Tao Upanishad #4

Within the two, only the One abides. Wherever the intellect sees two, there too the reality is one. Say it this way: the intellect’s way of seeing is to split things into two. The moment the intellect goes to see anything, it cannot refrain from dividing it in two.

There are reasons for this. The intellect rejects the incongruous. It cannot hold opposites together; it breaks the contrary apart. For example, when intellect goes to look at life, to see death within life is impossible for intellect. Death appears utterly opposite. There seems no congruity with the logic of life. It looks as if death is the end of life; as if death is life’s enemy; as if death strikes from outside upon life.

But in truth it is not so: death is not an event occurring outside of life. Death occurs within life; death is a part of life itself; death is life’s very fulfillment. Life and death are like the breath that goes out and the breath that comes in—they are one. The breath that goes in is the same breath that goes out. The breath that enters at birth is the breath that leaves at death. In existence, death and life are one. But when intellect starts thinking, it cannot accept the incongruous; it accepts only what fits. From the vantage of congruity, life gets separated and death gets separated.

Existence, however, accepts even the incongruous, embraces the opposite and the contrary. Existence has no difficulty in placing flower and thorn upon the same branch. Existence has no hindrance in letting darkness and light walk together. The truth is: darkness is but the slower form of light, and light is the less dense state of darkness. If we erased light from the world altogether, intellect would at once declare, only darkness would remain. But if in truth we erased light completely, darkness too would not remain.

Understand it more simply and it will be clear. If we were to annihilate heat completely from the world, intellect would say: only cold would remain. But what we call cold is a form of heat. If we wholly abolished heat from existence, cold would vanish completely—nowhere would it remain. If we could remove death altogether from the world, life would come to an end. Existence abides with the opposite. Intellect drives the opposite out. Intellect is a very small thing; existence is vast. It lies beyond intellect’s grasp that the opposites are one—that life and death are one, that love and hatred are one, that darkness and light are one, that hell and heaven are one. It is beyond intellect’s understanding that sorrow and joy are two names of the same thing. How could intellect comprehend it!

Intellect says: joy is separate, sorrow is separate; one must attain joy and avoid sorrow; do not allow sorrow to come, invite joy. But existence says: the one who invited joy has already invited sorrow; and the one who sought to escape sorrow has had to renounce joy as well. In existence, the opposites are one.

And Lao Tzu says: under these two aspects, it is really the same. That which falls under the named and that which falls under the unnamed—under these two aspects, it is one and the same.

With such intensity Lao Tzu has said: the path that is the Path cannot be walked upon; and the truth that is Truth cannot be named. And now he says: that which is under the named and that which is under the unnamed—both are really the same. In reality, essentially, they are one.

This too is merely the duality of our intellect—to say: this is the realm of the unnamed and that is the named; to say: this is the world of things and that is existence; to say: this is the world of the personal and that of the impersonal; to say: this is the world of form and that, of the formless.

Lao Tzu says, no—within both, there too it is the same One. That to which we give a name, within it also the Unnamed sits; and that which we call the Unnamed—we have already given it a name. What difference does it make if we call it the Unnamed? We have named it! Unnamed is the name we have given to it.

This may appear a little difficult, because at the start Lao Tzu emphasized strongly that the two are utterly different. Do not give it a name; once named, it will no longer be truth. Do not speak it; once spoken, it will become distorted. Do not walk upon that Path, for the changeless Path cannot be trodden. And now, a moment later, Lao Tzu says: within the two, essentially it is one and the same. It will be hard to understand. But this is even more profound—deeper than what he said before. Even within the named, that very One; within form too, that very One.

I peer at the sky through the window of my house and the sky appears to me framed, in form. Yet the very sky I see bound within the window-frame—when I go outside, beyond windows and doors—appears formless. Shall I then say that the sky I saw through the window was a different sky?

Surely, there is a difference: through the window it appeared set within the frame of form; and now there is no frame at all. Surely, there is a difference. But where, in depth, is the difference? Through the window I was seeing this very formless sky. And if there was a mistake, it was not the sky’s, it was the window’s. And how can a window give form to the sky? If a small thing like a window could succeed in giving form to a vastness like the sky, the window would be more powerful than the sky.

So that which intellect has known by giving it a name is the same as that which the wise have known as Unnamed by going beyond the intellect.

And Lao Tzu says: you will not reach there by walking; you will reach by stopping. Although by stopping one arrives at the very place where one who walks keeps running—between the two there is no difference, no distinction.

In this small utterance Lao Tzu delivers a deep blow to duality—the final blow—wherein he seeks to include the opposite. Let it become utterly clear in one stroke: all dualities are intellect-made. Existence is unacquainted with them. Existence has never known duality. The most contrary of contraries are conjoined and united in existence. Not merely conjoined and united—they are one. Even “conjoined and united” we must say, because our mind sees only by splitting in two.

