Es Dhammo Sanantano #7

Zafar has sung—
“Having begged for a long life, I brought back only four days;
two were spent in yearning, two in waiting.”
This is the story of man. Nothing real ever comes into our hands in life. Hopes are many, dreams are many—but what sticks to the hand is only ash, the dust of hopes and dreams. And when it is time to go, Zafar’s words prove true for almost everyone: life gave us four days—two passed in desires, two in waiting for their fulfillment. Nothing ever quite completes; nowhere do we truly arrive. Life passes like this—into futility, into meaninglessness.

Whoever sees this futility becomes a renunciate. Whoever sees the world’s race as nothing but a race—purposeless, leading nowhere; whoever sees that life leads only into the jaws of death—that one awakens, gathers awareness, and attempts to come out of sleep. If you still trust that your dreams will come true, you will not want to wake up. Whoever is enmeshed in dreams will not wish to awaken, because on waking, dreams must shatter. Dreams require sleep.

Life requires alertness; sleep requires carelessness. Appamada means awareness. It is the word of Buddha and Mahavira. Pramada means sloth, stupor, sleep. If any craving lives in your mind, then you will need pramada. You will not be able to strive for appamada—it would be its opposite. Wake a person lost in a sweet dream, and it hurts; you will feel like an enemy. This is why the awakened ones look like enemies to worldly people. They were slumbering sweetly, lost in golden dreams—dreams may be of golden palaces, but a dream is a dream. Whether a mud hut or a palace of gold—upon waking, both vanish. The moment you awaken, both break apart.

The whole effort of the awakened ones is simply this: how to wake you up out of the dream. Only then will you know the real form of life; only then will you know that life which has no death. What you now take as life is only an assumption. It is not life. Who will call it life which is here today and gone tomorrow? “A water-bubble,” said Buddha; “the morning star,” said Buddha—here now, gone now. “A dewdrop poised on a blade of grass,” said Buddha—no one knows when it will fall.

And yet man trusts such a life! The sleep must be very deep, the unconsciousness immense. Every day you see some drop fall, some star sink, some bubble burst and disappear into the air. You shed a tear or two over someone’s death, you express sympathy—but you do not realize that this death is also the news of your death. You go to the cremation ground, and then you return to the world just as before. The sleep must be very deep—even the cremation ground cannot break it. Even when the dearest one dies, you weep for the one who has gone, but you do not become aware that your own death is drawing near. Today someone died; tomorrow you too will die. People avoid this thought, people fear this thought.

Appamādo amatapadaṁ, pamādo maccuno padaṁ.
Appamattā na mīyanti, ye pamattā yathā matā. 18
Etam visesato ñatvā appamādamhi paṇḍitā.
Appamāde pamodanti, ariyānaṁ gocare ratā. 19
Te jhāyino sātatikā niccaṁ dalha-parakkamā.
Phusanti dhīrā nibbānaṁ yogakkhemaṁ anuttaraṁ. 20
Uṭṭhānavato satimato sucikammassa nisammakāriṇo.
Saṇñatassa ca dhammajīvino appamattassa yaso abhivaḍḍhati. 21
Uṭṭhānena appamādena saññamena damena ca.
Dīpaṁ kayirātha medhāvī yaṁ ogho nābhikirati. 22
Pamādaṁ anuyuñjanti bālā dummedhino janā.
Appamādañ ca medhāvī dhanaṁ seṭṭhaṁ’va rakkhati. 23

Appamada is the path of immortality; pramada is the path of death.
The aware do not die; the unaware are as if already dead.
Knowing this distinction well, the wise delight in awareness,
dwelling in the pastureland of the noble ones.
Those who meditate steadily, ever resolute and strong,
the brave attain nibbana, the unsurpassed ease beyond bondage.
For one who is industrious, mindful, pure in deed and considerate,
self-restrained, living by the Dharma, the fame of the aware grows.
By effort, awareness, restraint and self-mastery,
the intelligent one should make an island no flood can overwhelm.
Fools, the dull-witted, delight in heedlessness;
the intelligent guard awareness as their greatest treasure.

Zafar has sung—
“Having begged for a long life, I brought back only four days;
two were spent in yearning, two in waiting.”
This is man’s story. Nothing tangible comes into our hands. Hopes are many, dreams are many; but what clings to the palm is only ash, only the dust of hopes and dreams. And when it is time to leave, Zafar’s words are found true for almost all: life gave four days—two passed in longing, two in waiting for fulfillment. Nothing ever completes, nowhere do we arrive. Life passes away like this—into futility, into hollowness.

The one who has seen this futility becomes a sannyasin. The one who has seen that the world’s race is mere racing—meaningless, taking you nowhere; who has seen that life leads only into the mouth of death—only that one awakens, gathers awareness, makes an effort to step out of sleep. If you still believe your dreams will be fulfilled, you will not want to wake up. Whoever is entangled in a web of dreams will not wish to wake, because on waking, dreams shatter. Dreams require sleep.

