Geeta Darshan #9

One can live as if already dead, and one can die in such a way that we must call his death alive. Life can be corpse-like, and death supremely alive.
As we live, it is hardly worthy of being called life. We know nothing of life; no door opens to the mystery of life; no shower of life’s bliss descends; we do not even come to know why we live, for what we live. Our being is almost equivalent to non-being. It is not right to say we live; it is enough to say somehow we continue, somehow we drag existence along — alive, yet like a corpse. But it also happens that in the very moment of dying, someone is so utterly alive that even his death we cannot call death.
Buddha’s death cannot be called death; nor can we call our life life. To call Krishna’s death death would be a mistake. We call his death liberation. We call his death Nirvana. We call his death a passing from life into the great life.
What revolution occurs in their moment of death that does not occur for us even in the moments of our life! By what path do they die that they come upon the supreme life! And by what path do we live that, while living, not even the fragrance of life reaches us!
What we call our body is for us nothing more than a grave — a walking grave! And the long stretch from birth to death is nothing but a slow, slow dying. Thus we pass every day and draw near to death. Our pilgrimage ends at the cremation ground.
Yet Buddha dies, Krishna dies, Christ dies, Mohammed dies; and for their death we must seek another word. For their life also we must find another word. They live in another way; they die in another way. All depends upon the art of living, and all depends upon the art of dying. We do not know even the art of living. A man like Buddha also knows the art of dying.
To Arjuna, Krishna will speak, in these sutras, of that moment, that path, that art of dying — the art by which one who knows, one who recognizes the way, dies and does not die; he attains to the immortal.
Krishna has said: O Arjuna, the time at which, having cast off the body, the yogins go and attain the non-returning state, and the time by which they attain the returning state — that time, that path, I shall tell you.
A few things must be clearly understood.
At what time, at what moment!
Moment has great value, time has great value — the inner moment at which one comes to death. Certainly, by moment is not meant the minute hand on the outer clock. But within also there is a clock, and within there is a measure of moments. Outside we have a mechanical arrangement to measure time. That is needed for outer work, not for the inner. There is another measure for the inner. And by that measure, the moment in which one dies — the moment of the inner measure, the moment of the inner clock — much depends on that.
For in this universe nothing is accidental; not even death is accidental. Death too is well-ordered. And death is assured by many causes. No one dies at just any time; each person chooses his death; that is a choice that we create throughout life. By seeing one’s death it can be said how the person lived. Inwardly, the moment of death is decisive.
If the inner clock, the inner time, is filled with thought, with passion, with longing, the person dies and returns. But if the inner time is utterly pure — only time, with no thought, no desire, not a single thread of craving — a pure moment of time, like still water without any admixture in it, only time — then one who dies in that moment does not return to the world.
In this context I would say: Mahavira gave to meditation the name Samayik. This word is very wondrous. It is born of samaya, time. Mahavira said, I call that meditation when the time within you is absolutely pure. Therefore he did not use the word dhyana; in place of dhyana he used the word Samayik.
To abide in pure time is meditation.
Our time, the time within us, is always filled with desire. Recall a little inwardly; you will see. You will scarcely have known the present moment within. Within, you know either the past — the gone-by which haunts you like a shadow. What has happened, you go on chewing like a ruminant. The buffalo holds much food in her stomach and keeps bringing it up to chew. What is gone, mind keeps ruminating. You brood again and again over what has happened.
To think about what has happened is foolishness. You are uselessly destroying the present moment. What has gone is gone; it is nowhere now, except in your memory. And your memory ruminates, and the present moment — which is here now, the time that is within — it fills that space. The present moment, right now, is covered by the past. And when the present is covered by the past, it is lost; you pass it by unknowingly.
Either this happens, or the present moment is veiled by desire for the future. You think about that which is not yet, which will be — the coming tomorrow, the future. What is to be done, what is not to be done. What to attain, what to avoid. What race to run, what goal to set.
Either the past drowns the present, or the future does. In both cases the inner time is lost. In both cases that moment of time is lost which truly is — and things that are not cover it. Yesterday is not; tomorrow is not. That which is not surrounds that which is. This is the sign of the living dead.
Hence we live dim, extinguished, half-dead — because that which is not weighs upon us, and that which is cannot be found.
Have you ever known a time-moment in your mind when neither past nor future is, and you are here now — just here and now? In that moment, if death happens, there is no returning.