In a coin we see two faces; clearly there are two faces. Still, can we say one face can be separated from the other? Could we keep one side and throw away the other? Whatever we do, a coin will retain two sides; we can save neither one alone nor remove the other. The “other side” is the same coin. Yet the amusing fact is: we cannot see the two faces of even a small coin at once. The coin is no big thing—we can hold it in our hand—but whenever we look, our eyes can see only one face. The other exists only in imagination: it will be there. When we turn it over, then we see the other, and the first hides. Who can say…

Berkeley, a Western thinker—a valuable thinker—used to say: when you go out of a room, the things in the room dissolve into emptiness; when you enter again, they reappear. But when there is no one in the room, no objects remain. And Berkeley said: if someone can prove the contrary, I am ready to accept it. But it is impossible to prove the contrary—because to prove it, one would have to be in the room. Berkeley said only this much: only while a seer is present are objects present; when there is no one to see, objects vanish. For how will the seen remain without a seer? If you make a hole and peep through the wall, the seer comes into presence; the objects appear.

What Berkeley was saying is this: there is a deep relationship between the seer and the seen. Surely, Berkeley is not right in saying that when no one is looking, objects do not remain. But this much is true: when there is no one looking, the objects do not remain as they are when a seer is present.

Now even physics accepts that when you leave the room, the objects of the room lose their colors; no color remains in them. It cannot remain. When the room is sealed on all sides and there is no one to see, things become colorless. Surely, if objects become colorless, what becomes of the painting on your wall? At least, it is no longer a painting.

They become colorless because physics says color is born in conjunction with the eye. If I see you wearing white, that whiteness does not depend only on your clothes; my eye sees them as white. If there were no eye in the room, the clothes would not remain white. Color is tied to the eye. And it is not necessary that even form would remain as we see it, because form too is tied to the eye. Even if the object remains in the room when we are outside, it does not remain exactly as it was when we were there. And how it does remain—we can never know, because whenever we come in, it will no longer be that.

Therefore Immanuel Kant, a German thinker, used to say: the thing-in-itself—how the object is in itself—can never be known. Whenever we know, we will know it as we can know it.

In truth, whatever we know depends upon, is formed by, our capacity to know. It is not necessary that all of us sitting here see identically; a spider is crawling, a lizard runs on the wall, a fly passes, a worm creeps—none of them will see this room as we do. Perhaps some things are visible to the lizard that will never be visible to us. Perhaps the spider experiences something we will never experience. Perhaps the worm on the ground hears sounds that do not reach us at all. And it is absolutely certain that what we are seeing, knowing, hearing—none of these creatures may be acquainted with it.

In whatever we see, the seer gets intertwined. The moment intellect sees, it imposes its pattern, its frame. The deepest frame of intellect is duality. First of all, it splits things into two, separates the opposite, the contradictory.

And every single thing is constituted by the contradictory. I say: I do not get angry; I only forgive. But without anger, is there forgiveness? Could there be? If you have not been angry, can you forgive? To forgive, first anger must arise—utterly necessary. Forgiveness comes only on the heels of anger; it comes as part of anger itself. Without anger, forgiveness is impossible. Yet we separate anger and forgiveness. We say: this person is angry, and that person is forgiving. And we never come to see that anger itself is forgiveness.

Intellect breaks. On every plane of life, intellect goes on breaking.

Lao Tzu says: hidden within all these fragments of intellect, the One alone is concealed. However much we break, we cannot break That. It remains one. However many boundaries we draw, the boundless remains boundless. Whether we name it or not, it is one and the same.

So the first thing Lao Tzu says is: within this entire duality, within all these twos, that One alone dwells.

We sit within a room; we have built walls; so we seem to have split the room’s sky from the sky outside. But have you ever thought—how will you split the sky? A sword cannot cut the sky. A wall cannot cut the sky, for the wall itself has to be in the sky. The sky pervades every pore of the wall. The division we make between outer sky and inner sky—actually, it exists nowhere. For our practical purposes it suffices. In the outer sky, sleeping would be difficult; within walls we can sleep with ease. Surely, there is a difference: outside it rains; inside we sit unconcerned.

Yet even so, we have not divided the sky. We can never divide it. The sky is indivisible, one. Inside and outside are our makeshift distinctions. That which is within is the same as that which is without. That which is without is the same as that which is within. Even the words inside and outside are born of the duality of our intellect. Otherwise, there is neither inside nor outside—there is only One. Sometimes we call It within; sometimes we call It without.

Lao Tzu says: the duality of intellect is utterly superficial. In the inner core, in the depth of existence, only the One abides. As a tree rises from earth, first it is one. Very soon branches begin to divide. And branches go on dividing. Therefore Lao Tzu says: as soon as development happens, as soon as unfolding happens, the many are born. Countless names arise.

Hindus have pictured life as a tree for five thousand years; and Moksha as an inverted tree. Samsara is a tree that starts from the one and becomes many. A trunk rises; then many branches; then each branch becomes many; then each of these becomes many leaves. Moksha is the inverted tree in which, from many branches, we return to fewer; from fewer, to still fewer; and from the few, to the One—and then from the One into the seed from which all is formed and unfolds.

