Last night I spoke a little with you about death. In the search for life, one can begin only from death. If you wish to know and attain life, only those will succeed who begin their inquiry from the fact of death. This seems upside down at first glance: that to seek life we should begin with death. But it is not inverted at all. Whoever seeks light must begin from darkness. The search for light means we are standing in the dark and light is not available to us. If light were near, why would we go searching for it? So the quest for light starts in darkness—and the quest for life, in death. That we are searching for life means we are standing in death. Until this fact is clearly felt, no step forward is really possible.
So, as a preface yesterday, I said a few things about death—and I requested you: do not push death behind you; bring it to the front. Do not evade death; face it. Do not run from death; do not forget it. Only its constant remembrance can become a companion.
For these three days I will speak on three themes in the morning, and in the evening I will answer your questions.
In the context of this morning’s talk on death, I want to say two things today around a single center. The center will be “avichar.” I have chosen three words for three days of inquiry: today avichar, tomorrow vichar, and the day after, nirvichar.
“Avichar” means: a state of consciousness in which we live blindly, without any inquiry. “Vichar” means: living reflectively, in mindful awareness. And “nirvichar” means: going even beyond thought and living in samadhi.
Three steps. Today I will speak on avichar.
Ordinarily we all live in avichar—thoughtlessness. In life we have no real inquiry. We live driven by blind cravings, pushed by blind impulses. For those impulses we cannot answer “why?”—because “why?” can be answered only where the movement of inquiry has begun. Hunger arises, thirst arises, passions surge; we busy ourselves fulfilling them. But why? At this level there is no answer. We seek food because hunger arises—but neither hunger nor food becomes part of our inquiry, nor can it. The most thoughtful person feels hunger too—and has no answer for it.
Just as the whole of nature lives blindly, so do we. It rains, the sun blazes, night comes—why? No answer. From a seed a sprout emerges, a tree grows, leaves, flowers, fruits—why? No answer. Beasts, birds, insects, humans—why? The entire existence at the level where we live is without answers. We are—and we have a powerful urge to live, so we go on living. But why are we, and why this powerful urge? We have no answer—and no one ever has. This is the plane of avichar.
I abuse you and anger arises in you. Why does abuse provoke anger? Someone shoves you and violence flares up within—why? Someone seems beautiful—why? Another seems ugly—why? You like one person and dislike another. One feels lovable; another you want to flee. You want to keep one close, push another away. Have you ever really asked why all this is so? And even if you ask, no answer will be available. The empty question will keep echoing; no answer can be found.
On the level of the body, the level of nature, there are no answers. We live unanswered. And so, when death comes, no answer will be possible for that either. There was no answer to “Why was I born?”—nor will there be an answer to “Why did I die?” There is no answer for hunger, thirst, sexual drive, or any other instinct; how then will there be one for death? As birth is accepted, so one day death has to be accepted. On this plane there are no answers at all. This is the plane of the body, avichar, instinct. Here, no answers exist.
Most people live on this plane—without answers. And a life without answers is futile. Its meaning does not reveal itself even to oneself.
A friend of mine recently committed suicide. He was a thinker, thought a great deal. Two months before he died he came to see me. For years he had been brooding on death, thinking again and again of ending himself. He asked me: “I want to end my life. In the way I’m living, I see no meaning. What do you advise?”
I said: “If you see some meaning in death, then by all means end it. You don’t find meaning in life—do you find it in death?” He said: “No, I don’t see any meaning there either.” So I said: “Then nothing will change. If you end this life, nothing will differ. Futility will remain as it is. Life is futile; death will be futile. There is no basis for the choice.”
Most of us go on living only because we think: “Even if I die, what then? What will change?” This is not life. Even as an alternative, death holds no meaning—so we continue.
He did end his life two months later. He wrote me a letter: “I finally arrive at the decision to end myself.”
In the last fifty years, many people have done the same—people without particular suffering or hardship, not impoverished—only because life seemed meaningless.
If you too ponder and inquire, you will likely fail to find a meaning for “Why should I live?” And if you have no answer for living, your life can have neither depth nor real experience. To live or not to live—both are nearly the same. If you are, fine; if you are not, fine.
As I see it, on the level of the body no answer to life can be found. Yet we all live on that level. Hunger, thirst, clothes, shelter—hence we live. Think for a moment: if everything were given—your hunger satisfied, your thirst quenched, your passions fulfilled, all you desire attained—then what would you do? You would have no option but to die. If all your wishes were fulfilled, what then? Could you live even a moment longer? You would fall asleep—into endless sleep. Even now you run only because desire drives you. When there’s nothing to do, you have nothing left but sleep. If all your desires were gratified, you would have nothing left except to die.
On the bodily plane there are inconveniences; we live to address them. But remember, the body will die, because it was born. What is born will die; what begins will end. Life on the plane of the body inevitably leads to death. There is no twofold opinion possible. Is there life beyond this? On the bodily plane, no meaning can be found. Can meaning be found on another plane? The body is a fixed mechanism of nature. As nature moves mechanically, so does the body. There is no freedom there—only dependence. Mahavira’s body is dependent, Krishna’s and Christ’s too, yours and mine as well—because Mahavira dies, Krishna dies, Christ dies.
On the bodily plane, no one has ever been free; nor has anyone ever found deathless life there—nor will anyone ever. The body is mortal; immortality is not there. The body is the house of death; life is not there. If we keep circling within that boundary, then—as I told you last night—whatever we do, we will end in death.
The body is entirely dependent; there is no freedom there. Beyond and above the body—what is within us? Certainly we catch glimpses of mind. Everyone senses the mind: thoughts leave their footprints; reflection goes on; thinking happens; we get some news of the mind. Mind is.
I said: the body is inevitably dependent. Mind is not inevitably dependent; mind can be free. But ordinarily mind too is dependent. On the plane of mind, we have no real freedom either. At the bodily level, impulses and instincts hold us; at the mental level, beliefs hold us. Words, scriptures, doctrines hold us. Mind is also a slave, running along tracks laid down by others. There too, no freedom.
Yet mind can be free—this is the difference between body and mind. The body is dependent and can never be free. Mind is also dependent, but it can become free. Beyond even that there is an element—we will work toward it; it has been called the soul—you could call it something else. The soul is free and cannot become dependent.
These are the three planes of life: the body is dependent and cannot be free; the mind is dependent but can be free; the soul is free and cannot be made dependent.
But this soul—which is inherently free and alive, deathless, with no birth and no death—can be known only by a mind that is free. If the mind is dependent, it will know nothing beyond the body. A dependent mind cannot lift its eyes beyond a dependent body. Only when mind becomes free do its eyes begin to rise toward the soul—which is free and alive.
Hence, the real question is neither of body nor of soul; the whole question of the discipline of life centers on the mind. If the mind is dependent, life cannot rise above the body—in other words, life will lead to death. If the mind is free, the eyes of life can begin to turn toward immortality.