But how will he die in that moment who has never lived in that moment? One who has never known that moment in life will not suddenly know it when dying. There is no sudden descent. He whose life has been filled with rubbish — at the moment of death that entire rubbish collects and seizes his consciousness.
Remember, while living a little of the past comes, a little of the future. At the moment of death the whole past and the total imagination of the future stand together.
Those who have ever been close to drowning may know this. Many who drowned and were saved have given statements: in the very moment of drowning, when death seems to have come, in a single instant the whole life passes before the eyes like a film. As if the entire film of life passes before the eyes at once.
This happens to all at death. The whole past drops before the eyes; and all the fears of the future, desires, dreams, they too gather. The moment of death is a moment of crowding; too much crowded.
Therefore in death you cannot find yourself; the crowd is so great that it is difficult to know who I am. One does not know who it is that is dying. But we sway between the back and the front.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin had been married thirty years. One morning his wife said, Mulla, remember, today completes thirty years; it is our wedding anniversary. How shall we celebrate? What is your plan? Would it not be good if the rooster we have been fattening for six months be cut today? Nasruddin said, For a mishap that occurred thirty years ago, how is it right to punish the rooster? And the rooster had no hand in it either.
But not only thirty years — even the mishap of thirty births ago surrounds us. We go on circling around it. And the more we circle the back, the more we drown in plans for the front. The ratio of past and future is always the same. As many roots a man has in past memory, in exactly the same proportion branches spread into the future. And the moment in between — very small, atomic — is lost.
The time-moment of which Krishna speaks must be rightly understood. In that time there is neither past nor future; what remains is pure present — perfectly still, perfectly innocent, unburdened, weightless. In that moment, the form of death is not of death but of the experience of the supreme life. It becomes moksha, liberation.
We call it death so long as returning continues. Death becomes liberation, moksha, in that moment when no possibility of return remains.
One returns by the mind. Mind is the thread by which we return. And mind is the knot of past and future. Past plus future equals mind.
The present moment does not belong to the mind; it is not a part of the mind. Therefore one who enters the present falls outside the mind. He who dwells in past and future lives in the mind.
Now let me tell you something amusing, which may not be immediately grasped, but if you ponder a little, it can be.
We always say time has three divisions: past, present, future. There is a mistake here. The present is not a part of time at all. Time is only past and future. The present is outside time. Where past ends and future has not yet begun, that line of junction is the present. The present is not a part of time. For convenience of speech we say the present is part of time. But the present is existence.
And what is not part of time is not part of mind either. If rightly seen, what we call time in the outer world is called mind in the inner world. Understand it this way: the phenomenon we call time outside has as its inner name mind. Time and mind are really synonyms; they are virtually identical; there is no difference between them.
Therefore one who wants to go beyond mind should go beyond time, and he reaches beyond mind. One who wants to go beyond time should go beyond mind, and he reaches beyond time. They are two ends of the same thing. Outside it is recognized as time; inside it is the same known as mind.
The present is neither part of time nor of mind. The present is existence.
Understand: in existence there is no past and no future; existence always is. If man were to leave the earth, would there be any past on the earth? If man were not on earth — that is, if there were no mind on earth — would there be any future?
The moon would still rise, but the moon has no memory that it rose yesterday. Flowers would still bloom, but flowers keep no account that they bloomed before. Birds would still sing, but they have no register that this song was sung yesterday. And the moon will rise tomorrow, but the moon has no plan of it. Flowers will bloom tomorrow, but no dream of that blooming visits the flowers.
If mind is removed — remember, India may be the only land that named man rightly — manushya: the one with mind. And mind means the keeper of past accounts and the planner and dreamer of the future. If there is no man, no mind, all will be, but there will be no time. There shall be time no longer; if man alone is absent, time is not.
Time is born with the human mind. When man withdraws, time is lost. If within you a state is discovered in which there is no past and no future, there can be no thought there, for thoughts are of past or future. There can be no craving, for craving is born of the past and runs toward the future. There can be no lust. There will be only you, only your existence, only being — just being. If death happens in that moment, there is no returning. Death becomes liberation.
And those who have called death the supreme friend did not mean your ordinary death. If some have said death is the supreme benediction, they did not refer to your death. Do not fall into that misunderstanding. They spoke of this death — the death that becomes mukti.