Lao Tzu says: as development happens, as unfolding happens, the many appear. The seed is one; the tree divides into countless branches; and on those branches innumerable seeds arise—from that one seed. Just so, existence is one, the Unnamed; then many branches of the named shoot forth. Truth is one, wordless; then many branches of words arise, many leaves.

Still, Lao Tzu says: that which is in the one is also in the many. That which is in the seed is in the leaf as well. How could it be otherwise? There is no way for a second. There is no second at all.

The second part of the sutra: as progress occurs, people address it by different names.

It does not become different—people call it by different names. I said: the tree is one in seed; in branches it appears many. But that is only how it appears to us who stand outside. If the tree could speak, it would say: I am one. The tree would feel its leaf and its root as one. Inside, there is a single flow, a single stream of sap.

Do your big toe and your head, your eye and your fingers feel separate from within? Close your eyes and look within—you find a continuous flow of the One. In that flow all these forms are dissolved.

From the outside, one sees your eye separate, a finger separate. Surely, if a finger is broken, the eye will not burst. And surely, if an eye is lost, the finger will not break. From the outside, all seems many. But within? Even what I just said—that a finger breaking does not burst the eye—is also from outside. From within, a broken finger weakens the eye; from within, a burst eye blinds the finger as well. Within, there is one flow; within, there is no distinction at all.

Ask a physiologist and he will say the same. Very wondrously, physiology restores ancient secrets. He says: the cell of which the eye is made—by those same cells the toe is made. There is not the slightest difference. If there is a difference, it is only that certain cells have specialized. All the body’s cells are alike; some have gained expertise for seeing; some, for hearing; some, for touch. But the cells are of one kind; in the life-element of the cells, there is no difference. The eye’s delicate pupil is also your skin—it is skin refined to the subtlest degree for the work of seeing. And scientists say: the skin of the hand can see just as well—if trained, it could learn to see—for both are formed from the same kind of cell. There is no difference.

When the child comes into the mother’s womb there is neither eye nor ear nor nose nor hand nor foot. On the first day of conception nothing is there—only a single cell. From that, cells divide. The cells cannot differ from the one they arise from; they are the same. Slowly, some begin the work of the eye, some of the ear, some become the heart. The same kind of cells spread; all the distinctions of the body are formed.

The seed is one; branches begin to look different. The current of sap is one; the stream of life is one; yet upon unfolding, everything begins to appear separate. In the mother’s womb the first cell is closed; it will open, unfold, break its veils, and expand. As it expands there will be many needs; according to each need, many parts will start to do different functions; and once they function differently, they will gain different names.

Take it as an example. Hindus have always said: this universe too is formed from a small egg, as is the individual. The life-stream of the cosmos is one; then things separate as they open and spread. Lao Tzu says the same. He says: people begin to call it by different names. The Upanishads have said: Truth is one, the knowers call it by many names. The Mystery is one, but the wise address it differently. Only the names differ; but because of the names, a delusion arises in our minds that things are different. There the mistake occurs, there the delusion arises. If that delusion breaks, the remembrance of Advaita is possible.

Lao Tzu says: the one who remembers such Advaita—the one which people remember by diverse names, yet which is one—the cluster of these names we call Mystery—the Mystery!

What is the Mystery of this world?

Science does not accept mystery; religion does. That is the difference between science and religion. Science holds that there is no mystery in the world—and the more we know, the less the mystery becomes. That is, mystery is another name for ignorance. By science, mystery means ignorance. What we do not know appears mysterious; once known, the mystery will disappear. And what does science do to know? If you understand rightly, it does exactly the opposite of what Lao Tzu is saying. What does science do? It goes on giving names, and as soon as it can define a name, it believes it has known. It fixes definitions and thinks it knows.

Therefore science becomes more and more specialized. There was a time when science was one; then divisions began; the branches branched further; now the sub-branches branch again.

There was a time when all knowledge fell under philosophy. Hence even today our ancient universities continue to grant the Ph.D.—even to those who have nothing to do with philosophy. A man researches in chemistry and we give him a Ph.D.—a thousand-year habit. Doctor of Philosophy; though it has nothing to do with philosophy now. A thousand years ago, chemistry was a part of philosophy.

Aristotle wrote a book two thousand years ago; the title of each of its chapters today is the name of a distinct science. And a curious comedy occurred: the chapter he wrote on physics—the one after it was on religion; hence in the West, the Greek world began to call religion “metaphysics.” Metaphysics means “the chapter after physics.” Even today, the old plaque at Oxford on the physics department reads: Department of Natural Philosophy. A thousand years ago, physics was natural philosophy. Then came division. And science will always divide, for the more we want to know, and to know in an orderly way, the narrower we must make our inquiry, the more we must narrow it down. To know more and more about something, we must choose less and less to know. Therefore the definition of science is: an effort to know as much as possible about as little as possible.

As we narrow, things keep breaking into parts. Now even physics is not one; it has been broken into parts. Chemistry too is not one—organic apart, inorganic apart—and it will keep fragmenting. Science arrives at the leaves and goes farther from mystery.

Lao Tzu says: that which is one between the named and the Unnamed—that alone is called Mystery.