Are our minds free or dependent? Generally, our minds are dependent. They have known no freedom. We not only wear clothes like others and eat like others; we also think like others. On the plane of thought we follow someone. Whoever follows is dependent. Whoever walks behind someone is dependent. On the bodily plane we are dependent; on the mental plane we have made ourselves dependent too.
Have you ever thought even a single original thought—or are all your thoughts borrowed? Has anything been born within you—or have you merely collected thoughts? Look at the many ideas in your mind; you will find they have come from somewhere else and settled within—like birds crowding the trees at dusk. These thoughts are others’—foreign, borrowed. Only that person deserves to be called human who becomes capable of giving birth to even a single authentic insight. There begins the dawn of freedom. Otherwise we are slaves.
All people are dependent—and the basis of their dependence is that they have never inquired for themselves. They have accepted all ideas; they have said “yes.” They have adopted belief, devotion, faith. For thousands of years we have been taught belief, not inquiry; faith, not reflection; acceptance, not contemplation. And the result is that humanity has grown ever more dependent. Our minds are shackled. They only repeat; they do not think. If I ask you any question, the answer you give will almost always be a repetition—a echo, not reflection.
If I ask: “Is there God?”—examine whether the answer that arises is really yours. If I ask: “Is there a soul?”—and whatever arises, “yes” or “no”—did it arise from your inquiry? Or did it drift into you on the surrounding winds? Did you pick it up from some scripture, accept it from some guru—or did you know it firsthand? If you see that it is not your own knowing, then know your mind is dependent.
Let alone soul and God—faraway matters! Even the simplest experiences are not our own; we repeat them. If I place a rose before you and ask, “Is it beautiful?” you may say, “It is beautiful.” But reflect a little: did you accept this—or did you know it? Different cultures find different flowers beautiful; different faces are judged beautiful by different peoples. Children born there learn those definitions of beauty and repeat them for life. A nose that is beautiful in India may not be beautiful in China. Then doubt arises: is our taste for beauty ours—or have we acquired it from society? The face admired in India is not admired in Japan. A face admired in a Negro community will not be admired in India. In India thin lips are beautiful; for a Negro, full lips are beautiful. The Negro child will repeat all his life that full lips are lovely; the Indian child will repeat that thin lips are lovely. Which lips are beautiful? Which face? Which flower? Even this is not our own experience. This too we repeat. If I ask: “What is love?”—you will repeat that too. You have read it in a scripture; you have hardly known or searched for it.
If our personality, our consciousness, is simply an echo of society, it cannot be free. How could it be? We are merely echo points, repeating stations for society’s voices. We are not persons; we are not individuals. The birth of individuality has not taken place. And without individuality, how will you attain the deathless? What do you have that you wish to save? What is there that you can truly call yours—that you have known and lived? If there is nothing, then death is certain. All that came from society will return to society. What have you given birth to that did not come from others—that you can call authentically yours? If there is nothing of that kind, how will the vision of the soul arise within?
When something authentically mine is born in consciousness, the movement toward the soul begins. I become a vessel, capable of knowing the soul.
The birth of individuality is impossible without a free mind. And our minds are utterly dependent—utterly enslaved. This slavery is deep, and from a thousand directions we are trained for it. Many interests want us enslaved: for society’s convenience, for the state’s convenience, for religions and sects, for priests and pundits, it is useful that the individual be a slave. The more enslaved the person, the more he can be exploited; the more enslaved, the less the possibility of rebellion. A mind completely dependent is no longer dangerous; revolution becomes impossible. Society does not want any individual’s mind to be free. So from childhood it does everything to make him dependent. All our education and conditioning become the groundwork for mental slavery. Before we come to our senses we are already bound in chains. The chains may bear any label—Hindu, Jain, Indian, non-Indian, Christian, Muslim. Thousands of chains seize our minds, and then we stop thinking beyond them.
Very few people think; the vast majority only repeat. Whether they repeat Mahavira or Buddha, the Gita or the Quran—it makes no difference. As long as you repeat, you commit the greatest sin against your own soul. As long as you repeat anyone, you are not preparing to be free. Yet what is taught is: without faith you will not find the soul; without belief you cannot attain liberation. How foolish! Belief is blindness, belief is dependence; liberation is supreme freedom. How will belief lead to liberation? Belief is blindness—of the same level as the body’s blindness in its passions. When that blindness arises on the plane of mind, it is called belief.
I request you: drop belief and give birth to inquiry. Belief is the condition of avichar. Why do we believe? It is clear that belief serves society’s interests—exploitation’s interests, the interest of temples and priests, whose entire business stands on belief. The day belief disappears, their trade collapses. That much is understandable. But why do we believe?
We believe because belief is available without effort—no labor needed. Inquiry demands labor. Inquiry demands passing through pain. Inquiry demands worry, risk, trouble. In inquiry you will be alone; in belief the crowd is with you. Belief gives a sense of security, a crutch. Inquiry is full of insecurity—there is the fear of going astray, the possibility of error, the risk of disappearing.
Belief is the highway crowded with thousands—you walk with the herd, unafraid, people on all sides. Belief is the path of the crowd; inquiry is the path of aloneness. There you will be alone—no support, no crowd around you. A crowd can be made to believe absurdities you cannot imagine.
Aristotle wrote that women have fewer teeth than men. This very intelligent man—father of logic in the West—had not one but two wives. Yet he never bothered to count a woman’s teeth! For thousands of years in Greece it was believed women had fewer teeth. In fact, everything about women had to be “less” than men’s—since woman was considered a lower creature and man a higher. How could her teeth be equal! It was “obvious,” so no one counted. For centuries Europe agreed with Aristotle. No sensible person thought to check—because doubt didn’t arise. Without doubt, inquiry cannot be born. There is no greater spiritual capacity than doubt; no greater sin than blind faith; no greater religion than inquiry. Doubt must arise—because without doubt you cannot be free of the crowd.
The crowd teaches: do not doubt—whoever doubts will be destroyed. I tell you: only those who have doubted have found. Whoever believes is destroyed the very moment he believes. Belief means: I choose blindness; I accept what I am told. Doubt means: I refuse blindness; I will inquire. Until I know by my own experience, I will not believe. Doubt is courage; belief is laziness. Out of laziness we believe. Who wants to seek? It is easier to accept what others say.
Centuries of tradition carry weight: surely millions over millennia cannot all be wrong? The crowd becomes a sanction of “truth.” Yet the crowd is never a criterion of truth. Most often, the crowd only follows the dead. The crowd does not experience; it has no way to. Only the individual experiences. The crowd has no soul for experiencing; it is a lifeless mechanism. Whoever depends on society becomes a mechanism too; his individuality is lost.
No one can be religious without being free of society.
