Geeta Darshan #1

Truth is neither new nor old. Whatever is new turns old; whatever is old was once new. That which becomes old from the new moves from birth toward death. Truth has neither birth nor death; hence truth can be neither new nor old. Truth is Sanatan.
Sanatan means: truth is outside time, beyond time. In fact, whatever is within time will be both new and old; within time there will be birth and death, youth and old age, health and illness. Whatsoever is within time is subject to change; only that which stands outside time can remain unchanged.
In this aphorism Krishna has said very much with very few words. One, he says: What I tell you, Arjuna, this same I had told the Sun as well, at the beginning of time, in the beginning. Two or three points must be understood here.
What can “the beginning of time” mean? The truth is, wherever there is beginning, time is already present. All beginnings happen within time; outside time no beginning is possible, for all endings too are within time. When Krishna says “at the beginning of time,” he is pointing to that which is outside time. If any beginning happens within time, it cannot declare the eternal truth.
“When time was not, then too I said this to the Sun.” We must also understand what this metaphor means—this symbol of speaking to the Sun.
All who have descended into the depths of the spiritual know one certain thing: in the ultimate depth of spirit only light remains, and all else is lost. When one becomes a zero in spirit, when the ego dissolves, only light remains—and everything else fades. Whoever descends to the profound depth of spirit arrives there where, before time, all was. Deep experiences—the first and the last—are the same.
When Krishna says, “This I said to the Sun,” he is saying, “This I said to the first happening of light.”
The first event at the beginning of the cosmos is light, and the final event at the end of the cosmos is also light. The beginning of one’s spiritual birth is light, and the consummation of one’s spiritual journey is light.
The Quran says: the Divine is of the nature of Light. The Bible says: God is Light. Here Krishna calls that Light “the Sun.” To the Sun it was said first, because first there was light; and whatsoever has been born since, has been born out of light. Then it was told to the son of light, and then to the son of that son.
Here too we must note: Krishna says “I.” Surely this “I” cannot refer to the body of Krishna standing before Arjuna. That body was born some years ago and will depart some years hence. The “I” of which Krishna speaks must be a different “I.”
Jesus, in one of his sayings, was asked, “What do you think of Abraham?”—an ancient prophet of the Jews. Jesus replied, “Before Abraham was, I was.” Before Abraham! Abraham lived thousands of years before.
Krishna is speaking of the Sun—the first event of the world—then of Manu, of Ikshvaku. They lived thousands of years ago. Krishna has only just appeared; he is standing before Arjuna. The Krishna who is speaking is some other Krishna.
There comes a moment in life when a person drops the ego; then it is the Divine that starts speaking from within. As soon as the voice of the “I” falls silent, the voice of the Divine begins. As soon as the “I” dissolves, only the Divine remains.
So when Krishna says, “This I told the Sun,” he is not speaking as a person; he speaks as the Totality. And within Krishna’s personality this must be understood well: in many moments he speaks as Arjuna’s friend—an event within time. And in many moments he speaks as the Divine—an occurrence beyond time.
Krishna lives simultaneously upon two planes, two dimensions. Therefore many of his statements belong within time, and many stand outside time. Wherever his statements are beyond time, Krishna speaks directly as the Divine; wherever they are within time, he speaks as Arjuna’s charioteer. Thus, when he says, “O mighty-armed,” he speaks as Arjuna’s friend. But when he says, “Sarva dharmān parityajya mām ekaṃ śaraṇaṃ vraja—abandon all, come to my refuge,” he is no longer speaking as the charioteer.
Hence not only the Gita, but the Bible, the Quran, the words of Buddha and Mahavira too, all speak upon two levels. And it must be discerned delicately when, in the midst, the Divine begins to speak; otherwise understanding becomes difficult.
When Krishna says, “Abandon everything and come to my refuge,” this “my refuge” has nothing to do with Krishna the person. It is the refuge of the Divine.
In this aphorism, where Krishna says: “This same word I spoke to the Sun—‘I’—” that “I” is the Supreme Energy, the Supreme Power of life. And “this same word”—this too needs to be understood.
Truth cannot be many. Speakers change, hearers change; the language of speaking changes; the forms, the shapes of speaking change—but truth does not change. In many words, through many mouths, addressed to many ears, the same has been said.
What the Upanishads say is not different from what Buddha says; yet it appears utterly different. The speaker changed, the hearer changed, the language of the age changed.