But the time-moment is precious. If within it does not happen, you start a new journey again. Carrying the past, dreaming the future, rebirth occurs. Carrying the past, desiring the future, again a new womb is found.
If returning is to happen, a filled mind is needed. If there is to be no return, an empty, void mind is needed. A void mind is no-mind — the A-mani of Kabir, the state of no-mind of the Zen masters — this is what Krishna is indicating.
But at the time of death — sudden, unannounced at the door — how will you manage yourself if you have not managed every moment while living! He who has not lived rightly will not die rightly. The final result of wrong living is wrong dying. And wrong dying means the beginning of wrong living again. You have sown the seed again.
It must be managed in life itself. Only while living can it be managed. And you can manage it only if you remember that death can happen at any moment, here and now. Therefore he who says, I will manage tomorrow, never manages. He who says, here and now — only he manages.
There was a Zen fakir, Linchi. When he went to his master, the master asked, Why have you come? Linchi said, I want to become a sannyasin. The master said, You want to become, or are you ready now? Sannyas has nothing to do with the future; the world has a relation with the future.
If a man says, I want to run a shop, then he will need the future. A shop is spread out in time. If a man wants to earn wealth, he cannot do it this instant. He will plan — five-year plans, fifty-year plans. He will need planning. And even then, who knows if he will get it; wealth is not in my control. And many others control it too. I am not the only one seeking to earn money; the whole earth is chasing wealth. There is heavy competition. In everything except dharma there is fierce competition. To earn money, to earn fame, to climb the ladders of position — without future there is no way. Time will be needed. The future is required; otherwise nothing can be done.
But if sannyas is to be taken, there is no need of the future. It can happen this instant, because sannyas is utterly intimate, private. It has no relation with anyone in the world. And if I want to earn wealth, then as my wealth increases someone’s will decrease. Or if someone could have had more, I will snatch it. Somewhere, someone will be deprived. But if I take sannyas, no one in the world is deprived. Perhaps by my sannyas the world is blessed a little; but no one is deprived. Sannyas is not a commodity that will become scarce. Nor is sannyas a part of the world that I should plan for tomorrow or the day after, this year or next year, and wait.
Sannyas is an event that happens in that time-moment which is here and now.
Rightly understood, sannyas means that which happens outside time. The world means that which happens within time. The world is within the time-process. Sannyas is a jumping out of the time-process.
Therefore, when someone says, I will think and take sannyas tomorrow, I know he does not know what sannyas means. Whatever can be taken by thinking belongs to the world. For what will you think? To think means you will ask your past experience, your memory. To think means you will calculate the future — profit or loss. To think means you will ask the past and the future; that is all thinking is. What people will say — that is the future. What sort of man I have been — will sannyas fit with that or not — that is the past. Asking the dead — the past; and asking the unborn — the future.
But sannyas has nothing to do with thinking. Dharma itself has nothing to do with thinking. In that instant line where there is no past and no future, the event that happens — the jump without deliberation, a leap out of oneself — that is sannyas.
The master said, Do you want to take it, or are you ready now? The young Linchi closed his eyes to think. The master shook him and said, A little thought and you will miss. If you think even a little, you are gone, lost. The youth said, Allow me to think; what is the hurry? The master said, If only you knew death can occur at any moment, you would not say such a thing as, What is the hurry! And what will you think? You will think with that same mind. If you could truly think, you would already have become a sannyasin long ago.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to him one day, Wise men can remain happy even after marriage. Nasruddin said, The wise can remain happy even without marriage.
Linchi’s master said, You are thinking. If you really could think, sannyas would have happened long back. With thinking, can anyone remain in the world? And if you have not been able to think until now, with the same mind how will you think further? Do not think.
Linchi looked at his master and said, I have become a sannyasin — because to say, I will become, again brings the future. I am. Bless the sannyasin now; forget the man who came.
It is said the master placed his turban on Linchi’s head and said, I was awaiting the man who would leap in that time-moment whose name is the present, for my death is near. Now I take leave; take care of my work.
Linchi said, But I have just become a sannyasin; I know nothing yet. The master said, You will know everything. To one who has even a little capacity to stand in the present moment, all doors of knowledge and mystery open. I need say no more.
And without giving any teaching — such events are rare — the master disappeared. The next morning Linchi began to sit on the master’s seat and speak. The number of the wise born through Linchi was thousands of times those produced by his master. The master’s very name was not known, because Linchi could not even ask; he disappeared. When anyone asked Linchi how he attained this knowing, he said, The master gave me no knowledge, only a shove. But the day I got the secret of being here and now, from that day there was no ignorance. All clouds of ignorance dispersed.