You have heard that sannyasins renounce society and go away. They don’t. They leave their house, their family—but not society. When a man born in Jainism becomes a monk, he still says, “I am a Jain monk.” He left his home—but not society. He left his wife—but not his gurus. He fled on the bodily plane—but is a slave on the mental plane. And escape on the bodily plane means nothing; the real issue is the mind. The religion taught to him since childhood still clutches his mind. The answers fed to him sit within. The scriptures still roll off his tongue. He is a slave in mind.
I say: do not run on the bodily plane. On that plane no one can run away. The monk who “ran away” bodily has not escaped—he returns to society for bread, for clothes. How will you leave society bodily? You could be free on the plane of mind—but you are not. He prides himself on escaping where escape is impossible, and remains chained where freedom is possible. On the bodily plane no one can truly run away. The body must live in a group; even the greatest knower lives supported by the group. But on the mental plane one can be free—and there one must be free.
So I don’t ask you to leave home and hearth. That is all madness. Drop the walls of the mind. Tear down the inner enclosures. Break the inner chains. Then the beginning of freedom happens.
The first fact: doubt. Doubt whatever has been taught—not because it is false, understand this well. Doubt Mahavira, doubt Buddha—not because what they say is false. No—believing is the mistake; grasp this. Doubt the Quran, the Bible, the Gita—not because what is written is false. I am not saying that. I am saying: believing is wrong. If you believe, you will never know what is written there. If you doubt, one day the truth that opened to Mahavira or Buddha will open to you too.
Doubt breaks avichar. Faith thickens it. Belief is an ally of thoughtlessness. Doubt cracks the condition of avichar.
But inquiry brings pain. Inquiry is an austerity.
Fasting is not tapas. Going hungry or thirsty is no great austerity—the circus can do that. But to doubt is a great tapas. To doubt means: to agree to stand in insecurity; to agree to stand in not-knowing; to agree to stand on your own feet; to leave all supports. Remember, as long as one walks with crutches, one’s legs never grow strong. As long as one believes, one’s own mind cannot gather the strength to seek truth. Strength gathers only when we enter insecurity. Power awakens only when supports fall away. If I tell you, “Run,” you will run—slowly. If I say, “Run with all your might,” still you will be slow. But if someone with a gun chases your very life, a speed will come to your legs you had never imagined.
It once happened: In Japan, a great king’s servant fell in love with the queen. When the king discovered it—how disgraceful, how insulting! A mere servant, a slave, in love with the queen—and the queen with him! Though love does not know who is king and who is servant—love crowns whomever it touches. But society has its calculations. The king thought: this is chaos, this is shame; if this rumor spreads, it will be terrible.
He summoned the servant. The servant was truly lovable; the king himself loved him much. He said, “It would be proper to lift my sword and sever your head. But I have loved you; you are an extraordinary man. I will give you a chance. Take up a sword and face me. We will duel; whoever dies, dies; whoever lives, is the master.”
It was great mercy; he could have executed him outright.
The servant said, “You speak well, but nothing changes. I have never even held a sword—how long could I stand against you? You are famous for your skill—how can I defeat you?”
Still, the king ordered; the servant had to take up the sword. The whole court gathered to watch. The king had won many duels; his fame spread far and wide. But people were amazed, and the king too: facing the servant, his sword could not find its way. The servant didn’t even know swordsmanship, yet the king kept falling back. The servant’s blows were clumsy, unmethodical, beyond all technique—but before him there was only one option: die or kill. All his energies gathered; all his sleeping life awoke. He had nothing else to consider. He was to die—that was certain—so he did anything to kill.
At last the king had to shout, “Stop!” He said, “I am astonished. I have never seen a man like this. I have fought many wars—how did this ordinary servant become so powerful?”
The old vizier said, “I expected you would get into trouble today. You are skillful, but there is no question of death before you. He is unskilled, but death stands before him. Your total energies cannot awaken; his have utterly awakened. It is impossible to defeat him.”
Whenever all supports fall away, the inner powers awaken. As long as we cling to supports, we are our own enemies. We give no chance to our sleeping forces to arise.
Belief is suicidal because it does not allow your discrimination and inquiry to awaken. There is no need, no opportunity. If you drop all beliefs, what will happen? You will be compelled to inquire—moment to moment. The smallest things will become occasions to think. You will have to think, because without thinking it will be impossible to live—not even for a moment. Drop belief—and an astonishing awakening of the power of inquiry will begin. Only the one who drops all beliefs attains vivek—discriminating awareness.
In my vision, whoever has attained discrimination did so by dropping all kinds of beliefs. We cannot attain it because we cling to belief—out of laziness, out of fear. We think, “Without supports we will fall.” I say to you: better to fall without supports than to stand propped on someone else. At least then something is happening from you—falling is yours. And when you fall, you will do something to rise—who wants to remain fallen? But when you stand by support, that standing is not yours; it is false, borrowed. Even your fall is true; standing with your hand on another’s shoulder is false. So drop all supports. If you truly want to find life, drop all supports. Remove all beliefs, and give your power of inquiry a chance to function. Give it a chance to be born within you.
If you want to learn swimming, it is enough to fall into the water without a support. Those who teach swimming do just one thing: they push you in. In everyone there is a fierce instinct to save oneself—that becomes swimming. If someone thinks, “I will first learn without entering the water,” he should know he will never learn. One day you must jump into the unknown water. Only then will the capacity awaken.
But our mind keeps seeking supports. A mind that seeks supports seeks slavery. Whomever you seek as a support—that one you become a slave to. Whether guru, God, avatar, tirthankara—whoever. Drop all supports—and what is within you will awaken. A hidden force will rise—rising with great intensity.
If you decide to be free on the plane of mind, nothing in this world can keep you from knowing the soul. But you must decide: I choose freedom of mind. I decide I will accept no slavery on the plane of my thinking. I decide I will be no one’s follower. No scripture, no doctrine will weigh upon my mind. I will call only that truth “truth” which I myself attain; otherwise I will know it may be truth for someone else, but not for me. Without such courage, life cannot be found—because without such courage, the mind cannot be free.
Let me remind you: long habits of slavery become dear. Long-worn chains begin to feel pleasant. Breaking them brings panic; leaving them brings fear. The greatest obstacle to ending slavery is that the slave begins to love his slavery. No one can free another; the slave himself clings to his chains—even to the point of dying to preserve them. For thousands of years this has happened.
The Bastille was broken by the French revolutionaries. Prisoners had been confined there for centuries—the most ancient prison in France—where the worst offenders were locked away for life. Some had been there thirty, forty, fifty years. The revolutionaries thought, “Let’s break it open—how happy they will be released!” They smashed the gates, brought the prisoners out. Their hands and feet had been chained for years. A man imprisoned at twenty was now eighty; sixty years in chains. They broke the chains and said, “Go, you are free.” But the prisoners stood dazed: “No—we are fine here. Outside will feel terrible. We have spent sixty years in these dark cells—they have become dear, our home. Out there is fear. Who will feed us? Who will give us water? We have no friends out there.”
