Tao Upanishad #76

The root and the end are always one. Where life begins, there it dissolves. Beginning and completion are the same event seen from two sides, recognized from two sides, measured from two standpoints.
This is the fundamental insight of Tao. Therefore, one who longs to be complete will have to return to the root. And the day an old person becomes as simple as a small child, the wholeness of life is attained. And the day one becomes capable of welcoming death as one welcomes birth, that very day death becomes a new birth.
Ordinary thinking looks upon the root and the end as opposites. If someone seems to be moving toward the source, it appears to us that he is falling back, regressing; that he is not evolving but declining. But Lao Tzu says: the one who learns the art of reversion, the art of falling back into the root, attains the ultimate meaning of life. The perfection of old age is to become childlike again. The perfection of the wise is to be egoless again like the unknowing. Full light is known only when full light becomes as silent as perfect darkness. Then there is no difficulty in dying—the day death appears like amrit, the day death becomes birth.
This is what Lao Tzu calls the principle of reversion, the Law of Reversion.
It is worth deep reflection; worthy of deep practice. Our gaze is fixed ahead. And we think that what is going to happen ahead is the opposite of what has happened behind. And so we keep drifting away from the root. And the farther we move from the root, the farther we move from the end as well—because the root and the end are exactly alike.
In the West and in the East there are different outlooks about the movement of life. The West thinks life’s movement is linear, proceeding along a single line. The East thinks life’s movement is circular—not proceeding along a single line, but revolving in a circle.
If the Western outlook is right—the outlook of rational mind—then there is no way to return to the root. No straight line ever returns to its point of origin. How can it? A straight line will only go forward. But many things need pondering. If a straight line goes on and on, then what has happened can never happen again. What is gone is gone. And whatever is going to happen will always be new. There is no way to return. The point of beginning will never be available again. Secondly, a straight line can never reach its end either. How could it end? There is no way for it to end.
The Eastern view is the exact opposite: the movement of life is circular. The line ends where it begins. Therefore, what has happened will happen again and again. And the root will be available again.
There is a very delightful thing to note, because all aspects of life are influenced by these fundamental outlooks. In Indian languages there is the same word—kal—for both yesterday and tomorrow. The same word for what has gone, the same for what is to come. Yesterday is kal; tomorrow is also kal. In no other language of the world is this so. Because the Eastern notion is that what has passed will return; what was kal will again be kal. The coming kal is not something new—it is a recurrence of the past. Both are kal. What passed the day before yesterday is also called parson; what will come the day after tomorrow is also parson. We stand in the middle—what has happened, and the same will happen again. This is a circular vision of time. Westerners cannot make sense of it—that there should be one word for the past day and the coming day! It confuses them. The words should be separate. But behind words, too, are world-views.
Then the Eastern outlook appears more scientific. Because every kind of movement in life is circular. The moon moves in circles; the sun moves in circles; the earth moves in circles; all planets and stars, the whole cosmos, moves in circles; seasons come in circles. Why should only human life not be circular where everything else is circular! Human life cannot be an exception. Human life is embedded in the great law of nature. Man is not an accident happening outside nature. Man too is born, lives, grows, expands and dissolves within nature. So the law of nature—the circle—should be the law of human life too. The Eastern view is more natural. The Western view sets man apart, as something unique, separate.
Science says all motions are circular. The latest discoveries do not believe in straight lines. Euclid gave birth to the theory of straight lines. And Euclid thinks two parallel lines never meet. But as understanding has developed even in the West, non-Euclidean geometry has arisen. Non-Euclidean geometry is exactly the reverse. It says: the straight line has no real existence; no straight line can actually be drawn. If you draw a straight line, it appears straight to you; it cannot be straight, because the earth on which you are drawing is spherical. If we extend that line on both sides, it will become a circle encircling the earth. All straight lines are segments of a greater circle. There is no such thing as a straight line. There is no possibility of a straight line existing.
This feels difficult, because from childhood we were taught Euclid’s geometry. Even now schools teach that parallel lines never meet, and that a straight line is not a segment of a circle. But the straight line does not exist, and parallel lines do not exist either. If we extend them sufficiently they will meet somewhere—no matter how distant the meeting, they will meet. Because if a straight line cannot exist, then parallel lines cannot exist. All lines curve and become circles.