In life, to one who learns the art of catching the present moment, the death-moment of which Krishna speaks — that time-moment — can occur.
At the time when, leaving the body, the yogins attain the non-returning course, and also the returning course — because yogins too are of two kinds. This sentence will seem difficult, for Krishna uses the word yogins for both. Yogins are of two types; yoga is of two types.
One is what we can call the supreme yoga. That supreme yoga does not rely on practice, methods, discipline. Its ancient name is Sankhya. Sankhya trusts, as it happened with Linchi, in sudden enlightenment. If someone is ready, here and now, to stand in the present moment, then without any yogic practice, without any meditation, the event will happen in which union with the Supreme is realized. For we have never been separate from That; to attain That no path is needed. To reach That from which we have never been apart, no method is required. In That we are standing — here and always — must we travel to attain it?
But this does not enter the understanding; and even if it enters, nothing results.
Krishnamurti has been speaking of this Sankhya for forty or fifty years. In these years a certain class listens to him continuously, reads him continuously, yet seems to reach nowhere. Those who have listened for forty years come to me and say, We understand everything; then why does nothing happen? If everything is understood, why does nothing happen?
In truth, they have not understood even this much — that if there is a desire that something should happen, Sankhya cannot be your formula. If you still ask, Everything is understood, why does nothing happen? Why does it not happen — that is future. Why does it not happen — that is desire. If it is understood, then stop happening. Drop the future now. Drop even the desire that something should happen — that moksha should happen, bliss should happen, God should happen. That desire too is an obstacle on the path of Sankhya, the path of supreme yoga.
But once in millions, one person, in centuries, happens to attain the supreme Sankhya directly. Yet even that direct attaining is the fruit of long wanderings through thousands of births. Supreme Sankhya cannot be attained just like that. If one like Krishnamurti attains, it is also the fruit of an infinite process of births.
But when someone attains, he tells others there is nothing to do; just be here and now. The other hears; words are understood. By repetition they are understood more quickly. Therefore those who keep reading Krishnamurti keep reading him; the same faces year after year — because by repetition an illusion arises that now everything is understood. Words are understood; yet they still ask, Nothing has happened.
If the desire for happening persists, the supreme yoga is not your path; Sankhya is not your path. And the desire for happening is present in all. The irony is that people become interested in Sankhya for the very reason that they want to happen. They say, If you say that only by dropping the desire to happen will it happen, then we are ready to drop the desire to happen. But behind that too the wish for something to happen goes on lurking. There are too many webs within; to break them, another method is needed.
The other yogins Krishna calls the ones who also attain the returning course. Those yogins who practice yoga out of any desire — even the desire to attain God, even the desire to be free of all desires — where there is any desiring, the future has entered. Where there is any longing, the future has been created. And where future is, you must lean on the past, for how will you enter the unknown land of the future! Past experience will be your basis; past knowledge your support. Past knowledge and future desire — the moment is missed in which one dies and does not return.
Therefore, if at the last moment even so much desire remains in the mind as, O Lord, now take me up, now let there be no rebirth — then rebirth will be, for this too is desire.
Today an eighty-two-year-old friend took sannyas, but with a very worldly feeling. He said, I am eighty-two and for at least sixty years I have been going around the doors of mahatmas, but till now there has been no benefit. Benefit! I asked, What benefit did you want? He said, Neither did peace of mind come, nor bliss, nor any vision of the Lord. And there has always been trouble with wealth. The body too has been in pain. And now a few days remain. I have come to your shelter. Now do something so there is no return. And if even that cannot be done, then at least do this much that as long as I live there be no suffering.
I asked, How much time can you give me? With desire, one should ask the time first. How much time can you give me? He said, I do not have much time; I am eighty-two. If it happens in a year, in six months. I said, If it happens in two or four days, what do you say? His face lit up. He said, Then what to say! And I said, If it happens in this very moment? Then he hesitated. For no one trusts this very moment. No, he said, Why such hurry! In two or four days also it can happen.
No one trusts this moment. And I tell you, if it can happen, it can happen in this moment; otherwise neither four days, nor four years, nor four births will suffice. If this moment is not enough, then the whole expanse of time is not enough.
