Tao Upanishad #52

Lao Tzu is not in favor of giving a name to the supreme mystery of life. The moment we name it, we begin to be deprived of it. Naming is a way to avoid it, not to know it. Yet we all go on thinking: once we have given it a name, we have known it. It is necessary to understand the reasons behind this.
We take naming to be knowledge throughout our lives. A child looks at the animal standing before him and asks, what is it? We say, a cow. Or we say, a dog; or, a horse. And the child learns a name. He will take this learning to be knowing. Our so‑called knowledge is nothing but learned names. We do not know the cow, we do not know the horse. We know names; we know how to stick labels. And the man who can recognize the greatest number of labels is considered the greatest knower.
This knowing of names is quite a delightful illusion. Because neither does the cow say her name is cow, nor does the horse declare that his name is horse. We ourselves gave these names—and then, becoming familiar with the labels we made, we assume we are knowledgeable. That which is, that naked existence—remains unfamiliar, remains unknown.
Abraham Maslow has written a memoir. He writes that in the university where he studied there was a renowned professor. He was so obsessively fond of naming and classifying everything that even old newspapers he would file under dates and labels. If a shaving blade went dull, he would keep it carefully with a label: which date he began it, which date it went bad. Maslow writes, one day he went to that professor’s house; he lifted the piano lid, and inside, in big letters, was written—PIANO.
This professor appears mad to us. But if he is mad, we too are mad—a little. He went to the last limit. Writing chair on the chair and door on the door seems crazy to us. But what else is our knowledge? Our whole knowledge is nomenclature, labeling. And the joke is: the professor wrote piano on the piano, door on the door, chair on the chair—we have written God on God as well. Atman, moksha, heaven, hell. The moment we name, an illusion is created that we know.
When I say moksha, a little tickle arises within you—you feel you know. The name is familiar. When I say God, your heart gives a throb and you feel you know. The name is familiar. But do you know God? Do you know moksha? Do you know the cow? Do you know the horse? You know names. And man takes language to be metaphysics. He takes the collection of names to be the treasure of knowledge.
Therefore Lao Tzu is strongly against naming. He gives no names anywhere. He says: that which can be named will not be the Truth. Whatever can be labeled will not be the Truth.
In fact we stick labels precisely to escape the trouble and pilgrimage of knowing. With a label we become reassured; we relax. No more worry. We ask a man: what is your name? What is your caste? What is your religion? Which village are you from? What nation are you a citizen of? Having collected these bits, we feel assured—we have known the man.
A man is such an immense event! And we gather four labels—Hindu, his name is Ram, citizen of Hindustan—and the information is complete. And a man is such an ocean! His shores are hard to find. Our whole acquaintance is fabricated out of the deception of naming.
Hence Lao Tzu says: I do not give any name to the Supreme Truth. I do not call it God, I do not call it moksha. Because the moment I give it a name, you will start believing you know.
And this is the greatest difficulty before those like Lao Tzu, Krishna or Buddha—how to help you realize that you know nothing at all. You are assured in your knowledge. You are utterly convinced of it. For Lao Tzu the first requirement is to free you from your knowledge, to make you see that you know nothing. Whatever is worth knowing still lies unknown. And whatsoever you do know is rubbish. You wrote piano on the piano and door on the door—just our given names. And gathering these labels we become knowledgeable. The one who knows more labels is taken to be the greater sage.
In the presence of the Sadguru the first task is to awaken a man to his ignorance. Lao Tzu has found the simplest device: he snatches away your names. He makes you see that what you think you know—you do not. It is deception. If all your names are taken away, all your information is stripped, then you will realize that your life is passing without knowing. Someone has read the Gita, someone the Koran, someone the Ramayana, someone the Upanishads. That has become their knowing. What have you done? You have learned a few words. By repeating the words again and again you have created the illusion that you also know that to which they point. You do not know it at all.
Even a blind man hears the word light again and again. He comes to know the word. In Braille too he can run his fingers and read “light.” He can read definitions, all that has been discovered about light. Then the blind man can easily fall into the delusion that he knows what light is. But all his information is futile—because his eyes have never been touched by light; because no ray has reached his heart. His information is not only futile, it is dangerous—he may even begin to think: if I know everything about light, how can I be blind? How could a blind man ever know light!
This is our ailment too. We are utterly blind in relation to the Supreme Truth. But words we have by heart. A country like India is even more unfortunate—because the older a culture, the heavier its burden of words; the longer a people’s journey, the more knowledge accumulates—and becomes its death, a noose around its neck.
Old races die crushed under their knowledge. New races suffer from ignorance; old races suffer from knowledge. Children go astray because of ignorance; the old go astray because of knowledge. The child’s whole trouble is he knows no paths—so he strays. The old man’s trouble is he knows all the paths without having walked any—so he strays. Children can be forgiven; the old—there is no way to forgive. Ignorance can be forgiven; false knowledge cannot. The greatest crime a man can commit against himself is: remaining ignorant while living under the illusion of knowledge.