What Mahavira says is what the Vedas say; yet language changed, the speaker changed, the hearers changed. Many times the change in words and language becomes so great that truths manifested in two different ages appear contrary—even opposed.
No greater calamity has happened in human history than this. Islam, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism—these appear opposed, rivals, enemies. It seems their truths are different; their ages are different; their speakers are different; their hearers are different; their languages are different—but truth is not in the least different. The truly religious person is one who recognizes the unity of the truth spoken in such opposite words. If you see opposition, you are not religious.
So Krishna is saying something very significant here: this very truth, exactly this, has been said before as well. One more point to remember.
Krishna makes no claim of being original in the modern sense. He does not say, “I am the first to say this.” He does not say, “I alone have discovered something.” He does not say, “Arjuna, you are fortunate, for you are the first to hear truth.” Neither the speaker is original, nor the hearer; nor is the utterance original—in the sense of new. This does not mean it is old.
In English “original,” and in Hindi “maulik,” do not actually mean “new.” Properly understood, original means “of the origin,” from the source. Maulik means “of the root-source.” It does not mean “new.”
If we understand “maulik” thus, Krishna is saying something truly original. He says: at the very root of time I said this to the Sun; the Sun said it to his son; his son to his son—this word is original. Original means connected to the source; not new. Concerned with the Origin—that from which all arises—it is related to the root-source.
But in our age “original” has taken another meaning: someone saying something new. In that new sense Krishna’s word is not new; in the sense of the source it is original. From that source from which all existence arises, from there this word too is born.
The insistence on originality in the new sense is the insistence of ego. Whenever someone says, “I am the first to say this,” he speaks out of madness.
There is a reason why such madness arises. This spring will come; flowers will bloom. Those flowers know nothing of springs that have always come. They have no acquaintance with older flowers; they will not meet them. If they bloom and declare, “We are the first ever to blossom,” it is not surprising; it is natural. But everything natural is not true. There are natural errors. This is a natural error.
When a youth falls in love for the first time, or a young woman falls in love, it seems as if such love has never happened on the earth. Lovers tell their beloveds that the moon and the stars have never seen such love. They are not lying; they are not deceiving. It is a natural error. They have no idea that the same words have been said trillions of times by numberless people to numberless others.
Every lover feels his love is original. He feels such an event has never happened before, nor will it happen again. That feeling is authentic. It truly appears so; there is no deception in the feeling. And yet it is wrong.
When the experience of truth happens, it feels the same: perhaps no one has ever known this truth. It seems what has appeared, has appeared only to me. It is a natural error.
Krishna is not caught in this natural error.
Remember: to rise above mistakes we make knowingly is easy; to rise above the ones that happen unknowingly is difficult. A deliberate error is not deep; the doer knows. Errors that arise spontaneously are deep.
Ask Plato and he will say, “What I say, only I am saying.” Ask Kant; he will say the same. Ask Hegel; he will say the same. Ask Krishnamurti; he too will say, “What I say, I alone am saying.” This is a very natural error.
Krishna says: This same word—not new, not old—has been said, infinite times, in infinite ways, in infinite forms.
Such non-assertiveness about truth is extremely difficult. To be so free of claim is to renounce claim itself.
Remember: We care less for truth, more for “my truth.” The twenty-four-hour wranglings on this earth are not founded upon truth but upon “my truth.” If I argue with you, it is not to find what truth is, but to insist that my truth is the truth and yours is not.
All disputes are between “I” and “you.” Truth has no quarrel. Where there is quarrel, deep down it is “I” and “you.” Then it matters little what truth is; what matters is that what is mine is truth. In fact, none of us wants to stand behind truth, for whoever stands behind truth will be erased. We all want truth to stand behind us.
But know this well: when truth stands behind us, it becomes false. Truth cannot stand behind us; only falsity can. We must stand behind truth. Truth cannot be our shadow; we must become truth’s shadow. Listen closely to any dispute and you will hear the insistence: “What I say is truth,” not “What is truth is what I say.”
Krishna’s emphasis is worth seeing: he says, “What is truth, that I am saying to you.” He does not insist: “What I say is truth.” Therefore he adds: this same word has been said before me as well.