Life requires appamada; sleep requires pramada. Appamada means awareness. It is Buddha’s and Mahavira’s word. Pramada means sloth, torpor, sleep. If there is any craving in your mind, you will require pramada. Then you will not be able to strive for appamada; it would be contrary. Wake someone lost in a sweet dream and it feels like pain; you will seem an enemy. Hence the awakened ones appear like enemies to worldly people. They were sleeping sweetly, lost in their dreams—those dreams may be golden, palaces of gold—but a dream is a dream. Whether of mud or gold, both vanish the moment you awaken. The moment you wake, both break.

The entire endeavor of the awakened ones is only this: that you awaken out of the dream. Only then will you know life’s true face; only then will you know that life which never dies. What you have been taking as life is merely a belief. It is not life. Who will call life that which is here today and will not be tomorrow? A water-bubble, said Buddha; the morning star, said Buddha—here now, gone now. A dewdrop on a blade of grass, said Buddha—who knows when it will fall?

And still man trusts such a life! Then the sleep must be very deep; the unconsciousness, immense. Daily you see some drop fall, some star sink, some bubble burst and vanish into air. You shed a couple of tears at someone’s death, you offer condolences; but you do not realize that this death is also the news of your own. You even go to the cremation ground and then return to the world as if nothing has happened. The sleep must be very deep—even the cremation ground cannot break it. Even when the dearest dies, you weep for the one gone, but you do not become aware that your own death is drawing near. Today someone died; tomorrow you too will die. People avoid this thought; they fear it.

And Western psychologists say that a person who thinks much about death is neurotic. Neurotic, because if he thinks like that, he will not be able to live. They too are right—if this is life, then thinking too much of death is dangerous, because as soon as you ponder death much, your feet will stall. You will hesitate on your journeys. You were preparing to soar in ambition—your wings will fall.

Psychologists say thinking much about death is sickness—if this life is indeed life, then they are right. But they do not know this is not life. Life lies beyond this stupor, beyond this unconsciousness. Yet we guard this unconsciousness carefully. We do not let it be broken from anywhere. Even when occasions come for it to break, we patch it up and turn over, and sleep again.

Before one dream is even broken, we sow the seeds of another. Before one hope is gone, we hang ourselves on another. We keep hope alive. We give no chance, not even for a single moment, to feel or experience life’s reality. Let this truth of life pierce your heart—that death is hidden within, death is approaching, coming closer each moment. From the day you were born, death began to approach. The day of birth is the day of death as well—let this notion arise. You celebrate birthdays, but each birthday does not bring life nearer, it brings death nearer. One more year less of life. Death comes closer. In the queue you have moved a little ahead toward the cremation ground.

The entire psychology of Buddha—of all the awakened ones, whether Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, or Mohammed—rests upon the awareness of death. The day you see clearly that this life is slipping away, that even if you clutch it you will not be able to save it—no one has saved it—then you will realize that to try to save it is to waste your time and exhaust your strength. Do not try to save this—it will go. That effort is impossible. In the little, fleeting time you have, try to awaken. Not to save life, but to awaken. Because by awakening you begin to gain a wealth that can never be taken away. Thieves cannot steal it, bandits cannot rob it; even death cannot snatch it. Until that note begins to sound within you which is eternal, the Om—neither beginning nor end—es dhammo sanantano—until such a timeless truth descends within you, beyond time, beyond death’s reach, you may live, but you will live without knowing life. You will sleep, you will doze, you will remain intoxicated; you will not come to your senses.

Buddha’s whole process can be summed up in one word: appamada—awareness—living awake. What does it mean to live awake? When you walk down the road, if you ask Buddha, he will say: this walking is asleep. You see shops along the road, people passing by, horses, carts, cars—but one thing you do not see while walking: yourself. You see everything else: who passed by, the crowd on the road, or the deserted way—you see it all; only you are not seen. That is the dream.

In dreams, have you noticed? Everything is seen—except you. That is the very nature of dream. You have dreamt so many dreams. Have you ever noticed? Everything appears—the friend, the enemy—only you do not appear.

This is the very state of your so-called waking too. What you call waking differs little from sleep. In both, one thing is the same: you have no sense of yourself. Inside, it is dark; no lamp is lit. This is what Buddha calls pramada, swoon.

A life in which you do not even know yourself—is that life? You walk, stand, sit, yet you do not sense the one hidden within. Without recognizing yourself—is that life? Without meeting yourself—is that life? And one who has not recognized himself—what else will he recognize? You were your nearest—and you did not even touch yourself. And you desire to touch God? You want to reach the moon and stars, but cannot reach within.

Remember: first reach the nearest, only then is the journey to the farthest possible. And the delight is that whoever knows the near, knows the far too—because the far is only the expansion of the near.

The Upanishads say: the Divine is nearer than the nearest, farther than the farthest. Does this mean there are two ways to know—either as far, or as near? No, there cannot be two ways. When you cannot know the near, how will you know the far? When I cannot touch my own truth, how will I touch God’s vast truth?