In this land we have pondered deeply over it. We have three words: one is jnana—knowledge; one is ajnana—ignorance. But along with ajnana we use yet another word—avidya. And the strange thing is: what we have called avidya is what people commonly take to be knowledge. Avidya does not mean ignorance. It means a kind of knowing that is not knowledge at all—only the deception of knowledge. It creates only delusion…
Just as we give a child a wooden nipple to suck. He is deceived—he feels he is sucking the mother’s breast—but no nourishment comes. Yes, his crying may stop, and he may even deny his hunger. Because when the child sees a breast in his mouth and that he is sucking milk, he deceives his hunger, closes his eyes, relaxes and sleeps. We are almost in the same state. That which we do not know—we take it that we know. Then our hunger for Truth dies—or hides, is suppressed. And like small children we go on sleeping, taking false knowledge to be nourishment.
Therefore Lao Tzu’s first and deepest blow is against the name. He says: no name belongs to Truth.
But then a difficulty arises. To discuss it, to indicate toward it, some name must be given. Otherwise, of what will we speak? Toward what will we point? It is difficult even to say: we shall not name it. One can ask: whom? Whom will you not name?
So Lao Tzu chooses a word of the Chinese language which is the least like a name—Tao. If we translate Tao into our language, the Vedas have a word—Rta—that alone can render it. Or in the sense in which Buddha uses the word Dhamma—that could translate it. But the moment we hear Dhamma or Dharma, thoughts arise—Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Jainism. Buddha used Dhamma in the sense of the Eternal Law—in the sense in which the Vedas used Rta. Rta means the law by which all is governed.
Lao Tzu says: I call it Tao—the very nature of this cosmos, the hidden essence within existence.
Yet this is a name given out of compulsion. No one should think that by understanding the word Tao one has understood Tao. By understanding the term Dhamma, do not think you have known Dharma. By committing the word Rta to memory, do not imagine you have known that Eternal Law toward which the word only points.
Pointers are for leaving, not for clinging. Pointers are to take you somewhere, not to stop you. One should move past the sign, not clutch it. A milestone is set on the road; an arrow marks that the goal lies ahead. One is not to stop at the milestone. It is precisely so that no one may mistake it for the destination. The arrow is for beyond. All words are milestones. All their arrows point toward Truth. But we have completely forgotten the arrows. We sit clinging to the words, resting near them. The milestone begins to look like the destination.
There are reasons for this—reasons of self‑deception. The journey is arduous; dreaming is easy. To take a milestone as the goal brings great comfort. To travel beyond it demands effort. For thousands of years we go on taking false words as truth and become so habituated that we forget Truth might be otherwise. Understand this sutra.
‘Before heaven and earth came into being everything was filled with mist: silent, separate, alone, unchanging, eternal, revolving ceaselessly, capable of being the mother of all things!’
Those acquainted with modern science will immediately hear an echo in this sutra. Then it goes far deeper than the common religions. Christianity says God created the world on a particular day. Islam believes almost the same. The latest findings of physics say the universe was never created; at most we can say: before the earth, the whole existed as a mist. The creation arose out of the nebulous—a dense mist.
The one who uses the word mist for it—Lao Tzu—may be the first man in human history. Today science says: there was a time when the earth was like a cloud before the rain gathers, the sky filled with vapor; then water falls, water freezes, becomes ice. So too all matter was once a mist.
Science says each element has three states: solid; liquid; gaseous, vaporous. Stone too can become liquid at a certain temperature. And stone at a certain temperature becomes gas, steam. We know only water-clouds; but every thing can become a cloud. There can be stone-clouds. Because every element has three states. For stone to become a cloud, very high temperatures are needed—like on the sun. If we bring the earth nearer and nearer to the sun, its elements will vaporize. Very near the sun the earth will remain only as a ball of mist. Its solidity will be lost, its hardness gone; all will become vapor.
Lao Tzu says: before all creation, all was filled with mist.
He must have had an intuitive grasp of the latest discoveries. If today one looks in the ancient world for words closest to science, one finds Lao Tzu.
Lao Tzu says: there was something nebulous.
Something like a mist. That mist was never born and it will never end. When the mist condenses, earths are formed. When the mist becomes mist again, earths dissolve. But the primal mist is never created, never destroyed. Hence what we call creation and dissolution are not beginnings and endings, but transformations. When a drop of water, touched by fire, becomes steam, we think it is destroyed. It is not destroyed at all—it only becomes steam; and today or tomorrow it will again become water. Becoming steam is not destruction, only a change of form.
