Tao Upanishad #33

In the morning flowers bloom; by evening they wither. In the morning the sun rises; by evening it sets. There is birth, and it culminates in death. Every event begins and ends. But Existence is always. Existence has neither a morning nor an evening. Existence has neither birth nor death. In this sutra Lao Tzu is giving a hint about this birthless, deathless, beginningless, endless continuity of Existence.
Whatever we know, we can bind within limits. Somewhere there is a beginning and somewhere an end. And whatever can be bound within such limits can be defined. Definition means: to encircle something within the perimeter of thought. But that which neither begins nor ends—its definition is impossible. Because we will not be able to draw the circle of thought around it. From where shall we draw the line? Where shall we end it? Therefore Existence cannot be defined. The existent things can be defined; Existence itself cannot.
Let us understand it so. And this sutra is difficult; many, many doors must be opened into its secret. A flower is seen; we say it is beautiful. The moon arises; we say it is beautiful. A face appears pleasing; we say it is beautiful. A poem delights the mind; we say it is beautiful. Some music touches the heart; we say it is beautiful. But have you ever seen Beauty itself? A song is beautiful, a face is beautiful, a star in the sky is beautiful, a flower is beautiful; you have seen things that are beautiful—but have you ever seen Beauty?
Then a great difficulty will arise. If you have never seen Beauty, how do you call a thing beautiful?
In a flower you see beauty; but you have never seen Beauty. The beauty of the flower blossoms in the morning, is lost by evening. In a face you see beauty. Today it is there; tomorrow it vanishes. That which is here today and gone tomorrow—that which appeared in the morning and dissolved by evening—have you ever seen it apart from things? Have you ever seen pure Beauty?
You have seen beautiful things; you have not seen Beauty. So the flower can be defined. It has boundaries, a form, an identity. But Beauty cannot be defined. It has no boundary, no form, no fixed identity. And yet we recognize it! Otherwise how would you call the flower beautiful?
If the flower alone were beauty, then the night’s moon could not be beautiful. What relation is there between flower and moon? And if the moon alone is beauty, then you could not call certain eyes beautiful. What link is there between eyes and moon? Beauty is something that is in the flower, in the moon, and in the eyes. Beauty is something different—other than the flower, other than the moon, other than the eyes. And the eyes that seemed beautiful a moment ago, if they fill with anger, they become ugly; if they fill with hatred, they become ugly. The eyes remain the same, but something is lost.
So certainly Beauty is neither the flower, nor the moon, nor the eyes. Beauty is something else. But have you ever seen Beauty? Have you ever faced Beauty, encountered it face to face?
There has been no meeting with Beauty. Beauty has never been known, never been seen. Beauty is indefinable—and yet we recognize it. And when that mystery descends into a flower—when that world of mystery is embodied in the flower—we say the flower is beautiful. The same mystery when it is embodied in certain eyes, we say the eyes are beautiful. The same mystery when it manifests in a song, we say the song is beautiful.
But what is Beauty?
The flower can be defined—what it is; the moon can be defined—what it is; the eye can be defined—what it is. But Beauty—what is it? It is indefinable. Why? Why can it not be defined? We do recognize it. In some unknown way we meet it. In some unknown way it enters the depths of our heart. In some unknown way our soul is stirred by it. But what is it? When the intellect goes to grasp it, we find it is lost.
It is almost as if the room were full of darkness, and we take a lamp to search for where the darkness is—and the darkness disappears! Perhaps wherever the infinite begins, if we take the intellect there, the infinite withdraws. For the intellect can recognize only the finite. The intellect can recognize only that which has limits—where it can decide: here the matter begins and here it ends; it can draw a line, make a perimeter, create a fragment; then the intellect can recognize.
Therefore the intellect goes on making smaller and smaller fragments day by day. The smaller the fragment, the stronger the intellect’s grip becomes. Hence science breaks things into parts—because science is the quest of the intellect. And thus science arrived at the atom. Upon the atom its grasp is strong. On the vast, the intellect cannot get a grip. The smaller, the more fragmentary, the more the intellect can encircle it neatly.
Even the atom has been broken; now upon the electron or the neutron the intellect’s grip is firm. And the effort of intellect is to go beneath the neutron, beneath the electron. The smaller the fragment, the more definable it becomes; we can place it before the eye. The more vast, the more infinite, our eyes seek for edges, no boundary is found, and we are bewildered. The intellect cannot measure—and difficulty arises.
