Ishavashya Upanishad #10

Draw a circle. Without a center, you cannot draw it. Around the center you trace the circumference. The farther the circumference goes from the center, the larger it becomes. If we take two points on the circumference, there will be a distance between them. If from those two points we draw two lines joining to the center, then as we move toward the center, the distance between them goes on decreasing. Exactly at the center the distance disappears. However great the distance between the two points on the circumference, the lines drawn from there to the center will come closer and closer. And at the very center, all distance ends. They become one. If you extend the lines outward beyond the circumference, the larger the circumference becomes, the greater the distance between the two lines. From this geometric illustration I want to tell you two or three things to make this sutra clear.

First: what is called Asambhuti Brahman is the center Brahman, the source. From where the whole spread of life arises. From where the circumference of life keeps expanding, keeps expanding. In the last fifteen years of deep inquiry, science has come upon a new notion—the Expanding Universe. It had always been assumed that the universe is as it is. New science says: the universe is not only what it appears right now—it is expanding every day, as if someone were blowing air into a balloon. The balloon keeps growing. So too, this spread of the cosmos is not what it was yesterday. In twenty-four hours it has grown by millions upon millions of miles. It is expanding. The stars that we see at night are moving apart every moment.

This is a matter of wonder—the Expanding Universe has two implications: that there must have been a moment when the universe was so contracted that it was at a zero-point, a center. Move backward in time: the further back you go, the smaller the universe gets, the more it contracts. A moment must have been when the whole universe was contracted into a point. Then it began to expand. It is still expanding. The circumference grows day by day. Scientists say: we cannot say how long it may keep growing. It is an endless expansion. It goes on becoming bigger and bigger.

Another point to note: science has only recently begun to use the term Expanding Universe. But what the Upanishads call Brahman—Brahman literally means the expanding. Brahman does not mean God in the theistic sense. Brahman means that which expands. Brahman means that which goes on expanding. Brahman and expansion arise from the same root, they are forms of one word. Brahman means: ever-expanding. Not expanded as a state, but expanding as a process—constantly expanding.

Now Brahman has two meanings, even in scientific terms. One is the form which the Rishi of the Upanishad calls Asambhuti—unmanifest Brahman. Asambhuti Brahman means the zero Brahman, the seed moment when expansion had not yet begun, the very primary instant of unfoldment, when the seed has not yet broken. After the seed cracks, the sprout goes on spreading—becoming a tree. From a tiny seed a tree so vast that thousands of bullock-carts could rest beneath it. And then that tree bears innumerable seeds. And out of each seed again, a similar vast tree; and out of each tree, again endless seeds. A small seed expands into infinite seeds.

Asambhuti Brahman means: seed-form Brahman, point-form Brahman. We can only conceive it—for a point itself is a conception. If you ask Euclid, the greatest knower of geometry, he will say: a point is that which has neither width nor length. You have never seen such a point. That is the definition: that in which there is no length, no breadth. If length and breadth are there, it is no longer a point; it has become some other figure—expansion has begun. Where there is length and breadth, there is spread.

A point is that which has not yet spread, but is about to. Therefore Euclid says: a point can only be defined; it cannot be drawn. Even the smallest dot you place on paper with a pencil acquires length and breadth. Without length and breadth a dot will not appear on paper. The point that is seen is already an expansion; only that point which is unseen and remains in definition is a point.

Asambhuti Brahman is what Euclid calls a point—the as-yet-unmanifest. In which becoming has not yet begun—hence asambhuti. Existence has not yet appeared; it is only potential, still hidden. It is on the verge of manifesting—but as yet it is a point, a definition. This is one aspect of Asambhuti Brahman.

But this we do not know. We know Sambhuti Brahman, that which has become. We know Brahman in the form of the tree, that which has manifested—and not only manifested, but is continuously manifesting, continuously spreading.

Our universe grows every day—every moment. To say every day is too much, because in a day it grows too vast. Every moment it grows. The stars are receding from one another and from the center at the speed of light—186,000 miles per second. Per second. In a minute, sixty times that. Multiply 186,000 miles by sixty for a minute, then again by sixty for an hour, then by twenty-four for a day. At that speed the circumference is receding from the center. It has been moving away in this manner since beginningless time. Even scientists cannot determine the moment when this journey began, when the seed took its first step to become a tree. Nor can we say what will be the last journey.

