There is an old Indian story about Truth. It seems that in ancient times a brash young warrior sought the hand of a beautiful princess. The King, her father, thought the warrior was a bit too cocksure and callow; he told him he could only marry the princess once he had found the Truth. So, the young warrior set out on a quest for Truth. He went to temples and to monasteries, to mountaintops where sages meditated and to forests where ascetics scourged themselves, nut nowhere could he find Truth. Despairing one day and seeking refuge from a thunderstorm, he found himself in a dank, musty cave. There, in the darkness, was an old hag, with warts on her face and matted hair, her skin hanging in folds from her bony limbs, her teeth broken, her breath malodorous. She greeted him; she seemed to know what he was looking for. They talked all night, and with each word she spoke, the warrior realized he had come to the end of the quest. She was truth. In the morning, when the storm broke, the warrior prepared to return to claim his bride. ‘Now that I have found the Truth’ he said. ‘what shall I tell them at the palace about you?’
The wizened old crone smiled. ‘Tell them, ‘she said, ‘tell them that I am young and beautiful.’
So, Truth is not always true; but that doesn’t mean Truth does not exist.