According to Lao Tzu, the existence and non‑existence of the world are like a drop turning into steam. The fundamental that lies between both is never destroyed. When the drop is visible, we think it is. In the flame it becomes steam and disappears—we think it is not. The world too, when solid, appears to be; we call this creation. When it becomes subtle, vaporous, we call it dissolution. But the world is never destroyed, never created.
Science concurs: we cannot destroy even a grain of sand. Matter is indestructible. Nor can we create a grain of sand. When science says we cannot create, it means we cannot create out of nothing; we can put things together, but the things must pre‑exist. When science says we cannot destroy, it does not mean we cannot make things vanish—we can. Sand may disappear; but something else will remain. We cannot reduce anything to zero, nor bring anything forth out of zero. Whatever is, was in some form; whatever is, will remain in some form. In this universe all is indestructible. Destruction is impossible—and therefore creation too.
Hence Lao Tzu does not admit a Creator. He does not say there is a God who makes all. The very notion of making is childish. Because of this notion, the theists have been in trouble—atheists have dismantled their argument point by point. There is no juice in it. The theist’s plea—everything made must have a maker, so the universe too must have a Maker—has always seemed laughable to the atheist, and rightly so. If one is a theist for this reason and thinks he has a proof, he will land in dilemmas. If he doesn’t think, well and good; if he thinks—trouble will begin.
The first trouble: even God cannot make out of nothing. Creation from zero is impossible. Even if God makes, at most he can arrange; he cannot create. The stuff must be there. We say a potter makes a pot. He makes it because a pot is not creation—only a change of the clay’s shape. The clay exists. Those who say God makes the world as a potter makes a pot, for them God is not a Creator, only an arranger—a sculptor. But stone must be there first. Only if God could produce from zero would there be creation. But the very idea of creating from nothing is impossible.
Only dreams can be produced from nothing. Hence Shankara is right: if God is a maker, then the world is maya, not real. Understand a little. If God is a maker, then the pot he has made is not a real pot—only a dream-pot.
Yes, dreams can arise out of nothing. At night you can create many things in a dream—no material is needed. Therefore those who believe God made the world have no alternative but to follow Shankara: the world is false.
But then grave difficulties arise. If we take the world to be false, how can its maker be true? The whole argument rested on the world being and therefore requiring a maker; then we accepted God. But having accepted God, we are forced to say: the world must be dreamlike, maya—because only dreams can arise from nothing. If the world is maya, and only because of the world we admitted the maker, then the maker too becomes false, dreamlike.
Therefore Shankara had to take a second step. He is one of the most courageous thinkers. The first step: the world is maya, illusory, mithya. The next, which is even bolder: God too is maya; he is part of maya. Only when one goes beyond God does one attain Brahman. One must go beyond the world—and beyond God too—to realize Brahman.
Lao Tzu would say: why carry what you must eventually go beyond? There is no substance in such wrangling. He says: the world is eternal. Hence he does not bring a creator in between. This eternal existence moves by its own law. The name of that law is Tao.
We have great difficulty here. Because we impose human language everywhere. But science frees things from man; slowly things escape man and come under laws.
Understand: a small child falls and immediately scolds the ground; if he bumps into a chair, he says “naughty,” the chair is wicked. If his mother slaps the chair twice, he is pleased—the account settled. The chair misbehaved; it was answered. The child cannot think that the chair has no intention to be wicked, no person inside it. If the ground makes him fall and hurts his leg, he cannot accept Newton’s law of gravitation. He asks: gravitation—meaning who is hidden inside pulling me down? The child needs a person; then he is reassured. He needs a someone who pushed him—an enemy sitting there.
Those who think in the child’s language will find it hard to grasp law. But science—whether of matter or of Dharma—does not think in a personal language; it thinks in impersonal laws. The ground does not want to make you fall. It has no will. You walk wrongly—you fall. The earth is merely a law, a pull, a rule of attraction. Walk according to the rule—nothing will happen. Walk against it—you fall. The ground has no intention; it does not even know that you fell. Pray to the ground as much as you like—if you walk wrongly, gravitation will show no mercy. You will fall.
Religion has two forms. One is childish. Those with a child‑mind take God to be a person sitting in the sky, checking whether you drink water at night or whether you lie—keeping accounts, ledgers in hand.
By now He would have gone mad if He were keeping accounts of all your antics. One man goes mad under the weight of his own misdeeds. What would be God’s fate? God is not a person. But we treat Him as one—so we fold hands and pray: have mercy on me, take care of me! Whom are you addressing? Why?
It is the same logic as the child’s: when he gets hurt by a chair, he thinks the chair is mischievous, wicked; the other chair that never made him fall is saintly. The door that scratched him is naughty. When we extend this child’s language to the cosmos, childish religions are born. Then if God gets me a job, I am pleased; if He does not, I am angry.