In the new age there has been a shift: the modern mind is insistent. Mahavira does not say, “What I say, I alone am saying.” He says, “Before me, Parshvanath said the same; before me, Rishabhadeva said the same; before me, Neminath said the same.” Buddha does not say, “I alone am speaking this.” He says, “All Buddhas before me who knew and saw, said the same.”
A misunderstanding is possible: that they are treading the old rut. No—they are not calling truth “old.” For remember, only that which can be old can also be claimed as new. The very claim of newness belongs only to what can become old. They are saying: truth is neither old nor new; truth is truth. We become new and old—that is another matter—but nothing in truth changes thereby.
The sun has risen; this is light. We are new. We were not, still the sun was; we shall not be, still the sun will be. The sun is neither new nor old. We become new and old. We come and go.
Our vision, however, is always that we do not go, and all things keep becoming new and old. We say, “Time passes every day.” The reality is reversed: time does not pass; only we pass. We come and go; we are and then are not. Time remains where it is. Time does not pass; yet it seems to us that time passes. Hence we made clocks that tell us time is passing. Blessed will be the day when we make watches to wear on our wrists that tell us: we are passing.
Truly, we pass; time does not. Time is in its place; it was when we were not, it will be when we are not. We cannot outlast time; time will outlast us; time will empty us. Time stands; we run. We run, we tire, we fall, we are finished; truth remains where it is.
The day Krishna says, “I told it to the Sun,” truth is where it was. The day the Sun told it to his son Manu, truth is where it was. The day Manu told it to Ikshvaku, truth is where it was. And when Krishna speaks to Arjuna, even then truth is where it is. If I speak to you now, truth is where it is. Tomorrow we will not be; someone else will say it—and truth will be where it is. We will come and go, change and end, be new and depart—truth remains truth in its own place. If you can keep these points in view in this aphorism, what follows will be easy to grasp.
If there is any question, ask!
एवं परम्पराप्राप्तमिमं राजर्षयो विदुः।
स कालेनेह महता योगो नष्टः परंतप।। 2।।
In this way, received through the lineage, this Yoga was known by the royal seers. But, O Arjuna, over a great span of time this Yoga has become almost lost on earth.
“Through the lineage the seers knew it”—and then, “it has become almost lost.” Two things. First, let me tell you: parampra does not mean “tradition.” Commonly we translate parampra as tradition. Tradition means custom, convention, the established. Parampra means something else. In English there is no exact word for parampra. We must understand it a little.
The Ganga issues from Gangotri, flows on, and then falls into the ocean. Between its source and its mouth a long journey is covered. Is the Ganga that reaches the ocean the same as the one that sprang from Gangotri? Not exactly the same, for countless streams and springs have joined it on the way. Yet it is not altogether different; it still is the Ganga that arose at Gangotri.
Parampra means exactly this: this is the Ganga in continuity. It is the same that issued from the source, yet much has entered and joined it in the current of time.
Imagine you lit a lamp at dusk. In the morning you say, “Put out the lamp—the lamp we lit at dusk.” But where now is the very flame you lit? Every moment that flame was dying into smoke and a new flame was taking its place. The flame you lit leapt and vanished into the void, and a fresh flame kept appearing. The flame you extinguish in the morning is not that very flame; it has been extinguished many times over. And yet it is not another flame unconnected with your lighting either. By parampra it is the same flame—of the same lineage, the same succession.
You are here today; yesterday you were not, but your father was. The day before that your grandfather was. Tomorrow you will not be; your son will be. The day after that, his son will be. As with the flame rising and dying, so persons rise and pass away, yet there is a continuity.
Mother and father pass a flame to the child. The flame burns on—in new progeny. If you look rightly, you could not be here if even one person in the line of your forefathers, thousands of years back, had not been. Had there been no Gangotri there, you would not be here now. You are of that same stream, in the bodily sense.
And in the sense of the soul there is a lineage as well. This soul was yesterday, the day before—within some other body, and then another. Through billions of years the soul too has a continuity, a parampra; the body has a continuity, and so has the soul. Parampra means a stream of succession—the continuum.
Scientists use a word: continuum. Brought close, parampra would mean continuum—the flow of succession, the unbroken line.
Krishna says: through parampra this same truth was told by the Rishis to one another.