Therefore Buddha fell silent about God; he did not talk of it. It is useless to speak of what is seen when one is awake, to one who is asleep. The right thing to say to one asleep is only this: how to break his dream, how to break his sleep.

“Appamada is the path to immortality, and pramada the path to death.”

Whoever lives asleep is walking toward death. That road leads to death. Whoever lives awake has begun to walk in immortality. That road leads to deathlessness—because as soon as you awaken within, you come to know that which cannot be destroyed. You dwell in a house in which a spring of nectar is hidden—yet there is no light. Light must be brought. The house is dark; the springs of immortality are hidden, the treasure of the eternal is hidden—but the house is dark. And you are a dweller of this dark house. Even when you open your eyes, you stand at the window and look outside.

Perhaps, as in Rabia’s famous story: one evening people saw the fakir Rabia—a unique woman, a Sufi saint—searching for something in front of her house. The sun was setting. To help the old woman, people asked, “What have you lost?” She said, “My needle.” They too began to search.

Then a man thought: the needle is a small thing, the sun is about to set, it will be dark soon; the lane is big; unless one knows exactly where it fell, searching is difficult; and night approaches. So he asked, “Tell us exactly where the needle fell.” Rabia said, “Better if you don’t ask that—for the needle fell inside my house.” They all stopped. “Mad woman,” they said, “we always suspected your mind was off!”

To worldly people, the minds of renunciates have always seemed off. It is their way of self-defense. If the renunciate is right, then you are mad—so better to assume the renunciate is mad. It protects you. And there is the crowd; what the crowd says sounds true, even if it’s false.

People laughed: “We suspected all along that you were crazy. If the needle fell inside, why are you searching outside?” Rabia said, “Inside it is dark, and I am poor—I have no lamp. I search outside because there is a little light of the sun left. Don’t waste time; help me search, otherwise the sun will set and then even searching outside will be difficult.”

They said, “Mad woman! We understand there is light outside. But when the needle is not lost outside, what will light do? Light cannot produce a needle.” Rabia said, “You tell me then—what should I do?” They said, “Is that a question? Get a lamp from somewhere, take it inside, or wait till morning; when the sun rises and there is light inside, search then. But search where it is lost.”

Rabia laughed: “You think me mad, but I am doing exactly what you do. You search for bliss outside; even when you search for God, you search outside—sometimes at the temple, sometimes at the mosque.

‘Not in the haram, not in the cloister—
we cried at both doors.’
We called in front of the mosque, in front of the temple—found nothing.

‘We cried at both doors.’
But when man searches, he searches outside—without asking where it was lost. Where did you lose God? When did you lose? Where exactly did you lose? Needle or God, it makes no difference.”

But this is exactly what has happened. Lost within, you search without. Why outside? Because the senses open outward—the light of the senses falls outward. The eyes open out, not in. The hands extend outward, not inward. The ears hear outward, not inward. So man searches outside—and never finds.

“Having begged for a long life, I brought back four days—
two were spent in yearning, two in waiting.”
He begs, weeps, pleads, searches, stumbles, falls, and rises. Half his life passes in asking, half in waiting. His hands remain empty. And what he seeks was within—only a matter of bringing light, of lighting a lamp. That lamp’s name is appamada—awareness.

Walking, rising, sitting—whatever you do, Buddha said—do not forget one thing: do it consciously. He would tell his monks: even while you walk on the road, don’t only see the road—walk seeing yourself as well, that I am walking. There is no need to repeat in words, “I am walking,” but retain the sense that I am seeing. And you will be surprised—an unusual experience happens.

A beautiful woman passes by. If you remain aware that you are seeing—she is there, you are here, and you are seeing—you will be astonished: with this awareness, desire does not arise. Forget that you are seeing; let only the beautiful woman appear—and craving arises. A palace appears, and dreams begin to form—“May I have such a palace.” But just awaken a little—let the palace appear, no harm, but let the seer also be seen. The art of seeing the seer is appamada.

What Krishnamurti calls “awareness” is Buddha’s appamada. Mahavira called it “vivek,” discernment. Gurdjieff used a very precise term—“self-remembering”—self-sense. Whatever you do, don’t lose self-sense. Keep the inner link of self-remembering unbroken, its continuity intact.

In the beginning, you will catch it and lose it again and again. For a moment self-sense will be there, then it will slip away. The old habit of losing is deep. But if you persist, then like drops of water that hollow even stone, so the drop-drop of appamada, of awareness, will gradually pierce the crust of darkness of many lifetimes. And even on the first day, when a single ray descends within, you will find: Ah! What I was seeking was always at home. We had gone out to search in vain. We had never really lost it—we were just distracted by looking outside.

Often you must have noticed—those who wear glasses—many here wear them—sometimes your glasses are on your brow and you search for them; you even forget that you are searching for the glasses through the glasses. You have them on and you search for them. People tuck a pencil behind the ear and then look for it—forgetting.