Lao Tzu says, ‘Neither is there light when it appears, nor darkness when it disappears; such is that inexhaustible and unbroken secret whose definition is not possible.’
It always is. Suns go on rising and setting. Flowers go on blooming and scattering. Life is born and dissolves. Creations arise and are immersed again. Worlds are formed and meet with dissolution. It always is. There is something—call it by any name—something that is not born and does not die; that always is. That is pure Existence, pure is-ness.
I spoke of Beauty only so that you might understand Existence. We have never seen Existence. We have seen a tree, which has existence. We have seen a river, which has existence. We have seen a person, who has existence. We have seen a sun, which has existence. But Existence itself we have never seen. We have seen things that are.
But the things that are will be lost. We say, the table is. Understand this a little. It is among the deepest questions of philosophy, and the highest peaks of human genius have grappled with it intensely. There is a table; we say, it is. There is a man; we say, he is. There is a house; we say, it is. As I said: the flower is beautiful, the star is beautiful, the face is beautiful; the table is, the house is, the man is, the sun is. This ‘is’—what is this Existence? Because the table has it, the sun has it, the man has it. We have seen the man, the sun, the table; but that is-ness—the is-ness—we have never seen.
Consider: we destroy the table. We had said, the table is. There were two things: the table, and the being, the is-ness. We destroyed the table. Did we also destroy the being? There was a flower. We used to say, it is; now we say, it is not. We removed the flower. But that being, that Existence which was within the flower—did we erase that too?
We have never seen Existence. We have only seen things. A man is, then dies. In ‘the man is’ there were two factors. The man: bones, flesh and marrow, body, mind. And the being: Existence. Bones broke, the body decayed—returned to dust. But the ‘is’, that being—was that lost? Did that being also perish?
When we destroy a flower, remember: we only destroy the flower, not Beauty. The Beauty which we never saw—how will we destroy it? The Beauty we could never grasp—how will we erase it? The Beauty we never even touched—how will we murder it? The Beauty that never came within the grasp of any sense—how will we end it through the senses?
We can erase the flower. We can put out an eye. But not that Beauty which flashed through the eye. It is other than the eye. We do not destroy Existence. Suns come into being and disperse. Universes arise and vanish. Men are born and become graves. But that being within them, that Existence—that remains ever, it continues to flow forever.
Lao Tzu says: there is neither illumination when it appears, nor darkness when it sinks. For it neither appears nor sinks. Do not try to recognize it by what appears and what sinks. It is deeper than that. That which does not arise with the rising of the sun, and does not set with the setting of the sun—That is. That which does not come into being with the flower, and does not die when the flower withers—That is. That which is not born with birth and does not die with death—That is.
A person is born; we can draw the line of birth. A person named Ram is born; we draw a boundary—born on such and such day. Then he dies; we draw a boundary—died on such and such day. This is the limit of the person named Ram, but not of Life.
Let us go a little deeper; perhaps then we will come to know.
Which day do you call the birthday? There are disputes. Is the day the child is born the birthday, or the day of conception? Usually, when the child emerges from the mother’s womb, we call that the birthday. But what of the day the child entered the mother’s womb? Step back a little. Strictly speaking, the true birth is the day the child came into the womb. Birth happened that day.
But go deeper. On the day the first cell is formed in the mother’s womb, half of that cell had been alive in the father long before, and half in the mother long before. By the union of these two, the beginning of birth happened—according to science. So this event of birth is the meeting of two lives already existing. This is not a beginning. Because life existed in both: one hidden in the father, one hidden in the mother. Their meeting started this life. It will be the beginning of the life called ‘Ram’; but it is not the beginning of Life. Life was hidden in the father, hidden in the mother—already there, fully alive. It became manifest by meeting—but it was already present.
Go further back. What was hidden in the father was hidden earlier in his mother and father. And so on, back and back. What was hidden in the mother was hidden in her father and mother. When did life begin? Your birth may be your birth, but the life within you has no birth. Trace it back, and the entire history, known and unknown, will be included. If ever a first man walked on the earth, you were alive in him. But how could there be a first man? For the first man to be, life must have been before him. So Life is a continuity.
From science the matter is somewhat simpler; from religion somewhat subtler. Religion says: the cell formed by mother and father is only the life of the body; and the Atman will enter it.