Here notice a second point: the emphasis is on telling, not on hearing. Krishna says, “By parampra the Rishis said.” He does not say: “By parampra the Rishis heard.” If it was said it was surely also heard; yet the emphasis is on the saying. The one who says must necessarily be a Rishi; the one who hears need not be. The one who hears need not understand. But if the one who speaks has not known, his speaking is futile—indeed not speaking at all.
Note also: Krishna says the Rishis by parampra said this truth; not that they obtained it by parampra. It is not that someone said to them and thus they got it. They knew. Knowing is one thing; merely hearing is another.
Hence we call the ancient scriptures shruti—heard—and smriti—remembered. Remember: the scriptures were not written by the knowers but by the hearers.
No truly significant scripture on earth was written first-hand; it was heard, then written down. The Gita was heard and written. The one who wrote need not have known. The Bible was written, the Quran was written, the Vedas were written, the words of Mahavira and Buddha were written down. Mahavira and Buddha did not write; they spoke. For the scribes it was not knowledge; it was shruti. They heard, they memorized, they wrote, preserved, stored. In one sense scripture is a dead product—the collected remains of the dead. Those who spoke, knew by parampra.
To know by parampra can mean two things. One meaning is the usual one, with which I do not agree: that if we read the scriptures and learn, then what we have known we have known by parampra. No. That is not parampra; that is only convention, custom, arrangement. Such knowing cannot become knowledge; it remains information.
No one can know truth by reading scriptures. Yes—if one has known truth, one can recognize it in the scriptures. Were truth knowable through reading, truth would become very cheap; it would be worth no more than the price of the book. Truth cannot be known by scripture; it can only be recognized there.
But only one who has known can recognize; otherwise even recognition is difficult. If you know me, you can recognize me; if you do not, you cannot. Thus in scriptures truth is recognized, not cognized. It is not known there for the first time; it is re-known. The path of knowing is something else.
Therefore the parampra of which Krishna speaks is not the parampra of books but the parampra of knowers. The Divine spoke to the Sun—note, the Divine spoke to the Sun. There is no book in between, no scripture in between. It is direct communication. Truth is always direct communication, a direct communion from the Divine to the individual. Scripture and word do not stand in the middle.
Muhammad is on the mountain—unlettered. Few have been as unlettered as Muhammad. Suddenly revelation dawned—direct communication. Islam calls it ilham; Christianity calls it revelation. Truth was seen. Therefore we call the Rishis dṛṣṭā—seers. Truth is seen; it is not read, not merely heard—seen.
In the West too they call the ancient ones “seers.” They see. Hence we have called the whole quest darshan—seeing. That truth be seen directly, heard directly, received directly from the Divine.
But even meeting the Divine has a parampra. It is not as if you are the first. The Divine has met many before. There is a lineage of those who have met. There are two lineages: one of writers—the authors; and one of knowers—the Rishis.
So Krishna says: by parampra the Rishis knew. And this awareness of parampra carries within it the feeling that before me too the truth has been encountered by others, in just this way.
You open your eyes and know the sun. As far as you are concerned, you know for the first time. But whenever eyes have opened upon this earth, the sun has been known. There is a parampra of knowing the sun like this. You are not the first.
And remember: whoever falls into the delusion, “I am the first to know truth,” will necessarily fall into a second delusion: “I am the last.” Delusions live in pairs. The cause of the first is the cause of the second—ego. And if the ego has not yet dissolved, there can be no direct relation with truth; ego is the barrier in between.
Therefore Krishna emphasizes: the Rishis knew by parampra. But remember, not in this sense—that one borrowed from another. Rather, that whenever someone has known, he has also known: “I am not the first, nor the last. Infinite ones have known before, infinite will know after. I am but a tiny link in an infinite chain of knowers—a small drop.” When a drop becomes so humble, there remains no hindrance to its becoming the ocean.
So understand parampra rightly. Otherwise our meaning of parampra becomes utterly false and dangerous. It is not that if I hand truth to you, you will have it, and you hand it to another and he will have it. Parampra means only this: I am not the first or the last; I am a tiny link in the endless chain of knowers. The sun has always shone; whoever opened his eyes knew. Such humility is the essential mark of the knower of truth.
The second thing Krishna says: that truth has become lūptaprāya—almost lost.
How does truth become almost lost? Two points here. Krishna does not say “lost,” but “almost lost.” If truth were utterly lost, its rediscovery would be impossible. There would be no path back.
A physician may say “moribund”—near death. If dead, there is no remedy. Lūptaprāya means: nearing disappearance, but not gone.