Science is in great difficulty. For an Expanding Universe is inconceivable in terms of where it will stop—and why should it stop? For to stop, some other opposing force must obstruct it.

If I throw a stone by hand—if it meets no obstacle it will never stop. Usually it does meet an obstacle: it strikes a tree; if not a tree, then the pull of the earth is drawing it down all the time. As soon as the force of my throw is spent and the earth’s pull exceeds it, the stone falls. But if there were no earthly gravity, no obstruction anywhere, and even a child threw a stone, it would never stop. For cessation needs a cause, a barrier.

This universe of ours goes on expanding—this Sambhuti Brahman—where will it stop? Some obstacle should arise. But from where can an obstacle arise? For everything is within it; there is nothing outside it. If there is something outside, then that too becomes a part of it—part of Sambhuti Brahman. Hence no obstruction will come from anywhere. Where, then, will it stop? How can it stop? It will go on expanding.

Therefore Einstein and Planck—who worked deeply on this Expanding Universe—fell into a great perplexity. At last they had to leave it as a mystery. No cause for stopping is visible, and yet that it should never stop seems equally inconceivable. If it continues indefinitely, one day the stars will be so distant that one star will no longer be visible from another.

But the Upanishads think in another way—and that way should be understood. One day—if not today, then tomorrow—science will have to think in that way. The West has not yet come to it. The reason is clear: Western science developed out of Greek philosophy, standing upon its foundational assumptions. One fundamental Greek assumption is: time moves in a straight line. Because of this, Western science is in trouble. Indian philosophy holds a very different view: all movement is circular. No movement is in a straight line.

Understand it. A child is born. Ask a Greek thinker, and he will draw a straight line between the child and the old man. The Indian philosopher will say, no. There is a circle between the child and the old man. For in dying, the old man arrives exactly where the child had begun. A circle. Therefore if old people begin to behave like children, there’s nothing to be surprised about. Not a straight line—a circular arc between childhood and old age. Youth is the crest of the circle. After youth the journey begins to return.

Think of the revolving seasons. The Indian view of time is like the turning of seasons—a mandala. Rains return, summer returns, winter returns—again the circle. Morning comes, evening comes—then morning again, then evening again. A circle.

The Eastern seer’s vision is that all movements are circular. The earth turns round, the seasons revolve, the sun moves in a circle, the moon and stars too. Movement itself is circular. No straight-line motion. Life also turns in a circle.

This Expanding Universe is like a child growing into youth. But if a child were only to become more and more youthful, trouble would arise. Where would be the pause? Yet as the child grows into youth, presently the arc will begin to descend and youth will turn to old age. If birth only expanded and never returned to the point of death, where would it stop? Therefore Indian thought says: this expanding Brahman will expand—be a child, become a youth, grow old—and then fall back into Asambhuti Brahman. Back into zero. Where it came from, there it returns. Its circle is vast.

Our individual life’s circle is seventy years. But there are smaller circles too. A moth is born in the morning; by evening its circle is complete. There are smaller circles than that. There are beings living only for a moment—born at the beginning of a moment and gone by the end. And do not think that one who lives for a moment lives less than one who lives seventy years. Do not think so. For in the intensity of that single moment the entire circle that you complete in seventy years is completed. Childhood comes, youth comes, love happens, children are born, old age comes, death occurs. In a moment’s circle, seventy years are fulfilled intensely.

Seventy years is not a large circle. Our earth, scientists say, was born some four billion years ago. We have no certain means of knowing what age the earth is in now, but by many calculations it appears to be aging. Food grows scarce, human population grows. Death seems close. All things seem to be getting exhausted. Coal is exhausting, petrol is exhausting, food is exhausting. The chemical elements of the soil are being spent. The earth grows old. It will die soon—soon not by our measure, for what took four billion years to grow old may well take billions of years to die. But the earth… we have no sense of the earth’s scale; we do not know.

Within your one body there are, on average, some seventy million bacteria. They have no idea that you are. Within your body are seventy million lives. They will be born, grow, age, beget children, die, their graves will be inside you. You will not know of them, and they certainly do not know of you. You will live seventy years; in that time, millions of lives will arise and depart within you.