A man came and said: I gave three days’ time. My wife was ill; I went to the temple and told God, I put everything on the line. If she is not well in three days, I will understand there is no God. If she recovers, I will be your devotee forever. She recovered—he became a lifelong devotee. I told him: Don’t do this again. Coincidence will not always favor you. Once is enough. Now protect your theism; don’t commit this mistake again—otherwise your theism will be in the mud.
But the human mind is such: even for his wife’s illness he wants God to do something; he imagines that by saying, I will stop believing in you, he is issuing a threat; and also flattering—“I will worship you, offer flowers”—as if all flowers were not already His. He even suggests political wisdom: be sensible, or you will lose one vote—like God’s being depends on democratic ballots. He says he will change parties in three days!
Our theism is like this—conditional. Remember: a theism tied to conditions is childish; it has not matured. Understanding has not arisen; we are still relating to the world like children.
Lao Tzu speaks of a mature religion. There God is not a person—He is a law. This difference is crucial: when God becomes law, prayer is not valuable—conduct is. When God is a person, conduct is not important—prayer is. With a person, one can coax, anger, please. But when God is a law, all this is futile—no coaxing, no placating, no threatening, no frightening. Nothing can be done.
Understand the difference. So long as God is a person, our effort is to change God. When one says: my wife is ill—heal her—he is saying: change your decision, undo your intent to keep my wife ill. One says: I am dying—save me; I am poor—make me rich. He is saying: God, change yourself; your decisions are wrong; correct them. So long as one takes God as a person, one keeps trying to change Him. Our prayers, worship, devotions, fasts—all are efforts to change God.
Remember: there is no way to change God. And a God who can be changed by men is not worth trusting.
The day God becomes law, everything is reversed: then there is no path except to change oneself. If God is a law, I must change myself—because a law neither forgives nor favors. It is impersonal. Pray as much as you like—no result. Only conduct bears fruit. Devotions and fasts—no result. Beg as you will, cry as you will—no solution comes. Law does not listen; law does not take words. Law recognizes conduct—the inner transformation of your being. I may plead with the earth: let me run crookedly—do not break my leg. It will make no difference. I must change myself.
Yes, I can change myself so much that even gravitation cannot hurt me. For gravitation is not there to hurt or to lift—it is an impersonal rule. If between that rule and myself I create harmony—if between the law and me a certain rhythm comes, no enmity, no opposition remains; if the law and I become one; my separate authority ceases, the law’s separate authority ceases; we merge—then the law does not bring suffering; it begins to shower bliss.
The world hurts us because we are against the law. Life becomes hell because we are against the law. Life becomes heaven when we are in accord with the law. And life becomes moksha when we are one with the law. Understand the difference: when we are against it—life is hell. Whatever we do brings pain, for it is not aligned with law. However much we try, we cannot succeed—there is no success against the law.
People think science has achieved great success. Do you know? Its success is because it has learned to move in accord with nature’s laws. There is no victory over nature—this is a mistaken notion. The victory is in understanding. Without understanding, alignment is hard; with understanding, alignment becomes easy. All scientific inquiry is to understand nature’s law.
All religious inquiry is toward the Supreme Law—not only of nature, but of the innermost of human consciousness—and to move in accord with it. Its name is Rta; its name is Tao. Whoever moves against it suffers. Therefore, whenever you suffer—do not blame God, destiny, others. All that is delusion. Do not even blame yourself—blaming yourself solves nothing. Some people even begin to enjoy self‑blame; they relish the talk of their own sinfulness. Do not blame anyone.
In this land we have not thought as Christianity has. In the language of Christianity, sin and crime are central. It says: your mistakes are your sins. Hindu insight says: they are your ignorance, not your sin. This is a delightful and profound difference. Ignorance means: you do not know what you are doing—hence you suffer. Sin would mean: you know and yet you do it. A sinner can be knowledgeable. To call the ignorant a sinner is not right. What sin is there in not knowing? If I do not know the way and I go astray—I am not a sinner, not a criminal. There is no other way—I will go astray. I become a sinner only the day I know the way and still swerve.
But Hindu insight says: no one can sin knowingly. One cannot knowingly put one’s hand into fire. A small child does—because he does not know. But the child is not a sinner. This does not mean that if you put your hand into fire in ignorance, the fire will not burn. It will. But that suffering is the suffering of ignorance.
Therefore when sorrow comes to your life—do not blame God, fate, others, or yourself. Understand only this: somewhere you have moved against the law. There is no cause to blame the law; it does not command you to move against it. There is no cause to blame yourself—you did not know, so you moved wrongly.
