Tao Upanishad #99

The very moment you ask how to practice it, you miss the understanding. Because “to practice” already means the effort to become something has begun. When I say, remain as you are, just as you are, the question of practice does not arise. Practice means you have started trying to be what you are not. So you have not understood.

Any practice implies discontent; there is no fulfillment in being as you are. The mind says, let something more happen. A little money—let’s gather more. A little knowledge—accumulate more. A little renunciation—become a great renunciate. A slight taste of meditation—let’s manufacture the taste of samadhi. It is all the same; there is no difference. The issue is neither money nor meditation; the issue is the demand for “more.”

So whether you ask for wealth you remain worldly, and even if you ask for meditation you remain worldly. Wherever there is the demand for more, there is the world. And when you no longer ask for more—when, as you are, you are utterly delighted, grateful; as you are—good or bad, black or white, small or great—in that very being you have thanked the Divine, at that instant a revolution happens. Nothing needs to be practiced. As long as you practice, the ego stands. You will be the one “doing” meditation. It is the ego that will say to you, “Look, kundalini is rising. A light appears. The blue star is manifesting. The chakras are awakening.” Who will say it? Who will strut? Who will relish it? All this is ego. And that very ego is the obstacle.

A perfectly contented person cannot have ego, because he is not doing anything to feed it. He is not even “meditating.” Can anyone do meditation? Meditation means contentment, a deep contentment in which not a single ripple of dissatisfaction arises.

Then you will say, “That is very difficult; waves of discontent arise, the urge to become something comes up.” That is the nature of the mind—to goad you: “Become something else.” You may even reach liberation, and the mind will say, “Go further, become something more.” You may even become God, and the mind will say, “Is this all? Become something more.” Mind is the demand for more. And as long as there is mind, there is no meditation. Mind is discontent. Where there is discontent there can be no gratitude, no sense of grace—only complaint.

Understand that the race to become is itself false. Whatever you can be, you already are. As long as you run, you miss; as long as you seek, you lose. The day you drop seeking and running and sit silently, seeing that there is nowhere to go—this very place is the goal; nothing to become—this very being is the ultimate—at that very instant the revolution happens. It never happens by your doing. Whatever you do will be disturbance, not revolution. When the very sense of doership drops, revolution happens instantly. It comes; it descends upon you. The day you are in a state of non-doing, in that very moment the harmony falls into place, all the notes tune up; in that very moment the opposition between you and the vast disappears.

What is the opposition? The opposition is: God has made you something, and you are trying to become something else. Gurdjieff has a very famous saying—hard to understand, but if you understand me it will become clear. Gurdjieff says: all seekers, all so-called saints, are fighting with God. God has made you what you are; now you are trying to improve upon God. Therefore Gurdjieff says, all religions are against God. It will be very difficult to grasp, yet he is exactly right. One who is on God’s side—what “religion” can he have? When nothing remains to practice, where can religion remain? He neither practices nor runs nor asks. He has no ambition.

Hence Kabir says: “Sadho, sahaj samadhi bhali.”
Natural samadhi is what I am pointing to: that which is accomplished without doing. That which is brought about by your doing will be unnatural; it will be contrived. And what is contrived cannot be bigger than you. How can your effort take you beyond yourself? Just think! It is like someone trying to lift himself by his shoelaces. All practitioners are doing exactly that.

Drop this foolishness. The practitioner never arrives. The practitioner cannot arrive; only the siddha arrives. And siddha does not mean “accomplished by practice.” Siddha means: already accomplished—you are that. Whatever can be yours is already given; only a small recognition is lacking. The treasure you are seeking is already hidden within; just a small veil has to be lifted.

“In the mirror of the heart is the Beloved’s image;
the moment I bowed my neck a little, I saw.”
It is only a slight bowing of the neck. That bowing is the bowing of the ego. As long as you go on doing, the neck remains stiff. The sense of doership is nothing but the neck refusing to bend. The sense of non-doership is: What can happen by my doing? Who am I? What power do I have? I am helpless. No power of my own; nothing I can do. Breath goes on—if it stops, what will you do? The sun rises—if it does not, what will you do? Life is—if it is gone, what will you do? How much is truly in your hands? And you are out to seek liberation! You are searching for God! You aspire to become a pilgrim on the path of immortality! How much capacity do you really have?

The moment one understands one’s capacity—meaning, recognizes one’s incapacity—the moment one sees one’s strength, one comes to know the perfection of one’s powerlessness. In that instant you stop; the running ends. You sit down; your standing tall departs. You bow; the stiffness is lost. In that very bowing—when the neck bows a little—that moment arrives which you could not find by all your seeking. That which you were seeking comes to your door by itself. It was standing at your door. But you were so busy seeking that you had no leisure to see it. It was seated within you, and you were searching elsewhere.

When seeking ends, you will look within. What else is there to do? When all seeking drops, when for the first time you stand face to face with yourself, in that very moment everything is accomplished—without practice.