Exactly so, the earth has no idea of us. We have no idea of the earth’s life. Its life-circle spans billions of years. As for the entire Brahman, the cosmos—the Sambhuti Brahman—who can say how many years its circle spans? One thing is certain: in this universe no law is ever violated. Sooner or later, the law completes itself.

Hence the Rishi of the Upanishad says, in this sutra: divide Brahman in two—Sambhuti, that which is; and Asambhuti, that from which it arises and into which it will dissolve. The point-Brahman and the expanded-Brahman. Whoever knows the expanded Brahman goes beyond death. Whoever knows the point-Brahman attains to immortality. For the expanded Brahman is the circle of death—death must happen. The circle has to be completed. If there is birth, there will be death. Why then does the Rishi say: he conquers death who knows Sambhuti Brahman?

What does it mean to conquer death? Do Rishis not die? All Rishis die. All the wise die. Surely, conquering death cannot mean not dying. The very Rishi who sings that he who knows Sambhuti Brahman conquers death—he too is no more; he has died. Either he said it without knowing and said it wrongly—or if he said it rightly, he should not have died.

No—the meaning of conquering death is different. It means: the one who comes to know, who experiences deeply, that death is tied to birth, that it is inevitable; who knows that birth is the beginning of the circle and death its end; who knows this with such depth that death is an inevitability, a destiny—such a one is freed of the fear of death. What fear can there be of the inevitable? If there is no way to avert it, why fear it? Why worry about what cannot be changed? We worry only about that which might be changed.

It is a strange fact that the West is more obsessed with death than the East ever was—though the West imagines it has ways to conquer death, and the East never claimed any such ways. The reason is clear: if you feel death can be altered, anxiety arises. Whenever a thing seems alterable, anxiety appears. If it cannot be altered, what is the point of anxiety? What for? If death is certain, decided along with birth—then why worry?

When soldiers go to war, until they reach the battlefield they remain fearful, tormented, anxious. As soon as they actually reach the front, within a day or two all anxiety dissolves. Even the most cowardly soldier becomes brave on the battlefield. Why? Psychologists have pondered: what happens? The man was so frightened he could not sleep at night for fear of tomorrow’s battle. One thought he would run away. The same man, on the battlefield, sleeps soundly. What has changed?

Until he reached the battlefield, it seemed there might be a way out. Perhaps a change could occur. Someone else could be sent; I could be held back. But once he is in the battlefield and bombs are falling over his head, the matter ends. There is no way out now. When there is no way out, there is no anxiety. When the possibility of change is gone, the longing to change is gone. It is longing for change that breeds anxiety.

So when the Rishi says: knowing Sambhuti Brahman the wise one conquers death, he means: death no longer frightens him. Even if death stands right beside him, it does not frighten him.

There is a small, sweet story about Panini. Panini was one of those Rishis who fulfilled this sutra. He was teaching grammar to his students. They were in the forest. A lion approached, roaring. Panini said, listen to the lion’s roar—and understand what would be its grammatical form. The lion is roaring, standing right there, and could devour anyone. The children are trembling. Panini goes on explaining the grammatical structure of the roar. They say the lion attacked Panini; even then he was explaining grammar. The lion ate Panini, and even then he was clarifying: when a lion eats a man, what is the linguistic form, what case-ending applies.

We feel: Panini could have run and saved himself. But men like Panini understand thus: whether today or tomorrow, death is certain—what difference does a day make? What difference does the interval of time make? When death has to happen, whether today or tomorrow or the day after, there is consent. In this consent is victory. This acceptability—this acceptance that with birth we have already accepted death; that with expansion we have accepted contraction; that the day we expanded we knew we would contract; the day we were born we knew we would depart; the day we became manifest we knew we would again become unmanifest; the circle will complete. Such acceptance is freedom from death. Then what does it mean to die? The one who dies has already gone beyond; he has no attachment to birth and no fear of death. He has gone beyond.

Remember: in our so-called life, birth and death are two ends. They lie outside life. Birth lies outside life, for before birth we were not. Death lies outside life, for after death we will not be. These are boundary-lines, frontiers.