Now this friend wants even sannyas because of deep desire. But I say, no harm. Let it be even through desire — jump. Perhaps in the very jump you will notice that you leaped into a temple carrying all your filth. Perhaps because of the sanctity of the temple you will be moved to throw the filth away. Or perhaps in mid-leap the remembrance will arise that the leap is very incomplete — one leg tied behind; the whole of you tied to the world of desire.
If someone were to ask this elderly friend, Shall we guarantee that in the next birth there will be no trouble with money and no pain of body — then what is your intention? My understanding is he would say, Then one more attempt can be made; let it be.
If you wish to avoid birth, for what do you wish to avoid it? Only so there be no sorrow. Then you do not wish to avoid birth; you wish to avoid sorrow. And if someone assures you that a birth without sorrow will be given, you will be the first in the queue, pressing forward to come ahead.
No — only he is free who, even if promised a life strewn with nothing but flowers, says, Let it be; even bliss is not wanted. In that time-moment where there is no wanting at all, one who slips out of the body, his journey turns toward the supreme abode.
But if in the last moment the desire for religion, for moksha, for no rebirth, remains — then no matter how much yoga you have practiced, how many asanas done, how many headstands, how many hours in siddhasana, how many hundreds of thousands of times you have written the Name — it will make no difference. You will return.
Yes, one difference will be there: this auspicious desire for moksha, for union with the Divine — desire is desire, yet it is auspicious. At least it is not for wealth; it is oriented toward moksha. At least it is not toward a brothel; it is bright, shukla, and auspicious. So perhaps in the next birth the capacity may arise to drop even this bright, auspicious desire.
But such a yogin will return — one who has practiced for desire will return, because he does not arrive at that time-moment from which there is no return.
Of those two paths, the one in which there is fire, radiance, day, the bright fortnight, and the six months of Uttarayana — by that path, those who die, the knowers of Brahman, attain Brahman.
Krishna will speak of two paths: Uttarayana and Dakshinayana. In this first sutra he speaks of the first path. This is a most subtle discussion, and the symbols used have made this sutra of the Gita almost impossible to understand. Before entering it, keep a few things in mind.
The deeper the matter of the inner world, the more must we choose symbols. The matter cannot be stated straight. It cannot be said straight because it is such, and so honeyed inwardly, and of such depth of experience, that speaking it in words compels us to choose symbols. There is no way to say it directly. When bliss happens within for the first time and someone asks you what it was like, you will have to find some symbols — which will be incomplete, not even touching the truth; but there is no other way.
Those who go deep into meditation, if they have known the experience of sexual union — which very few have. When I say very few, I mean most have only known ejaculation, not union. But if someone even for a moment has known true union, then the first time he goes deep into meditation, he comes and says, It is strange: today in meditation I felt as if a profound inner union were happening — orgasm.
A young English woman was experimenting in meditation with me. The day the first event of meditation happened to her, she came and said, I am amazed. All my life I searched for a single satisfying moment of union. She had changed many husbands, many partners, lived with many men, only in the hope that someday a moment of union would arrive. Not with this man — then with another, then a third. In the first experience of meditation she said, I am astonished. What I was seeking in sex I never found. In meditation for the first time I have found that which was a dim yearning within. I descended into a profound communion.
Naturally, between sex and that meditative experience there is such a distance — as vast as between a star shining in the sky and its reflection in a dirty puddle in your courtyard. The distance between the reflection and the star is the same. Yet the reflection is a reflection.
Thus, when one descends into inner experience, he must choose symbols borrowed from the outer world. Those symbols cause difficulty. The Vedic vision, and yoga-shastras, divide two paths along which human consciousness travels. First understand these two.
When the sun is north of the equator, moving upward, there is one northern path; when the sun descends south of the equator, there is the southern path.
If we divide man like the earth into two halves, then the sex center — the center of kama — below that we call the south, and above that the north. Within man there is a fire — his energy; that is what I speak of — bio-energy, which Western biology now calls bio-energy. India has always understood this living energy through the symbol of the sun.
All living energy comes from the sun. If a flower blooms, a plant grows, a fetus develops, a person grows — all is because of the sun. The energy within us is received from the sun. Hence it is apt to use the sun as a symbol for the inner energy, just as we relate the star in the sky to its image in the water.
Whatever happens in human consciousness is profoundly related to the sun. So let us draw an equator through the sex center. The part below will be the southern path; the part above, the northern path.