Kabir says: “Ankiye sab hoy”—without doing, all is done.
You did—and you spoiled it. By doing you have spoiled it. You have been on this long journey. Don’t do. Try, for just a little while, not doing; everything sets itself right. The moment you grow silent, existence around you begins to fall into order. You become silent and the distortions start settling by themselves—just as, when a river is flowing, rubbish rises up; you sit on the bank and in a little while the rubbish floats away on its own, the silt settles to the bottom.

Never step into the river to clean it. Otherwise your effort to clean will only stir up more mud and debris. The river will become dirtier. Without doing, all is done. Learn non-doing. Don’t ask, “How to practice?” Because you bring your old stupidity back again. Ask only, “How to understand?” In practice there is action; in understanding there is no action. And remember, as many people as you find practicing, you will find them unintelligent. In fact, only fools practice; the wise understand. There is nothing here to practice. Everything is already accomplished. Was anything waiting for you? Before you were, everything was in order; when you are no more, everything will remain in order. The moon and stars move on. The sun rises. This vast universe is in perfect order—without your practicing.

Yet you remain in the same delusion. I have heard: the lizard was invited by her friends to a feast—there was a wedding somewhere. The lizard said, “I cannot come. Who will hold up this roof? As long as I live here, the thatch is held. If I leave, the roof will fall.” You are like that lizard, worrying for nothing. The palace roof is not upheld by the lizard; rather, the lizard sticks because of the roof. What is left for you to set right? Everything is already set right. Do not take on unnecessary toil. The moment you understand, all “practice” becomes futile.

So if you ask me, what then is the purpose of practice? Merely this: until you have understood, and are willing to understand, it is necessary to keep you doing something. This doing is like giving sweets to children; the sweets keep them around. It is like coating a medicine with sugar. You will not agree without doing; your mind insists, “Do something,” so we give your mind something to do.

All these meditation methods are to give your mind something to do—slowly, slowly, so that you yourself may come to the realization that by doing, nothing happens. A day will come when, in the very act of doing, you will awaken and see: “What am I doing? Nothing comes of this doing.” Doing will slip from your hands; it will fall apart and scatter like quicksilver. You will not be able to gather it again. And in that very moment everything will happen.

All the preparation is to bring about that moment when, for a little while, you consent to non-doing. If you consent now, it will happen now. It can happen this very moment. The transformation of the spiritual life does not wait for the future; it can happen now. You are absolutely complete. There is no lack that needs time to be fulfilled. Only lower your eyes a little. Look at yourself a little. However long you take in that, that is your choice. You can keep circumambulating the temple as long as you like; that is your choice. Otherwise, the throne of the temple is vacant—come, sit down. For whom are you circling? You are made to sit on the throne of the temple, not to circle it. And as long as you go on circling, it is certain you will not be able to sit on the throne.

Do not ask how to practice! Just understand. Understand, and you will find: it is like the sugar in a mute man’s mouth—he eats and only smiles. There is nothing to practice.

This seems very difficult. The mind says, “Even if one has to climb a mountain—the Himalayas—there is no problem. At least give me something to do; I will do it. I will even climb Gaurishankar, Everest. Whatever the hardship, I will conquer it.” The mind is ready to fight every difficulty. The mind is preparation to fight. And when I say, “Do nothing,” the mind says, “This is the greatest difficulty. There is nothing to fight, nothing to do—then how will it happen?” As if everything happens because of your doing.

Have you heard the story of the old woman who got angry with her village and went off to another village with her rooster? She had told the villagers, “My rooster crows, therefore the sun rises.” The villagers laughed. No one believed her. She said, “You will regret it. If I go to another village, the sun will rise there; wherever my rooster crows, the sun will rise. Then you will cry, beating your chests in darkness.” The people laughed on. The old woman took her rooster and went to the next village. Next morning the rooster crowed there, the sun rose. The old woman said, “Now they must be crying.”

It is because the sun rises that the rooster crows; not that the rooster’s crowing brings the sun up. Because God draws near, meditation happens; meditation does not bring God near. There is nothing of yours in it. A deep waiting in silence. A deep waiting—and being content with what is, as you are. Lao Tzu calls this tathata—total acceptance. And remember: total. Nothing less will do.

Then you ask, “But there is restlessness in the mind—what should I do?” Accept that it is there; do nothing. You say, “Anger happens.” Accept that anger happens—it is. Do nothing. Let anger be; remain in consent. You say, “There is sex-desire.” It is. You did not create it; you will not be able to erase it. What you did not create, how will you erase it? Had there been no sex-desire, could you have been born? Since it is, how will you erase it? The One who gave it will take it away. The One who created it will erase it. Nothing will happen by your doing. Be in consent: “Thy will.”

This is what I call prayer. The day your heart can say, in totality: Thy will be done. If it is to wander in passion, I consent. If it is to lead into celibacy, I consent. If it is to make me angry and the meanest man in the world, I consent. If it is to fill me with compassion and raise me to the highest, I consent. I have no will—Thy will. The mood of “Thy will”! No complaint! And you will find—not a moment is lost. Not even a single instant passes and the goal arrives at your door. The goal comes without your going; liberation is received without a move.