But for one who knows, these are not boundaries. Birth and death are two events that happen within life. For he says: whose birth? I already was—only then could I be born; otherwise how could I be born? I was unmanifest, only then could I become manifest—else how would manifestation occur? If the tree were not hidden in the seed, there would be no way for it to sprout. And I can die only because I am; otherwise whose death would it be? Before birth I was—therefore birth happened. After death I will be—only then can death happen; otherwise whose death? For one who knows, death is not an end; it is an event within life. Birth too is an event within life; it is not a beginning. Life lies outside the circle. But that life is Asambhuti—unmanifest, unexpressed. That unmanifest life becomes manifest through birth, and again unmanifest through death. Whoever knows this arrangement of the Sambhuti world—mind you, whoever knows this arrangement—he is no longer tormented by arrangement.

You are in a house. You know this is a wall and that is a door. Then you do not bang your head against the wall. You do not try to go through the wall. If you must go out, you use the door. You do not sit and weep that the wall is not a door. But the one who does not know the door will bang his head against the wall and cry, why is the wall not a door! If you know the door, then wall is wall, door is door. You do not try to exit through the wall; you go out through the door.

Whoever fully knows the arrangement becomes free of it. Whoever knows it partially remains in struggle. Knowing that where there is birth there is death—this knowing is so clear, so ultimate, so absolute that there is no way to differ. This is called destiny—the destiny of the manifest, fate within Sambhuti.

But we have taken very wrong meanings of fate. We are wrong people; thus we take wrong meanings of everything. Meanings become right or wrong according to the people who hold them.

If fate becomes a cause for despair, you have not understood. If, having understood fate, a man folds his hands and sits idle—you have not understood. Fate means supreme hope. It will seem difficult to you. Fate means: now there remains no cause for sorrow. There is no room for despair. Death is—and it is. Where is sorrow in this? Where is pain in this? Sorrow and pain existed when there was no acceptance. Where then is despair?

Buddha says: whatsoever is put together will fall apart. Whatsoever is joined will part. In the moment of meeting, know that farewell has appeared. We become sad: in meeting the beloved, we think—now farewell has already arrived. Soon we must part. Our meeting too will be destroyed. The little illusion of joy that meeting creates also goes, because farewell is seen. A child is born and bands play; and someone says, death has become certain. This child will die. We say, do not speak such ominous things. It depresses the mind, it hurts the heart.

But when Buddha says that in every meeting farewell is present, he is not cutting the joy of meeting; he is only cutting the sorrow of farewell. Understand the difference. The unintelligent will cut the joy of meeting; the intelligent will cut the sorrow of parting. Because when farewell is already present in the meeting, what sorrow can there be in farewell? The meeting was desired; on that very day farewell was also desired. When in birth death is present, what sorrow can there be in death? The day birth was sought, death came along. The unintelligent cuts the joy of birth; the intelligent cuts the sorrow of death.

Knowing Sambhuti Brahman—the expanded, manifest Brahman—one goes beyond death. Beyond sorrow, pain, anguish—beyond all. Remember: sorrow, pain, anguish, anxiety—they are all shadows of death. Whoever is free of death—there is for him no sorrow, no anxiety, no pain.

You may never have noticed carefully that whenever you are anxious, somewhere in a corner death is standing. Because of that you are anxious. A man’s house burns—he is anxious. A man goes bankrupt—he is anxious. Why? Because with bankruptcy life will now be in distress and death will become easier. Because with the house burned, life will be insecure and death will find a foothold. A man stands alone in the dark and becomes anxious—because he cannot see, and if death comes now it will not even be seen.

Wherever you are anxious, recognize immediately—you will find death standing nearby. Anxiety is the shadow of death. Wherever sorrow and pain grip the mind, understand at once: some misunderstanding about Sambhuti Brahman is at work. You are treating the inevitable as if it were avoidable. That is where sorrow begins. Even regarding that which must happen you go on hoping that perhaps it will not. From there anxiety begins—from there anguish arises.

No—if that which must happen is happening, and there is no way otherwise—then with this acceptance, this tathata, the acceptance of the arrangement of Sambhuti Brahman—with suchness—within, everything becomes quiet. There remains no occasion for unrest.

Therefore the Rishi has said: by knowing Sambhuti Brahman there is freedom from death.