God is not lost, only forgotten—just a lapse of memory. Take heart, then; remembering is not difficult. If it were truly lost, searching would be hard. Where would you search in this vastness? The world is immense—how would you find a way?

God is found because He is not lost—only forgotten. As if gems lay in your pocket and you forgot. Whenever you put your hand into your pocket, you find them there. Appamada means: put your hand into the pocket—reach into consciousness, the inner. Arouse yourself within.

“Appamada is the path of the deathless; pramada, of death.”

Between sleep and death is a deep harmony, a likeness, a unison. Sleep is a small death. Every night you die. In the morning you rise again. After the day’s fatigue, you die at night. At night you are not what you were by day. You completely forget who and what you were. At night, have you noticed? The wife who was yours by day, at night is no wife—you don’t even remember. The son you had by day is no son by night. The house that was yours by day is no longer yours by night. By day you may be a beggar—by night in dream you become a king. By day you may be a king—by night a beggar. And not a trace of the day enters sleep.

So it is not accurate to say you remain the same in sleep as in waking. You die; the structure of your personality dissolves. By day you wake again. You become another person. Again shops and markets, wealth and accounts—again it all returns.

Daily man dies in sleep. As he dies daily after the fatigue of the day, so death too is dying after the fatigue of life. Then he wakes again; a new birth happens. Death is of the nature of sleep.

Samadhi too is of the nature of sleep. Patanjali says samadhi and deep sleep are alike. That is why when a sannyasin dies, we call his tomb a samadhi. We don’t call everyone’s grave a samadhi. Why? Because samadhi is like death; samadhi is also like sleep—with one small but immense difference: samadhi is waking sleep.

Hence Krishna says: “That which is night to all beings, therein the disciplined one keeps awake.” When all sleep—sarva-bhutanam—plants sleep, stones sleep, the whole world sleeps—tasyam jagarti sanyami—still the disciplined remains awake. Not only do the external elements sleep, the inner elements sleep too—the body sleeps, its five elements sleep—tasyam jagarti sanyami—yet within, consciousness remains awake. All around, sleep descends, but within a lamp of awareness keeps burning—steady, unwavering. To safeguard that lamp is appamada.

And in sleep it will be difficult to guard it, for now. First safeguard it in what you call waking. If it is held in waking, perhaps one day even in sleep it will remain. Right now, even in waking you are asleep. To speak of waking in sleep is futile now. Even waking is like sleep at present. First make your waking real waking. What you call waking is only the opening of the eyes; within, sleep remains. It does not go anywhere. Sit back with eyes closed, and you will find the chain of dreams begins. With eyes open you get entangled in outer pictures; close them and daydreams begin. The thread of dreaming runs on.

Your waking is waking in name only. The waking of Buddhas is real waking. For if waking cannot survive even in sleep, what kind of waking is that? They say, a friend is one who stands by in danger; waking is that which stands by in sleep. That is its test. If sleep can erase it, don’t call it waking—it is waking in name only.

“Appamada is the path of immortality, pramada the path of death. The aware do not die; but the unaware are as if dead.”

The aware do not die. The awakened ones never die. They cannot die. In truth, you also do not die—but you do not know this truth. You believe you die. Your belief makes all the difference. Between you and the awakened there is only a difference of belief—not of fact, not of truth. You believe you die—and then you die.

I have heard: one morning Mulla Nasruddin got up and said to his wife, “Listen, I am dead. I died in the night.” He had dreamt it, but the dream was so intense that he became convinced. The wife said, “Are you mad? You are talking sensibly, how can a dead man be reporting his death? You’re talking; you’re alive.” Nasruddin said, “How can I believe you? I am convinced I am dead. Now a great trouble arose. They explained a lot; he would not budge. He said, “Should I believe you, when I have a solid experience I am dead?”

They took him to a psychologist. The psychologist was puzzled. He had never seen a case where a living man insisted he was dead. He had seen many mad people; even they admit they are alive. He tried to reason with him, but Mulla wouldn’t agree. So he thought of finding solid proof. He took him to the morgue, where corpses were lying. He said, “Nasruddin, if you are dead, do this: take this knife and cut a corpse. Does blood come out?” He cut. “Does it?” “No,” said Mulla, “no blood.” Many corpses he showed. For seven days he took him. Then he asked, “Now one thing is sure—blood does not flow from the bodies of the dead.” “Absolutely sure,” said Mulla.

They brought him home. The doctor took a sharp blade and cut Nasruddin’s finger. A fountain of blood gushed out. “Now do you accept that you are alive?” Mulla said, “This only proves that my earlier assumption was wrong—blood does come out of dead bodies. Those corpses deceived us. Either those corpses were faulty, or you played some trick. But this proves only this: even dead bodies bleed.”