By blaming we miss the point. The point is simply this: in the exact measure that we oppose the law, sorrow thickens. If sorrow goes on increasing, know that you are moving contrary to it, farther away. When a glimpse of happiness comes, do not think it is God’s grace; do not think you are meritorious. Understand only this: knowingly or unknowingly you have come nearer, into accord with the law. A breeze of joy has surrounded you…
Hence a strange thing happens: whenever a man becomes aware he is happy, sorrow begins. Why? Because the moment he knows he is happy, he does not enquire where he has become aligned with the law; he thinks, I am fortunate—no one as fortunate as I. He starts off in a wrong direction. He thinks, I am very intelligent, that is why happiness has come. Or he thinks: since I have attained this happiness, I can have it again whenever I wish. Then troubles begin. It is like we are blind and running, and suddenly our hand touches a door and a gust of fresh air brushes us—when we happen to come near the law, knowingly or unknowingly, we feel joy. If your joy keeps increasing, know you are coming closer to the law.
But closeness is still a kind of distance; therefore even happiness has sorrow mixed within it. Until we become one with the law, bliss does not happen. However near, a distance remains. Hence every happiness turns into sorrow after a while; we become habituated. The first cool gust felt like a shower of freshness, as if we were bathed, as if we had entered a supreme experience. Then we stand by the window, get used to it—and we forget. Happiness turns soon into unhappiness. Only bliss never changes—because not even the slightest distance remains. There is only unity. Moksha, nirvana, Tao—these are names for that oneness.
Lao Tzu says: when nothing was—meaning nothing was manifest, nothing expressed—everything was filled with mist. Silence. Because words too are a manifestation. Words too have shape; they are solid.
Understand this a little. Just as things have three states, words too have three states. One state is when we speak. Yet even in speech, some words are liquid. When we feel sweetness in a word, poetry in it, beauty flowering in it—that word is liquid.
Poetry is liquidity. The difference between prose and poetry is the difference between solid and liquid. Prose is solid—like frozen ice. Poetry is liquid—like melted ice flowing. Hence science cannot be written in poetry; science demands boundaries—solid, clear definitions. Love letters can be written in poetry; mathematics cannot. Mathematics demands solid words; poetry is fluid.
Someone asked Dante the meaning of a song he had written. Dante said: when I wrote it, two people knew its meaning—God and I. Now only God knows; I no longer know.
Even the poet does not know the full meaning of what he writes. If he does, the poet is small; then poetry is little and rhyme much. If real poetry is born, it is fluid, without boundaries. It can have many meanings; meaning is not restricted.
Hence the Vedas and the Upanishads allow countless meanings, and still they are not exhausted—because they are poetry, fluid. Thousands of commentaries can be written on the Gita—have been written—and yet never will the day come when we say: enough; no more commentary is needed. Because the Gita is poetry, not a book of mathematics. It is liquid, unbounded; definitions cannot bind it.
All ancient languages are poetic—Arabic, Greek, Sanskrit. In them a single word has ten, twelve, fifteen meanings. This gives great play. One mantra of the Vedas can have fifty meanings—none right or wrong. The confusion begins when someone insists the other’s meaning is false. It is a poetic line—fluid.
Thus Sri Aurobindo could draw from them meanings like Einstein’s. Before Einstein such meanings could not be drawn; now they can. For example the Vedas say: the sun has seven asva—horses. In Sanskrit, asva has many meanings; it can mean ray and also horse. Painters yoked seven horses to the sun’s chariot. Now we can say: these are not horses, they are seven colors; the sun ray has seven colors. Modern physics confirms this. There is no problem—because asva means both ray and horse.
Old languages are poetic; new languages are prosaic—more solid. Therefore to write science in Sanskrit is difficult; and to write poetry in Esperanto is difficult—because Esperanto is the latest man‑made tongue, almost like mathematics. In it, what is said has only that meaning. If a word has only one meaning, poetry struggles to be born. Poetry is born when words can mean much more than they say.
When we speak in love, words become liquid. Have you noticed—if two young people fall in love, they begin to speak baby‑language again. The language of lovers is childlike. Children’s language is more fluid; love needs liquid words. So if a lover calls his beloved “baby,” it is not without reason—they have both become children.
But there is a third state of language—where both prose and poetry are lost—the gaseous state, where words become vapor. Its name is silence. Silence too is a state of the word.
The solid can be spoken. In anger words are the most solid. Abuse is heavy; it has weight. We say: he used a heavy curse. Solid—so it pierces and wounds like a stone. Words spoken in love are liquid; their touch is not stone‑like; it is like a shower of flowers from above.
Silence is the third state—where words become steam and vanish into the mist.
So Lao Tzu says: that which was—was mist; silence. Separate, alone; no other. Unchanging; eternal; revolving upon itself; capable of being the mother of all things.
Note this difference. Those who believe God made the world, always speak of God the Father. Lao Tzu says—Mother! Not father. That mist was capable of becoming the mother of the whole.
