Tao Upanishad #14

When one becomes zero, empty like a pot—when all the pointed edges of the mind fall away, all the knots loosen, when a person lays himself utterly bare and comes to know—still, that which is fundamental, ultimate, the Absolute, remains unknown. It remains hidden within mystery.
In this final sutra Lao Tzu points toward it and says, ‘I do not know whose son this is.’
That which, even after all is known, remains unknown; that which, even when everything is uncovered, remains un-uncovered; that which, even when all veils have fallen, stays veiled—whose mystery even knowledge cannot destroy—who is this?
‘I do not know whose son this is.’
From whom is it born? And from where has it come? From what original source does it arise?
‘Perhaps it is the reflection of That which was prior even to Paramatma.’
This emptiness that is revealed, this mystery that becomes evident—perhaps it is the reflection of That which was prior even to Paramatma.
There is much to be understood in this sutra.
First, Lao Tzu says, ‘I do not know.’
Yesterday I spoke of asmita and ahankar. As long as ahankar persists, knowledge does not dawn; as long as ahankar is, there is only ignorance. The mystics have called ignorance and ahankar synonymous. To be ego-centric and to be ignorant are the same. These are not two things. To be ego-centered and to be unknowing is one and the same. Ignorance and ahankar are two names for a single state.
When ahankar falls, when ignorance drops, then the awareness of asmita begins. Asmita and knowing are one. As I said, ahankar and ignorance are one; in the same way asmita and knowledge are one. With ahankar there is outer unknowing; with asmita there is outer knowing. ‘Asmi’ means just to be. ‘Asmita’ means just to be-ness—simply being! Without adjectives, without form—mere being, pure existence! This asmita that remains—along with it, knowing remains.
Here, when Lao Tzu says, ‘I do not know,’ this ‘I’ indicates asmita. The ego has dissolved; there is no longer any feeling that I am the center of the world. There is no longer the sense that the world exists for me. There isn’t even the sense that I must survive. All these feelings have gone; yet I am. In this ‘I’ all the mysteries have opened. But even this ‘I’ has no way of knowing from where this shunya arises. Ignorance has never known from where the world is born; knowledge too cannot know from where the world is born. Ignorance will not be able to say from where life’s mystery wells up, where the Gangotri is from which the Ganga of existence flows; ignorance will not be able to say it—and even knowledge cannot say it.
What Lao Tzu is saying here—‘I do not know’—means: having known everything, having recognized oneself in every way—no knots remain now, no darkness remains, there is full light—still, I do not know what this shunya is that has been unveiled before my eyes. Who is this? From where does this shunya come? What is its path of pilgrimage? Why is it? Even this asmita suffused with knowing has no way to know.
Lao Tzu’s ‘I’ is the ‘I’ of the knower; even that does not know. The ignorant ‘I’ knows nothing at all; the knower’s ‘I’ also knows nothing here. This gap needs to be taken into account. And it cannot be crossed. One can go up to asmita. Where even asmita is lost, beyond that you become one with shunya. Then there remains no way to stand separate and know shunya.
Standing on the shore of the ocean—he is ignorant. He leaps into the ocean, he is drowned in it—he is a knower. Yet he is still separate from the ocean. When he becomes the ocean itself, he has gone beyond knowledge. But the ignorant cannot know, because he stands on the shore, far from the ocean. The knower is utterly immersed in the ocean, yet still does not know, because even while drowning he has not become one with the ocean. Beyond the knower there is a state where one becomes one with the ocean; but then no knower remains.
The knower is at his most in ignorance. The knower is so dense that the known—the thing to be known—does not exist for him; the knower is too much. Therefore the known does not appear at all. In asmita the knower and the known become perfectly equal; the knower and that which is to be known become balanced. The scales come to perfect rest. Yet still a slender line separates them—the line of knowledge, of knowing. Beyond this the state can be called supreme ignorance or supreme knowledge—call it any name. In that state the knower does not remain. He becomes shunya.