In truth, whoever goes toward nonduality goes toward mystery; whoever goes toward the many does not. Therefore science gradually goes on breaking the mystery. It thinks there is no mystery, we shall know all. Yet the mystery stands where it stands. The method of science is such that it becomes deprived of mystery. Hence, the more science developed, the less man’s sense of mystery. Among the harms done to religion, the deepest is this: the diminishing of the sense of mystery. Nothing seems mysterious; everything is known.

You see a flower. Someone says “beautiful.” You say, “Nonsense—what beauty? There are such-and-such colors, such-and-such elements; let a scientist analyze it and he will list them all. Where is ‘beauty’ in this?”

As soon as we know all the facts of a thing and we name them, the nondual hidden within is lost. With its loss, mystery dissolves.

Lao Tzu says: that which remains one despite the many names—that we call Mystery. That which remains one even while appearing as many—that we call Mystery. That which appears separate yet remains indivisible—that we call Mystery. That which seems divided into duality yet remains undivided—that we call Mystery. Understand the meaning of mystery: that which we come to know and yet do not know. In the language of religion: mystery means that which, even after being known, remains unknown; that which we recognize and yet remains unrecognized.

An example may help. You love someone and live with them for fifty years. Have you known them? You have become well acquainted—if not in fifty years, then when? Acquainted well, you seem to know everything—and yet, can you say with courage that you know? You know every corner, each habit; still, can you say they are predictable? Can you tell what they will do tomorrow morning?

No; that unpredictable element remains. It is not that fifty years are too few; even in five hundred, it would remain. That is the mystery—the Unpredictable! The one of whom we can make no announcement, no prophecy; the one of whom, though we know, we cannot say, “I have known.”

From another angle. Someone asks Saint Augustine: what is time? He says, “When no one asks me, I know perfectly well; when someone asks, then the trouble begins.”

You too know what time is—well enough. You get up on time. If you did not know, how would you rise on time? How would you reach home on time? How would you decide time has come? Surely you know time. But Augustine spoke truly: so long as no one asks, I know perfectly well what time is; the moment you ask, all is lost. Up to now, the wisest of the wise has not answered. Yet the most foolish of fools uses time; the wisest cannot point and say: “This is time.”

Leave time; life should be simpler. All of us live. We have lived enough—some say thousands of lives; leave that, assume we have lived one life—twenty, forty, sixty years. Life must be known. But if someone asks: what is life?—the hand falters. What happens? If we have lived it, we should tell.

Lao Tzu says: this we call mystery. We know—and yet it remains unknown. We know everything, yet find that everything remains unknown. Existence is present all around; within and without, only That is. In every hair, in every breath, That pervades. Yet unknown. What have we known?

For a million years these waves of the ocean must have been breaking on this shore; the shore has not known the waves, nor the waves the shore. You may say: leave the waves. But if you too strike this shore for a hundred thousand years, you will know just as much as the waves. What do we truly know? A superficial acquaintance—an acquaintance we call knowledge. Calling this acquaintance knowledge creates great delusion; then we are deprived of mystery. Lao Tzu says: do not take acquaintance as knowledge; know it for what it is—an outer recognition. Then you will see mystery present on every side at every moment. Mystery is. However much we know, it has no end.

Now that science has become a little mature—its childhood is breaking, for science is very new, while there are signs of religion going back perhaps twenty thousand years—when religion said five thousand years ago, “Life is mystery,” it spoke from a fifteen-thousand-year experience. Science is but three hundred years old—a child. The day science is fifteen thousand years old, it will proclaim with equal insistence: life is mystery.

Fifteen thousand years are far; even in our time Einstein was alive—the greatest brilliance of science. Yet on his deathbed he said: “In my youth I thought truth could be known. Now I do not think so. I now think truth is unknowable, and will remain so. We shall know much, certainly; yet as much will remain to be known as before we began. Nothing will change. It will be as if we brought a palmful of water from the ocean—perhaps the ocean becomes a little less by a palmful, but that unbounded expanse of the unknown, the Unknowable, does not diminish even by a palmful.”

Religion calls this the Mystery—ever remaining, the unknown, the unacquainted—just as it is. Mystery means…

Grasp three things. Ignorance is not mystery. Science thinks that because of ignorance things appear mysterious—that is its error. In ignorance we know nothing; how would we sense mystery? Knowledge too is not mystery, because in knowledge we know something. Mystery is beyond knowledge. From ignorance, knowledge arises; beyond knowledge, mystery arises. Whoever goes from not-knowing into knowing becomes a knower. Whoever goes beyond even knowing becomes a mystic.

Three steps: ignorance; from ignorance to knowledge; and from knowledge to mystery. If you stop in ignorance, you remain ignorant; if you stop in knowledge, you remain a knower. If you go beyond knowledge, the realm of mystery begins. In that state, even while there is knowledge, there is a total awareness of not-knowing. Knowledge and ignorance become one within mystery—just as Lao Tzu says: under both aspects, it is the same. The experience of mystery comes to one who sees the One in ignorance and in knowledge alike; to one for whom the distance between the ignorant and the knower dissolves. The ignorant man is deluded that he does not know; the knower is deluded that he knows; the mystic knows that knowing is impossible.