To think of God as father suggests many things. First: the father’s relation to the child’s birth is negligible. The father gives the child from afar—not from within. In the child’s growth and formation, his hand is almost absent. Only at the start is his hand there—like the battery in your car, the starter. Once the engine runs, it has no more use.
So if God is a father, having made the world He will step aside. But if God is a mother, the world is her womb. If God is father, creation is an act—atomic. If God is mother, creation is an eternity—eternal.
So Lao Tzu says: that mist—silent, alone, unchanging, revolving in itself—was capable of being the mother of all—everything could be born from it. Everything is possible out of it.
Many times there has been tension between these two metaphors. Some have thought the Ultimate as Mother, some as Father. But those who have gone deepest have always thought of it as Mother.
For a mother, the birth of a child is a great affair—her very blood, her very flesh. The child is a part of her. Her breath enters him; her longings and dreams move in his blood; her heartbeat beats within him. The relation of mother and child is inner, profound.
The father is like a comet—he comes and goes. Life can do without a father; without a mother it cannot. Perhaps in the future, as science develops, the father may become unnecessary—biologically what he does can be done by an injection. The father is a social institution, not natural. The mother is natural—not an institution. The father is an institution we created; the mother is.
Lao Tzu says: “Capable of being the mother.”
Every word of his is worth pondering—because he is very frugal with words, telegraphic. If he can cut one word, he will. He wants to say the least. So when he says “capable of being the mother,” he says much. He says: the existence and the expression of the world are one, not two. Paramatma is not sitting far away. That Supreme Truth, that Supreme Law, is interwoven in the world—within your very bones—as your mother is woven into your bones, your blood, your fat. That Supreme Law is woven into every hair of your being. He is not standing afar like a father.
And about the father there can always be doubt; only the mother is beyond doubt. Hence fathers have always remained suspicious whether they are truly the father of their sons. Therefore they have made vast arrangements to remove doubt: so much jealousy, so many rules, so much family, so much bondage, such a net on the woman—its root cause is this: the father is doubtful. He never feels sure the son is his. Only through enormous arrangements does he gain some confidence.
Hence: marry a virgin—that is to ensure certainty. We do not worry whether the boy is a virgin; if he is somewhat boyish, it is hard to remain a virgin. But the girl must be virgin. If men wander here and there, we say: men are men. But we are harsh on women. The cause is simple: man cannot be assured without it; a seed of suspicion always remains in him.
Only the mother is without doubt—she knows the child is hers. There can be no doubt there.
Those who have thought of God as father created a great distance. God became an institution—far. As mother, God is not an institution; He is a natural order—near.
Lao Tzu says: that mist was capable of being the mother.
Everything can be born of it. It is not a maker; it is mother. All can arise from it—as a child arises from the mother. It is not a potter making pots; it is like the mother—out of whose womb everything is born, everything is possible.
“I do not know its name.”
Lao Tzu says: I do not know its name. He does not merely say it cannot be spoken—he says: I do not know its name. Many have said it cannot be said. But that leaves the impression they know, but cannot speak—the old example of the dumb man and jaggery: the dumb cannot say how sweet it is, but he knows. We have said: the sages know, but cannot say—language is inadequate.
Lao Tzu is more courageous: I do not know its name. Its very name is unknown to me—because it has no name. It is not merely a difficulty of expression; existence itself is nameless.
Bodhidharma went to China—an unparalleled man. Among the few incomparable men India has given birth to, Bodhidharma is one. He went fourteen centuries ago. The emperor welcomed him, with great hope in his heart—such a great sage was coming; much could happen. Immediately the emperor asked: I have built so many temples and monasteries—what merit will I earn? Bodhidharma said: Nothing.
The emperor was startled. Sannyasins don’t usually speak like this; if they did, they could not survive. They say: perform such virtue—thousandfold will be the reward. The thousandfold reward is after death; the virtue accrues to the priest now. About the after‑death, nothing is decided. If priests spoke like Bodhidharma, their business would collapse—priestcraft depends on exploiting your greed. “Drop a coin in Ganga—millions will be yours there”—for the lure of millions, the man drops a coin; the coin comes to the priest; whether the millions arrive or not—that the man will find out.
Before Bodhidharma, other Buddhist monks had come to China; they advised the emperor to build monasteries, images of Buddha—immense merit will be yours; heaven will be yours. Bodhidharma says: nothing. The emperor asked again, thinking he must have been misunderstood: I have done such holy acts—what merit? Bodhidharma said: No act is holy. The emperor asked: What is Dharma then? Bodhidharma said: Ask and get an answer—such Dharma is not. Live—and you can attain.