In ignorance the knower is too much. In supreme knowledge the knower is not at all. In knowledge they are equal.
Where Lao Tzu is speaking from now—‘I do not know’—is the state of knowledge, where asmita remains. Therefore Lao Tzu says, I do not know whose son this is. From where is this shunya born? Perhaps it is the reflection of That which was prior even to Paramatma. Prior to Paramatma!
Human imagination and thought have gone up to Paramatma. Beyond Paramatma, human thought has not gone. The boundary-line of man’s thinking is Paramatma. The greatest flight taken by thought so far reaches up to Paramatma. And Lao Tzu says: this which is, seems to be the image, the reflection, of That which was prior even to Paramatma.
Here Lao Tzu hints at two or three things.
One: the limit of thought, its final boundary, is not even the first threshold of truth. The ultimate line of thought is not even the first step of truth. Where philosophy arrives—up to Paramatma—there the ocean has not even begun.
Therefore Shankar—Shankaracharya, through whom Lao Tzu can be understood more easily here—said that Ishvara too is a part of Maya; he did not call Ishvara a part of Brahman. Because the idea of Ishvara is the last idea of our mind. And wherever the mind goes, Maya goes. Maya means the expansion of the mind itself. So if a man has discovered Ishvara, it is the discovery of man’s mind. And whatever man’s mind discovers will be within the limits of Maya.
Hence Shankar made a very courageous statement: even Ishvara is part of Maya. Brahman is beyond Maya, and beyond Ishvara as well.
This is exactly what Lao Tzu is saying. He says: That which was prior to Paramatma—prior, of course, to creation; prior even to the creator; prior to that which seems to be made, and prior to the maker—such as we imagine a maker to be. But he does not say, “It is That.” This is his art.
Lao Tzu says: its reflection—as if this is its reflection.
He does not say, “It is That.” Because the mind will not know it. Ahankar will not know it, and even asmita will not know it. At most, asmita can know the reflection.
Reflection means: a tree stands on the riverbank and its shadow forms in the river. A fish is swimming in the river. That fish cannot see the tree standing on the bank, but it can see the reflection formed in the water. Think of it this way: the fish sees the reflection of the tree formed in the water. The line of birds flying past the tree appears—reflected. The shadow of the moon rising near the tree forms, and that is seen. Clouds drifting over the moon appear. In the reflection—the mirror of water—the fish sees these pictures.
The mind—even the mind of asmita—at most can know the reflection.
Therefore Lao Tzu does not say that this is That which was before Paramatma. Lao Tzu says: perhaps it is the reflection of That which was prior even to Paramatma.
In truth, whatever man can know—indeed, whatever can be known—will only be reflection. Because we know Truth only when we have become one with Truth; the knower remains no longer separate. When the moth flies into the flame and is burned, only then does it know the lamp. When the lump of salt melts into the ocean, only then does it know the ocean. But then it does not remain. And if it wishes to return and tell someone, there is no way to tell, for it no longer is. So long as there is knowing, at most the highest that we can know is the reflection. And certainly, with a reflection there should remain a “perhaps.”
Here a little imagination borrowed from Mahavira will make Lao Tzu easier to understand. Of all men on this earth, Mahavira used “perhaps” the most. Whatever he would say, he would say with syat—with perhaps. He would say “perhaps.” He never said, “only thus.” Therefore Mahavira’s thinking is called syadvada—perhaps-ism. Ask Mahavira anything, and he will say, “perhaps.” Even regarding a fact completely certain—something Mahavira knows with absolute certainty—he would still say syat. Why? If Mahavira knows exactly and accurately, why not say it plainly?