But the East has always held that in life there is no straight line. Wherever there is motion there a circle is visible. Rivers—if we do not keep the whole circle in mind we can be doubtful. The river falls into the ocean; it becomes vapor; clouds form in the sky; the clouds reach the mountains; rain falls; the river’s source is formed again. The river flows to the ocean again; again clouds form; again the waters rise; again they fall at the source; again the river flows to the sea. It is a circle.
Human life too is a circle. Time too is circular. Therefore in this land our notion of time is circular. Hence we have taken little interest in writing history. Western historians are amazed that Eastern peoples have written much, but not history. We have written Puranas. Purana is one thing; history is another. History means that the event that happened is unique; therefore its date, time, year—all must be recorded precisely. Purana means the event is a story that has happened many times and will happen many times. Time and place are of no consequence, because the event is not incomparable.
For example, Ram was born. Had Ram been born in the West, an exact account would have been kept—on which day he was born, on which day he died, the day he was buried—everything would have been recorded. We have kept no such account. Ram is born; Ram lives; the lila of Ram’s life unfolds—everything happens—but we have kept no historically dated record. Why? Because in every age there have been Rams, and in every age there will be Rams. It is a wheel that keeps turning. As the potter’s wheel turns and one spoke comes uppermost—there is no need to write it down, to note it, to make a history of it. Countless times this spoke has already come to the top; innumerable times it will come up again. The wheel is turning.
Therefore we have named the world Samsara—the wheel, the chakra. Ashoka chose the chakra as the emblem of his state. And when India became independent, we took the chakra on India’s flag. Perhaps we have forgotten what that chakra symbolizes. It is a conception entirely opposite to the West. Behind it lies an entire philosophy of life. And that philosophy is that events are not unique. Therefore we do not know with certainty in which year the Buddha was born, or on which day; nor do we know when Krishna was born, or when he departed. But whatever is essential in Krishna’s life, that we know. The rest we call non-essential; it is meaningless to keep accounts of it.
Creation happens, then pralaya—dissolution. Again creation, again pralaya. Again creation, again pralaya. And where creation begins, when time’s circle comes precisely to that point, pralaya happens. For as long as creation lasts, for just that long pralaya lasts. Then creation again, then pralaya again. And each such circle of creation and pralaya we call a kalpa. We have called it a day of Brahma. The time of creation is day, and the time of pralaya is night—Brahma’s twenty-four hours. Then morning comes; the sun rises; creation happens again. Then evening comes; the sun sets; all the energy of life goes to rest. Again morning dawns. In every age, in every kalpa, there will be Rams; in every kalpa there will be Krishnas; in every kalpa there will be Mahaviras and Buddhas. So what is there to keep accounts of? Preserve the essence—that is enough.
There is a very sweet tale: Valmiki wrote the Ramayana before Ram’s birth. Ram was born later; the Ram-katha was written first. This can happen only in the East. Because our understanding is that in endless kalpas Rams have already been—so their essence is known. Events are secondary; the essential meaning of their lives is known. So Valmiki wrote the story on the basis of the essential meaning. Then Ram happened. And Ram’s life fulfilled exactly what Valmiki had written. What the poet had seen beforehand, that was fulfilled in Ram’s life.
The Jains hold a similar view; the Buddhists too. The Jains say: at the start of every kalpa there will be a first Tirthankara. Then in every kalpa there will be twenty-four Tirthankaras. The end of every kalpa will arrive with the twenty-fourth. Then again the first, then again twenty-four. So keeping separate accounts of the Tirthankaras’ lives is unnecessary.