The emperor thought this was too much. He was not an ordinary man; his ego was being hurt again and again. Thousands were gathered; Bodhidharma’s replies made them smile; the emperor began to feel humiliated. He said: Leave all this. If you know neither this nor that—then who are you? Bodhidharma said: I don’t know. We would think he should have said: I am Atman, I am Brahman. He said: I don’t know.
The emperor said: If you know nothing, what can you teach us? And he left.
Bodhidharma’s disciples said: What have you done? You answered in such a way that he was disheartened.
Bodhidharma said: Thinking he is an emperor, I gave the highest answers—the ultimate ones—thinking he would be cultured. He turned out to be uncultured. Had I known, I would have said: my name is Bodhidharma. Where was the difficulty? Taking him to be cultured, I gave the ultimate answer—this is the last answer.
Lao Tzu says: “I do not know its name; I call it Tao.”
This is not its name; it is a name I use.
When a child is born in your house, he has no name. You give him one. If there is understanding, one should say: I call him Munna. It is not his name. We do not know his name. But how else to call? So we have given this name—a, b, c. And the child too should be told this is not his name—only an arrangement to call him. A makeshift device. Our ignorance is deep—we know no name. Hence we have kept this name. The child should know it too.
But even the parents forget that the name is only for calling. Then the child forgets. When someone abuses your name, you feel you have been abused. If you remembered it is only a device for calling, you would say: my name has been abused—what has that to do with me? If someone praises your name, you would say: my name is being praised—it has no relation with me. I am nameless—this is a makeshift. If one can remember so much about one’s name, that remembrance itself becomes meditation.
But it is difficult. Even for a moment to keep it in mind is hard; one slips.
Hui Hai once went to his Master. The Master told him: the first sutra I give you—remember, you are not your name. He said: I accept. I will remember. Immediately the Master shouted: Hui Hai! And he said: Yes! The Master said: How will you remember? At least hold back your “yes” for a breath!
So will our forgetfulness overpower us. However much we tell ourselves that the abuse is of our name, it will hurt within; there will be a wound in the heart, not in the name. The arrow will enter within, not into the name.
Lao Tzu says: “I do not know its name; I call it Tao. If I am forced to give it a name, I shall call it Great.”
Mahat is the word Sankhya used in India. Mahat means: that which is so great that we cannot mark its limit. Great means: that which goes on expanding—without boundary.
“Greatness means the capacity to expand in space.”
Here too there is a deep kinship with science. Today science says the universe is not static; it is expanding. This thought has shaken the foundations of physics. However large the universe, our mind still wants a boundary somewhere—no matter how far. But the mind cannot conceive boundarylessness; it will go on saying: further still, further still—somewhere there must be an edge. Perhaps we cannot reach it—but still it will be there.
The mind cannot think the Infinite. Mind’s capacity is always within limits.
Great means: that which mind cannot think. Therefore when you say someone is very great, you do not know what you are saying. Great means: beyond your grasp; however much you search, you cannot find his limit. But you call great only the one who fits your scales—who wears the proper clothes, eats once a day, walks barefoot, looks downward, speaks no harsh word—great! The one who fits your scale is great. The one who can be weighed by you is not even petty—what to say of great? What is the worth of your scale? Great means: the immeasurable—the one whose limit cannot be set; of whom you cannot even say he is great. About whom all you can say is: beyond understanding; we are exhausted—he is not.
This universe is incomprehensible in two ways. First: it is infinite—that is one incomprehensibility. Second: not only is it infinite—its infinity is expanding. That is even more difficult. We can understand a finite thing that is growing. But if the infinite is growing, then it must not be infinite—there must be a boundary beyond which it is growing.
When Einstein first said the universe is expanding, the question arose: where is it expanding? It needs space. If space is ahead, then space is part of the universe. Einstein said: space itself is expanding. In the last thirty–forty years physics has become metaphysics; the language of matter has become spiritual. Its statements have become as incomprehensible as mysticism. In the coming times, if scientists speak like Lao Tzu, do not be surprised.
Hence the sudden interest of Western scientists in Lao Tzu. A remarkable book has been written—The Tao of Science—on the resonance between Tao and science.
Lao Tzu says: greatness means to spread out into space.
Brahman means the same. The word Brahman means expansion—but not dead expansion—living expansion: expansion that expands, a widening that widens. Hence we call the universe Brahmand—the ‘egg’ of Brahman—this expanding vastness. It stops nowhere, like a sea that goes on spreading, with no shore, no wall to stop it.
But the next sentence is very difficult: “And the capacity to expand in space is far‑reaching.”
Understand this well—because it is precious for sadhana too.
“And the capacity to expand in space is far‑reaching.”
This expansion is so far‑going, so far‑going—it goes to the infinite. Hard to understand; the last link is impossible.
“This far‑reaching implies reversion to the original point.”
Those who understand physics deeply will grasp this.