But this is only half the matter, half the sutra. One more knowing remains—deeper still. We are unable even to know this much; we are entangled and distressed here. In ignorance we keep banging our heads against walls. Where there is no door, we keep colliding. We build houses of cards; we draw lines on water and then weep as they melt. The very moment you draw a line on water, know that it begins to dissolve. The instant you draw it, it starts disappearing. Draw a line on water and try to make it permanent—whose fault is it then? The water’s, the line’s, or yours? The man who blames the water or the line will be miserable. The one who understands his own unawareness will laugh. He will know that a line drawn on water dissolves; it should dissolve. If it remained, that would be the trouble.

We do not understand even Sambhuti Brahman—how then will we understand Asambhuti? That which is most manifest, absolutely before our eyes—what is more evident than death? Yet we go on deceiving ourselves. Someone else dies, and we say, the poor fellow died. It never occurs to us that the news is of our own death.

I remember a line of an English poet. When someone dies in the village, the church bell tolls. The line says: send no one to find out for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee. Do not send to learn for whom the church bell tolls. It tolls for thee. Know without asking—it is tolling for you.

Death is so evident, yet we hide it so much that if a traveler from Mars were to descend among us and live a few days in our homes, two things would not be apparent to him—two things, and they are linked. He would not know that death happens. He would not know that sex happens. Both are hidden. Sex is the formula of birth—the first step of Sambhuti Brahman. Death is the last step—the final phase.

It is due to the fear of death that sex repression began. Sex is the first step. If death is to be suppressed, the process of birth must be hidden too. For birth and death are tied. Therefore we hide birth in darkness, veil the process of birth behind curtains. And we push death outside the village. We build the cemetery far away—because we are deeply afraid of death. We plant flowers upon graves so that if someone passes by, flowers may be seen, not the grave. When a corpse is carried, we cover it with flowers—so that the dead may not be seen, but a blooming form.

However many flowers you cover it with—the man is dead. However beautiful the graves you build, however strong the stones you set upon them, and write names on them—when the one inside the grave could not be saved today, how long will the names carved upon stone be saved? And however far you push the cemetery out, death will happen in the village, not in the graveyard.

On the other side we repress sex, because it is birth. The urge to repress and hide it is unconscious. The reason is the same: it is the first link. If it is brought into the light, death will also be exposed; it cannot remain hidden for long.

It is a strange fact: in societies where sex suppression has ended, where sex has been made open, death-anxiety has increased. In societies that have completely repressed sex, as if it does not exist at all…

I have heard: a Jewish boy returned home one day. At school he had learned how children are born. He was delighted with the new knowledge, eager to tell someone. He asked his mother, how was I born? The mother said, God sent you. How was my grandfather born? He too was sent by God. And his father? The mother, a little unsettled, said, he too was sent by God. He kept asking—seven generations. The answer remained the same. Then the boy said: what does this mean? What does this mean? Sex has not existed in our family for seven generations! But I am learning in school that children are born in another way.

There is a deep unconscious fear behind sex repression. It is birth’s first link. If it is exposed and made plain… As long as children do not know how a person is born, they keep asking, how is one born? The day they know how birth happens, they will ask, how does one die? Remember, the day the formula of birth becomes clear, the second question can only be about death. Hence sex is suppressed and hidden. And death is hidden far away. Between these two we live—in darkness. Naturally, we live very frightened lives. We know neither birth nor death—fear is inevitable.

We deny even Sambhuti Brahman, which is so manifest and clear. What to say then of Asambhuti, which is unmanifest, hidden, unexpressed? How will we reach there?

Know birth and death rightly. They are two ends of one thing. The beginning of a single circle is birth; the end of that same circle is death. Death happens exactly where birth happens. The event of death and the event of birth are one event. What happens in birth? A body is formed. From the atoms of man and woman a new composite body is formed. Half the elements are with each.

Therefore there is such intense attraction between woman and man. Because each has half—there is deep attraction. The two halves draw toward each other. They want to become whole. Hence the pull. Hence, despite all laws, rules, doctrines, despite all the teachers, children keep being born. Many come to teach celibacy and go; nothing changes visibly. The attraction is so deep that all teachings remain on the surface. The attraction is of the two halves of one thing—like a thing broken into two pieces wanting to reunite. On uniting, a new body is formed. Half the atoms are contributed by the woman; half by the man.