No, the mystic does not say: do not know. He says: know, know deeply—but know so deeply that you go beyond knowing; let your knowing not become your bondage and limit. You have transcended ignorance; now transcend knowledge too.

The Rishi of the Isha Upanishad has said: the ignorant wander in darkness, but what shall we say of the knowers who wander in great darkness!

What knowers are these who wander in great darkness? We have heard: the knowers do not wander, the ignorant do. What is the Rishi saying? Surely he knows what Lao Tzu knows. He says: the ignorant wander because they do not know; the knowers wander because they think they know. And note: the Rishi says the ignorant wander in darkness; the knowers wander in great darkness. Their humility is lost, their ego becomes dense.

Mystery is the transcendence of both knowledge and ignorance. Mystery is the news: know much—you will not know. Try to know—your attempts will fail. Run, seek, discover; in the end you will discover one thing: life is an unfathomable mystery, its bottom cannot be found.

Lao Tzu says: this we call Mystery. That in both—the named and the Unnamed—there is truly one: this we call Mystery. In birth and death, one; in darkness and light, one—this we call Mystery.

And after this his line is astonishing:

“These names together we call the Mystery. And where the density of mystery is the highest, there lies the gateway to the subtle and the miraculous.”

Where the density of mystery is supreme! The density of mystery—what could that mean? We must go back.

The ignorant knows: “I do not know.” The ego is thin, feeble; it exists, but even he senses he does not know. The knower knows: “I know.” The ‘I’ becomes stronger and dense.

In the ignorant, because of ignorance, there is a slight sense of mystery. He sees many wonders and oddities because he understands nothing. Lightning in the sky—he thinks Indra is angry. Rain falls—gods are pleased. The crop comes—fruit of merit. The crop fails, an earthquake—result of sin. He keeps making up accounts. But mystery in him is dependent on ignorance; the ‘I’ is less dense, and some sense of mystery appears. But ignorance soon transforms even mystery into some explanation. Lightning becomes Indra, rain becomes the fruit of karma. Even the ignorant constructs explanations; to the degree he does, to that degree his ego strengthens.

The knower knows facts; the more he knows, the stronger becomes the ‘I’; and the stronger the ‘I,’ the more the sense of mystery thins, becomes rare. The density of mystery dissolves.

In the third stage, where the knower is no longer a knower, nor the ignorant an ignorant man—he knows and yet knows he does not know—there the ‘I’ is utterly lost. And where the ‘I’ is lost, there mystery becomes dense. These two things: the ‘I’ and the Mystery. If the ‘I’ is very dense, the mystery is rare. If the ‘I’ is rare, the mystery is dense. If the ‘I’ becomes complete and strong, mystery ends; and if the ‘I’ becomes zero, mystery becomes perfectly dense and intense. The measure of the center ‘I’ determines how dense the mystery is. Hence all mystics say: dissolve the ‘I’; lose the ‘I’; then you will know life’s mystery.

Why does the ‘I’ obstruct? Because the ‘I’ blinds; it does not let us see the mystery. Mystery means: I shall have no control; I shall not be able to know; I am powerless. Only then will the sense of mystery arise.

Thus little children are surrounded by mystery; the old are not. Children live in a world of mystery. Why? The ‘I’ is not yet dense. A butterfly flies—perfect dream fulfilled. A flower blooms—gateways to the infinite open. The sun rises—vision of the Supreme Light. A wave strikes the shore—delight dances in the heart. Even colored pebbles by the roadside a child picks up and sees pearls and diamonds. The ‘I’ is not yet dense; on every side, the vision of mystery.

A child’s time passes in poetry. Hence children cannot distinguish between dream and waking. A child wakes and weeps for the doll lost in the night’s dream. However we explain—“It was just a dream”—we cannot convince him. Because the line distinguishing dream from waking is not yet sharp; even in day he dreams. The distance between night and day is but the opening and closing of eyelids. Within, all remains fluid; the sense of mystery is strong.

As the ‘I’ grows stronger, mystery dissolves. The more the child is educated, certified, grows, stands on his feet, acquires skills—the more the ‘I’ clarifies and is refined; to that degree, mystery falls away.

But the child’s mystery belongs to ignorance. The saint’s mystery belongs to after-knowledge. There is a mystery before knowledge—of ignorance; and a mystery after knowledge—not of ignorance.

This is the difference between the poet and the Rishi. The poet too lives in mystery, but full of ignorance. The Rishi too lives in poetry—but the poetry beyond knowledge. Rishi means poet—but a poet with eyes, who has seen. For him too the world is not prose but poetry; not dry but lyrical; bound in song, imbued with rhythm, covered with dance and song. But the Rishi is the poet of the mystery that comes after knowledge. The poet is the rishi of the pre-knowledge mystery—the mystery of ignorance. That is the difference.