Lao Tzu says: this moving far—goes so far, so far—that it becomes circular; the far becomes near. So far, so far—that the movement becomes a circle and the going‑far becomes coming‑near. The one who goes the farthest from himself suddenly finds himself closest to himself.
Einstein said: space is circular. This is even more difficult—space is curved. It is expanding, but do not think it is simply going farther and farther. Beyond a point its expansion begins to return toward itself, to home—back to the original point.
Start out from your house and walk in a straight line. You move farther from your house each step—but because the earth is round, each step also brings you closer to your house from the other side. Ten steps away, twelve steps away—but if you keep straight, one day you will return to your door. Each step that takes you away brings you near—from another dimension.
Einstein says: space is curved. So the more the universe expands, the nearer it comes to itself. It is amazing that Lao Tzu saw this twenty‑five centuries ago. He says: this far‑reaching is also reversion to the original point—returning home.
Which means: only those get lost who stop in the middle. Either do not go far at all—or if you go, go so far that you return home. Either do not leave the house—or if you leave, then do not stop—someday you will return.
See it so: a child is born, sets out into life. Life too is circular. Remember: in this world all movements are circular. Movement means circular. Whether stars revolve, or the earth, or the sun, or space, or the cosmos—everything moves in circles. Life too moves in circles.
A child is born. He goes into life; birth recedes, death approaches. But this is the vision of those who know nothing of rebirth; otherwise he is coming close to birth again. Starting from this birth, moving toward death, he appears to be going to an end—but every death is the beginning of a new birth. At death one reaches precisely the same point as at birth. A circle completes. We return to the first point.
Hence those who understand death, understand birth. Birth is hard to understand because you don’t know what is happening there. Death—you can understand. If one understands the point of death, one understands the secret of birth too. He who knows death knows life. But we fear death; so we are deprived of knowing life. Birth and death meet at a single point.
All our movements are circular. Wherever we go, we return to our original point. Why does Lao Tzu say this? He says: however far you go, you cannot go away from your nature. However far you go, your going will turn into a return. He is saying: there is no way to go away from yourself. You can wander, deceive yourself, dream; but you cannot go away. However far you go, your very going will be your way back.
Therefore sometimes it happens: one who goes deepest into the world suddenly turns to the spiritual. The mediocre get stuck in the middle—and remain troubled. Hence a Valmiki suddenly becomes religious; an Angulimala, steeped in murder, suddenly changes, and Buddha says to him: hard to find a purer Brahmin than you, Angulimala. How? He had gone so far into killing that the journey became circular.
Thus often sinners and criminals become saints, while the so‑called saints do not. Life is complex, and its ways are not as straight as they appear; they are very tangled.
This sutra of Lao Tzu is precious—for a seeker, very precious. Three things to remember:
First, whatever you do, you cannot go away from yourself. Wander anywhere, every journey ultimately returns you to yourself—because that is your original point.
Second, all movements of life are circular. Hence never think someone has fallen so low in sin that he cannot attain virtue. Never think anyone has sunk so deep in the world that he cannot be entitled to moksha. The journey is circular; turning can happen at any point. In truth, if one stubbornly keeps going straight, every journey brings one to oneself. Hence the stubborn often arrive. We do not call it stubbornness—we call it Hatha Yoga; we call it firmness, resolve.
Tanka was with his Master, practicing meditation. Months passed. The Master came, found Tanka sitting in Buddha’s posture—eyes closed, like a rock. At the door a tile lay; the Master picked it up and began grinding it on a stone. The screeching grated on Tanka’s teeth. Finally he opened his eyes and said: What are you doing? He was astonished to see his Master. The Master said: I am grinding this tile into a mirror.
He wished to say: just as a tile will not become a mirror by grinding, so sitting with eyes closed will not give you meditation.
Tanka laughed: If you go on grinding to the very end, it will become a mirror. He closed his eyes again. Sitting thus, one day Tanka attained enlightenment.
When he was enlightened, the Master said: I had thought you would ask: have you gone mad? However much you grind a tile, how can it become a mirror? And then I would have told you: however much you grind the mind, how will meditation happen? If you had asked that, it would have been certain no matter how much you had ground the mind you would not have attained. But you did not ask; you closed your eyes. I ask you now: what happened to your mind? Tanka said: My mind felt that if one goes on grinding to the very end, someday it must become a mirror—and I went on grinding.
There is a limit. If one goes on with a straight stubbornness, even a tile can become a mirror. And one who walks with his face toward hell can one day reach heaven. One who travels toward the world can one day stand at the gate of nirvana.
Zen masters have said: between samsara and nirvana there is not even a hair’s breadth. Those who stop in the middle remain in the world; those who go on arrive at nirvana.
Enough for today. Let us pause for five minutes and do kirtan.