Hence, when Buddha’s father said to him, ‘I gave you birth,’ Buddha said, ‘I was born through you; you did not give me birth. I came through you; you became the door, the path for me; but I have not been created by you. When you were not, still I was. You provided me the way; I have appeared. But my journey is very different.’
The father was offended. He was offended because Buddha was begging alms in the village that was his estate, in his own kingdom. Bowl in hand, he begged in that village. Buddha’s father said, ‘Siddhartha, in our family no one has ever begged.’ Buddha said, ‘I know nothing of your family; but as far as I know my own previous journeys, I am a very ancient beggar. I begged before this birth, and I begged before that one. As far as I know myself, I am a very old beggar. I know nothing of you.’
They were speaking of different things that would never meet. Buddha’s father spoke scientifically; Buddha spoke religiously.
From the religious vision, the event of life occurring in the womb today is infinite; and the event of the soul entering that life is also infinite. Two infinities are meeting in the mother’s womb. I have always been, in this sense: every particle of my body has always been; every particle of my Atman has always been. There has never been such a moment in Existence when I was not—or when you were not. Whatever the forms, whatever the shapes, whatever the names—there has never been a moment in Existence when you were not; nor will there ever be a moment when you will not be. But you have been born many times, and you will die many times.
Lao Tzu says, ‘Neither is there light when it appears, nor darkness when it sinks; such is that inexhaustible and unbroken mystery whose definition is not possible.’
You can be defined: your name, your village, your address—these can be defined. But how will that be defined which is being revealed through you—the eternal, the infinite? How will it have an address? What will be its name?
Someone asks Buddha, ‘What is your name?’ He has left home, renounced his kingdom, so that those who recognize him will not meet him. He wanders in unfamiliar places. Anyone who sees him is drawn to ask, for his beauty is unparalleled. Even if he is a beggar, his emperorship cannot be concealed; it reveals itself in every way. Any passerby becomes curious: ‘What is your name? Who are you?’
Buddha says, ‘Which birth’s name shall I tell you? Of which birth do you ask? For I have had many births and many names. Of which birth shall I give you news? At times I have been human, and at times animal, and at times a tree. Which news shall I give you?’
Naturally the questioner will think he has asked a madman. But Buddha is right: which birth, which name? Once the sense of Life begins, a great difficulty arises, because then no definition works. No definition works. As the arrangement becomes infinite, definitions begin to break.
Life is inexhaustible; it never withers. Events happen and scatter; Existence remains Existence. First point. Why is it undefinable? Because it is infinite. It is not that our capacity to search is weak; it is that there are no edges at all.
Christianity made a historical beginning for the birth of the Earth. The Christian explorers determined that four thousand and four years before Christ, the Earth began; and those who toiled fixed even the morning hour—nine o’clock—and those who researched fixed the minutes and seconds too.
But then science created great difficulty. The greatest damage done to Christianity in the West was because of these definitions, these boundaries. Science proved that such talk is childish. The Earth is very ancient—at least four billion years old. All the evidence accumulated; four thousand years became sheer nonsense—and fixing day, date, and time pure foolishness. Christianity received a great shock from this, though religion as such had nothing to do with it.
If religion is sought rightly, it can never decide where things begin and where they end. Religion holds that that which is neither begins nor ends. Existence is beginningless and endless. Therefore with Tao, with Lao Tzu’s vision, there can be no conflict with science. For Lao Tzu is saying we accept inexhaustible Existence. It never began, it will never end. To say the world began four thousand and four years ago is childish. But to say it began four billion years ago is also childish. Merely lengthening time changes nothing. Whether four thousand years or four billion—it makes no difference. Lao Tzu will say: in this world, things cannot begin at all. Existence always is. Yes, forms can change. Forms can be new, they can be old. Shapes can change. But that which is hidden within the shapes—That always is, That is continuous.
‘And again and again it enters the dimension of emptiness.’
The complexity of definition increases further. Because Existence—as we ordinarily understand it—means ‘to be.’ For Lao Tzu, ‘not to be’ is also Existence. For Lao Tzu, being and non-being are two aspects of Existence. So when Lao Tzu or Buddha speak of nothingness, of non-being, we fall into great confusion. We think they mean that nothing at all exists. That is a mistake. For beings like Buddha or Lao Tzu, non-being is a mode of Existence. Manifestation and unmanifestation are two arrangements of the same.