This is the very essence of all the wise.

If it does not appeal, does not please you, then ask the ignorant. They will show you many paths. When you are tired of the ignorant, then come to me. Before that you will not be able to understand me. First, do all sorts of topsy-turvy with the ignorant—headstands, crooked exercises; do all the tantra and mantra. When you are exhausted by doing and not attaining, then come to me. Because I teach non-doing.

Certainly! The mind cannot see anything as one hundred percent. That is not within the mind’s capacity, because the mind cannot think without duality. If you say you see one hundred percent goodness, then somewhere in the unconscious a cloud of badness must be drifting. Otherwise, how would goodness even appear?

Goodness too needs a background of badness. To draw a white chalk line, you need a blackboard. How will you recognize that this is goodness? If there is attachment to me, love for me, a fascination with me, the mind will push all badness into the unconscious and raise all goodness to the surface. You will see a hundred percent goodness—but it cannot be so. If you search in the unconscious you will find some badness showing up. Perhaps precisely because you do not want to see any badness, the conscious mind keeps repeating, “No, it’s a full hundred percent.”

But this is natural—nothing to worry about. The mind can only see in pairs. The day you look at me from beyond the mind, I will appear neither bad nor good; neither saintly nor non-saintly; neither auspicious nor inauspicious. Because the two go together, or they remain together. Like the two sides of a coin: both sides are there at once—you cannot save only one. Yes, you can do this much: press one side down and lift the other up; the upper side shows, the lower stays pressed. But it has not been destroyed; it is present. Either you keep the coin whole and both sides remain, or you throw the coin away and both sides go. So as long as the auspicious shows, know that somewhere in the background the inauspicious is hidden. What else would provide the background? How would the auspicious appear?

When a person surrenders, the first thing that happens is that the guru appears one hundred percent good. Do not stop there. The background hidden in the dark is still present. This moment is precious: to feel that someone is one hundred percent right is a great height of trust. But it is not the last. One more step is needed. Then comes the final leap of trust. Then the guru is neither good nor bad. Because as long as I am “good,” the possibility remains that I could be “bad.” The dice can flip at any moment. The side pressed down can come up with the slightest gust of wind, and everything can change. Do not rely too much on that.

One more leap—when I am neither bad nor good. Then you cannot move away from me. You cannot be opposed to me. No way remains. Then I am not good, not bad—how can distrust arise? For trust too has gone. As long as trust is there, distrust is hidden. As long as honor is there, dishonor is hidden. As long as respect is there, disrespect is hidden. As long as I feel like a friend to you, at any time I can feel like an enemy—because the other has not been erased, only concealed.

And remember a rule of the mind: what is hidden gradually becomes powerful, and what is manifest gradually becomes dim. Because the hidden does not expend its energy, while the manifest begins to spend it. Another rule: whatever you stare at for too long begins to bore you; then arises a hunger for a change of taste. So, trust every day, trust every day—the same meal every day, the same meal every day.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to me one day, “You must do something; it seems my husband has lost his mind.” I asked, “What happened?” She said, “Even on Saturday, when I made okra, he praised it highly and said, ‘Amazing!’ On Sunday he said, ‘Good.’ On Monday he said nothing. On Tuesday he looked very sad. On Wednesday he was very angry. On Thursday he threw the plate, shouting, ‘You’ve ruined my life! Okra, okra, okra!’ He must be crazy. On Saturday he said it was excellent, and within a week he’s throwing the plate!”

Anyone would. Taste begins to die. Taste demands change. If you get pleasure every single day, you begin to long for a little pain. Lie on a bed of flowers long enough and you will begin to wish for thorns. Taste wants variation. If you keep only trust toward me, then sooner or later the taste of trust will die and you will want distrust. Then a circle is born: trust turns into distrust, distrust into trust. And then you fall into a cycle from which it becomes hard to escape.

Trust is the first step, not the final destination. Better than distrust is trust. Better than trust is a state where neither trust nor distrust exists. After that, there is no way to break again. If you see a hundred percent goodness, it is auspicious—because your trust will deepen. But do not take it as final. Bring a moment when both auspicious and inauspicious become futile, fade away, and recede. Only then will you know me face to face. Then there will be no arrangement by which you can fall away from me. Even if this body falls, I will remain connected. Even if you are millions of miles away, you will remain connected. Then there is no place left for separation—no distance remains between.

One thing!
A second thing is necessary to understand: as I said, even in the best of people at least one percent of badness must remain, otherwise he will not remain on the earth. If you want to keep a boat tied to this shore, it must be moored to at least one peg; otherwise it will set out for the far shore. So even in the best person there is one percent badness. His badness is very endearing—perhaps that is why you do not see it. And even in the worst person there is one percent goodness—but that goodness is very poor; perhaps that is why you do not see it. Understand this a little.