The revolutionaries were stubborn. They dragged them out by force. By force they had once been brought in; by force they were pushed out. When they were taken in they cried, “We don’t want to go in!” When taken out they cried, “We don’t want to go out!” By evening half the prisoners had returned: “Forgive us—we are better here. Outside we do not feel good.” They said, “Without chains our hands feel naked; without chains our bodies feel weightless—it doesn’t feel right.”
There are chains on the body, and chains on the mind. Without them, too, one feels uneasy. If I say to you, “For a while, stop being a Hindu,” a great restlessness will arise. Stop being a Jain, stop being a Muslim—begin being human. Hindu, Jain, Muslim, Christian—these are slaveries. Drop them—and you will feel anxious: “How can I be without being a Hindu, a Muslim? Without belonging to a sect, how will I be? I will be empty.” The chains of thousands of years have seized the mind. Think a little, inquire a little, gather a little courage, make a resolve: the resolve to search for truth. If you wish one day to attain what made Mahavira become Jina, Gautam Siddhartha become Buddha, Jesus become the Christ; if you wish that, then remember: any chain is lethal, an obstacle.
Nietzsche wrote: “The first and last Christian died on the cross.” If the first and last Christian died on the cross—what about those who came after? They cannot be Christ—because to be Christ you need a totally free individuality. They are Christ’s slaves. The Jain who follows Mahavira can never be Mahavira—because to be Mahavira you need a free soul, and he is Mahavira’s slave. Whoever follows behind Buddha can never be a Buddha. In fact, a follower can never be anything—because in following he has made the fundamental mistake: the moment he went behind someone, he began to lose his own soul. He sold his freedom and agreed to slavery.
So this morning I want to say: avichar, belief, faith, convictions—these do not allow the mind to be free; they keep it dependent. And a dependent mind can know only the body; it cannot know beyond. If the mind becomes free, it can know that which is the very source of freedom within us—call it soul, call it God, call it anything. Only a free mind can come to know freedom. Only a free mind can lift its eyes toward the free soul. A dependent mind can look only toward the dependent body.
I said: the body is inevitably dependent; the soul is inevitably free. The mind can be either—dependent or free. It is in your hands. If you choose to keep mind dependent, you will know nothing beyond the body—and with the body’s death, you will know nothing beyond death. If mind becomes free, the soul can be known. And the soul is immortal—neither born nor dying. But this cannot happen by my saying so. If I say, “The soul has no birth or death,” and you repeat it—danger has arrived. There is no meaning in that; it is belief again.
I say to you: do not even believe in the soul—yet. For now, know only this: my mind is dependent. And fill yourself with this longing: I will make it free. The day the mind is free, a glimpse of the inner soul begins. The day the mind is utterly free, one becomes established in the soul. That is life—that is the deathless. That is the root-center of the whole universe, of all being, of all existence. There the hidden meaning is. Only those willing to be free can know it.
To know the truth of life, the price of freedom must be paid. If you are prepared, life’s truth can be known. If not, there is no way to know anything beyond death.
These were a few things on avichar and belief. Tomorrow I will speak about how this mind of ours can become free—in the direction of vichar; and the day after, nirvichar.
Because thought is a step—not a place to stop, but a stair to be passed beyond. When we climb to a terrace, we use the stairs—but if we stop on the stairs we never reach the terrace. We both climb the stairs and leave them behind. To reach the soul, we must move from avichar to vichar, then drop vichar and attain nirvichar. The morning after tomorrow I will speak on nirvichar.
Whatever questions arise about this—and many should arise. I say: doubt. If you do not doubt what I say, questions will not arise. Doubt—and questions will come. Doubt as much as you can, to the very end. The more you doubt, the more the awakening of thought will happen within you. Do not accept what I have said. Doubt it, question it, think it through.
I am not here to preach to you. Nothing is more dangerous than preaching. I am no teacher. I am here to awaken something within you. So I can give you a few jolts—not sermons. A shock, perhaps—not advice. A jolt may break your sleep—and someone may awaken. Perhaps some unease will arise in you, some restlessness—some awakening.
This very morning someone said to me, “I thought about death through the night. I could not sleep. I became so restless, so disturbed—if death is real, whatever I am doing is futile. Should I become inactive? Should I stop doing everything?” I was happy his sleep vanished for the night. If sleep left your whole life, that would be the greatest gratitude to the divine. If such concern, such doubt, such inquiry arises that you cannot sleep—then something can happen in your life. But you sleep so soundly that the possibility grows small.
A small story, and I will complete the morning’s talk.
Saint Bhikhan once went to a village to speak in the evening. In front sat a man asleep—perhaps Asoji was his name. In the middle Bhikhan asked, “Asoji, are you sleeping?” The man quickly opened his eyes: “No—no, I’m not!” No sleeper is willing to admit he sleeps. Though he was sleeping, he opened his eyes and said, “No, I don’t sleep.” After a while he dozed again. Bhikhan asked once more, “Asoji, sleeping?” He said, “No!” This time he said it louder—if he spoke softly, people might suspect. He protested loudly, “Absolutely not! Why do you keep saying I’m asleep?” The villagers were listening; if it was known Asoji slept, it would be embarrassing. But what of that? Soon he slept again. Bhikhan then asked something wonderful: “Asoji—are you alive?” The man, in his drowse, heard and thought Bhikhan was again asking if he was sleeping. He blurted, “No—absolutely not!” Bhikhan said, “Now you have answered rightly.”
One who sleeps is not alive. He may insist “No, no!”—but his “no” has no value. And there is no question of saying it to someone else—this is for you to see within: am I sleeping through life? Are no questions arising, no unrest about life, no unease, no discontent, no disturbance?
People have told you the religious man is peaceful, contented. I do not say that. The religious man is deeply discontented, profoundly restless—this life leaves him utterly unsatisfied. He finds no peace anywhere in it. The whole of life seems futile. A deep pain arises within him, a deep anguish. His whole being trembles, fills with concern. From that concern, that contemplation, that inquiry—the beginning of a new direction opens. He moves into a new search.
Blessed are those who are discontented. Those who are contented are nearly dead; nothing more can happen to them.
So I do not wish to give you sermons; I wish to give you discontent. Many of you may have come thinking to attain peace here. I want to give you unrest. Whoever is not deeply restless will never attain peace. Whoever cannot be deeply discontented—contentment is not in his fate.
May the divine grant that you become discontented, that your sleep breaks, that everything appears futile to you, that what you are doing seems not right, that the road you are walking no longer looks like a road, that your friends no longer feel like friends, your companions no longer like companions, that all supports in your life fall away—that you stand utterly unsupported, insecure. Then the birth of inquiry can happen within you.
We will consider your further questions about this tonight.