I speak; then I become silent. If we ask Buddha, he will say: speaking and being silent are two modes of one energy. That energy sometimes speaks and sometimes becomes silent. In silence the energy that spoke does not get destroyed; it simply falls silent. Non-being is the unmanifesting of being—not its annihilation.
Understand this rightly and many things will be clarified. Non-being is not annihilation. Because in Lao Tzu’s vision nothing can be annihilated in the world. How can it be?
Now even science says that no thing can be erased. How will you erase it? Try to erase a small grain of sand—then you will find you cannot erase it. You will crush it; what was gathered will remain in pieces. You will burn it; what was unburned will become ash—but it will remain. How will you erase? You will change one form into another, that’s all. Water can become ice; ice can become vapor. The river can become the ocean; the ocean can become clouds in the sky; the clouds again become rivers. But you cannot annihilate. Not even a drop of water can be erased. Erasure is impossible.
It is very delightful that science says: since Existence is, not a single particle has been added to it, nor has a single particle been subtracted. For how will it be subtracted? How will it be added? So much change goes on occurring, but the total remains the same. How vast is Existence! What an uproar goes on! Stars are born and die and disperse. Earths come and vanish. How many persons, how many lives come and go. How many palaces, how many graves; how much noise, and then how much silence! Such turbulence of life, and then such peace of death! Yet in this world not a single particle decreases or increases. Where would it increase from?
World means: the All. Outside it there is nothing. So from where would it increase? And world means: the All. So how would it decrease? For not a single particle can fall out of it. The total remains the same; no difference arises in it. Forms go on changing; that which is formed remains the same. Things are lost, are absorbed, and yet Existence remains as much as ever.
Lao Tzu says, ‘And again and again it enters the dimension of emptiness.’
This Existence has two dimensions: to be manifest in form, and to be in Shunyata—formless. I sing a song: a moment before it was not. Then I sang. The song happened. A moment later all is lost; the song is absorbed again into emptiness. A flower bloomed; a moment before it was not. Beauty came. Sunrays bathed the flower. The flower danced in bliss. The flower sang its life-song. The flower released fragrance. By evening it drooped, fell, was lost.
Each thing comes to be, and then ceases to be. But ceasing to be is not annihilation. Ceasing to be means merging back into Shunyata—becoming unmanifest. Shunyata means becoming formless, unmanifest. Manifestation and unmanifestation—being and non-being—are two aspects of Existence.
There is a very wondrous incident. Someone came to Lao Tzu. He was an atheist; he said, ‘God is not.’ Another person, a disciple, was already sitting there. He was a theist; he said, ‘God is.’ Lao Tzu said, ‘Both of you are right; for each of you is speaking of one of God’s forms. There is no dispute between you, no opposition. One form of God is being, and one is non-being. The atheist is speaking of non-being; the theist is speaking of being. Both of you are right—and both wrong, because both are incomplete.’
Lao Tzu says: ‘God is, and God is not’—both are simultaneously true. For these are the two modes of His being. Thus Lao Tzu becomes difficult for us. Definition becomes difficult. If someone says, ‘God is,’ then the definition is made. If someone says, ‘God is not,’ still the definition is made. Both are definite. Lao Tzu says, ‘God is and is not—both.’ Thus definition becomes impossible.
But Lao Tzu is right. Non-being is also a mode of being—not an opposite, not an enemy. If this becomes visible, then birth is a mode of my being, and death is also a mode of my being. In birth I manifest; in death I merge. Waking is a mode of my being; sleep is a mode of my being. In waking I am in motion; in sleep I become motionless. In waking I move outward; in sleep I begin to move inward. Awareness is a mode of my being; unawareness is a mode of my being. In awareness there is movement within me; in unawareness all becomes silent—even awareness becomes silent.
The opposition we carry in the mind between being and non-being must be broken—only then will Lao Tzu be understood. There is no enmity between the two. They are two ways of the same. Then definition becomes even more difficult. For again and again it enters into the void. If it remained always manifest, we might still define it. But at times it disappears, becomes unmanifest; then definition becomes more difficult.
‘That is why it is called the form of the formless.’
Hence we call its form the formless. Its form is precisely to be without form. It exists in such a way that form and shape are not in it. This too will be a little difficult, because our way of thinking makes things opposites. Lao Tzu’s way is to join everything.
We know those who believe in Saguna God—the God with qualities; they say He has form. We know those who believe in Nirguna God—without qualities; they say He is formless. And how much dispute there is between them!