Even in the greatest realized one, to remain on this earth, one peg is needed. Without a peg his boat will sail to the other bank. The peg must be kept, otherwise he cannot stay. What is that peg? You will not even be able to see it as badness, because in one whose being is ninety-nine percent auspicious, the ninety-nine percent shines so brightly that even the one percent badness glows like gold in that light. Imagine ninety-nine precious diamonds set around a common pebble; the brilliance of the diamonds is such that the pebble too seems to shine. The nearby diamonds reflect in it; perhaps it is only a piece of glass. Conversely, if ninety-nine worthless stones are set together and a single diamond is set among them, even then you will likely miss the diamond.

That is why it happens that if a poor man wears a diamond ring, people do not think it is real. If a rich man wears a fake stone, people assume it must be worth millions. It depends on the person. You do not expect a poor man to have a diamond ring. So the rich man’s fake diamonds are praised, and the poor man’s real diamond is not even noticed; no one can believe it.

Even in the worst of men there is at least one diamond. If it were not there, he would have lost his humanity. No one is that bad. In the darkest darkness a ray of light is present. However deep the darkness, it is only the absence of light—another form of light. If you can see, you will find that ray even in the worst man. But for that a very trained eye is needed.

And so it is with the best of men. In his life too there will be one badness. But you will not recognize it. In the midst of so much sweetness, a pinch of salt gets lost; it too becomes sweetness—it does not show. To be on this earth means purity can never be absolute.

Therefore we have always recognized two states of samadhi, or two states of nirvana. Buddha attained enlightenment at forty—that we call nirvana. He left the body at eighty—that we call mahaparinirvana. That nirvana still had one percent impurity. It was gold, but not full twenty-four carat. A trace of impurity is necessary; otherwise no ornament can be fashioned. Twenty-four-carat gold is too soft; nothing can be made of it. Twenty-four-carat Buddhahood becomes so transparent that it cannot be seen. Twenty-four-carat Buddhahood becomes so invisible, so formless, that not even its shadow can appear to you. Twenty-four-carat Buddhahood means Buddha can no longer remain in the body. The body is impurity. As long as consciousness is in the body, a little impurity will remain.

What is that impurity? The Jains and the Buddhists have reflected deeply on this. The Jains have researched it profoundly, because the question confronted them: why does a Tirthankara remain in the body? They discovered “the bondage of Tirthankarahood.” They say even a Tirthankara has a bondage. Tirthankarahood itself is the last chain. They say one becomes a Tirthankara only if, in past lives, one has created the karmic bond to be a Tirthankara. That too is the last sin. To us, Tirthankara appears absolute merit. But the Tirthankara himself knows one link remains; otherwise he would vanish. What is that link?

The Jains say: that link is compassion. The Buddhists also say: that link is compassion. To us anger seems bad; what could be more auspicious than compassion? But to Buddha and Mahavira, even compassion appears bad—because it is only anger transformed. In anger we want to destroy the other; in compassion we want to see the other blossom. But the gaze is still on the other. Anger and compassion both flow toward the other—one destructive, one creative; but the energy is the same. The peg of compassion ties the Buddha. That is the one percent impurity.

If I wish a revolution to happen in your life, a transformation—that very wishing is compassion, and that is the one percent impurity. Otherwise, why should I bother about you? Pull out the peg, and the boat will sail to the other shore. Granted, the peg is of gold—but a peg is a peg, whether of gold or iron. Granted, the chain is studded with jewels—but a chain is a chain, whether rusty iron or glittering with gems—what difference does it make? That one percent impurity is compassion.

In the worst of men the one percent purity is awareness. Even the worst man knows, “I am doing wrong.” That knowing never goes. That single ray remains even in profound darkness. He may be stealing, he may be killing—but “I am doing it, and it is not right”—that awareness is the one ray in the worst of men. That very ray will rescue him. By that ray he will climb. On those rungs of awareness the journey will proceed. Awareness will grow and grow, and one day the moment of liberation will arrive.

In the best of men the one percent badness is compassion—because in the end compassion keeps him bound. When every bond has broken—no attachment, no clinging, no greed, no anger—on that day compassion keeps him bound. From the world’s side compassion is wondrous. We say there is no quality higher than compassion. But the day you can see from the side of the divine, you will find compassion is the last bondage. From this side, where we are bound by thousands of chains, compassion appears like freedom. But to the one who is standing in compassion, it is clear: this is the last bond; this too must break.

Therefore many attain knowledge, but not all become Tirthankaras; not all become Buddhas. Many attain knowledge, even liberation, but not all can be true masters. Only one who, across many births, has forged the bond of compassion can be a true master.

Hence Buddha made a rule: meditation and compassion must develop together. If meditation develops alone and compassion does not, then the day a person becomes enlightened, that very day he will disappear. Pull out the useless pegs, Buddha says, but also drive one golden peg. Because when all pegs break, if your boat leaves at once for the far shore, those on this side will gain nothing from you. Pause a little. Having become free, tarry a little on this bank, so that those on the path, those who are wandering, those who cannot see, may drink a little of your light. Just a little while!

And when the boat is ready and the sails are hoisted and the other shore has sent its invitation, then it is very hard to stay. At that moment no one wants to look back. For so long the boat was awaited; across births the journey was made for this, and now it has touched the bank. All is ready—just sit, and it will push off. Who would linger on the shore then?