Osho's Commentary
Last night I spoke a little with you about death. In the search for life, one can begin only from death. If you wish to know and attain life, only those will succeed who begin their inquiry from the fact of death. This seems upside down at first glance: that to seek life we should begin with death. But it is not inverted at all. Whoever seeks light must begin from darkness. The search for light means we are standing in the dark and light is not available to us. If light were near, why would we go searching for it? So the quest for light starts in darkness—and the quest for life, in death. That we are searching for life means we are standing in death. Until this fact is clearly felt, no step forward is really possible.
So, as a preface yesterday, I said a few things about death—and I requested you: do not push death behind you; bring it to the front. Do not evade death; face it. Do not run from death; do not forget it. Only its constant remembrance can become a companion.
For these three days I will speak on three themes in the morning, and in the evening I will answer your questions.
In the context of this morning’s talk on death, I want to say two things today around a single center. The center will be “avichar.” I have chosen three words for three days of inquiry: today avichar, tomorrow vichar, and the day after, nirvichar.
“Avichar” means: a state of consciousness in which we live blindly, without any inquiry.
“Vichar” means: living reflectively, in mindful awareness.
And “nirvichar” means: going even beyond thought and living in samadhi.
Three steps. Today I will speak on avichar.
Ordinarily we all live in avichar—thoughtlessness. In life we have no real inquiry. We live driven by blind cravings, pushed by blind impulses. For those impulses we cannot answer “why?”—because “why?” can be answered only where the movement of inquiry has begun. Hunger arises, thirst arises, passions surge; we busy ourselves fulfilling them. But why? At this level there is no answer. We seek food because hunger arises—but neither hunger nor food becomes part of our inquiry, nor can it. The most thoughtful person feels hunger too—and has no answer for it.
Just as the whole of nature lives blindly, so do we. It rains, the sun blazes, night comes—why? No answer. From a seed a sprout emerges, a tree grows, leaves, flowers, fruits—why? No answer. Beasts, birds, insects, humans—why? The entire existence at the level where we live is without answers. We are—and we have a powerful urge to live, so we go on living. But why are we, and why this powerful urge? We have no answer—and no one ever has. This is the plane of avichar.
I abuse you and anger arises in you. Why does abuse provoke anger? Someone shoves you and violence flares up within—why? Someone seems beautiful—why? Another seems ugly—why? You like one person and dislike another. One feels lovable; another you want to flee. You want to keep one close, push another away. Have you ever really asked why all this is so? And even if you ask, no answer will be available. The empty question will keep echoing; no answer can be found.
On the level of the body, the level of nature, there are no answers. We live unanswered. And so, when death comes, no answer will be possible for that either. There was no answer to “Why was I born?”—nor will there be an answer to “Why did I die?” There is no answer for hunger, thirst, sexual drive, or any other instinct; how then will there be one for death? As birth is accepted, so one day death has to be accepted. On this plane there are no answers at all. This is the plane of the body, avichar, instinct. Here, no answers exist.
Most people live on this plane—without answers. And a life without answers is futile. Its meaning does not reveal itself even to oneself.
A friend of mine recently committed suicide. He was a thinker, thought a great deal. Two months before he died he came to see me. For years he had been brooding on death, thinking again and again of ending himself. He asked me: “I want to end my life. In the way I’m living, I see no meaning. What do you advise?”
I said: “If you see some meaning in death, then by all means end it. You don’t find meaning in life—do you find it in death?” He said: “No, I don’t see any meaning there either.” So I said: “Then nothing will change. If you end this life, nothing will differ. Futility will remain as it is. Life is futile; death will be futile. There is no basis for the choice.”
Most of us go on living only because we think: “Even if I die, what then? What will change?” This is not life. Even as an alternative, death holds no meaning—so we continue.
He did end his life two months later. He wrote me a letter: “I finally arrive at the decision to end myself.”
In the last fifty years, many people have done the same—people without particular suffering or hardship, not impoverished—only because life seemed meaningless.
If you too ponder and inquire, you will likely fail to find a meaning for “Why should I live?” And if you have no answer for living, your life can have neither depth nor real experience. To live or not to live—both are nearly the same. If you are, fine; if you are not, fine.
As I see it, on the level of the body no answer to life can be found. Yet we all live on that level. Hunger, thirst, clothes, shelter—hence we live. Think for a moment: if everything were given—your hunger satisfied, your thirst quenched, your passions fulfilled, all you desire attained—then what would you do? You would have no option but to die. If all your wishes were fulfilled, what then? Could you live even a moment longer? You would fall asleep—into endless sleep. Even now you run only because desire drives you. When there’s nothing to do, you have nothing left but sleep. If all your desires were gratified, you would have nothing left except to die.
On the bodily plane there are inconveniences; we live to address them. But remember, the body will die, because it was born. What is born will die; what begins will end. Life on the plane of the body inevitably leads to death. There is no twofold opinion possible. Is there life beyond this? On the bodily plane, no meaning can be found. Can meaning be found on another plane? The body is a fixed mechanism of nature. As nature moves mechanically, so does the body. There is no freedom there—only dependence. Mahavira’s body is dependent, Krishna’s and Christ’s too, yours and mine as well—because Mahavira dies, Krishna dies, Christ dies.
On the bodily plane, no one has ever been free; nor has anyone ever found deathless life there—nor will anyone ever. The body is mortal; immortality is not there. The body is the house of death; life is not there. If we keep circling within that boundary, then—as I told you last night—whatever we do, we will end in death.
The body is entirely dependent; there is no freedom there. Beyond and above the body—what is within us? Certainly we catch glimpses of mind. Everyone senses the mind: thoughts leave their footprints; reflection goes on; thinking happens; we get some news of the mind. Mind is.
I said: the body is inevitably dependent. Mind is not inevitably dependent; mind can be free. But ordinarily mind too is dependent. On the plane of mind, we have no real freedom either. At the bodily level, impulses and instincts hold us; at the mental level, beliefs hold us. Words, scriptures, doctrines hold us. Mind is also a slave, running along tracks laid down by others. There too, no freedom.
Yet mind can be free—this is the difference between body and mind. The body is dependent and can never be free. Mind is also dependent, but it can become free. Beyond even that there is an element—we will work toward it; it has been called the soul—you could call it something else. The soul is free and cannot become dependent.
These are the three planes of life: the body is dependent and cannot be free; the mind is dependent but can be free; the soul is free and cannot be made dependent.
But this soul—which is inherently free and alive, deathless, with no birth and no death—can be known only by a mind that is free. If the mind is dependent, it will know nothing beyond the body. A dependent mind cannot lift its eyes beyond a dependent body. Only when mind becomes free do its eyes begin to rise toward the soul—which is free and alive.
Hence, the real question is neither of body nor of soul; the whole question of the discipline of life centers on the mind. If the mind is dependent, life cannot rise above the body—in other words, life will lead to death. If the mind is free, the eyes of life can begin to turn toward immortality.