When the life-energy flows downward toward the feet — when it descends — then the death that occurs is of one kind. And when the life-energy rises above the sex center and flows toward the head — toward the north, the Uttarayana — then the death that occurs is of another kind. And their journeys diverge. When life-energy flows downward, it flows through our passions; therefore sex is our central passion, for it sends most of our life-energy downward, toward degeneration.
Let me tell you something delightful: so long as your mind is filled with sex, the soles of your feet will always be warm. But when your sexual energy ceases to flow downward and begins to flow upward, your feet will start to grow cool, and your head will become warm. The feet of a Buddha-like yogi are utterly cool, ice cool, as if icy.
Since ancient times, laying one’s head at the master’s feet had a very significant use. It was a diagnosis, as a physician feels the pulse. By placing his head at the master’s feet, the disciple would recognize whether this person is already Uttarayana. And the master, placing his hand on the disciple’s head, would recognize how far the southern flow still is. It was a silent diagnosis; no talk was needed. The understanding was intimate, and the accounting of what to do and what not to do was clear.
Once the disciple recognized by placing his head at the guru’s feet, he did not roam about prying into the guru’s character — it had no purpose. The feet had already said everything. And once the guru knew by touching the head, he did not ask what you are doing or not doing, because he knew what is happening within.
What Freud, Jung, and Adler cannot recognize in years of psychoanalysis, an Indian guru recognized by simply placing his hand on the head. As a physician diagnoses by the pulse, so Uttarayana and Dakshinayana can be recognized easily; energy instantly announces where it is flowing. Where energy flows, there is warmth; where energy withdraws, there is coolness.
Therefore a physician will say, This man is ill. If the feet are cold, the physician will say there is danger — because the life-energy is now near leaving the body; he can die.
Biologically, to have cold feet is not healthy; it indicates disturbance. It is right too, for if the body is to be kept alive, it lives well only while the energy flows downward. When it begins to flow upward, the body has no more purpose.
But do not conclude that if your feet are cold your energy is flowing upward. Ask your physician first. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times you are simply sick. When I say the wise have cold feet, I am not saying those with cold feet are wise. The converse is not right.
Headstand was used to drive energy toward the head — not for any other reason. So one very sex-ridden can gain a little relief from headstand, because some energy will begin to move upward. For one afflicted by lust, headstand can help. But only for a moment; how long will you stand on your head? You will stand again on your feet, and energy will flow down.
So the first division: the energy flowing below the sex center is your inner sun’s southern path. If at the moment of death your energy is flowing downward from the sex center toward the feet, you cannot be free of rebirth. If your energy flows upward, you can be free.
Therefore understand the symbolic meaning of the six months of Uttarayana. It indicates the upper half of your body. It also hints that if a man lives to seventy or a hundred, draw a line at fifty. Till fifty, one can assume his energy flows downward. But if it continues downward in the coming fifty, that man is suicidal; he is wasting life. Uttarayana should begin in his life.
Hence the four ashramas were divided so that with fifty the Uttarayana begins. At fifty one should become a vanaprasthin. Twenty-five years remain in the house, but now engage in lifting the energy upward. And when at seventy-five one finds the energy has become capable of rising, then leave the house; wholly turn upward — become sannyas.
If today we take seventy as life span, then after thirty-five the life-energy should turn northward. If by thirty-five your energy does not begin its Uttarayana, then even at death you will not reach the Uttarayana; you will die in the south.
This is the second division. Now understand each symbol; through them many errors have arisen.
Of the two paths: fire, radiance, day, bright fortnight, and the half-year of Uttarayana — by this path those who die, the knowers of Brahman, attain Brahman.
Four words: fire, flame-like light, day, bright fortnight. Not the literal fire; not the literal light; not the literal day; not the literal bright fortnight; yet they mean something, for they will help you understand step by step.
In fire there is fuel, flame, and heat. In a steady lamp’s flame, symbolically, there is no fuel visible, no smoke, and less heat. Fire is chaotic; its tongues run anywhere. In the lamp the flame becomes steady and one. Fire has many tongues; the lamp has one flame, focused in one direction.
Day — more generous still. Now there is no tongue of flame, only light. If day is to be rightly known, understand that time when night has gone and the sun has not yet risen; the diffused glow all around — that is day. Then the sun appears and heat begins. In that moment before sunrise, the glow has no heat — that is day.