But Mahavira says: whenever anyone claims, “it is only so,” it becomes untrue at that very moment. The mind can do only this much: “it is also so.” Not “it is only so”; “it could also be so.” When we say, “only thus,” we destroy all other possibilities of truth. Our claim becomes complete—and blind. When we say, “it could also be so,” we preserve the possibilities of the contrary as well. And if all the states forming in consciousness are reflections…
Understand it in another way; then “perhaps” will become very clear. I appear before you. Perhaps it has never occurred to you that you have never seen me—and there is no way to see me. You see only my reflection. A picture of me forms upon your eye, and the report of that picture reaches your brain. What you see is the picture formed upon your eye; you do not see me. There is no way to see me, because without the eye you cannot see; and the eye is precisely the mechanism that creates reflection. It creates the reflection of what is outside. And the mind behind it sees that reflection.
When you hear me, you do not hear what I speak; you hear the vibration that touches your ears. Between you and me, your ear works as reflection. When I touch your hand, even then you never know that my hand is touching you. A sensation forms upon your skin, and it is that sensation you come to know. A curtain always stands between you and me.
Therefore Immanuel Kant, a very astonishing thinker of Germany, on this basis said that the thing as it is in itself—the ding an sich—is unknowable. The thing-in-itself cannot be known. A thing as it is in itself is unknowable for us. We know only its reflections.
And if we know only reflections, remember: what we know includes our capacity to form reflections. Thus a patient with jaundice can see yellow where there is no yellow. There are color-blind people who cannot see certain colors—many of them. Not a few, quite a number. Roughly one in ten people is a little blind to some color—one in ten! If there are a hundred people here, at least ten of them—if properly tested—would be blind to some small color or another.
Bernard Shaw did not know until the age of sixty that he could not see yellow. He could not tell the difference between green and yellow. For sixty years he did not know. How would he come to know? On his sixtieth birthday someone sent him a suit as a gift; it was green. He went to the market to buy a tie, for the tie had not been sent. He bought a yellow tie. His secretary said, “What are you doing! That will look absurd. If you want a match, buy a green tie.” But Bernard Shaw said, “Who says this is not green? It is green.”
Only then did it first become clear that he was color-blind. He could not tell the difference between yellow and green; they appeared the same to him. But for sixty years he never came to know.
So what appears to us includes our capacity for seeing.
Now a fish is swimming in water. If the water is blue, then the moon’s reflection will appear blue. And there is no way for it to know that the moon of which this is a reflection is not blue.
Mahavira says: whatever we know, we should always speak with syat—with perhaps. This lets it be known that we do not claim completeness regarding truth; we claim only reflection. We say, “this is how it appears to me.” We do not say, “this is how it is”; we say, “this is how it appears to me.” It could be wrong; it could be otherwise. The contrary appearance could also contain truth.
Lao Tzu says: perhaps this shunya that has manifested is the repercussion, the reflection, of That which was prior even to Paramatma—from where even Paramatma would have been born.
In the Taoist tradition much work has been done around the original face. The seeker is asked: What is your original face? Find out: what is your original face?
You will say: the face I have is my original face. But if you look at your photographs over ten years, you will see that your face has changed ten times.
Steinbeck—a German writer—his wife was showing their young son his father’s pictures from childhood up to the present. When she married him he was a thirty-year-old youth—curly hair, a beautiful face. The little boy asked his mother, “Who is this beautiful young man with curly hair?” The mother said, “Foolish boy, can’t you recognize? This is your father.” Then the boy said, “If this is my father, then who is the bald man who lives in our house?” Steinbeck was now sixty. “Who is that bald man who lives in our house, if this is my father! I had thought he was my father.” It must have been difficult to explain to the child.
Which face is original? Which face is yours? The one that appears at thirty? The one that appears at three months? The one that appears in the mother’s womb? The one that appears in old age, at death? Which face is authentic, the one you could call ‘mine’?
In the Taoist tradition the master says to the seeker: meditate and find out—what is your original face? After a few days the seeker becomes troubled and asks the master, “What do you mean by ‘original’?” The master says: the face you had before you were born—find that. Or, when you will die, the face you will still have—find that. That which was with you before manifestation, and which will be with you when you have become unmanifest—that is authentic. The rest are garments worn in between—taken up, put on, cast off.