Are our minds free or dependent? Generally, our minds are dependent. They have known no freedom. We not only wear clothes like others and eat like others; we also think like others. On the plane of thought we follow someone. Whoever follows is dependent. Whoever walks behind someone is dependent. On the bodily plane we are dependent; on the mental plane we have made ourselves dependent too.
Have you ever thought even a single original thought—or are all your thoughts borrowed? Has anything been born within you—or have you merely collected thoughts? Look at the many ideas in your mind; you will find they have come from somewhere else and settled within—like birds crowding the trees at dusk. These thoughts are others’—foreign, borrowed. Only that person deserves to be called human who becomes capable of giving birth to even a single authentic insight. There begins the dawn of freedom. Otherwise we are slaves.
All people are dependent—and the basis of their dependence is that they have never inquired for themselves. They have accepted all ideas; they have said “yes.” They have adopted belief, devotion, faith. For thousands of years we have been taught belief, not inquiry; faith, not reflection; acceptance, not contemplation. And the result is that humanity has grown ever more dependent. Our minds are shackled. They only repeat; they do not think. If I ask you any question, the answer you give will almost always be a repetition—a echo, not reflection.
If I ask: “Is there God?”—examine whether the answer that arises is really yours. If I ask: “Is there a soul?”—and whatever arises, “yes” or “no”—did it arise from your inquiry? Or did it drift into you on the surrounding winds? Did you pick it up from some scripture, accept it from some guru—or did you know it firsthand? If you see that it is not your own knowing, then know your mind is dependent.
Let alone soul and God—faraway matters! Even the simplest experiences are not our own; we repeat them. If I place a rose before you and ask, “Is it beautiful?” you may say, “It is beautiful.” But reflect a little: did you accept this—or did you know it? Different cultures find different flowers beautiful; different faces are judged beautiful by different peoples. Children born there learn those definitions of beauty and repeat them for life. A nose that is beautiful in India may not be beautiful in China. Then doubt arises: is our taste for beauty ours—or have we acquired it from society? The face admired in India is not admired in Japan. A face admired in a Negro community will not be admired in India. In India thin lips are beautiful; for a Negro, full lips are beautiful. The Negro child will repeat all his life that full lips are lovely; the Indian child will repeat that thin lips are lovely. Which lips are beautiful? Which face? Which flower? Even this is not our own experience. This too we repeat. If I ask: “What is love?”—you will repeat that too. You have read it in a scripture; you have hardly known or searched for it.
If our personality, our consciousness, is simply an echo of society, it cannot be free. How could it be? We are merely echo points, repeating stations for society’s voices. We are not persons; we are not individuals. The birth of individuality has not taken place. And without individuality, how will you attain the deathless? What do you have that you wish to save? What is there that you can truly call yours—that you have known and lived? If there is nothing, then death is certain. All that came from society will return to society. What have you given birth to that did not come from others—that you can call authentically yours? If there is nothing of that kind, how will the vision of the soul arise within?
When something authentically mine is born in consciousness, the movement toward the soul begins. I become a vessel, capable of knowing the soul.
The birth of individuality is impossible without a free mind. And our minds are utterly dependent—utterly enslaved. This slavery is deep, and from a thousand directions we are trained for it. Many interests want us enslaved: for society’s convenience, for the state’s convenience, for religions and sects, for priests and pundits, it is useful that the individual be a slave. The more enslaved the person, the more he can be exploited; the more enslaved, the less the possibility of rebellion. A mind completely dependent is no longer dangerous; revolution becomes impossible. Society does not want any individual’s mind to be free. So from childhood it does everything to make him dependent. All our education and conditioning become the groundwork for mental slavery. Before we come to our senses we are already bound in chains. The chains may bear any label—Hindu, Jain, Indian, non-Indian, Christian, Muslim. Thousands of chains seize our minds, and then we stop thinking beyond them.
Very few people think; the vast majority only repeat. Whether they repeat Mahavira or Buddha, the Gita or the Quran—it makes no difference. As long as you repeat, you commit the greatest sin against your own soul. As long as you repeat anyone, you are not preparing to be free. Yet what is taught is: without faith you will not find the soul; without belief you cannot attain liberation. How foolish! Belief is blindness, belief is dependence; liberation is supreme freedom. How will belief lead to liberation? Belief is blindness—of the same level as the body’s blindness in its passions. When that blindness arises on the plane of mind, it is called belief.
I request you: drop belief and give birth to inquiry. Belief is the condition of avichar. Why do we believe? It is clear that belief serves society’s interests—exploitation’s interests, the interest of temples and priests, whose entire business stands on belief. The day belief disappears, their trade collapses. That much is understandable. But why do we believe?
We believe because belief is available without effort—no labor needed. Inquiry demands labor. Inquiry demands passing through pain. Inquiry demands worry, risk, trouble. In inquiry you will be alone; in belief the crowd is with you. Belief gives a sense of security, a crutch. Inquiry is full of insecurity—there is the fear of going astray, the possibility of error, the risk of disappearing.
Belief is the highway crowded with thousands—you walk with the herd, unafraid, people on all sides. Belief is the path of the crowd; inquiry is the path of aloneness. There you will be alone—no support, no crowd around you. A crowd can be made to believe absurdities you cannot imagine.
Aristotle wrote that women have fewer teeth than men. This very intelligent man—father of logic in the West—had not one but two wives. Yet he never bothered to count a woman’s teeth! For thousands of years in Greece it was believed women had fewer teeth. In fact, everything about women had to be “less” than men’s—since woman was considered a lower creature and man a higher. How could her teeth be equal! It was “obvious,” so no one counted. For centuries Europe agreed with Aristotle. No sensible person thought to check—because doubt didn’t arise. Without doubt, inquiry cannot be born. There is no greater spiritual capacity than doubt; no greater sin than blind faith; no greater religion than inquiry. Doubt must arise—because without doubt you cannot be free of the crowd.
The crowd teaches: do not doubt—whoever doubts will be destroyed. I tell you: only those who have doubted have found. Whoever believes is destroyed the very moment he believes. Belief means: I choose blindness; I accept what I am told. Doubt means: I refuse blindness; I will inquire. Until I know by my own experience, I will not believe. Doubt is courage; belief is laziness. Out of laziness we believe. Who wants to seek? It is easier to accept what others say.
Centuries of tradition carry weight: surely millions over millennia cannot all be wrong? The crowd becomes a sanction of “truth.” Yet the crowd is never a criterion of truth. Most often, the crowd only follows the dead. The crowd does not experience; it has no way to. Only the individual experiences. The crowd has no soul for experiencing; it is a lifeless mechanism. Whoever depends on society becomes a mechanism too; his individuality is lost.
No one can be religious without being free of society.