Islam accepts the formless; it tried to break forms throughout the world. Wherever there were idols, break them, for God has no form. The form-affirming people also exist. Islam destroyed the three hundred and sixty-five idols in the temple at Mecca; each idol was the form of God for one day of the year. For the whole year there were forms—each day a different form of God. The people who built that temple were very imaginative. A form was accepted for each day; that day they worshipped that form, the next day another, the third day another. There was great value in it: they worshipped in form and yet must have been accepting the formless—otherwise how could the form change every day? Only that which is formless can change its form daily. That which has a fixed form—how can it change it daily? And if it changes its form daily, it means it has no fixed form. Therefore it can reveal itself through any form.
In our land the Hindus have created thousands of forms of God—from an unhewn stone placed under a tree to the most beautiful statues of Khajuraho—countless forms. The imagination of thirty-three crore deities existed here—endless forms were created.
Between the form-affirmers and the formless-affirmers there is a great conflict. The formless-affirmers cannot conceive how an image can be made of that which has no form. And the form-affirmers cannot conceive why He who appears in so many forms cannot appear in my stone image as well. He appears in innumerable forms—what obstruction can there be for Him to appear in my stone image? And stone too is one of His forms, otherwise how would stone be? Therefore later the form-affirmers began to carve images. In the beginning any stone smeared with vermilion became an image. He is in all stones; with vermilion He becomes manifest for the devotee. If you go to villages and see unshaped stones smeared with vermilion, you may think: how has this become a deity? Perhaps the villagers cannot carve a form? Not so. Every form in stone is truly His form. All forms are His—so any form will do.
Between these two views there appears conflict, because to us ‘form’ and ‘formless’ seem opposite words. For Lao Tzu there is nowhere any opposition. His radical vision is to see non-opposition everywhere in life. The with-qualities is His; the without-qualities is He. The form is He; the formless is He.
Therefore this is a very fine statement: ‘That’s why it is called the form of the formless.’
We call the formless His very form. We call His quality precisely His quality-less-ness. We call His non-being also His being. His absence is just a way of His presence. Then definition becomes more difficult. For if we accept the opposition of words, boundaries can be drawn. If we say He is with qualities, we can separate Him from the quality-less. If we say He has form, we can separate Him from the formless. Or if we say He is formless, we can cut off the forms and draw a line. But if He is both, then the boundary becomes hazier and disappears. Then definition becomes even more difficult.
‘He is the very icon of emptiness.’
Icons are always of things—how will there be an icon of emptiness? Icon means form; how will the formless have an icon? And yet Lao Tzu says, He is the icon of emptiness. It is an ultimate effort to unite opposites. His non-being too is a dimension of His being.
This will be difficult for us. For to us one thing is, and one thing is not. But there are experiences even in our own life which are, and yet cannot be put into any language of being. Love arises in your heart for someone: it is, and yet it is as if it is not. This is the lover’s pain—that what he experiences he cannot say. What he experiences he cannot show. If proofs are demanded, there are none.
If you ask a lover, ‘This love about which you speak so much, which occupies your thoughts at night, which fills your every breath, whose vibration you feel in every pore—where is the proof of it? Where is this love?’—the lover has no way to point to where love is. And the ways he tries to indicate are so incomplete. Hence the lover feels a deep helplessness: how to express it? He hugs someone to his chest—but nothing is really expressed; bones touch bones and separate. Inwardly the lover feels: no, what had to be revealed has not been revealed. Even if the lover gives his life, still nothing is revealed—life is given, and inside it seems that what had to be shown remains unmanifest. Love is; yet it is as if it were not. The mode of love’s being is just the mode of Paramatma’s being.
Therefore Jesus used the very word ‘love’ in defining God, and said: Love is God.
The reason is not that God is loving. That misunderstanding happened, and Christianity concluded that God is very loving. No, Jesus does not mean that. To call God loving has no meaning, because where there is no hate at all, the term ‘loving’ has no significance.
God is love means only this: that in this existence love is the sole evidence available to us in which being and non-being are joined together. Love is—with full weight; and a person is ready to lose his life for his love—then love appears to him more real than life itself, and yet that love cannot be placed anywhere within the definitions of ‘is.’ It cannot be shown anywhere: ‘Here it is.’ Therefore Jesus called God love, only to connect with a thread of your own experience.