Hence we cannot call the Rishis of the Upanishads merely poets—though such poetry is rare. Nor can we call our finest poets Rishis, for their poetry is only of ignorance. Our poet is really a child who remained a child. His body grew but the boundary between inner dream and outer world never formed. Childlike! Hence if poets are seen doing childish things, do not be surprised. Their behavior seems immature; often incomprehensible; much of it seems immoral.

Picasso loves a woman—madly, rarely does one love like Picasso. Then one day the love disappears; he loves another with the same intensity. To the world this looks immoral. But the root is only this: Picasso is absolutely childlike.

A child loves a doll—presses it to his chest; then one day he is bored and sets it in a corner, never looking back. We do not call the child immoral, because we take him as a child. But we call Picasso immoral: “What kind of love is this? A deception!” Yet Picasso did not deceive. When he loved, he loved as intensely as the child who will not leave his doll at night. The love was dense. But when it was gone, it was gone—he moved like a child to the next. It appears immoral.

Truly, in poets, painters, musicians, the immorality we see stems from this alone: their bodies have matured, their childhood has not gone. They remain childlike deep within. Thus they can write poetry—and thus they become disturbances in life. They paint beautiful pictures—but their lives turn ugly. They sing well—but none are as unshaped in living as they.

A Rishi is another matter altogether—childhood regained. Not childhood, but simplicity rediscovered beyond all maturity and knowledge: innocence again, guilelessness again.

Hence, in a saint too childlike qualities may appear, but not the poet’s immorality. A saint’s simplicity and innocence will appear, but not the poet’s license. In his guilelessness and supreme freedom there will be order, law, discipline—self-discipline. In every childlike act of his there will be a current of supreme experience. And yet, though he has gone beyond knowledge and experience, he has transcended even knowledge.

Lao Tzu says: we call this the Mystery. And when the density of this mystery increases, the gateway of life’s subtle secret—the miraculous—opens.

It becomes dense when the ego becomes rare. The proportion is always exact. Consider it so: one hundred percent ego—zero percent sense of mystery. Ninety percent ego—ten percent mystery. Ten percent ego—ninety percent mystery. Zero percent ego—one hundred percent mystery. It is one and the same energy: the more it is freed from ego, the more it enters the mystery.

Life-energy has two alternative directions: asmitā (I-ness) and mystery. I and Thou. That Thou which is Paramatma—that is mystery. As “I” strengthens, Thou wanes.

Our century has not denied God without cause. It is the most egoistic century; and the ego is of knowledge. It must be so—only knowledge breeds ego. Our century is the most knowledgeable; consequently, the most egoistic; ultimately, the most deprived of mystery. The more knowledgeable we become, the larger our libraries, the more our universities hoard knowledge, the more our children become knowers—the more mystery fades. And a moment can come—the ultimate suicidal moment—when a civilization becomes so knowledgeable that it loses all sense of mystery; then, apart from dying, nothing remains. For life is lived by mystery, not by ego. Even we who are egoistic live by mystery. With full ego, living is impossible; only death—self-destruction—is possible. If it occurs to us that we have known everything, then apart from dying there is nothing left to know.

Thus, the further back we go, the more we find man relishing life. The more primitive the culture, the fewer suicides. It is a strange fact: ignorant civilizations do not commit suicide. For suicide requires a dense ego—the I strong enough to renounce the entire mystery of life and plunge into killing. To cut one’s own throat requires a strong ‘I’. Hence the older, more primitive the civilization, the less suicide. Tribals do not even know suicide; they are unfamiliar, cannot think of it. There are languages even today with no word for suicide, for they have never thought why anyone would kill oneself.

Our situation is quite different.

Albert Camus begins a book saying: The only philosophical problem is suicide. The only philosophical problem! He was one of the intelligent men of our age. He does not discuss God as the problem of philosophy; he says: the only problem is suicide—why should man live?

He asks rightly. If there is no mystery, what is the reason to live? To eat? To live in a house? To beget children? And why should children live? To beget more children? What is the point? Build houses, roads, airplanes—but why live?

If you say “for love,” you have stepped into the world of mystery. Camus will ask: where is love? Everywhere I searched and found nothing but sex. Love is mystery; lust is fact. Try to grasp—lust comes into hand, love does not. If you say “for joy,” joy is mystery; the facts are so-called pleasure and pain. And pain hides behind all pleasure. So Camus asks: why live? And he is right—try one pleasure once…

Nasruddin sits in a hotel. A stranger engages him, asks village news. Nasruddin asks, “Do you play cards? Otherwise we could play.” The man says, “I tried once—found it useless.” Nasruddin: “Chess then? I’ll fetch a board.” The man: “Tried that once too—no substance.” Nasruddin: “What can I arrange for you then? Music? I can play some instrument.” The man: “I heard it once—no essence.” Nasruddin: “Fishing? The weather is good.” The man: “I cannot go—but take my boy.” Nasruddin says, “Forgive me, I suppose he is your only son. I presume your only son—because you must have tried love once; then never again.”

There is no fact in life worth seeing twice. If it is worth seeing twice, it is not a mere fact—there is some mystery left in it, something unknown which invites again and again; and still the unknown remains, so we go again. Whatever we can know fully—what is there to know again? We cannot know fully—that is why we keep returning; a thousand times—and yet a thousand-and-first time arises. Because something unknown remains behind.

