it. If you know this, you are wise. What goes by your pushing? Which sorrow have you ever pushed away? When the mind is depressed, can you, by any device, come out of depression? When the mind is happy, do you have any device by which you can trap that happiness in a safe and lock it away—so whenever you want you can take it out, play with it a while, be happy, and put it back? After living so long, have you not seen that nothing remains by your holding and nothing departs by your pushing? Happiness comes and goes—as if its path of travel is separate from you. Shade comes, sunshine comes; it has nothing to do with you, as if it has its own orbit. You are only the spectator. Your one delusion is that you have assumed yourself to be the doer.
If you do not assume the doer, you will be amazed: as sadness comes, so it goes—while you stand behind, untouched, unscarred. Then joy and laughter also come and go. As this feeling deepens, you become free. Then you do not impose even discipline upon your life.
Lao Tzu says: discipline has many levels. Others impose discipline upon you—that is politics. Then you try to impose discipline upon yourself—that is morality. This is why we use the words ‘politics’ and ‘ethics’; deep down they mean the same. Politics means: others try to make you moral. Ethics means: you try to make yourself moral.
Neither can others make you, nor can you make yourself. The rulers are deluded that the burden of improving the world rests on them. You too are deluded that the task of making yourself pure, virtuous, of good conduct is yours. The pride of capitals is false, and your pride is false. In this world, consciousness is like a witness, not like a doer. You will not be able to do anything. It is because of the delusion of doing that you have wandered for so many births. How long will you wander? Why not drop the delusion and, for once, simply watch?
Then, following witnessing, a discipline comes that is not brought, not produced by effort, but flowers effortlessly. Then there is a rain of blessings; from all sides joy becomes dense and showers upon you—showers without clouds. No cloud is seen, yet there is rain. No cause is understood, no doer is there, no one to bring it, and yet bliss keeps raining down. Until this moment arrives—the shower without clouds—know that you are still wandering.
Lao Tzu says: mankind has gone so far astray that the bliss which can be had without doing, it cannot attain. What greater going-astray can there be? The treasure that can be had without doing anything—you cannot find it. You cannot—because you are busy seeking the treasure that can never be found. All your energy is flowing in the wrong direction.
‘Therefore the sage is honest, has firm principles, but is not cutting, not sharp-cornered.’
Try to understand the nature of the sage.
‘Therefore the sage is square, has firm principles, but not cutting, sharp-cornered.’
Square is the sage—because anything square is steady. Place it on the ground and it settles; it becomes stable. It is not easy to dislodge it. It does not shake; it is unshaken.
So Lao Tzu says: the sage is square.
There is a firmness of the sage that is unique, that arises from his way of being. Therefore square—therefore the sage has the shape of a square.
If you have seen a Japanese doll—Daruma doll—you can throw it in any way, and it always sits back cross-legged. ‘Daruma’ is the Japanese name of the unique Indian mystic Bodhidharma. That doll is Bodhidharma’s; he carried the branches of Buddhism from India to China. Square here means: throw the sage around as you like—toss him, turn him upside down—do anything, and you will always find him seated in siddhasana. A Daruma doll should be kept in the house; keep throwing it and see—that is the nature of the sage. Throw it upside down on its head; it does not matter. Its base is weighted; at once it sits upright.
There is no way to shake a sage; he is a Daruma doll. He does not tremble. Storms come; happiness and sorrow come—nothing excites him. He sits every moment in his posture of perfection. His inner seat is fixed.
This siddhasana is not of the body. We have made the statues of tirthankaras and Buddhas in siddhasana; do not think they sat like that for twenty-four hours. These are inner symbols; inwardly they became like this—like the Daruma doll. Their cross-legged seat was so set within that there was no way to disturb it. They became firm like that.
There is a firmness of the mind as well; that firmness is false. Behind it is fear.
In the school where I studied there was a teacher who always said, ‘I am not at all afraid of the dark; in the dark of night I even go to the cremation ground alone.’
I told him, ‘You say this so often that I suspect something. What is the need to keep repeating this before us little children—that you are not at all afraid? If you are not afraid, fine; but whom are you browbeating—that you go alone into the cremation ground? Surely there is fear somewhere inside you. You are trying to forget your fear by your assertions that you are a stout man, not afraid.’
Often you make such firmness. You say, ‘I swear this vow, I will always keep it.’ But even then, if you peep inside, you will find you know it is not going to be fulfilled. You are deceiving yourself. And the more you want to deceive yourself, the louder you speak. You are trying to convince yourself by your own voice.
Your firmness means nothing until your consciousness is behind it. The resolutions of the mind are no resolutions—they are lines drawn on water. They will not remain, however forcefully you draw them. Nothing will stick on the mind; the mind is never firm. The nature of mind is not firmness, but restlessness. It is never square. You cannot make a Daruma doll of the mind however you try. That cross-legged seat belongs only to consciousness. Siddhasana is of the Atman. That firmness is not possible before that.