But we have no real clue even to love—then the difficulty becomes great, very great.
Therefore the modes of thinking that are farther from love go on denying God. Like mathematics—mathematics cannot accept God; it is too far from love. Science cannot accept God; what has science to do with love?
Poetry can accept God; because poetry is near love. Dance can accept God; dance is near love. Music can accept God; music is near love.
Those structures which are close to love can begin to lift the foot toward God. Those structures that are far from love become more and more rigid, and it becomes difficult for them to accept God; for how can being and non-being be together? This is not acceptable to them.
Lao Tzu says: Emptiness itself is like His image. Not being—that is His being.
‘For all these reasons He is called inaccessible.’
These are the reasons it is said He cannot be understood.
‘Meet Him—and still His face does not appear; follow Him—and yet His back is not seen.’
This statement is very deep: ‘Meet Him—and still His face is not seen.’
Even if He is met, His face is not seen. He has no face. He cannot have a face. Since all faces are His, no face can be His. If He too had His own particular face, then all faces could not be His.
Lao Tzu’s famous lines are: ‘He is nowhere, because He is everywhere. He is no one, because He is everyone.’ He is nowhere because He is everywhere. He is no one because He is in everyone.
He cannot have a face; meeting can happen. Therefore those who become possessed by faces never meet Him. Someone clings to Ram, someone to Krishna, someone to Jesus—these are faces. He is in these faces too, but none of these faces is His—or all faces are His. Keep this in mind, otherwise a mistake is made. The devotee of Ram goes on seeking only Ram’s face. And He is face-free—faceless. Then that very face becomes the obstacle. Up to a certain point Ram’s face is a help, because through Ram’s face we had a glimpse of His facelessness. Then beyond a point Ram’s face becomes an obstacle—because the face becomes important and the glimpse becomes unimportant.
Sri Aurobindo has said: the steps that help for a while later become the hindrance. The path which was a path for a while becomes the very wanderings later on.
So choose any path with awareness of how far it is a path. And this is very difficult. Climb each step only as long as it is a step. When it begins to block you, move away from it.
Ram’s face is a help, for through Ram’s face His emptiness has been revealed with great simplicity as in few faces. Ram’s face is useful—because from Ram’s face the Void shone through. But then the face goes on becoming important—and slowly the face becomes so important that the Void no longer reveals itself through it.
This happens again and again. When someone goes to Buddha for the first time, there is no attachment yet to Buddha’s face or eyes. In that moment free of attachment, through Buddha’s eyes that which is beyond Buddha becomes visible. Then attachment begins to form, grows denser, becomes clinging; gradually that which is beyond ceases to be seen. Only Buddha’s face remains in hand. Therefore Buddha said while dying: do not make my statues. Not because he was against images—but because he saw that the beyond was being lost; my face becoming important, and slowly only my face will remain in your hands.
But Buddha’s face was so lovely that people did not care even about Buddha’s own counsel. He had said, do not make my statues; yet of none on earth have so many statues been made as of Buddha. So many that in some languages the very word for idol came from Buddha. In Urdu, Arabic, Persian, but—‘but’ is a corruption of ‘Buddha’. So many images were made that some people saw the first idol of their life as Buddha’s; hence ‘but’ came to mean idol, and ‘but’ means Buddha—and this of the man who had said, do not make my image! But the face was so beloved, it was hard to let go.
Here difficulty arises. The face can be a help if the beyond keeps shining through it. The face becomes a nuisance if the beyond ceases to be seen. Then the face is a wall. If the beyond continues to be seen, the face is a door. Then an image can be a door—if the remembrance of the formless remains.
Lao Tzu says: meet Him, and still His face does not appear. Follow Him, and His back leaves no trace.
We can understand this more easily by relating it to love.
If ever in your life that blessed moment has come when you loved someone… I say ‘if’ because in millions only once in a while does someone truly love someone. People talk about love; precisely because there is no experience, they talk. By talking they soothe, balance, console their minds. If ever someone has truly loved, even for a moment, then an unparalleled experience will have been there: in the moment of love, your beloved’s face will disappear. It is a very subtle matter. If you have loved, if even for a moment your heart was filled with love, your beloved’s face will be lost—and in your beloved you will glimpse the One who has no face.