You have heard that sannyasins renounce society and go away. They don’t. They leave their house, their family—but not society. When a man born in Jainism becomes a monk, he still says, “I am a Jain monk.” He left his home—but not society. He left his wife—but not his gurus. He fled on the bodily plane—but is a slave on the mental plane. And escape on the bodily plane means nothing; the real issue is the mind. The religion taught to him since childhood still clutches his mind. The answers fed to him sit within. The scriptures still roll off his tongue. He is a slave in mind.
I say: do not run on the bodily plane. On that plane no one can run away. The monk who “ran away” bodily has not escaped—he returns to society for bread, for clothes. How will you leave society bodily? You could be free on the plane of mind—but you are not. He prides himself on escaping where escape is impossible, and remains chained where freedom is possible. On the bodily plane no one can truly run away. The body must live in a group; even the greatest knower lives supported by the group. But on the mental plane one can be free—and there one must be free.
So I don’t ask you to leave home and hearth. That is all madness. Drop the walls of the mind. Tear down the inner enclosures. Break the inner chains. Then the beginning of freedom happens.
The first fact: doubt. Doubt whatever has been taught—not because it is false, understand this well. Doubt Mahavira, doubt Buddha—not because what they say is false. No—believing is the mistake; grasp this. Doubt the Quran, the Bible, the Gita—not because what is written is false. I am not saying that. I am saying: believing is wrong. If you believe, you will never know what is written there. If you doubt, one day the truth that opened to Mahavira or Buddha will open to you too.
Doubt breaks avichar. Faith thickens it. Belief is an ally of thoughtlessness. Doubt cracks the condition of avichar.
But inquiry brings pain. Inquiry is an austerity.
Fasting is not tapas. Going hungry or thirsty is no great austerity—the circus can do that. But to doubt is a great tapas. To doubt means: to agree to stand in insecurity; to agree to stand in not-knowing; to agree to stand on your own feet; to leave all supports. Remember, as long as one walks with crutches, one’s legs never grow strong. As long as one believes, one’s own mind cannot gather the strength to seek truth. Strength gathers only when we enter insecurity. Power awakens only when supports fall away. If I tell you, “Run,” you will run—slowly. If I say, “Run with all your might,” still you will be slow. But if someone with a gun chases your very life, a speed will come to your legs you had never imagined.
It once happened: In Japan, a great king’s servant fell in love with the queen. When the king discovered it—how disgraceful, how insulting! A mere servant, a slave, in love with the queen—and the queen with him! Though love does not know who is king and who is servant—love crowns whomever it touches. But society has its calculations. The king thought: this is chaos, this is shame; if this rumor spreads, it will be terrible.
He summoned the servant. The servant was truly lovable; the king himself loved him much. He said, “It would be proper to lift my sword and sever your head. But I have loved you; you are an extraordinary man. I will give you a chance. Take up a sword and face me. We will duel; whoever dies, dies; whoever lives, is the master.”
It was great mercy; he could have executed him outright.
The servant said, “You speak well, but nothing changes. I have never even held a sword—how long could I stand against you? You are famous for your skill—how can I defeat you?”
Still, the king ordered; the servant had to take up the sword. The whole court gathered to watch. The king had won many duels; his fame spread far and wide. But people were amazed, and the king too: facing the servant, his sword could not find its way. The servant didn’t even know swordsmanship, yet the king kept falling back. The servant’s blows were clumsy, unmethodical, beyond all technique—but before him there was only one option: die or kill. All his energies gathered; all his sleeping life awoke. He had nothing else to consider. He was to die—that was certain—so he did anything to kill.
At last the king had to shout, “Stop!” He said, “I am astonished. I have never seen a man like this. I have fought many wars—how did this ordinary servant become so powerful?”
The old vizier said, “I expected you would get into trouble today. You are skillful, but there is no question of death before you. He is unskilled, but death stands before him. Your total energies cannot awaken; his have utterly awakened. It is impossible to defeat him.”
Whenever all supports fall away, the inner powers awaken. As long as we cling to supports, we are our own enemies. We give no chance to our sleeping forces to arise.
Belief is suicidal because it does not allow your discrimination and inquiry to awaken. There is no need, no opportunity. If you drop all beliefs, what will happen? You will be compelled to inquire—moment to moment. The smallest things will become occasions to think. You will have to think, because without thinking it will be impossible to live—not even for a moment. Drop belief—and an astonishing awakening of the power of inquiry will begin. Only the one who drops all beliefs attains vivek—discriminating awareness.
In my vision, whoever has attained discrimination did so by dropping all kinds of beliefs. We cannot attain it because we cling to belief—out of laziness, out of fear. We think, “Without supports we will fall.” I say to you: better to fall without supports than to stand propped on someone else. At least then something is happening from you—falling is yours. And when you fall, you will do something to rise—who wants to remain fallen? But when you stand by support, that standing is not yours; it is false, borrowed. Even your fall is true; standing with your hand on another’s shoulder is false. So drop all supports. If you truly want to find life, drop all supports. Remove all beliefs, and give your power of inquiry a chance to function. Give it a chance to be born within you.
If you want to learn swimming, it is enough to fall into the water without a support. Those who teach swimming do just one thing: they push you in. In everyone there is a fierce instinct to save oneself—that becomes swimming. If someone thinks, “I will first learn without entering the water,” he should know he will never learn. One day you must jump into the unknown water. Only then will the capacity awaken.
But our mind keeps seeking supports. A mind that seeks supports seeks slavery. Whomever you seek as a support—that one you become a slave to. Whether guru, God, avatar, tirthankara—whoever. Drop all supports—and what is within you will awaken. A hidden force will rise—rising with great intensity.
If you decide to be free on the plane of mind, nothing in this world can keep you from knowing the soul. But you must decide: I choose freedom of mind. I decide I will accept no slavery on the plane of my thinking. I decide I will be no one’s follower. No scripture, no doctrine will weigh upon my mind. I will call only that truth “truth” which I myself attain; otherwise I will know it may be truth for someone else, but not for me. Without such courage, life cannot be found—because without such courage, the mind cannot be free.
Let me remind you: long habits of slavery become dear. Long-worn chains begin to feel pleasant. Breaking them brings panic; leaving them brings fear. The greatest obstacle to ending slavery is that the slave begins to love his slavery. No one can free another; the slave himself clings to his chains—even to the point of dying to preserve them. For thousands of years this has happened.
The Bastille was broken by the French revolutionaries. Prisoners had been confined there for centuries—the most ancient prison in France—where the worst offenders were locked away for life. Some had been there thirty, forty, fifty years. The revolutionaries thought, “Let’s break it open—how happy they will be released!” They smashed the gates, brought the prisoners out. Their hands and feet had been chained for years. A man imprisoned at twenty was now eighty; sixty years in chains. They broke the chains and said, “Go, you are free.” But the prisoners stood dazed: “No—we are fine here. Outside will feel terrible. We have spent sixty years in these dark cells—they have become dear, our home. Out there is fear. Who will feed us? Who will give us water? We have no friends out there.”