In the lamp there will still be heat; in day even that heat goes. It is also a form of light, but the light becomes progressively non-violent, more ahimsa. Yet even there complete coolness is not; for the sun is near, about to appear. In fact it is because the sun is so near the horizon that the glow spreads. A little heat is still hidden there. When even that goes, there is the bright fortnight — like the moonlit night; the sun far away, no question of heat. There is light — and supreme coolness.
When one takes his energy above the sex center, the first experience is of fire. The first touch of raising sex-energy upward is of intense heat. The sex center seems ablaze; tongues of flame fill it. If he keeps courage and does not hurry to be rid of it — the only way he knows to be rid of it is to discharge it, sending it downward — then a new thing becomes possible.
In the West, where there is the least understanding of sex and the greatest fascination, they think sex is to be used just as one uses a sneeze — a relief. There is restlessness inside; throw it out. They have no vision that sex-energy can be creative, can be transformed, can lead to the supreme experience.
In the East this shallow view spreads too. People think sex is like throwing waste from the body; a cleansing, a lightening of tension — a relief, like a sneeze.
If one does not hurry, when energy gathers at the sex center, fire increases, because the energy gathered at the sex center is condensed sun. A tiny sun is formed at the sex center — a minute point of intense fire. If one hurries, it scatters downward. If one does not hurry, bears it, and is resolved that whatsoever happens the journey must be upward, then soon that spherical sun-point becomes a single upward leaping tongue — a flame, a jyoti, like the steady mounting flame of a lamp. With the birth of the jyoti, supreme joy arises because heat decreases; the burning ember melts into a flame.
Yet even this jyoti has heat, has movement, has restlessness; a strong gust of passion can still drive it downward. If further patience and restraint are kept, the jyoti becomes day — like the morning glow when the sun has not risen, the night has passed, the stars have faded, and the sky is filled with a soft light, without a trace of heat. The single flame rises and diffuses into glow.
But the particles of the flame are still present in the glow; a hint of heat is still there. We can say there is no heat, negatively; we cannot yet say it is cool. The transformation is not complete. It completes only if one keeps patience.
Remember, at this third stage the greatest patience is needed. To endure the fire is not so difficult — there is pain, but there is also excitement; with excitement we can live. To live with the flame is not too difficult; there is charm in its movement. But when the day-like light remains, boredom arises. In this third stage the seeker often becomes dull; the brilliance seems gone. In the stage of fire he looks aflame; in the stage of jyoti there is still fervor. In the third, the jyoti too is gone; only a vast, changeless light remains — and weariness can grip. Patience is needed most now.
The mind becomes more restless in the final stages, for it can still drag you back; heat, though diffused, is present; it can condense and become sex again. While heat remains — on heat.
When filled with lust, the whole body heats up; the entire body becomes fuel. Sweat comes; heartbeat quickens; breath grows hot; odor rises; all goes into the fire.
Even from day one can fall back, for heat, though dispersed, remains; it can reconverge. If even now serenity is kept and the upward practice continues, the final event happens. The light becomes as in the bright fortnight.
Why say bright fortnight? Why not say full moon straightaway? Because first the sliver of the first day arises, and as the moon grows in fifteen steps, so this fourth event completes in fifteen stages. When full moon is within, a coolness like the night of Purnima arrives. If death comes in that moment, Buddhahood is attained, Brahman is realized.
Regarding Buddha, they say he was born on a full moon. His first great Samadhi, the first enlightenment, also happened on a full moon. And his Mahaparinirvana, his passing, also on a full moon. It need not be historically exact. It may be; but its value is not historical. Its value is for the inner bright fortnight.
This fourth state can be divided into fifteen segments, like the waxing moon. When one departs in the state of full moon, there is no way of returning. The six months of Uttarayana are these six months.
Consider from another side. These symbols are complex, multivalent, multi-meaning. Man has seven chakras. If we take the sex center as the first, then six remain. If we take the sex center as the equator, no need to count it; six remain above — those are the six months. There are six below too, but the knowers did not discuss them; they are purposeless. If we keep the number six in mind, the six months of Uttarayana become clear.
When the full moon state arises within after crossing the four fires, at the same time, crossing the six months, consciousness reaches the sahasrar, after passing the six chakras.