Lao Tzu says: That which was prior even to Paramatma—that is the original face of truth; prior even to Paramatma. When nothing was manifest, all was unmanifest.
The Upanishads, or the Vedas, speak of three states of existence. One state: when existence is expressed in manifestation—flowers are blooming, birds are flying, people walk the earth, stars shine, the sun is—worlds manifest, spreading. A second state, the Upanishads say, is pralaya—dissolution—when the world contracts, is destroyed: flowers fall, birds die, voices are lost, stars grow dim, suns are extinguished—everything contracts. One, when existence is creating, becoming young; and one, when existence is growing old, finishing.
Creation and dissolution—like the breath going out and coming in, coming in and going out. Hindu philosophy says: the creation of existence is Paramatma’s in-breath; the dissolution of existence is Paramatma’s out-breath. And the one breath of Brahma—this is mythology, yet it is helpful—Brahma’s one breath is creation, and the next breath is pralaya.
But beyond both there is yet another state, when neither the breath comes in nor goes out. That is the third state—neither dissolution nor creation. There must be something that is destroyed in pralaya, formed in creation, and yet is beyond both. That will be the original face.
Lao Tzu says: the reflection of That which was prior even to Paramatma.
Yet—Lao Tzu’s expression is so carefully measured at every step—that he does not say, “It is That.” He says, “reflection.” Because where a seer remains, where a speaker remains, where an ‘I’ remains—even if not ahankar but asmita—where ‘I’ remains, there will be only reflection. But is it such a small thing that truth appears to us even in the mirror? Even in the mirror if truth appears—is that a small thing? Yet Lao Tzu takes care to say: this is truth seen in a mirror. The seen truth will be truth seen in a mirror.
And the second thing he says: perhaps.
This is non-assertion. It is well worth pondering that the more untruth there is upon our minds, the more insistent our statements become. The greater the ahankar, the greater the insistence in the statement. The debates that run in the world are not for truth; they are for insistence. When I say, “only this is right,” the real issue is not whether this is right or not; the real issue is: I am right and you are wrong. The debate seldom appears to be “I am right and you are wrong”; it seems to be for truth. But if you look behind, behind every so-called truth my ‘I’ is standing. My truth must be right! Because if my truth is right, I am right; if my truth is wrong, I become wrong. And I am right.
This insistence on my being right dissolves with ahankar. Therefore, wherever truths arise from asmita—as in Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, Lao Tzu—these are statements arising from asmita, not from ahankar—there is non-assertion. Great non-assertion! As if, having said, it is finished. No urge to make someone agree, to convince, to force belief—nothing of the sort. As if the statement is given and that is all.
Even so, to add, considerately, a “perhaps” is great courage. Because when something appears like truth to me, the recollection to add “perhaps” hardly arises. We do not add “perhaps” even to untruth; and people like Lao Tzu add “perhaps” even to truth.
We cannot add “perhaps” to untruth, for it would drain its very life. If in a court you are asked, “Did you steal?” and you say, “Perhaps.” For untruth one must be insistent: “I did not.” You must gather testimonies, collect proofs—claim! And the stronger the claim, the better, because untruth has no life of its own; whatever life you pump into it by insistence—that is all it has. Untruth does not stand on its own legs; it stands only on the power of your insistence.
But truth can stand without your insistence. Therefore people like Lao Tzu or Mahavira can also say “perhaps.” Perhaps. If Mahavira is asked, “Is there Atman?” Mahavira will say, “Perhaps.” Who could know more certainly than Mahavira that Atman is! One who knows so certainly speaks with such uncertainty: “Perhaps.” The reason is this: Mahavira holds that the being of Atman is so self-evident that it needs none of my insistence. Even if I am removed, Atman is.