Birth means: from the man’s and woman’s half-atoms a complete body is constructed. As soon as this body is built, an Atman enters it. The Atman whose longings will be fulfilled through that body—enters. This entry is as natural, as automatic as water flowing into a pit. Just as regular. The Atman seeks out a womb that accords with it and enters.

What happens in death? Those halves that had come together begin to disintegrate and fall apart. Nothing else happens. The half-atoms which had composed the body begin to decompose. The inner bonding loosens. Old age means: the bonding is loosening. The composite body begins to decompose. What had been joined starts to scatter.

The formula of its scattering is decided on the very day of birth. Not in an astrologer’s way—in a scientist’s way. In truth, whenever the atoms of man and woman meet, from that very moment the time is set. Our scientific knowledge is still small, but growing. A day will come when, together with the birth of a child, we will be able to say how long its built-in process can run—seventy years, eighty years, a hundred. Just as we guarantee a watch to last ten years, because testing its cogs and parts tells us it can withstand ten years of the wear of air, temperature, motion—after ten years it will fall apart.

The day the child is born, the meeting of the two sets of atoms already decides—on that day—how many days it will bear the blows of wind and water, heat and rain, sunlight and sorrow, pain and struggle, union and separation, friendship and enmity, hope and despair, night and day. And bearing and bearing, it will begin to fall apart. And the day will come when those meeting atoms separate. With their separation the Atman must leave the body.

Sex and death are two ends of one thing. What sex unites, death scatters. What sex synthesizes, death analyzes. If sex is synthetic, death is analytic. Sex composes, death decomposes. The event is one. There is no difference in the event.

Whoever knows Sambhuti Brahman rightly comes to a great acceptance—acceptance. Acceptance is victory. Whatever you have accepted, of that you become the master. If you accept even slavery, you become a master; you are no longer a slave.

If you put chains upon my hands and I let them be placed willingly; if you lock me in a prison and I go dancing inside; and never for a moment does the thought arise that it could have been otherwise, I know that what could be has happened—then you have not been able to make me a slave. You have failed. I remain the master. On the contrary, you become my slave—for you must keep the keys, you must keep watch at the door, you must make all arrangements. And if I can accept the lock and the guard standing at the door and say, all right—this is destiny, then I can sing my song within; and you, holding the gun, must remain grave and tense outside.

Even slavery, if totally accepted, is sovereignty; and even sovereignty, if not totally accepted, is slavery. In truth, total acceptance is freedom. Total acceptance of any fact is liberation.

By knowing Sambhuti Brahman, one attains total acceptance.

Take also the second point in mind. It is not really for the mind. By taking it into the mind, it will not come. If the first comes into the mind, that is enough. The second is of an even deeper experience.

To know Asambhuti Brahman you must either know before birth or after death. There is no other way. Hence, in Japan the Zen masters, when a seeker comes to them, tell him: go, meditate, and find out what your face was before you were born. Meditate upon this—what is your original face!

Original—not this that you have now; not the one of yesterday; not the one of the day before. Original—the one before birth, the face that is yours—tell us that. For this face is from your parents; it is not yours. This face is from your parents, not yours. The color of the eyes is from your parents, not yours. The features of the nose are from your parents, not yours. The pigment of the skin is from your parents, not yours. If your parents were Negroes, this would be black; if English, this would be fair. This pigment of the skin is from your parents. It is not your color. Find out what your color is. Seek your own face. This is a given face; it will be taken away. It is no more than a mask. It lasts seventy years, so we think it is a face.

If a fixed mask were strapped on a man’s face with screws so tight that in this life it could not be removed—soon he would begin to think it is his face. For whenever he looked into a mirror, the same would appear.

In America, a man has recently made a very unusual experiment. An American youth—a writer—decided to become a Negro by scientific process; to blacken his skin by procedure; and then live in America and see what passes upon a Negro. For what passes upon a Negro can never be truly known to a white-skinned man—without being a Negro, how can one know? And whatever is known will be the white man’s experience, not the Negro’s.

A courageous experiment. At first, scientists refused—too dangerous. But the man would not relent and gradually persuaded three scientists. After a six-month process—through injections and introducing new pigments into the body—his skin became that of a Negro. The skin turned black. The hair was made curly by artificial means.