When man has a belief, he buttresses it from all sides. What you assume, you will support. Your assumption is that you are mortal; and this assumption finds support, for the body is mortal. You are not mortal; you are a child of the deathless—amṛtasya putraḥ. But the body is mortal, and it is very close. You have almost assumed the body to be yourself. You have forgotten that you are apart from the body, beyond the body. You were before the body, and you will be when the body is no more. But you cling to the body so, you identify so deeply, that when the body dies you assume—not the body—you died.

This identification must be broken. This swoon is pramada: to take yourself to be the body. Whoever takes himself as the body will die, because the body dies. Then the delusion will persist that with the body gone, I am gone.

When you were small, a child, you thought “I am a child.” The body was a child. You were never a child; you are the eternal consciousness. In a tiny child too the consciousness is as ancient as that of a Buddha or a Krishna. It has always been—if the universe began, it began with it; if the universe never began, it has always been. Then you became young; you believed you were young. You move in step with the body. Then you grew old; your limbs tremble, you walk with a stick; you believe “I have grown old.” It is only the body.

It is like wearing a new garment and thinking “I am new”—then the garment frays, and you think “I have grown old and worn.”

It is like a traveler in a train: at Pune he thinks “I am Pune,” then the train reaches Bombay and he thinks “I am Bombay.” These are the stations of the body’s journey—sometimes ill, sometimes well, sometimes diseased, sometimes not, sometimes birth, sometimes death—these are the body’s halts.

But pramada is deep, hidden in the smallest things. Hunger comes and you say, “I am hungry.” The knower will say, “The body is hungry.” How could you be hungry? You? Hunger belongs to the body; the body needs fresh matter daily to keep functioning. Thirst belongs to the body, not you. When you eat, nothing goes into your soul; when you drink, nothing enters your soul. It passes through the body and out of it. When there is a headache you say, “I have pain.” You are separate from pain.

I was reading the life of an American poet. His car had an accident; his hand was crushed; the pain was terrible; the hospital was far; they were traveling through a forest; it would take time. His wife said, “Listen, I am reading a book.” She was reading in the car—a book on Zen, on meditation. “There is a sutra of Buddha here—try it, what’s the harm?”

Buddha had given his monks a method: when there is pain, a wound, don’t assume “I am in pain.” That assumption creates the trouble. Close your eyes; if the hand is injured or the head aches, collect your entire consciousness there—as if all the rays of your inner light had gathered and focused on that spot. If the head aches, focus there and watch in full attention. In this watching you will separate—the watcher and the watched will be distinct. And when the pain is clearly seen, then say only three times, inside, with great alertness, while watching: “Pain… pain… pain.” Say only this—do not say “I am in pain,” for that is the hypnosis in which man gets entangled. Say only, “There is pain… there is pain… there is pain.” Three times. And Buddha says the pain will dissolve.

The woman said this is written in the book. The man cried, “Throw the book out! I’m dying here and you lecture me? This is nonsense! My hand… such terrible pain—is this the time for meditation?”

But there was no other remedy—no medicine at hand; hours to reach the hospital. After fifteen or twenty minutes he said, “Well, what’s the harm? Let me try.” He lay down in the car. The entire consciousness was anyway rushing to the painful spot. When a wound occurs, consciousness rushes there. Buddha says: gather it entirely, as if the whole body is forgotten and only that spot remains in memory. He brought awareness closer to the pain; it became like a razor’s edge—sharper, keener, fierce, a flame—then he said, “Pain… pain… pain…” and was astonished: he could not believe what happened—the pain vanished at once. Identification broke.

Try it. When you are thirsty, remember: not you—the body is thirsty. Buddha told his monks: whenever something troubles you much, say three times, with attention, “Thirst… thirst… thirst.” You will find thirst separates. As soon as it separates, its grip loosens. Then it feels as if thirst has come to someone else, hunger to someone else, old age to someone else, disease to someone else—you are apart.

This art of separating is appamada. And the one who, in the small everyday acts of life, keeps separating himself—drop by drop the blows fall on the rock of darkness, drop by drop on the rock of ignorance, drop by drop on the rock of identification—and day after day, when thirst comes, he separates; when he drinks, feels satiated, he still keeps separate—“The body was thirsty, the body is satisfied; the body was hungry, the body is fed; the body was ill, the body is cured”—and every moment he keeps himself apart, safeguarded, does not let awareness be lost, does not let the tie with the body reform—then in the final event, when death comes, this lifetime of practice will stand by him. He will see that death comes to the body, not to me.

But if you begin to cultivate this today, only then will it be there at death. Do not think you will do it then. If it does not work in thirst, how will it work in death? If it fails in a headache, how will it work at the end? One does not die of a single day’s hunger; even three months of hunger are needed. If in a day’s hunger you could not manage and lost yourself in the body, how will you manage in death? In death, consciousness will separate entirely from the body, and your attention will remain on the body—because all life you practiced that hypnosis. You will forget you are not dying; you will think, “I am dying.”

No one has ever died; no one can die. Whatever is in this universe has always been and will always be. Forms change, houses change, bodies change, garments change—death never truly happens. How can anyone die? That which is—how can it become nothing? That which is will remain—forever and ever.