When he says “perhaps,” he means: do not rely on me; even without me, Atman is. I put the “perhaps” on myself; my knowing could be wrong. I could be wrong.
We cannot add “perhaps” even to untruth; people like Lao Tzu speak even truth with “perhaps.” The reason? In our insistence is everything; in what we say there is no life.
A great lawyer, Dr. Hari Singh Gaur—who earned so much from law that perhaps no one in India has—Sagar University stands on the wealth earned from his practice. In his memoirs he wrote: when I was leaving my master, from whom I learned the art of law, the last advice he gave me was this—if truth is on your side, then hammer on the facts; if in court truth is yours, hammer on the facts. If truth is not on your side, then hammer on the law; if truth is not yours, hammer on the law.
And Dr. Hari Singh wrote that he asked him: and if neither truth is clear nor the facts are clear, and the law is not quite understood? The master said: then hammer on the table; pound the table loudly. But do hammer. Hammering is the real thing. The more you shake the court, the more it will seem that what you say is truth.
Lao Tzu and Mahavira are utterly non-hammering people. They do not take the hammer and strike: “this alone is truth.” What is utterly true, even that they say, “This too may be.” If someone comes and says the opposite, they listen and say, “This too may be.”
Mahavira prepared a whole procedure for stating truth in seven syats—not one. Therefore his statements became very complex. To give even a small statement, Mahavira would give seven propositions. If you ask, “Is this a pot?” Mahavira will say, “Syat—it is perhaps.” You will say, “The pot is right here in front.” But Mahavira says: someone else may say, “It is clay, not a pot.” Why quarrel? So Mahavira will say: one statement I give is: perhaps it is a pot. Immediately he gives a second, so no mistake remains: perhaps it is not a pot; it is clay.
But there is also the possibility that someone may deny both and say a third thing. So Mahavira says: I give a third statement—perhaps it is a pot, and perhaps it is not a pot. For the pot is clay, and the pot is also pot; and the clay is clay, and clay is not the pot. So I give a third statement.
And Mahavira said: but further, someone may also say regarding a thing about which it is not clear whether it is a pot, or whether it is clay, or whether it is both, or whether it is neither—that in such a case one should say: it is inexpressible. So I give a fourth statement: perhaps what is, is inexpressible; it cannot be said.
Then the remaining three become even more intricate. Seven—and these are all the possible combinations. There are no more than seven combinations. Regarding a single thing, at most seven statements can be made. Therefore Mahavira gave all seven. The eighth is not there; all are completed in seven. Regarding a single thing, we think there are only two statements. That is a mistaken notion; you do not know the full logic. We think: God is, and God is not—done. No, Mahavira says: God perhaps is; perhaps God is not; perhaps God both is and is not; and perhaps God is inexpressible; perhaps God is and is inexpressible; perhaps God is not and is inexpressible; and perhaps God is, is not, and is inexpressible. These are the seven statements.
And Mahavira says: at seven, logic is complete. An eighth statement is not possible; logically it cannot be. Whatever can be said is completed within seven.
Therefore Mahavira’s logic is saptabhangi nyaya—the sevenfold logic; it has seven layers.
This “perhaps” that Lao Tzu speaks is his saying: I do not insist, I do not claim, I do not say “accept it”; I do not even say that what I have known must be truth. I say only this much: this is my experience. And what is the value of my poor experience! Therefore I add “perhaps.” What value can my experience have? Before this vast truth, before this great shunya, what value has this little empty pot? So I say “perhaps.” All this could be wrong. All that I am saying could be my imagination. All that I know could be a dream. We insist on calling even our dreams true, while Lao Tzu has the courage to call his truth a dream. The wonder is that this courage comes only when truth comes. Only when truth comes does this courage arise. As long as truth has not happened, this courage is not there. If we have the slightest fear that what we are saying may not be true, we say it very loudly. With that loudness we make up for the lack of truth. It is a substitute.