So Buddha says: along with meditation, nourish compassion too. So that when the boat comes before you, you do not step in at once—let it stand a little. There is no hurry. Let others partake of your essence a little. Let your radiance enter their darkness a little. Let the gift of your life-energy be shared a little. Only a little while—long is not possible—but hold a little restraint. Buddha says, hold a little restraint; do not board the boat immediately. It is the quest of many births; your whole being will say, “Sit; the goal has come. Why remain outside?” Look back—many are coming; perhaps, because of you, they might receive a little light. Perhaps a glimpse of the Beyond might come to them through your window. Perhaps, through you, they might taste a drop of the ineffable. Do not deprive them of that.

This is all compassion means. But it is still a badness—bad in the sense that for your ultimate freedom it is the final obstacle. It is beneficial for others, but for your supreme liberation it is the last chain. Compassion will appear auspicious, but it is not. It too must be dropped. Anger must be dropped—and one day compassion too. Only then can you become the absolute void. Today you are filled with anger; tomorrow you will be filled with compassion. A great difference, yes—but still you are filled; you are not empty. Until yesterday you would brood over harming others and lose sleep; now you will brood over helping others and lose sleep. In the ultimate sense, that too is a disturbance.

That is why the Jains say: Tirthankarahood too is bondage, the fruit of a karma; it must also be lived out.

Such subtle analysis has been done on this small patch of earth that the rest of the world’s religions seem childish. You may never have thought that even Tirthankarahood is a fruit of karma—and one must be free of it too. It is a badness. You will not see it, but keep it in mind—and go beyond both auspicious and inauspicious.

And if you can use my presence to the extent that, at least regarding me, you leave both auspicious and inauspicious aside—if at least one person in your life is neither good nor bad—then a great happening has occurred. All other kinds of people will come into your life anyway: the good and the bad. You have enough experience of the virtuous and the vicious. A saint is neither. Let this taste also enter your life: that you are connected to one who is neither good nor bad; whose being is as good as non-being; whose presence is a kind of absence; within whose form something formless has taken place; from whose life a hint and a ray of that which is beyond life reaches you.

Rightly so. This is exactly what I was saying: let meditation and compassion grow together. If meditation is completed and you attain, but in the meantime you have not laid the foundation of compassion, you will be lost. The day your boat is ready, you will simply leave. So do not wait, thinking, “When I am complete, then I will speak.” Because then you will not be able to speak at all. While you are not yet complete, begin to sow the seeds of compassion.

This continuous urge rising in you to tell others—this is the feeling of compassion. Because there is nothing to take from others, only to give. You want others to receive what is coming to you—this is a tender, love-soaked state. Do not take it as something wrong.

Remember: only if you keep practicing speaking now, will you be able to utter a few words even in the final hour when the last link remains. Otherwise you will not be able to speak. Many wise ones are lost in the void in just this way; the world gains nothing from their great experience. They never prepared. One who is immersed only in meditation will one day be fulfilled; the matter is complete for him, but those wandering in darkness receive nothing. Therefore cultivate compassion alongside.

Your second point is also true: the mind will feel, “I am not yet complete—how can I speak!”

While you are incomplete, practice speaking. After completion there is no chance to practice; one is lost, drowned in deep silence, and no words arise. Prepare the golden peg before all the pegs break, so there is still a moment to moor the boat. Otherwise you won’t even know when you boarded, when the journey began, when you reached the other shore. And once the boat departs, what you have found will be supreme bliss for you, but you will not be able to share it.

Share! You are incomplete, not yet finished—still, keep sharing, so that the habit of sharing remains. And when you are complete, the act of sharing will continue for a little while longer. Even a little while is enough! There are many thirsty ones. If even a single drop falls into their throat, it is supremely auspicious, a great benediction.

This feeling arises within: “I am not yet complete—how can I speak!”
Keep this feeling in mind. Otherwise there is danger. Do not forget that you have to be complete. Let compassion not become a great snare. Do not let it happen that you forget you have not yet attained and get absorbed only in explaining to others. Then even what you had will be lost. One day you will find that wisdom has not dawned; you have become only a scholar.

So the path is very fine, very delicate. Walk with great care. Sow compassion, so that in the final moment you do not simply merge without giving anything. This world has given you much. It is necessary to give something back to it. You have lived long in this world, lived long in this house. As a last grace, leave something behind. Do not slip away quietly, secretly. Where you stayed so long, where you left many imprints of misdeeds and also of good deeds, leave the imprint of that act which is neither auspicious nor inauspicious, which is transcendental, ultimate. Leave a glimpse of that too. Therefore it is essential to cultivate compassion. And tell people—speak.

Jesus said to his disciples: stand upon the rooftops and shout, because people are deaf. Only if you shout very loudly will some news perhaps reach them in their sleep.