Hence those who have loved deeply have spoken of their beloveds as if speaking of God. Therefore it is very difficult—by reading a lover’s lines—to decide whether he speaks of the beloved or of God. If you have looked into love-poetry, you will constantly feel the difficulty: is this of the beloved, or of the Divine? Of wine—or of Samadhi? It is very difficult. That is why liquor shops take the name of Omar Khayyam.
In the moment of love, the lover becomes related to the formless; form is lost, the formless reveals. The alchemy of love is this: it begins with form, it culminates in the formless. First only the form attracts—but the form attracts because around it a subtle aureole of inner gold, an inner radiance not of form, is shining. First a flower draws us—but the flower draws because Beauty makes an aura around it. Form draws first—but inside is the radiance of the formless. As if in a house of glass a small lamp were lit: the flame may not be visible directly, the glass is all you see, but a glow comes out. The lamp’s flame is unseen, yet its rays leak out as a soft light. The glass house pulls us—but if we stop at the house, we err. What is hidden within!
A beautiful body attracts—there is nothing wrong, nothing sinful in this. The wrong begins when the inner lamp remains unnoticed and the beautiful body becomes all. Then the trouble begins. If form draws and the formless begins to be felt, a moment will come when the form is forgotten and only the formless remains.
If one loves rightly—even one person—there is no need to seek God separately. For that very person will become the door. Because we do not love, we have to pray; because we do not love, we have to do sadhana. Because we do not love, we have to do much else. If one simply loves, then no other device, no method… Thus Meera can say there is no method, no technique, no knowledge, no meditation. Meera can say so—because she has the taste of love. Kabir can say: leave all yajna and yoga, leave all japa and tapa—His name alone is enough.
But His name is enough only for one in whose heart love has dawned; otherwise the name is not enough at all. You can go on chanting.
This is the difficulty: Kabir says, the Name is enough; because taken with love, the Name is sufficient—what more is needed? And people think: the Name alone is enough. And they have no experience of love. So they go on repeating the Name throughout life, parrot-like, mechanically—and say Kabir, Nanak have said the Name is enough; so we chant the Name. The Name is enough, the Name too is enough—what less could there be? The Name too is enough. But it is enough for the heart where love is. And if love is, even the Name becomes unnecessary—love alone is enough.
Lao Tzu says: meet It, and you do not see Its face; follow It, and you do not see Its back. Meet it—and no boundary is seen. However one may meet, no experience with contour is formed. Therefore if someone says, I have seen God—know that he has seen a dream, a religious dream—pleasant, delightful, but a dream. If someone says, I have seen His face—know that imagination has deepened. No one has ever seen His face. No one will ever see it. He has no face. He has no outline. Existence is outline-less.
‘For the completion of present actions, one who rightly holds this eternal Tao becomes capable of knowing the primal source which is the continuity of Tao.’
The final sutra is for the seeker. What was said before were pointers toward the supreme mystery. How to realize that supreme mystery—this last sutra indicates. Two or three things must be understood.
First: time is man’s invention. For Paramatma there is no time. Past, present, future are our divisions. For Paramatma there is no past, present, future. The word appropriate for Him instead of time is: eternal, ancient-ever-new—eternity.
Time is our division. Past means: what is no longer for us. Future means: what is not yet for us. Present means: what is for us. But Paramatma encompasses all. The past too is ‘now’ for Him; the future too is ‘now’ for Him; and the present too is ‘now’ for Him. If rightly understood, for Paramatma there is only one time-moment—the present.
Understand it thus: make a hole in a wall and look from outside. Begin to look into the hall from one corner—the first thing you will see is me. As your gaze moves, you will see you. When you see you, I will cease to be seen. As your gaze moves further back, you will cease to be seen; row by row other faces will appear. What is no longer seen becomes past; what will be seen becomes future; what is seen is present. But someone is inside the room. For the man outside, there are three parts; for the one inside, there is only one—everything is present, now-here.
Paramatma is present at the center of Existence; we are on the periphery. Whatever we see, we must leave out much. The capacity of our eyes is limited; we can see only by selecting. What is left out becomes past. What is to come becomes future. What is now becomes present. And the wonder is: for Paramatma there is only present—no past, no future. Therefore even the word ‘present’ is not right for Him; for ‘present’ means what lies between past and future. For the One for whom there is neither past nor future, ‘present’ is also not apt. Hence we say: eternal—ever.
Eckhart has said: the Eternal Now—ever now.