And yet, people die daily; they writhe daily. When Buddha says the aware do not die, do not think they do not die and there is no need to take them to the cremation ground. Even Buddha was taken there. They do not die, because they know they are separate. For you they die; for themselves, they do not. Even in the moment of death they keep watching the inner lamp. “That which is night to all beings, therein the disciplined one keeps awake.” In the darkest new-moon of death as well, the disciplined remains awake, watching, aware.

In 1910 the king of Kashi underwent an operation. Five doctors came from Europe. But the king said, “I have renounced all intoxicants; I cannot take any. So I will not take any anesthetic, no drug, no injection. I have given up intoxicants—no alcohol, no cigarettes, not even tea. Perform the operation—appendicitis—but I will take nothing for unconsciousness.” The doctors were alarmed: “How will it be possible? The pain will be terrible. If you scream and thrash, it will be very difficult!” He said, “I will endure. Just give me permission to recite the Gita.”

They experimented first: they cut a finger, pricked needles, and asked him to recite; he recited, felt no pain. The operation was performed without anesthesia—the first in human history. The king remained fully conscious. The doctors could not believe it—like a corpse lay before them, not a living man.

Afterwards they asked, “It’s a miracle—what did you do?” He said, “I did nothing. I only kept my awareness gathered. And when I recite the Gita, which I have read all my life, it brings me wakefulness. That is what ‘recitation’ means—not parroting with drowsy mind while flies buzz. Recitation means with great alertness—so that only the Gita remains, only those words, and the whole world disappears. The recitation gives me awareness. As long as I recite, I do not slip. Then the body is separate. ‘Na hanyate hanyamāne śarīre’—the self is not slain when the body is slain. I know that cut and kill the body as you will—you cannot kill me. ‘Nainam chhindanti śastrāṇi’—weapons cannot cut me. I only kept this remembrance—that much was enough: I am not the body.

“If I had not recited, I might have erred; my awareness is not yet steady without support.” This is what “recitation” means—not study, not repetition—but holding the very insight the scripture points to. Through constant practice, awareness holds. But even the Kashi king feared that without support he might slip.

Buddha went further: do not even take support of scripture; take support only of the breath—because scripture is still a bit far. Watch the breath going in, watch it going out. This breath-mala is turning ceaselessly—watch it. Buddha called it anapanasati yoga: awareness of inhalation and exhalation. As breath goes in, go in with watchfulness. As it touches the nostrils, be there—present, not absent. Feel directly, without words: “The breath touched the nostrils.” Then it moves inward, the chariot of breath begins its journey; it reaches the lungs, goes deeper, raises the navel-center—keep watching, move with it like a shadow. Then breath pauses for a moment; you pause. Then breath returns; you come back. Breath flows out. And again it enters. Accompany this cycle of breath with awareness.

Buddha said: this is the simplest support. Whether literate or illiterate, scholar or not—all can do it. Breath is given to all; it is a mala bestowed by nature at birth.

And breath has another beauty: it is the bridge between your body and your soul. By it body and soul are joined. If you become aware of breath, you will find the body falls far behind—you are separate and the body is separate. Breath joined—and breath will separate.

At death, when breath departs, if you have never looked at breath with awareness, you will think, “Gone—dead.” It will be only a delusion, a self-hypnosis—the long suggestion you have always given yourself. But if you remain aware and watch the breath go, if you see that breath went out and did not return—and you keep watching—then how will you die? The one who watched the breath going is still here. He is always here.

The aware do not die; the unaware are already dead. Can you call the unaware living? A person in a coma—can you call that life?

In America there is a girl whose life hangs by a thread. She lies unconscious. Many months have passed; physicians say she will never regain consciousness. The disease is incurable. But for three or four years, even more, with oxygen and machines she can be kept alive. She is alive. But can you call that life? She lies insensate on a bed; months have gone by; machines surround her; the lungs are made to work; breath is supplied; blood is pumped in.

Her parents are tormented. They say, “What kind of life is this? And like this she will linger for years. Better she die. Sometimes death is better than life.” They asked the court’s permission—because the court creates entanglement—that the oxygen tube be removed so that the girl may die. The parents pay nothing; the government bears the expense; but to the parents it is suffering to see this. Who knows how much pain she suffers inside? Better the body be released. The court refused: removing the tube would be murder. Let her die on her own.

What a dilemma! Will you call this life? This is not life; this is being dead—worse than dead. Even in death there is a certain aliveness; here, not even that. But the life you call life is much like this, more or less.

“Is it life—or some storm?
We are being killed by this very living.”
What life is this whose fruit is only death, and nothing else? Trees are known by their fruit. If at the end the fruit of your life is death, the tree is known: this was no life. Jesus said: only that life is life which bears the fruit of the Great Life. This life bears the fruit of death.

“The wise, knowing well the value of appamada, delight in awareness, and, devoted to the conduct of the Aryas—the Buddhas—rejoice in awareness.”