Speak! But keep awareness that speaking is not everything. Otherwise your wisdom will be lost and you will become absorbed only in speaking; then you will become a pundit, a preacher, but not a knower. Therefore the path is fine and delicate. Keep watch that your wisdom grows, and keep watch that your compassion is simultaneously implanted. Let meditation and compassion grow together; let a balance be maintained between them.

This will be possible only if you begin now. If you delay even a little… because everything has its season. There is a time when seeds can be sown. After that time passes, seeds can no longer be sown. If you go very deep into meditation, you will no longer be able to sow the seeds of compassion. For meditation means to dive into oneself, and compassion means to retain a little flavor of the other. The ultimate meaning of meditation is that the other does not remain at all; only you remain—no one else, everything is lost; only your being is left. So if meditation becomes very profound, there is no question of compassion, because no other remains. Even the last line of thought disappears. Before the other is completely lost, keep some bridges with the other.

Let those bridges not be of maya—of delusion. For if they are of illusion, of attachment, of anger, of friendship, of enmity, then you will not be able to go within. Only one bond—compassion—will not hinder your inward journey. That is why it is called the last bond, the golden bond. Compassion is the only bridge that will keep you related to the other and will not become a cause for breaking you from yourself.

Therefore the glory of compassion is immense. It carries a quality of anger only insofar as it implies a relationship with the other; and it carries a quality of non-anger insofar as it is related to the wish that the other be blessed, be well. Compassion stands between anger and non-anger. In compassion there is a feeling somewhat like attachment, because one wishes the other’s good. But compassion is not attachment, because there is no insistence that the other must benefit. “May it happen”—there is such a feeling; “it must happen”—there is no insistence. If it happens, good; if it does not, there will be no anguish. There is a certain detachment, and there is a certain savor. Compassion is between the two.

If meditation grows deeper, you will become indifferent; then it will be difficult for compassion to arise. So awaken compassion along with meditation, so that in the final hour your experience is not yours alone; so that the celebration of your joy in the last moment is not yours alone, and others can also partake in it, others can share in it.

Therefore begin. And I, too, say to you: climb onto the rooftops of the houses and shout—because people are deaf. Only if you shout very loudly will they perhaps hear. Their sleep will have to be shaken. They will also be annoyed, for to break anyone’s sleep naturally brings annoyance. So do not be disheartened by their annoyance, their disdain, their neglect. Keep on speaking.

If you speak to a thousand, perhaps ten will hear. Of ten who hear, perhaps one will walk. Therefore scatter the seeds as far and wide as you can. If you scatter a thousand seeds, perhaps one will reach fruit.

And do not think that when you are complete you will be able to do this. Then you will not be able to. Also remember at every moment that when you are speaking to another, do not get so lost in the speaking that your meditation, your inner presence, your self-remembering is lost. Help the other without losing yourself.

If it seems that in helping another you must necessarily lose yourself, then drop concern for the other. Because the final, important, ultimate choice is that your life become luminous. If, along the way, some light also falls on someone else, good—but do not make that the goal.

The obstacle lies in the desire for transformation. What need is there to change? If there is hatred, there is. Why give it so much attention? What is the need to fight it? Granted, the rosebush has thorns—but why focus so much on the thorns? Attend to the flower. And even the thorns protect the flower; they are no enemies. Let the flower of the auspicious blossom; do not worry overly about the inauspicious thorns. They are there—be at ease with that.

Then transformation will come. By wanting transformation, transformation never comes. Drop the very desire to change. That complaining is not auspicious; it does not become you. Keep a mood of prayer, not of change. Wanting transformation is still only the urge to decorate oneself—that there be no hatred, no anger, no aversion; that character be shining, luminous; that there be compassion, nonviolence, dispassion. Why this craving for ornaments? This too is decoration, an urge to embellish. This very wanting is the hindrance. The desire for change itself obstructs change. Do not want.

You will find no one else to tell you this. Wherever you go they will teach you: change! Drop anger—it is bad. Drop lust—it is bad. Everywhere you will be urged to change—and you will not be able to. I do not urge you to change, because I know that is the only way change happens. Simply consent; be at ease.

What will you do with dispassion? If attachment is there, let attachment be there. As He wills. Deepen the feeling that the Divine knows better than you. And be content with whatever He gives. If He makes you a thief, then a thief; if He makes you dishonest, then dishonest—His will. Do not take it to be more than a play.

A man plays Ravana in a drama. Does he cry and shout, “Make me Rama!”? Does he fold his hands and plead, “I will play Rama; I cannot be Ravana”? No—he has no such worry. Because the question is not about being Ravana or Rama; the question is the skill of acting. Ravana can be a better actor than Rama. That is where the competition is. What has one to do with Rama or Ravana? Both are characters in a play, both parts of the plot. The bad is part of the story, and the good is part of the story.

Whatever role you have been given to fulfill, fulfill it in totality. From there your blessedness begins. Do not insist on changing the story. Do not say, “Make me this, make me that. I wanted to be Rama, but you made me Ravana!” Think a little: if everyone wanted to be Rama—the Ram Lila would end. The Ram Lila goes on, can go on, only because someone is also willing to play Ravana.