Truth is always lūptaprāya. For if it were wholly lost, it would lie beyond the limited capacity of man to find it again. One ray remains, always. Even if the whole sun is not visible, one ray peeps somewhere into the dark house of our mind—through some tiny crack in the tiles. That much connection with the sun remains. That is the possibility by which we can find the sun again—by following that ray.
Truth becomes lūptaprāya, never lūpta—never fully lost. Meaning: in every age, every moment, in every person’s life there remains that edge, that ray by which the sun can be sought. That is our hope. If even that were to vanish, man would have no means left.
Why does truth become lūptaprāya? As a river is lost in a desert—not lost utterly, but almost—so too the known truth of the seers gets buried under the sands of the “heard truth,” the said truth. The living truth of the seer gets lost beneath the desert of scriptures and words. Scriptures keep accumulating; heaps arise; and that little ray of knowing is smothered. We begin to memorize the scriptures and then to think that memorizing them will give us truth. The direct search for truth stops. We live by borrowed truths; only ashes remain in our hands.
Yet even in the desert of scriptures truth is only lūptaprāya, not gone. If someone can dig beneath the words of the scriptures, he can find it there too; but recognition is difficult. Difficult because we are unfamiliar with truth and will not find it in the desert of words. Most likely we will not find truth; instead we will be lost. So it has happened.
The Hindu gets lost in Hindu scriptures; the Muslim in Muslim scriptures; the Jain in Jain scriptures. And no one asks: when Mahavira became enlightened, how many books did he have? None. Mahavira’s hands were utterly empty. When Muhammad received revelation, which book was with him? None. When Jesus knew, at which university did he study to attain it?
The event of knowing has always happened in utter silence and emptiness. And we set out to know by the path of words—a reversed journey. Only one benefit can come of it: that searching and searching one becomes so tired, so bored, that one closes the book. That much benefit is possible—that we are so harassed by words that we fold our hands to them; that reading and reading we realize nothing will come of reading.
Understand the process by which truth becomes lūptaprāya; it is always useful. There is a mechanism to the obscuring of truth. How? Mahavira knew. Naturally, whoever has known will speak to those who have not known; for if the other already knew, speaking would be pointless.
Thus it once happened that Mahavira and Buddha stayed in the same town—and did not meet. Not just the same town—the same rest house, in two wings. One corner Buddha, the other Mahavira—yet they did not meet. People think they must have been egoistic; they should have met.
No—ego was not the reason. The meeting would have been meaningless. It would be like placing two mirrors face to face—useless. Stand before a mirror, and something is reflected; place a mirror before a mirror, and nothing happens. Mirrors do not talk to mirrors; they talk to faces.
Seat Buddha and Mahavira together, and it is like placing two zeros side by side—no meaning arises. Put a zero after a digit and it becomes ten, put two after two and it becomes two hundred; but two zeros together mean nothing. Zeros do not add up. Zero remains one. There is no addition to zero. Buddha and Mahavira did not meet because there was no meaning in the meeting of two zeros. What would they say? What would they tell?
Therefore, whenever truth is known, it is spoken to those who do not know. And there begins the trouble. The one who does not know hears; naturally, what is said is never what is heard. We can hear only what we already know. Here is the paradox: we can hear only what we already know; what we do not know we cannot hear. Oh, the ears will hear, but the inner mind will not understand—or it will understand something else, which was not said. We understand only what we can.
Krishna speaks to Arjuna. Naturally, Arjuna will understand only what Arjuna can. He can never understand what Krishna is actually saying; for if he could, Krishna’s speaking would be unnecessary.
Where there is no gap between guru and disciple, conversation is possible, but then it is useless; and where there is a gap, conversation is needed, but cannot truly happen. Such is the natural difficulty.
So Mahavira speaks to those who do not know; Buddha speaks to those who do not know. They hear and draw meanings—their own. If Buddha speaks to a thousand, there will be a thousand meanings. If I speak to you now, I cannot be in the illusion that you all will draw the same meaning. It is impossible. As many as are here, so many meanings will be carried away. Those meanings are not in my speaking; my speaking bears one definite meaning. But you will carry yours.