The revolutionaries were stubborn. They dragged them out by force. By force they had once been brought in; by force they were pushed out. When they were taken in they cried, “We don’t want to go in!” When taken out they cried, “We don’t want to go out!” By evening half the prisoners had returned: “Forgive us—we are better here. Outside we do not feel good.” They said, “Without chains our hands feel naked; without chains our bodies feel weightless—it doesn’t feel right.”
There are chains on the body, and chains on the mind. Without them, too, one feels uneasy. If I say to you, “For a while, stop being a Hindu,” a great restlessness will arise. Stop being a Jain, stop being a Muslim—begin being human. Hindu, Jain, Muslim, Christian—these are slaveries. Drop them—and you will feel anxious: “How can I be without being a Hindu, a Muslim? Without belonging to a sect, how will I be? I will be empty.” The chains of thousands of years have seized the mind. Think a little, inquire a little, gather a little courage, make a resolve: the resolve to search for truth. If you wish one day to attain what made Mahavira become Jina, Gautam Siddhartha become Buddha, Jesus become the Christ; if you wish that, then remember: any chain is lethal, an obstacle.
Nietzsche wrote: “The first and last Christian died on the cross.” If the first and last Christian died on the cross—what about those who came after? They cannot be Christ—because to be Christ you need a totally free individuality. They are Christ’s slaves. The Jain who follows Mahavira can never be Mahavira—because to be Mahavira you need a free soul, and he is Mahavira’s slave. Whoever follows behind Buddha can never be a Buddha. In fact, a follower can never be anything—because in following he has made the fundamental mistake: the moment he went behind someone, he began to lose his own soul. He sold his freedom and agreed to slavery.
So this morning I want to say: avichar, belief, faith, convictions—these do not allow the mind to be free; they keep it dependent. And a dependent mind can know only the body; it cannot know beyond. If the mind becomes free, it can know that which is the very source of freedom within us—call it soul, call it God, call it anything. Only a free mind can come to know freedom. Only a free mind can lift its eyes toward the free soul. A dependent mind can look only toward the dependent body.
I said: the body is inevitably dependent; the soul is inevitably free. The mind can be either—dependent or free. It is in your hands. If you choose to keep mind dependent, you will know nothing beyond the body—and with the body’s death, you will know nothing beyond death. If mind becomes free, the soul can be known. And the soul is immortal—neither born nor dying. But this cannot happen by my saying so. If I say, “The soul has no birth or death,” and you repeat it—danger has arrived. There is no meaning in that; it is belief again.
I say to you: do not even believe in the soul—yet. For now, know only this: my mind is dependent. And fill yourself with this longing: I will make it free. The day the mind is free, a glimpse of the inner soul begins. The day the mind is utterly free, one becomes established in the soul. That is life—that is the deathless. That is the root-center of the whole universe, of all being, of all existence. There the hidden meaning is. Only those willing to be free can know it.
To know the truth of life, the price of freedom must be paid. If you are prepared, life’s truth can be known. If not, there is no way to know anything beyond death.
These were a few things on avichar and belief. Tomorrow I will speak about how this mind of ours can become free—in the direction of vichar; and the day after, nirvichar.
Because thought is a step—not a place to stop, but a stair to be passed beyond. When we climb to a terrace, we use the stairs—but if we stop on the stairs we never reach the terrace. We both climb the stairs and leave them behind. To reach the soul, we must move from avichar to vichar, then drop vichar and attain nirvichar. The morning after tomorrow I will speak on nirvichar.
Whatever questions arise about this—and many should arise. I say: doubt. If you do not doubt what I say, questions will not arise. Doubt—and questions will come. Doubt as much as you can, to the very end. The more you doubt, the more the awakening of thought will happen within you. Do not accept what I have said. Doubt it, question it, think it through.
I am not here to preach to you. Nothing is more dangerous than preaching. I am no teacher. I am here to awaken something within you. So I can give you a few jolts—not sermons. A shock, perhaps—not advice. A jolt may break your sleep—and someone may awaken. Perhaps some unease will arise in you, some restlessness—some awakening.
This very morning someone said to me, “I thought about death through the night. I could not sleep. I became so restless, so disturbed—if death is real, whatever I am doing is futile. Should I become inactive? Should I stop doing everything?” I was happy his sleep vanished for the night. If sleep left your whole life, that would be the greatest gratitude to the divine. If such concern, such doubt, such inquiry arises that you cannot sleep—then something can happen in your life. But you sleep so soundly that the possibility grows small.
A small story, and I will complete the morning’s talk.
Saint Bhikhan once went to a village to speak in the evening. In front sat a man asleep—perhaps Asoji was his name. In the middle Bhikhan asked, “Asoji, are you sleeping?” The man quickly opened his eyes: “No—no, I’m not!” No sleeper is willing to admit he sleeps. Though he was sleeping, he opened his eyes and said, “No, I don’t sleep.” After a while he dozed again. Bhikhan asked once more, “Asoji, sleeping?” He said, “No!” This time he said it louder—if he spoke softly, people might suspect. He protested loudly, “Absolutely not! Why do you keep saying I’m asleep?” The villagers were listening; if it was known Asoji slept, it would be embarrassing. But what of that? Soon he slept again. Bhikhan then asked something wonderful: “Asoji—are you alive?” The man, in his drowse, heard and thought Bhikhan was again asking if he was sleeping. He blurted, “No—absolutely not!” Bhikhan said, “Now you have answered rightly.”
One who sleeps is not alive. He may insist “No, no!”—but his “no” has no value. And there is no question of saying it to someone else—this is for you to see within: am I sleeping through life? Are no questions arising, no unrest about life, no unease, no discontent, no disturbance?
People have told you the religious man is peaceful, contented. I do not say that. The religious man is deeply discontented, profoundly restless—this life leaves him utterly unsatisfied. He finds no peace anywhere in it. The whole of life seems futile. A deep pain arises within him, a deep anguish. His whole being trembles, fills with concern. From that concern, that contemplation, that inquiry—the beginning of a new direction opens. He moves into a new search.
Blessed are those who are discontented. Those who are contented are nearly dead; nothing more can happen to them.
So I do not wish to give you sermons; I wish to give you discontent. Many of you may have come thinking to attain peace here. I want to give you unrest. Whoever is not deeply restless will never attain peace. Whoever cannot be deeply discontented—contentment is not in his fate.
May the divine grant that you become discontented, that your sleep breaks, that everything appears futile to you, that what you are doing seems not right, that the road you are walking no longer looks like a road, that your friends no longer feel like friends, your companions no longer like companions, that all supports in your life fall away—that you stand utterly unsupported, insecure. Then the birth of inquiry can happen within you.
We will consider your further questions about this tonight.