In Buddha’s time the word pandit was not yet spoiled. It meant the truly wise, the one who has gained direct insight. Today it means one who knows scripture—that word has become sick. In Buddha’s time, pandit meant one who knows himself.

“The wise, understanding well appamada, delight in awareness, devoted to the noble conduct of the awakened.”

They rejoice by waking into awareness. There is no other joy. Torpor is suffering; sleep is hell; but our eyes do not open.

“Even if a thousand promises are never fulfilled,
still I will lay down my eyes upon their path and wait.”
Hopes are never fulfilled. Promises are made and broken. And yet the unconscious mind…

“Even if a thousand promises are never fulfilled,
still let me spread my eyes upon their path and wait.”
Once more, just once more! Until now it has not happened—but who knows, tomorrow? Hope does not die. Hope is defeated, frustrated, exhausted—but it does not die. Hope keeps saying: till now it hasn’t happened—fine—but who knows, tomorrow?

“Even if a thousand promises are never fulfilled,
still let me spread my eyes upon their path and wait.”
Waiting thus, laying down your eyes, you lose yourself. In the end you find no promise is ever kept. Desire gives many assurances; not one is fulfilled. Desire is skilled in promising.

I heard an old story. A man worshipped God with great devotion. God was pleased and asked, “What do you want?” He said, “Give me something such that whatever I ask, my asking is fulfilled.” God gave him a conch-shell: “Whenever you blow this and ask, it will be fulfilled. Ask for a hundred thousand—before the sound fades, the money will be there.” The man rejoiced. No problem now—whatever he asked, he got.

A saint came as a guest to his house and saw the conch. “This is nothing,” said the saint, “I have a maha-shankha.” “Maha-shankha? What is its specialty?” asked the householder. “Its specialty is this: ask for a hundred thousand—it gives two hundred. Yours gives only one hundred.” Greed grew. “You are a saint, a renunciate—take this conch, give me your maha-shankha.” “Gladly,” said the saint, and left the maha-shankha behind, taking the conch. He departed that night. The householder could not sleep. In the morning, he bathed, worshipped, blew the maha-shankha: “Give me a hundred thousand now.” The maha-shankha said, “A hundred? Take two hundred!” But nothing came. “Where is it?” he asked. “Two hundred? Take four hundred!” Still nothing. “Will you give anything?” “Whatever you ask, I will double—but I will never give,” said the maha-shankha. “Ask a million—I will say two million.” That is a maha-shankha—promises plenty, gives nothing. That is why when we call someone a “mahashankh,” we mean “good for nothing.”

This life is a maha-shankha. Ask whatever you like; life offers hope: “Oh, what will come of so little? I am ready to give double.” And you keep hoping. Whoever does not drop hope cannot be religious. Whoever has not seen the utter futility of hope, whoever has not recognized the maha-shankh nature of hope, cannot be religious.

“Those who continually practice meditation and are ever firm and resolute—the brave reach nibbana, the unsurpassed peace beyond bondage.”

Appamada means meditation. Buddha said: it is not enough to sit aside and meditate for an hour. It is good—better than nothing—but not enough. Meditation must become continuous. Like the breath—whether you wake or sleep, stand or sit—meditation should continue. Not that you meditate once and forget. If for an hour you clean the dust and for twenty-three you don’t, the dirt returns. Daily you clean, daily it gets dirty. Meditation must become your style of living.

“Those who continually practice meditation and are ever firm and resolute—the brave attain the unsurpassed security of nibbana.”

They reach that land where the nectar is; where the lamp of ego goes out and the lamp of life is lit; where body is no longer necessary, soul is sufficient; where all boundaries drop and the boundless becomes available. Like a drop dissolving in the ocean—they dissolve. But this dissolving is not a loss—it is a gain—for the drop becomes the ocean. It loses nothing; it gains all.

“The fame of him who is industrious, mindful, pure in deed, thoughtful, self-restrained, living by the Dharma, ever aware—that fame increases.”

Buddha says: If you must seek fame, seek the fame of awareness—not of wealth. If you must seek fame, seek the fame of knowing, not of possessions. If you must seek fame, seek the radiance of the inner light. However much light you kindle outside, if inside is darkness; however much people praise you, if you are not filled with inner bliss—you are not truly renowned. What is the value of such fame? Whom do you deceive? It is your own noose. It is self-destruction. There is only one true fame, says Buddha—the fame of meditation. Whether others recognize it or not is irrelevant.

There are two kinds of fame. One is what others confer upon you. The other has nothing to do with others—it wells up in your own soul: self-esteem born of centeredness, born of self-knowing—the fame of meditation.

“The intelligent by effort, awareness, restraint and mastery should make of themselves an island no flood can overwhelm.”

The flood is death. Whatever fame you have built will be swept away. It is a paper boat. It may sail in a courtyard pool; in the ocean of life it will not. Do not be deceived by a paper boat. The opinions of others, their praise, are paper boats—palaces of cards; a small gust and they collapse.