Therefore, if you look at the images of the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains, they are the same. No difference—only the symbol at the base differs. That symbol alone tells whose image it is—of the first, or the twenty-fourth, or the twentieth Tirthankara. The images are alike. That is the essential. What happens within the Tirthankara—supreme peace and bliss—that is what the image is. The differences of face, the differences of height, a nose long or short, eyes of this or that shape—these are secondary. They have no value; they are non-essential. Many Tirthankaras have already been—some with a very long nose, some with a small one; large eyes, bodies differing in height and breadth. That is secondary; we keep no account of it. That which is inner Tirthankara-ness, that which is essential within—we have kept account of that. Therefore the twenty-four Tirthankaras’ images are alike; they must be—they are inner images.
The West keeps accounts. Therefore Jesus is historical. In that sense Krishna is not historical. Krishna is Puranic. Puranic does not mean unreal; it means he has been many times and will be many times. Historical means: happened once, and cannot be repeated—no recurrence is possible.
Therefore in the West there is a great race for the new; in the East there is no such race for the new. Because the new becomes old, the old becomes new each day. In the East we say: there is nothing new under the sun. In the West Heraclitus has said: it is impossible to step into the same river twice—the river is ever new. In the East we say: there is nothing new under the sun. The West says: it is impossible to step into the same river twice; the current keeps flowing. But if we look very closely, no matter where the current flows, it is the same current. If it becomes clouds in the sky, still it is the same current; if it falls again at Gangotri, still the same; if it flows in the Ganges, still the same. So we say: it is impossible to step into a second Ganges—she is the same Ganges.
Of these two outlooks, Tao accepts the circular outlook. Consequences follow from this.
If you believe that life is a linear development, your life will be full of tension. Because at every moment something new is happening to which you must adjust—organize yourself again and again to the new. Your life becomes a long anxiety and strain. If all that happens is what has always happened, you are at home. No daily rearranging, no daily adjusting to the new; everything is already in place.
Therefore the West cannot become like a silent lake; there is a storm.
The East is like a perfectly calm lake; even where there are abundant reasons for a storm, the lake remains still. We cannot become very excited, very agitated. Revolution does not attract us much, because we know revolutions have happened many times, and things return to the point from where they began. The noise we make in between, the much jumping and fretting, the great anxieties—these go to waste. Because things return to where they began.
The Eastern outlook is a very unique ground for sadhana. When this comes into vision, excitement dissolves and the mind begins to grow silent on its own.
Now let us enter Lao Tzu’s sutra.
'Reversion is the action of Tao.'
That which is the root—that alone is the goal to be attained. To arrive where we began—there is the destination. When our first moment becomes our last moment, the journey of life is fulfilled. Reversion is Tao’s very nature—to return, to go back to the root, to dissolve into the root.
What is your root? If you set out in search of it, thoughts will be lost, anxieties will be lost, tensions will be lost, affliction will be lost. Because where the root is, there is no tension, no anxiety, no affliction. Life begins quietly, without any noise. Therefore, if you return into your childhood, you will not be able to go back beyond three years. You may remember up to three years; beyond that it is difficult to enter. Because memory begins only when restlessness begins in life. Where there is no restlessness, what memory can be formed? When nothing is happening, and the mind is so still, what memory can arise? Memory forms when something strikes. Memory is a shock, a wound. Hence the more something wounds us, the longer it stays in memory. What does no harm leaves no memory.
In a very real sense memory is a wound upon the brain’s fibers—a scar. And the scar is what you return to again and again. Someone abused you twenty years ago; if the wound was deep, the twenty years in between carry little value—the wound remains green. A little provocation and you return to it; the wound is fresh. How many things you forget; how many you simply cannot forget. Why? The deeper the wound the harder it is to forget.
It is hard to go back beyond three years. Because till about three years the mind is quiet—abiding in Tao, in dharma. Nothing is happening in the child’s life. The stream is so still it is as if it is not flowing at all.
To return to this is reversion. To come again to that place where the mind becomes quiet like a child—simple, innocent; where there is neither future nor past; where everything is in the present moment. A small child running after a butterfly—in that moment, while he runs, for him there is nothing but the butterfly; the whole world has dissolved. A child plucks a flower and looks—this very moment the whole world is gone; there is the flower and the child, and the flower’s fragrance surrounds him. Everything is in the immediate moment. There is no past whose burden must be carried; no future for which hopes, dreams, plans are to be made. To be thus in the present is to be innocent. In such moments no wounds are made. To return again to this state, to seize the root again—that is meditation. All meditative experiments are attempts to regain this root.