For Him everything is present. And for us, if we inquire, nothing is present. We say: present, past, future. But have you noticed? Your past is quite large—if you have lived fifty years, then fifty years of past; and if you recall previous births, countless ages of past. The future too is infinite: if you are to live fifty more years, fifty years; and if you remember rebirths, infinite future. For us the past is infinite, the future is infinite. And what is the present? Not even a moment. If we inquire finely—what moment will you call the present? When you say it, it will already have become past. By the time you know, ‘This is the present,’ it will have become past. If I say, ‘At nine thirty-five this moment is present’—by my saying so, it has become past. Now it is no more. Our present is so small we cannot even declare it; declare it, and it becomes past. The truth is: for us the ‘present’ means only this point where our future passes into our past. Where future passes into past—that point. We never experience the present.
For Paramatma everything is present. For us, everything is past or future. Where our future turns into past, we assume the present lies there. We never experience it.
If we begin to experience that present—if we begin to grasp it—if that present begins to unite with our consciousness—this is what is called meditation. We cannot catch the present because our mind moves so fast and time runs so fast that they never meet. We cannot stop time; it is outside our hands. We can stop the mind; it is within our hands. If the mind utterly stops, the meeting with the present moment can happen. The meeting with the present moment is our meeting with Paramatma. Then, gradually, past and future drop for us also; only the present remains.
For those like Lao Tzu or Buddha there is no past, no future; the present is all. The day someone arrives at such a state that the present is everything, that day he becomes one with Paramatma—he becomes Paramatma. The larger the measure of past and future, the farther we are from Paramatma; the smaller it becomes, the nearer we are; the day it disappears, we are one.
Now understand Lao Tzu’s sutra.
For the completion of present actions—even in day-to-day work, moment to moment, in the present moment—the person who rightly holds the eternal Tao… The one who, living in the present, holds the Eternal in each moment and remembers—the One who has neither past nor future, the One who always is—the Eternal Now—he who remembers That; one who rightly holds the Eternal becomes capable of knowing the primal source, becomes worthy of recognizing that supreme source which is the continuity of Tao.
Tao means: Dharma. Tao means: Truth. Tao means: Order—Rta. Tao means: that supreme mystery where there is no time—where there is no becoming and no perishing, no morning and no evening, no birth and no death. That supreme continuity is attained.
Time is the gate. If you keep wavering in past and future, you are in the world. In terms of time: the world means past plus future—no present. If you would go beyond the world, then from the point where past and future meet you must drop below—leap from there, descend from there. Pure present is moksha; pure present is Tao.
Someone asked Lao Tzu: Which is your highest statement? Lao Tzu said: This one—the one I am speaking now. Someone asked Van Gogh: Which is your supreme painting? He is painting and says: This one—the one I am painting now.
What is happening now is all. One who begins to live in this Now with remembrance of the Eternal—he has found the path, he has found the bridge. Drop the past, drop the future, hold the present. Slowly dissolve the past.
We go on carrying it; hence an old man’s back bends—not so much from the body as from the weight of the past. The past becomes such a mountain he grows tired; the mountain sits upon his chest. Everything becomes past. An old man sits on a chair, eyes closed—you can understand what he is doing: he is scratching up the past. Youth, childhood; successes, failures; love, marriage, divorce—he is rummaging—what happened! The weight grows heavier.
Drop it; that weight is dangerous. It will never let you be joined to the Eternal.
Look at the child, the youth—what is he doing? Future! Palaces to be built, journeys to be made, successes to be gained—ambitions, dreams. In the child the future stretches vast; in the old man, the past. The child has the dreams of the future; the old man has the ashes of those same dreams. Between these two we miss that which is the present. As I said, our present is that point where our future becomes past; and our youth too is that point where our future becomes past—where our dreams turn to ashes.
Have you ever seen a picture of Krishna old? A picture of Buddha old? A statue of Mahavira old? They surely grew old—there is no doubt. But we have preserved only their youthful images. There are reasons—to give this message: for Buddha the present became all. Youth remained constant, youthfulness continuous. The body grew old—but the consciousness did not. Because consciousness carried no burden of the past. When one lives continuously in the present, there is a continuous youthfulness, a freshness—each moment life opens a new, pristine flower—ever-new, ever-fresh, ever-innocent. It never goes stale.
‘Neither is there light when it appears, nor darkness when it sinks—such is that inexhaustible and unbroken mystery whose definition is not possible.’
Enough for today. Sit now for five minutes, and join in the kirtan.