Mulla Nasruddin was staying in a village whose language he did not understand. The learned men of that village gathered and conversed in Latin. Mulla too would go daily to listen. People were worried: what could he possibly understand! Yet he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. At last their anxiety grew and they asked, “Mulla, you do not understand Latin, not a word; you listen so intently—do you understand anything?”
Mulla said, “I do not understand anything else, but I understand who is speaking the loudest—that one is certainly speaking untruth. Whoever grows angry while speaking—I understand he is speaking untruth. Whoever speaks calmly, whoever speaks without insistence…”
Mulla said, “If I understood the language, it would not be so easy to understand this. I would be entangled in words. I do not understand the language, so I watch the face, the eyes—everything except the words. And I am enjoying it immensely. I cannot understand what is said, but I do understand from where the speaker is speaking—whether he speaks knowing, or without knowing.”
Whatever we say, our gesture, our emphasis, our insistence—everything tells. And remember: the more untruth we speak, the more insistently we speak; the more truth we speak, the more our insistence falls away. Truth is sufficient unto itself. It needs none of my insistence; it can stand without me.
There is a Jewish thinker, Sadeh. Many times he was asked to publish his life, to say something about his life, so that it would be easier for people to understand what he was saying. But Sadeh never wrote his life, nor did he say that any special event had happened in it. Sadeh would say: if what I say is true, it will remain true without me. What need is there to know my life?
When they pressed him greatly, he said in a statement: if we look at Jesus’ life first, and then read the Bible, none will read the Bible. Look first at the life—what is Jesus’ life? He was born in a stable. There was nowhere in the village for Jesus’ mother and father to stay; he was born in the place where horses are tied.
The stories say he was born of the virgin Mary. This is a doubtful matter—how can anyone be born of a virgin? So Sadeh says: plainly, there is doubt as to who his father was. What school he studied in—no one knows. Whether he studied at all—no one knows. That he used to stay in the homes of drunkards and prostitutes—this is known. He befriended people of the lower classes—this is known. He would stay as a guest in homes where no respectable man would set foot.
At thirty-three he was hanged on a cross. The day he was crucified, two thieves were crucified on either side of him. Three were crucified that day; thieves on either side, Jesus in the middle. Those who crucified him did so thinking he was either mad or mischievous.
One whose father is unknown, whose education is unaccounted, whose bloodline is uncertain—whether he comes from a noble house or not—one born in a stable, who stayed in the houses of prostitutes, lived among drunkards, slept in gamblers’ homes, and at thirty-three was given the death penalty between two thieves—if we knew this life first, would anyone consent to read the Bible? Would the Bible seem worth reading?
It would not. But we do the reverse—we read the Bible first, and then this life does not seem a difficulty. If this were written in the introduction, and we were then told, “Now read; ahead are the collected sayings of a great man,” none would read.
So Sadeh said: leave my life aside. What does it matter whether Sadeh smokes or does not smoke, whether he drinks or does not drink? If what Sadeh says is true, then his smoking cannot make his truth false. And if what Sadeh says is false, then even if he drinks only pure water and nothing else, it will not become true. He said: leave me. There is no need for me to come in between. Look directly at what is said.
This ‘perhaps’ is a process of removing oneself. By adding ‘perhaps’ the man is saying: I can now be left aside. I make no insistence; therefore I am not in the debate. I simply place truth before you and step aside. If I say, “only this is truth,” I will stand inside the debate. Because if someone says “it is not,” the burden will be on me to prove that it is. I say, “perhaps this is truth”; I step outside the debate. Now truth will stand alone. If it convinces, that is enough. And if it cannot convince—if truth itself cannot convince—then who else can?
Therefore people like Lao Tzu speak with ‘perhaps’ about that truth which, for them, is utterly complete, utterly certain. This is a strange reversal. The liar never begins with ‘perhaps’; the one who speaks truth often does. The liar is very insistent; the teller of truth has no insistence.