The sage is firm. He does not even know he is firm. For if he knew it, he would also know the opposite. He simply is firm—his firmness is natural. From this firmness his honesty, his authenticity, arises. Not from his resolutions, but from his nature.
There is an honesty you bring through thought; and there is an honesty that appears through the realization of your nature.
It happened that a disciple of Mohammed was reading the Jews’ book, the Talmud. Mohammed saw him and said, ‘Look, if you want to study the Talmud, become a Jew—because without becoming a Jew how will you understand the Talmud? Remaining a Muslim, you will not understand it; your wholeness will not connect with the Talmud. If you want to remain a Muslim, read the Koran. If you want to read the Talmud, become a Jew. There is nothing wrong in becoming a Jew—but whatever you do, do it wholeheartedly.’
And wherever you do anything wholeheartedly, mind disappears—because mind cannot be whole; it is not its nature. It can only be half-and-half. Whenever you do anything wholeheartedly—even if you are digging a pit in the earth and you are digging wholeheartedly—suddenly you find meditation has happened. You are cooking, cooking wholeheartedly—suddenly you find meditation has happened. Wherever you make the mind whole, there meditation happens; and that meditation has a firm nature—that meditation is siddhasana.
Understand this well. People think, by sitting in siddhasana meditation will happen. They are wrong. By meditation, siddhasana becomes available. Anyone can assume a siddhasana posture; there is nothing much to it. With a little practice your legs will fold. If it hurts, get a massage. Anyone can sit like that. If siddhasana caused meditation, it would be very simple. It is meditation that causes siddhasana. Whoever has fallen into meditation… Mohammed has no statue; Jesus has no statue seated in siddhasana. Yet I tell you, Jesus attained siddhasana. He never sat like Buddha or Mahavira; but inwardly that seat happened. It is an inner thing. The outer can be a support—but do not mistake the outer for enough.
The saint is honest. His honesty is inner. It is his way of being. Hence he is not cutting; he has no sharp corners. Note this difference. If your honesty is only on the surface, acquired by effort, you will condemn the dishonest, you will cut them. You will proclaim, ‘I am honest; you are not.’ Wherever you see even a small wrong, you will pounce upon it. You will not lose the chance to declare, ‘I am superior; you are inferior!’ You will see the whole world as going to hell—except you; you are going to heaven.
If your virtue turns into condemnation of others, know this: it is not arising from the soul; it is the mind’s deception. The sage is firm, but not sharp-cornered. He has no edges. He takes no delight in hurting. From him slander does not come; even to call the bad ‘bad’ he hesitates. His nature is to see the good even in the bad. In the worst of the worst—however deep the light is hidden, however buried in darkness—he will see it.
You will not find a sharp-cornered saint. He will be gentle. There will be a roundness in his being—a feminine roundness. He will have no spikes.
‘He has integrity, fidelity, but he does not injure others.’
He will be whole, but he will not use his wholeness to press your fragmented personality; he will not enslave you through his integrity. He will be integral, filled with deep fidelity—but he will not use it to make you feel inferior. Remember: whenever you use your character to expose someone else’s inferiority, know that you are using character as vice.
He is straightforward, but there is no vanity in it. Therefore there is nothing despotic about him.
It so happened that Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor. He had a severe headache—so sharp it felt as if a screw were being tightened inside, or a knife were cutting within. He entered holding his head. The doctor examined him and asked, ‘You don’t smoke cigarettes or cigars—no such thing? You don’t drink tea, coffee—anything with nicotine?’ Nasruddin said, ‘Never.’ The man asked, ‘And liquor, etcetera, you don’t use?’ Nasruddin rose in anger and said, ‘What do you think I am?’ The doctor asked one last thing, ‘Any womanizing, brothels—caught in such habits?’ Nasruddin pounced on the doctor; veins stood out. He said, ‘What do you think I am? Some thief, some loafer? You don’t know who I am? I am an eternal brahmachari, a lifelong celibate. Not only me—my father was also an eternal celibate. It has been so in our lineage from the very beginning.’ The doctor said, ‘You will be cured; the disease is diagnosed. Sit quietly. Your character has gone too much into your head; that is why there is pain.’
When character begins to give you a headache, be a little alert. When your character becomes your ego and stiffness and changes your gait, be careful. Then that character is no character; it has become vice. Better a little vice—it is at least humble. Vice is not as bad as conceit.
The saint has character, and there is no self-consciousness about it. Character is like having hands, ears, a nose—you don’t need to announce them. They are. Character is like breathing; you don’t announce, ‘Look, I’m breathing!’ You don’t seek credit for it. There is nothing special in it. The saint’s character is like breath. If it is otherwise, that character belongs to a non-saint, not a saint.