Camus is right: if there is no mystery, suicide is the only philosophical problem. Our era—the most knowledgeable, the most suicidal, the most ego-filled. Hence we say: there is no God, no religion, no mystery.

Lao Tzu says: whoever thins the ego and densifies mystery—for him the subtle and the miraculous…

Take note of these two words: subtle and miraculous. By “subtle” we ordinarily mean less gross. We say: the wall is gross, air is subtle. But air too is gross; only less so. The difference between wall and air is not qualitative but quantitative. Even walls of air can be built; air can knock you down harder than a wall ever could. When strong winds blow you fall forward not because the air from behind pushes you, but because the air in front has been displaced, leaving a void into which you fall.

So what do we call subtle? All our subtle is only a form of gross. When Lao Tzu uses the word “subtle,” he means that which in no way comes within the grasp of the senses. Subtle means: beyond the senses. Air is not seen by the eye, but the hand feels it—so it is not subtle. Subtle means: beyond the grasp of the senses, yet known.

Have you known anything beyond the senses? Whatever you know is through the senses—seen by eyes, heard by ears, smelled by nose, touched by hand. In your experience there is no experience of the subtle—unless we define thus: whatever is known through the senses is gross; what is known without the senses and yet known—that is subtle. Otherwise, we only alter the measure of the senses: a loud sound we call gross; a very fine and soft one we call subtle—but both are caught by the ear. Even if the ear cannot, a radio can; still it is gross—only a larger ear. Television catches pictures passing through here; our eye does not; still it is gross—only a keener eye.

Thus, whatever comes within the grasp of the senses—or, and here I add what the ancients did not add, whatever comes within the grasp of instruments made by the senses—remains gross. For instruments made by the senses are only extensions of the senses; our telescope is an extension of the eye; the radar is the eye’s extension; the gun is the hand’s extended stone; the knife and sword are our nails extended. Whatever these extensions grasp is gross.

Subtle is that which does not come into the grasp of the senses, and yet is grasped. Note: if it is not grasped at all, we cannot know it; so grasped it must be—but not by any sense. Immediate—no mediator in between. If I see you without eyes, hear you without ears, touch you without hands—that is the subtle. No hand in between, no instrument, none whatsoever; with nothing in between, if my consciousness directly receives experience, that experience is subtle.

Lao Tzu says: when the sense of mystery becomes dense, the gateway to the subtle opens.

With the density of mystery, as the ego falls, we no longer need the senses. A very amusing fact: when the ego falls, we do not need the senses. In fact, it is the ego that works through the senses. If the ego falls, the senses are unnecessary. Non-sensory experiences begin; and experiences without the senses are called subtle.

Such experiences sometimes flash upon you too. In certain moments, in certain situations, your ego thins; such experiences flash—unawares. Then the ego thickens again; the experience is lost. However hard you try to understand, you cannot; the ego cannot. You have heard sounds which later you yourself denied: “No, I could not have heard—they were impossible; no one was there!” You have seen forms at times which later you denied: “How could I have seen? No one was there!” You have come close, many times—unawares—to such possibilities, which later you yourself cannot believe—because when the ego thickens, it says: “How could this be? How could it be without the senses?”

A friend of mine—his father passed away. On the day he died, my friend, a poet, took the evening bus to another town to attend a poetry gathering. His father was fine, well. On the way, sunk in his poetic world—composing. When one goes deep into poetry, the ego thins; he becomes a child again—talking to butterflies and flowers, to birds; streams begin to speak, trees begin to converse, messages appear in clouds. The ego thins.

Sunk in poetry, suddenly at nine at night, a sadness seized him. Without any reason. Moments before—joy, songs flowing. Suddenly, like a dark cloud settled above. No cause—hence more anxiety. The current of verse broke; the mind sank into deep sorrow. Till midnight, when he reached the other town, his state remained. He lay down but could not sleep. At two in the night, someone knocked and called, “Munna!” He was startled; only his father called him that. He opened the door: wind sighed into the room; night was dark; no one anywhere; the inn asleep; the street below empty; he was on the second floor; no one could have come. He closed the door—“Some trick of mind.” Lay down again. Five or seven minutes later, again the knock, again the utterly familiar voice; and this time he was alert. No one but his father’s voice. He opened—again no one; the wind sighed in. He could not sleep; became restless. At three he telephoned home. His father had died. At exactly two his breath broke—and at exactly two came the first knock and the word “Munna.” Still he kept denying. He denies even now: “I do not accept it was father—some mistake, some coincidence.” A “thinking” man—so even now he says, “Though it happened, still I do not believe.”

Such glimpses of the subtle peep into all our lives. We ourselves deny them. But when the sense of mystery becomes dense, the subtle does not peep—we leap into it. Then we live in the subtle; then this happens around the clock, on every side.

Lao Tzu says: the gateway of the subtle opens—and of the miraculous; the miraculous, the wonderful.