Edmund Burke was writing a history of the world. For fifteen years he labored and had completed half the work. Fifteen more years—thirty in all—he poured the prime of his life into it. One noon there was a loud commotion near his home, yet he kept writing. The noise swelled; he came out and asked, “What is it?” People were running. “A murder behind your house,” someone said. He asked one eye-witness; he said one thing. Another said something else. All were eye-witnesses.
Burke ran to the spot. The crowd was there, the body lying before them, the murderer caught—but everyone’s version was different. Some said the slain was at fault; some said the killer was wrong; some said he wasn’t to blame. Burke asked them all, then returned and burned what he had written for fifteen years. He wrote: “When a murder behind my own house yields conflicting testimonies from eye-witnesses, how shall I, five thousand years later, write what happened five thousand years earlier? It is futile.” Burke wrote that history is sheer falsehood; true history cannot be written.
The moment Krishna speaks, truth begins to alter. As soon as it reaches another, its form changes—it begins to be lost. So far I was speaking of the outer issue. Go a little deeper and there is a subtler difficulty. Truth, when spoken, is lost not only because of the hearer, but also because of the very process of speaking.
Truth is vast; words are narrow. Words are small; truth is immense. The very effort to pour truth into words is where the difficulty begins. Hence all knowers, after speaking, go on saying: what had to be said could not be said; what was intended remains unspoken.
Rabindranath was dying. A friend said, “How blessed you are—you have written six thousand songs; you must be fulfilled.”
Rabindranath opened his eyes and said, “Stop this talk. I am saying something else to the Divine: the song I wanted to sing, I could not sing. In the attempt to sing that one song, six thousand have been written; but the song I wanted to sing is still unsung within me. These six thousand are failed attempts—six thousand failures. I tried again and again; what had to be said remains unspoken. I am praying to the Divine: I had only just tuned the instrument—when did I sing? And the time to go has come. I had only just set the strings—when did I sing? Only now did it seem I was nearing the singing, and the time to depart has arrived.”
Ask Kabir, ask Nanak, ask Meera—anyone: they will all say, what had to be said, we could not say; it remains unsaid. Strange, for they did speak, Meera did sing—yet what had to be said is unsaid. What is the matter?
It is like this: you saw the morning sun rise; the birds sang; trees blossomed. You went home and someone asked, “Describe it.” You said much—and yet you will find that what you said is not even a faint picture of what you saw. In what you say there is none of the sun’s warmth, none of the music of the birds, none of the morning’s greenery, none of the freshness of the cool breeze, none of the ecstasy of flowers opening; that morning’s Samadhi, that meditative poise of nature, is nowhere in your words. When you have finished, you will say, “I did speak, but what I saw is not here.”
Then the listener will tell a third person; truth begins to be lost. Something was lost when you spoke, for speech itself blurs; then another listens and speaks, and truth is lost further. The river has begun to lose itself in the desert. The journey had not yet started—at the very first step deviation began. It has always been so; no remedy has been found; none will be. It will always be so.
Therefore Krishna says truth is lūptaprāya—almost lost. Yet, even if I cannot describe the morning sun, still it is the morning I describe. Even if you do not understand, you will understand at least this much—that I speak of the morning. The songs of birds will not be heard in my words; yet I will be able to tell you that the birds sang. The sun’s warmth will not be in the words; yet that the sun was warm, aglow, comforting—that I can convey. And however wrongly you may understand, when you pass it on and it becomes more distorted, it will still be related to the morning sun.
No matter how many mistakes enter in, even if the river is lost in the desert and hard to find, somewhere by clearing the sand one can still gather drops. And if someone has seen the morning sun, then even hearing the thousandth person’s telling he will recognize: “It seems they speak of the morning sun.” He can recognize it.
So much of truth always remains that it can be recognized—its pratyabhijña is possible. Truth becomes lūptaprāya, but even so it is present.
Another thing to remember: however much truth becomes lūptaprāya, it does not become untrue. That is why it is “almost lost.” If it became untrue, truth would be dead—no trace left.
Suppose my photograph is taken, and then a photograph of that photograph, and so on; each negative grows faint and pale. Yet the image remains mine. It may come to such a point, the thousandth negative, that recognition is difficult—even I may not recognize it. Still it is my image; pale, distant, an echo far away—yet mine. Even if I fail to recognize it, it remains within my lineage.
This is the meaning of truth becoming lūptaprāya: however much it fades, it does not become false. A faint echo of truth remains in it. Those who know can recognize that echo again; they can re-cognize it.