When consciousness is at the sahasrar and the light is like the full moon, Brahman is realized. There is no greater fortune than to die in that moment. To live in that moment is fortune; to die in that moment is fortune. Whatever happens then is auspicious. Know too: from there there is no return — not from Brahman; from this state there is no return.
Buddha attained enlightenment forty years before he died; Mahavira, about forty-two years before. The day enlightenment happened, the bright fortnight completed; the sun of Uttarayana reached its full station. From that day there was no descent; but death occurred forty years later.
So Buddhists use a good word. The day Buddha became Buddha, forty years before death, they call Nirvana. In one sense, death happened that day, for there is no return. The day the body actually dropped is called Mahaparinirvana. As far as the inner is concerned, the body dropped that day; as far as the outer world is concerned, it dropped forty years later. During those forty years, the inner clock did not move for a single moment. The outer clock kept telling time — day came, night came, months passed, years passed. But within, after that day, not even a moment passed.
On the day of death Mahakashyapa asked, Today you will be lost in death; what will happen to us? Buddha said, I have been lost for a long time. What you saw was only a shadow. Whether I was or was not, it was the same. I died the day I knew myself. Mahakashyapa asked, Then how did you live so long? If there was no desire, no thirst, and you say you died, then how did you live — you ate, drank, walked; we saw. Buddha said, Outside; inside I neither ate nor walked. Inside I did nothing. Mahakashyapa said, But why do anything outside if all is finished? Buddha said, There is a reason. In past births I had fixed a certain term of life for this body. Before that term the inner event occurred. That term must complete. This body will fulfill its own law.
It is like a man pedaling a bicycle. As long as one pedals, the cycle moves. If one stops, it does not stop instantly; it moves a few steps — by momentum. Every pedal not only propels in the moment; some energy is stored. When you cease pedaling, the reserve drives it on for a while.
Let me tell you a delightful incident.
When Buddha attained, he had passed thirty-five. Those who attain after thirty-five — the middle line — often live long. Why? Imagine you are pedaling uphill; if you stop, the cycle moves only a few steps. If you are pedaling downhill and stop, it can roll far. Often those who attain after thirty-five live thirty or forty years more — like Buddha and Mahavira. But those who attain before thirty-five do not live long — like Shankara or Christ. If one attains earlier, to keep the cycle moving is difficult; uphill, very hard. If it is to be kept moving, one must employ many devices.
Ramakrishna too attained before thirty-five, and it was difficult for him. It was very hard for him to remain alive; few have tried as he did. He kept some attachments — knowingly, as effort. Food was a great attachment. No one would imagine that a man of his stature would two or three times get up from satsang and go to the kitchen to ask what was cooking. Sarada, his wife, would say, Paramahamsa, your getting up in the middle and coming to the kitchen seems unbecoming. What will people think? Satsang is going on, a discourse on Brahman; suddenly you stop and come to the kitchen. What will those seated think?
Ramakrishna would laugh and avoid answering, for some questions cannot be answered — not because there is no answer, but because the one who is to be answered will never understand.
But Sarada persisted. One day Ramakrishna said, You do not agree, so I will tell you. My boat has untied itself from all stakes on the bank, but I wish to keep it tied to one peg for those I await — so I can tell them what I want and then untie my boat and sail on my great journey. I keep this attachment to food only so one peg remains with the body; otherwise it could fall even now. He said, I will tell you also this: the day I show no relish for food, know that death is near; three days later I will die — exactly three days.
Sarada did not take it seriously then. But one day the hour came. Ramakrishna lay in bed and had not risen to come to the kitchen. Sarada became a little anxious; for however much she tried to prevent him, he would come even when ill. That day he did not come to see what was being cooked. Sarada brought the plate to his room; at the sight of it Ramakrishna turned his face away. The plate slipped from her hand. She remembered his words: the day I show disinterest in food, know the end is close — three days remain. Exactly three days later he died.
If you are on the ascent, it becomes very difficult. Buddha and Mahavira were both on the descent; therefore both lived forty-odd years after realization. But it is old momentum — the accumulated force of many lifetimes’ pedaling. And when someone attains before thirty-five, great hindrance arises. And those for whom he waits create thousands of hindrances — Why do you do this, why that? He wants to keep his pegs on the shore, perhaps in some waiting.
When Dakshinayana and Uttarayana meet in this fourth state — when fire has become the light of the full moon — at that very moment returning becomes impossible; that point of no return arrives. From there one cannot go back; beyond it there is nothing except Brahman.