Buddha says: “The intelligent by effort…”—utthana is a process of lifting your life-energy upward. Ordinarily, consciousness flows downward toward sex. The sex-center is the lowest center. Utthana in Buddha’s yoga is to draw consciousness upward. Whenever you feel it flowing downward, pull it up toward the crown. Close your eyes and draw the life-energy to the top of the head.

Try it. The headstand was devised to help—stand on the head and energy tends to flow to the head; energy, like water, flows downward. Shirshasana means: bring life-energy to the brain. The sex center is lowest; the sahasrara the highest. Whoever lives from the sahasrara—no more death for him.

Ordinarily, when people die, the prana leaves from the sex center—from the generative organ. Only yogis, the samadhists, depart from the sahasrara. You will leave from where you live. Where your mind has wandered, where it has dwelt—thence you will depart. Whoever dies from the sex center is reborn—because sex is the longing for birth. Whoever departs from the sahasrara is not born again. From the crown, you merge into the Divine; from the sex center, you merge into nature. Sex ties you to nature; the crown ties you to God.

“By effort, awareness, restraint and mastery, make an island no flood can overwhelm.”

An island death cannot drown. This is the talk of the sahasrara. There your consciousness gathers. Gradually you separate from the body; gradually consciousness becomes your only state; awareness becomes dense, integrated, concentrated. You no longer stray below. Buddha calls this the cloud-samadhi. Like a cloud floating above—if it rains, streams flow on the earth; otherwise water hovers in the sky—evaporation and ascent.

When one steadily separates life-consciousness from the body, gradually a cloud-samadhi is born in the brain. His whole awareness, like a white cloud, gathers in the head. The body lies below. He becomes like a white cloud moving in the sky. And when prana departs from there, death cannot touch you. From there, the gate of the nectar opens.

But you stand at the gate where only promises of hope resound. You are praying before the maha-shankha.

“No one has come, nor will anyone come—
but what to do, if we do not wait?”
No one ever came at that door, nor will anyone—but man says, “What to do, if not wait?” For you know only that one door. Learn utthana—draw consciousness upward; awaken; gather your energies; build the island of firmness, of mastery, of restraint.

“Fools delight in pramada; the wise guard appamada as their greatest wealth.”

But this is possible only when you recognize the true nature of this life. The moment you do, your steps begin to move toward another kind of life.

“Fools, the dull ones, cling to pramada.” What greater folly than to wait at a door where no one ever comes? How long will you sit there? For how many births have you been sitting at the doorway of lust? How long yet? It is very late—too late. Wake up now. How many times you have died—yet you have not realized that the tree whose fruit is always death is wrong from the seed. Those who woke, who looked at life with a little awareness, found something else entirely.

“I asked, ‘What is life?’—
the cup slipped from my hand and shattered.”
Whoever asked, whoever held a little awareness and looked carefully—the cup of life slipped and broke. Only in unconsciousness can life’s cup be held; with awareness it breaks to pieces. Good if it breaks. What you call life should break—only then will you awaken. Your dream must be shattered—only then can you wake.

But you go on denying your experience. Man does not learn from experience. You forget all your experience. Yesterday you were angry, the day before too—what did you gain from anger? Nothing—you know it well; no awakened person is needed to tell you. But today you will be angry again, and tomorrow too. Do you not learn from experience? Do you never distill any fragrance from it? Does experience come and go and you remain like a slick pot? Yesterday you indulged in lust, the day before too—what flowers bloomed? What music played? What festival happened? Each time you were defeated, exhausted; melancholy enveloped the mind; pain and remorse were felt; yet again you forget. It seems you have sworn to deceive yourself.

“You, and union—and the yearning for union—
this, to console the heart, is a tale you’ve made.”
You know well you are merely consoling the heart. But such consoling is costly. You lose what could be found, and stand pleading at a door where nothing can be had.

Awaken. Even a little awakening, a single ray, is enough to dispel darkness. A small earthen lamp is enough—no sun is needed! Where the first ray enters, the sun has begun to arrive. Where the little lamp is lit, it is not long before a thousand suns blaze. Even a little awareness—do not sit waiting; no one else can do this for you. You must do it yourself. Do not wait for someone to come and bless you and make it happen. This blessing you must give to yourself.

Therefore Buddha says: be valiant. This is the true valor. Ever rising, constantly in meditation, unwavering—this is the religious life. Going to temples or mosques will not help; the Divine is within you. If you search elsewhere, you will waste your time. And you have searched everywhere else already—in how many worlds, through how many births, how many forms! Now do one more thing: search within. Whoever searched there never returned empty-handed; whoever searched elsewhere never returned with full hands.

“Having begged for a long life, I brought back only four days;
two were spent in yearning, two in waiting.”
Whatever little time remains—do not spend it in yearning and waiting. Spend it in awakening inner awareness, in lifting inner consciousness, in calling the inner Divine. And the moment you call, He is available—for He was never lost, only forgotten.

Enough for today.