Take this world to be a great theater, this earth a vast stage. Do not take life to be more than acting. Whatever He has given you, fulfill it. Fulfill it with your whole heart. And you will find—transformation has happened. I tell you: if even Ravana completes his role, his acting, totally, he becomes Rama. Because when anything is done in totality, the Divine enters into it. He is the Perfect. Whenever we do any portion of life with total heart, we are joined to Him. And if even Rama acts halfheartedly—if he gets no juice from it, or if he harbors wishes like, “Why must I be sent into exile for fourteen years? Why should my Sita be abducted?”—then Rama too will remain like Ravana.

So understand me rightly: if Ravana too completes the deed without bringing himself in the way, he becomes Rama. If Rama quibbles in his deed, complains, says, “Change the story here a little,” then Rama misses being Rama. The form given to Rama, the role allotted—there is no value in that by itself. Everything depends on how you enact that role—how totally, how wholly you live it. That is the quality that should come.

So I will say to you: consent. What need is there for change? As you are, you are so good, so beautiful—your glory is such; what more is needed? Whatever you have been given, fulfill it. If you are a shopkeeper, then a shopkeeper—do not hanker to be a sannyasin. You will become a sannyasin at the shop itself. If you are a servant, then a servant—do not hanker to be the master. If you express the servant’s spirit totally, you will become the master. Chains may lie upon your hands, slavery may be your role, but if you perform it with your whole being and can thank the Divine without any complaint, your freedom is unobstructed. No chain can hold you; your sovereignty is boundless.

So I do not tell you to change the script, to alter the plot. I tell you: accept. Acceptance is my key. And Lao Tzu’s whole vision of life is acceptance.

And you want to know how my vision of life can become yours.
This is the way. I have accepted everything. As I am, I have accepted myself. Then no lack remained. Then everything became filled to the brim. No emptiness remained—everything became fullness. I have not changed even a bit in myself. Understand this secret well: I have never changed even an inch. As I was, I remained content with that. From that very contentment, everything happened.

If you want a vision of life like mine, you will have to consent. The one who consents, I call a theist. The one who is non-consenting, I call an atheist. The question of believing or not believing in God is not the issue of theism and atheism. A theist is one who can say yes to the whole of life; an atheist is one who says—no. In no is atheism; in yes is theism.

The last question:

It is said that Lao Tzu’s disciple Chuang Tzu was sitting by a river, fishing. News of his wisdom had spread far and wide. The emperor sent his ministers with orders to find Chuang Tzu—wherever he might be—and bring him to court; he wanted to make him prime minister.

Surely the emperor had been reading Lao Tzu’s words, and the idea that a saint should govern must have appealed to him. Why else seek out Chuang Tzu? Lao Tzu had already departed this world; Chuang Tzu was alive—and of the very same stature. Not an inch of difference. Chuang Tzu means Lao Tzu: the same inner state.

The ministers searched and searched. First, it was hard enough to discover where Chuang Tzu was, because he was a wandering fakir—today in one village, tomorrow in another. Lao Tzu had told him: don’t stay too long in one place; once people get to know you, fame spreads. When people begin to take you as someone special, leave before that. Live where no one knows you; only there can you remain ordinary. So he kept moving, village to village. With great difficulty the ministers tracked him down—and they had never imagined they would find a man like Chuang Tzu fishing.

Lao Tzu’s disciples are very unusual, extraordinary in a unique way—because they have learned a most wondrous art: the art of being ordinary. They do nothing different from an ordinary person. If an ordinary man fishes, Chuang Tzu too fishes. He does not set himself apart as special. This is a profound point. He never declares, “This is bad, that is good.” He lives just as ordinary people live. Ordinariness itself is his discipline.

The ministers arrived and said, “We bring the emperor’s invitation—rejoice! It is your good fortune: the emperor is ready to make you prime minister. Come to the capital!”

Chuang Tzu sat just as he was, the fishing rod in his hand. He said—I’ve heard—his face unchanged, his fishing undisturbed—“I have heard there is a turtle in the royal palace, three thousand years old. It is worshiped, and on special festivals it is brought out in golden carriages. The emperor himself bows at its feet. It is kept in a golden casket, studded with diamonds and jewels. But tell me this: here by the river there is a turtle wagging its tail in a muddy puddle. If you were to ask that turtle whether it would prefer to be the turtle in the palace, shut in a golden chest, or to wag its tail in the mud, what would it say?”

The ministers said, “Clearly, the turtle would say it prefers to wag its tail in the mud—because it is alive.”

Chuang Tzu said, “Carry this message to the emperor: I too prefer to wag my tail in the mud. At least I am alive.”

That is the story. So the question naturally arises: Lao Tzu says that the ruler should be a saint, and the emperor himself offered Chuang Tzu the opportunity. In obedience to his master’s words, should he not have accepted and shown what a saint’s rule looks like? It seems Chuang Tzu disobeyed his master by refusing; the emperor appears more in tune with Lao Tzu than Chuang Tzu.

No. Chuang Tzu is perfectly in tune. Many things must be understood.