Then, as meditation deepens and deepens, we enter further back—the child is in the mother’s womb. There is no duty there, no responsibility. Not a ripple of thought arises, because every desire of the child is fulfilled before it even arises. The child has nothing to do. In the mother’s belly the child is virtually under the Kalpavriksha. The mother breathes; from her the child receives oxygen. The mother’s blood becomes the child’s blood. The mother’s life is the child’s life; the mother’s heartbeat the child’s heartbeat. The child is in supreme bliss—no sorrow arises, no anxiety catches, there is no awareness even of the coming moment. If we enter still further back, there is such a state of the womb. This we have called Moksha. To attain this again—to attain this again—is the great bliss, mahasukh.
When meditation deepens and innocence becomes so pure that it is as though you have reached the womb again—this time not the mother’s womb, the whole existence becomes the womb. Now, in this entire existence, you become one. Paramatman breathes; Paramatman gives life; you leave all worry to That. You are like the child in the womb. This is Samadhi. When meditation deepens to the point where the consciousness of the womb-child is born within you—under the Bodhi tree the Buddha sits like such a child of the womb. There remains no disturbance. There is no cause for disturbance. You have come back home. Existence is no longer an opponent; there is no conflict with it. Existence has become the womb.
The art of making existence the womb—that is dharma. When this whole existence begins to feel like home, when you are at home—sky, moon and stars, earth—all give you support from all sides. Even now they support you; even while you are fighting they support you. The day your struggle drops and you enter this womb... We call the innermost chamber of the temple the garbhagriha for this very reason. To reach the innermost chamber is to reach the womb.
Western psychology too—with a tone of condemnation, yes—but even so, it has begun to accept this truth: the search for Moksha, for Nirvana, is a search for the womb. Not with reverence, not in welcome—rather in denunciation—Western psychology has begun to accept that the search for Nirvana is a search for the womb. And in the Western conception, to go back is impossible anyway, therefore such a search is wrong, dangerous, an obstacle to human development.
But I hold that soon they will begin to understand. As Euclid’s geometry fades and non-Euclidean geometry enters, as the old linear notions fall away, this notion too will fall away. The womb will be known as the final place. And one who cannot reach the womb-state again dies incomplete. Therefore we say he will have to be born again and again—because the experience of the womb did not become complete; the incomplete remains stuck. The incomplete causes wandering. One who, at the moment of death, reaches such a state as he had at the moment of birth, becomes just that quiet, and the whole existence becomes his womb—such a one has no need for another birth. The matter is finished. His experience is complete, his learning complete. There is no need to return to this school. To die in such a way that it is as if one is entering the mother’s womb—what is there to fear? What is there to be anxious about? There is no need to resist; there is a simple, natural entry.
Psychologists say that when a child is born, the greatest shock occurs. They call it trauma—the most profound shock happens when the child is born. Of course it will. Because the child comes from such bliss into such great suffering. In the mother’s belly there is only bliss. And the child floats there as you imagine Vishnu floating upon the Kshir Sagar—lying upon the endless Sheshanaga. Exactly so, the child floats in the mother’s womb in an ocean. And the water in the mother’s belly in which the child floats, which sustains the child, is precisely like ocean water—just that much salt, those very chemicals. The child floats in it. No blow reaches him. That ring of water all around protects him from every shock. Even if the mother falls, the child receives less impact than the mother does. The child keeps floating. From this bed of Sheshanaga, from this immersion in the ocean, the child is suddenly expelled—thrown out; the connection with the mother is broken.
So psychologists say this is traumatic—a great shock, a deep wound is formed. And from this wound man does not become free until his dying breath. The pain remains. The child must shudder. Where there was no anxiety at all, all anxieties begin. Now he must breathe on his own. When hunger comes he must cry on his own, make sounds. When thirst comes he must make efforts. He must give some signal that he is thirsty. Anxiety has begun. He must complete his lacks himself. His own deficiencies begin to be felt. From the mother’s secure world the child has entered his insecure ego.