Understand “miracle” too. In the world, what we ordinarily call miracle—there is something in it; hence we call it miracle, though we do not know what.

When do you call something a miracle? A man is dead; Jesus places his hand on him and he lives. We say: a miracle. A man is ill; he places his head at the feet of someone and is healed—we say miracle. Buddha passes by a tree; the tree is dry; new shoots appear—we say miracle. But why? The only reason in our minds is: wherever an event occurs outside cause-and-effect, there is miracle. Every tree sprouts—but in season, by law, with cause. A dry tree, leafless for years, with no cause—now shoots appear by Buddha’s passing; and Buddha’s passing is not a cause for sprouts. No relation. What relation between Jesus’ hand and a corpse rising? None. If a man is cured by medicine, we say: no miracle; because medicine is the cause and curing is the effect. But if someone places his head at a foot and is cured, there is no causal chain for us—so miracle.

But even there, cause-and-effect may be present. Some day science will show that many things we call miracles are not. If someone places his head at my feet and is helped, it may be that he was never physically ill, only stricken with belief—psychosomatic; and if with great trust he touches, the very belief that solidified the illness melts. It appears miraculous, but it is not. There is no miracle—cause-and-effect is at work. A belief-born illness is cut by belief. My foot did nothing; it could do nothing.

Even if a corpse comes to life, still it need not be miracle. Today or tomorrow we might find the reason. If illness can be mental, why not death? Many do not die of bodily disease; intelligent people often die of mental shocks. If a firm conviction arises—“I am dying, I am dead”—you will die; the body was fine. Your inner consciousness shrank. Jesus’ touch can expand that shrunken awareness. His hand has such magnetism that the suppressed consciousness rises to the surface.

This magnetism—bio-electricity—has its own science, its own causes and effects. So even then cause-and-effect can be found. We call it miracle only because we do not know the chain.

The miracle Lao Tzu speaks of is far different. It is where ego ends completely. When ego ends, a strange event happens: the distinction we saw between cause and effect disappears. The effect is the cause; the cause is the effect. The seed is the tree; the tree is the seed. In that state one can see seed and tree simultaneously. That is the miracle.

Understand—this is subtle. We see the seed once, but at that very moment we cannot see the tree. To see the tree we must wait twenty years; and then the seed is gone. We see a child born—we cannot see the old man; for that we must wait seventy years; and then the child is lost. We cannot see both together.

Miracle, says Lao Tzu, is this: in the realm of deep mystery, when the ego is zero, the old is visible in the child; the child in the old; death in birth; the whole tree in the seed. Flowers that have not yet blossomed are seen in bloom. That which is not yet, appears to be; that which has been, appears present. Future and past vanish; one moment remains—the eternity of the moment; all existence stands in the timeless now.

So when Krishna says to Arjuna: “Those whom you think you will kill—I see them dead already. They are already dead, Arjuna. They only appear standing because you do not see the future”—that is miracle.

Miracle means: where cause and effect are no longer separate. They are not separate anyway—the error lies in our way of seeing. Our way is like peeping through a small hole in the wall: first person A appears; then as the eye moves, A disappears and B appears; then C; and if my neck cannot turn, I will conclude: A ended, B ended, now C appears—while D remains unseen. But if the wall dissolves and I see the whole room at once—A, B, C, D all together—that is miracle. If I can see the universe being born and dissolving at once—that is miracle.

Lao Tzu says: the one who descends densely into mystery—gates of the subtle open, and ultimately the gate of miracle. He sees the world being created and destroyed together; sees Paramatma creating and dissolving the world together.

But this is difficult to understand—and it cannot be explained; therefore its name is miracle. Those things we call miracles are not related to miracle; they can be explained, discovered. Here also we say: we cannot find cause-and-effect. In the real miracle, cause-and-effect cannot be found—because cause and effect are present together.

Recently, in a laboratory at Oxford University, a surprising event occurred that makes this easier to see. Some scientists were photographing a bud. The picture that came was not of the bud, but of the flower. The film was the most sensitive available. Before the camera there was only a bud; inside the image was the flower. Naturally they thought an error had occurred—perhaps prior exposure, stray radiation, a chemical mix-up. They kept the photograph. Later, when the bud opened and they took other pictures, they were astonished—the later pictures were the same as the earlier one. The experiment has not been repeated yet, but the scientist has gained a deep conviction that someday we will make films so sensitive that when a child is born we can take the picture of his old age. For what will be, in the subtle realm already is. The whole process of becoming has begun in the subtle; only the news takes time to reach us. Our senses take time; if we could grasp without senses, perhaps we would grasp now.

Perhaps the time-gap between bud and blossom is not between the bud and the flower at all; it is between our senses and the flower. If our senses step aside, we can see the flower in the bud. Then miracle happens. Entry into that world of miracle is the aim of the science of religion.

Lao Tzu, in this small sutra, has said very much. But all this is a code. If you read it straight, nothing will be found. Unwrap it—peel off each word’s layer—then perhaps a little touch of Lao Tzu’s soul is felt.

Let this be enough for today; we shall speak tomorrow.