1) The emperor wanted to make him prime minister, not ruler. If the emperor had truly understood Lao Tzu, he would have said, “You become the emperor; I will be your servant.” Chuang Tzu would still have remained a servant; he was not going to be the ruler. A prime minister is an employee—appointed today, dismissed tomorrow. He would not have been the ruler; he would have remained a slave. The emperor would have run him; he would have had to do as the emperor commanded. And no wise man can agree to live by the orders of an ignorant man; the very idea is absurd. Had the invitation been to become emperor, the story would be different. It was not an invitation to be sovereign. The emperor must have read Lao Tzu, but he did not understand him. To summon a sage to be prime minister was a mistake from the outset.

2) Lao Tzu says: the true sage is one who has no desire to be a ruler.

Now let us go deeper, because here the apparent contradiction resolves. The sage is one who has no wish to dominate, no craving to be over others. If Lao Tzu’s statement is right, then Chuang Tzu did right by refusing. By that refusal he declared he had no desire to rule. And he takes rulers to be the dead—corpses—even if seated upon thrones. Better, to him, is a turtle wagging its tail in the mud, joyous in its own nature. Chuang Tzu gave news that he had attained to sainthood: no ambition remains. Another man would have thrown down the fishing rod and leapt up, “Hurry—where do we go?”

If the emperor had truly understood Lao Tzu, he would not have let him go so easily. Chuang Tzu had only revealed his inner state; the emperor should have rushed to him and fallen at his feet. Then the story would be different. But we hear nothing further; the emperor’s men never returned. To invite a man like Chuang Tzu, you should not send messengers. That is the emperor’s arrogance. To bring a supreme spirit like Chuang Tzu, the emperor himself should have come—and on hearing this, he certainly should have come.

Now understand the point. Had Chuang Tzu agreed, he would not have been a sage. That the emperor was satisfied with the refusal shows he had not understood Lao Tzu at all. Then the story would have been entirely different. And these are not the ways to invite a sage, because “sage” means absolute freedom. That is what Chuang Tzu is saying with the turtle: even in absolute freedom, the turtle is fine—at least it lives in its nature. You want to make me a minister, perhaps a grand minister, but I would still become a slave. You would start running me; you would tell me what is proper and what is not. Your rules and protocols would begin to govern me. The only rightful use of my life-energy would be that my living consciousness guides you.

That was not going to happen. So the emperor did not bother again. He took the refusal, and the matter ended. From the refusal he should have understood this man is truly precious; had he accepted, he would have been worthless. Had Chuang Tzu gone, even in the name of obeying Lao Tzu’s words, he would have been a waste. Let me tell you a story to help you understand.

A Zen master was dying. He called one disciple close. He had thousands of disciples, but to this one he said, “Look, I am dying. On his deathbed my master gave me this scripture, which I have guarded all my life. You know it has always lain by my pillow. I treasured it as the wealth of my very life. In it are recorded the experiences of our ancient masters, and I have added my own. Guard it carefully. It is a precious inheritance; do not let it be lost.”

The disciple said, “Don’t speak nonsense. What I had to attain, I attained without any scripture. Keep this trash to yourself.” He said this!

The master said, “This is discourtesy. When your master is dying and gives you a command, such words do not befit you. Guard the scripture. I am dying—who will keep it if not you?”

The disciple took the scripture; there was a fire nearby—it was a cold night—and he threw it into the flames.

The master was delighted. He said, “Had you kept it safe, I would have known all was lost; my labor had gone in vain. Now I will tell you: there was nothing in that scripture; it was a blank book. My master deceived me; his master deceived him; and I was trying to deceive you. There was nothing written—because there is only one experience: the ultimate emptiness. The day you become a blank book, that day you become the scripture. And today you did well to throw it into the fire. Had you missed even a little and kept it safe, I would have died in great sorrow. Now I leave my scripture with you. You have safeguarded what was to be safeguarded, and thrown away what was to be thrown away.”

Surely Lao Tzu must have been pleased—his soul rejoiced—when Chuang Tzu said, “Go—run along. Like that turtle I am blissful in my own nature, in my ordinariness. Your palaces house the dead; the living do not dwell there. Find some dead man. What need have you of me there?”

No, Chuang Tzu is not going against Lao Tzu; he is following him exactly. Had he gone, Lao Tzu’s soul would have wept.

The governance of a saint is not governance like ordinary rule. It is not imposed from above. If a king seats a saint as his minister, that does not establish the saint’s rule. The rule remains the king’s; he will even use the saint’s radiance to buttress his politics.

A saint’s governance arises from the hearts of the governed; it cannot be imposed. Those who are to be governed by a saint themselves journey from far and near to come to him. That rule is of the inner heart; it ripens out of surrender. You yourself come and say, “Now give me governance.” You yourself surrender. Then Chuang Tzu does not refuse; then he accepts you.

The day you bow before him, that very day his presence enters into your transformation. It is no doing on the saint’s part—as if he performs some act to change you. His being is enough. Just bow; the Ganges is already flowing. Bend a little, and quench your thirst.

Enough for today.