‘He is straight.’
His simplicity is so simple that he does not even know it—because the simplicity you know is no longer simple. The straightforwardness you know has already become crooked. A point has appeared in it; arrogance has arisen.
‘He is bright, but not dazzling.’
A very precious sentence!
‘Bright, but not dazzling.’
In him there is a radiance, sweet and full—but cool. You cannot be scorched by it. There is no heat in it, no fever, no delirium. In the presence of a saint you will not burn. You can drink his light as much as you like and it will still feel cool. It will make every pore of your being thrill, but it will not drench you in sweat.
Understand the difference well. For the saint is a cool fire. It is easy to be fire; it is easy to be cool. To be cool fire is very difficult—that is the mark of supreme knowing. Radiance is there, but in that radiance there is no fever, no haste, no hurt. Your eyes will not be bedazzled in the saint’s presence. If you want that glitter, go to the throne, the capital, the emperors. There your eyes will be blinded by glare; your eyes will be tired. You will not return refreshed. However impressed, that impression will be like a disease—heavy. Emperors impress people, but their impression has a sting; blisters will arise on your being from their impression. Their impression will be like a wound upon your personality. You will return diminished. Bedazzled by that glitter, your eyes will return darkened—you will return blinded. That is one kind of influence—the emperors’.
This is why in this land we have said: even a chakravarti is nothing before a saint. We call him a chakravarti who is emperor of the entire earth. The edge of his sword can cut you—but you will return cut, fragmented, burned. That much fire only disease can give you. A saint also attains a unique majesty, before which all thrones are pale; even the chakravarti bows at his feet.
What is his quality? The saint’s uniqueness is that he possesses another kind of fire—you can drink his fire, you can make his fire your nourishment; you will not burn. Nowhere in his fire is there a wound.
‘Radiance’ is a precious word. Like the light before dawn—night has gone, the sun has not yet risen; that light is radiance. Night is gone; darkness is no more. The sun has not yet come—because the sun is like the chakravarti; it will burn you. You cannot raise your eyes to it; your eyes will be filled with darkness. If you look too long, you will go blind. Morning’s light is radiance. Or at dusk when the sun has set and night has not yet come—that in-between twilight is radiance.
For this reason Hindus call their prayer sandhya—twilight. Prayer should be like radiance. Let the fire of longing be there—but cool, soothing. It should satisfy, fill; not burn, but make alive; not reduce you to ashes, but make those ashes sprout, give you a new birth.
‘The saint is bright, but not dazzling.’
What is Lao Tzu saying? He is saying: government should be like the saints—radiant, not dazzling. In truth, government should belong to the saint—who cannot burn, cannot obliterate, cannot rob you. For whatever is worth having, he has already attained. You cannot give him anything; he has everything. He is overflowing, drowned to the brim in bliss; there is nothing left to take from you. Only such a one should govern. His rule will be invisible.
The Jains call Mahavira’s words Mahavira’s shasan—his rule. Buddhists too have called Buddha’s words Buddha’s shasan. Both Buddhists and Jains have called Mahavira and Buddha shasta—givers of rule. Rule should be received from one who is himself free. One who is free does not enslave others. His freedom opens the bonds of others, makes them nirgrantha—un-knotted. His freedom makes others free. He does for others what has happened to him.
The rule of the saint is Lao Tzu’s longing: that a time may come when we receive rule from the saint. His rule will spread like radiance. Some fortunate ones receive rule from the saints. Whether the entire earth will, who knows? Some fortunate ones do.
Buddhists have called the group of their monks the sangha; they have called Buddha the shasta. Shasta is he from whom rule is received, and sangha is that which receives the rule. A few took rule from Buddha—and their lives were transformed. Whoever has ever taken rule from a saint—his life has been transformed. That is initiation. That is the meaning of initiation: the longing to receive rule from a saint—‘From now on I will be ruled by you’—from one who has no desire to rule anyone.
Ponder it well. Every word of Lao Tzu is precious. The day you are ready to receive rule from a saint, that day sannyas blossoms. That day you are no longer part of this earth; that day you stand outside politics. That day you have taken another path. The blind rulers of this world will not rule you.
Kabir says, ‘The blind leading the blind—both fall into the well.’
One is the rule of the blind that enslaves you, that fetters you, that puts chains upon you. The other is the rule of the saints that frees you. Those who enslave you—you do not have to ask for their rule; they give it unasked. Even if you run, they will pursue you. Even if you do not want, they will rule you. Saints will not pursue you; they will make no attempt to rule you. You must ask; you must spread your begging bowl. And the day a saint’s rule falls into your bowl, you have conceived. Now you are different. Now your rebirth is very near.
Enough for today.