He has written in his memoirs: when the scientists first said the process is complete, you can begin your experiment, I went to the bathroom to see my face! But I did not have the courage to switch on the light. Who knows what might appear! With great fear I pressed the switch. I had thought only the color would change—I would remain I. But when I looked in the mirror, not only the color had changed—I had changed. I could not make out what had happened—who is this man? Everything was different. I had thought: becoming a Negro for six months, living among Negroes, I will know what they experience—though I shall not remain a Negro within.

But he writes: after four or six days among Negroes I began to forget that I am an Anglo, an American. I began to forget that I am white. Morning and evening the mirror showed the same picture. Photographs showed the same. White-skinned people who always greeted me on the street now passed by as if no one were there. One morning I stood at my own door; my wife looked and did not see.

Who looks at a Negro? If a sweeper stands at your door—do you really see him? He appears—but do you see? No one sees.

The English cobbler who always polished his shoes—when he placed his shoe upon the stand, the man looked up and said, have you lost your senses? Take your foot down!

He writes: at that moment I did not feel like laughing and saying, I am white, a real white man—this is how Negroes are treated. I felt: this is happening to me. And I felt the same hurt. After six months of this continuous process—for within six months the pigment would decay and the skin would begin to turn white—he writes: now when I remember those six months, it does not seem I lived them. It seems I saw a dream. That was another man; I am another man. Because our bonds are through faces.

But this face is not yours. Nor was that six-month face his. The strange thing is: he thinks that the six-month face was not his, but the earlier face was his, and the later face is his. That too is not his.

That six-month face was given by a scientist. This seventy-year face is given by parents. But it is not one’s own. Your own face can be known only before birth or after death. To return before birth is very difficult.

To know Asambhuti Brahman before birth is very difficult. First I said: Asambhuti is much more difficult to know than Sambhuti. Now I tell you: there are two ways—either regress before birth, go so deep in meditation that you reach before birth; then there will be an experience of Asambhuti Brahman. Or advance so far in meditation that you die and pass beyond death; then there will be the experience of Asambhuti Brahman. Between the two, the experiment of dying is easier—because it is in the future.

Going back is almost impossible; only going forward is possible. One can leap ahead; to return is very hard. To put on the garments of childhood is very difficult. To return to the womb is exceedingly arduous—the passage narrows. But the loose garments—the garments of death—are easy to wear. The path widens. Remember: the door of birth is very small; the door of death is very large. Death is easy. Going beyond birth is also possible; it has its processes and paths—but they are extremely difficult.

The meditation I speak of is an experiment in death. It is a leap into death. To die by your own hand—consciously. To die by your own hand—consciously. To become as one who is dead by one’s own consent. If the happening occurs—and with full awareness you descend into death; you become as if you are not—then the face of Asambhuti Brahman will be seen. The face that is before birth and after death will be seen. It is one and the same face; though the approach may be twofold. The point is one. You may look back to it, or go forward to it. But forward is simple.

Therefore my insistence is upon death. I do not say: look back and see what face you had before birth. I say: look a little ahead and see what face you will have after death. Death—willingly, with consent—becomes meditation. And if someone does not wish to live this death only for a few moments in meditation, but wishes to live it for a whole life, it becomes sannyas.

Sannyas means: to live while alive as if you have died.

Sannyas means: to live while alive in such a way as if you have died.

There was a Zen monk—Bokuju. He had taken sannyas. He was passing through a village; someone abused him. He stood listening. The shopkeeper nearby said: what are you standing and listening for? He is abusing you! Bokuju said, but now I am dead—how can I reply? The man said, dead? You look very much alive! Bokuju said: when I actually die, what virtue will there be in dying? To die while alive—that has some virtue. When I die, I will die. Everyone dies. I have died while alive.

The innkeeper said: I do not understand. Bokuju said: birth happened unknowingly; now I want to pass through death knowingly. Birth happened unknowingly—there is no remedy for that now. But death is still ahead—I want to pass through it with awareness. At the moment of birth I missed the chance to know that which is before birth—that chance was missed. One opportunity remains—death.

But remember, if death comes suddenly, as birth came, you will miss it too. If you make no preparation and death arrives—as birth arrived—you will miss again. But if you prepare and give a door to death; if you remain ready, keep dying, keep dying…

Sannyas means: dying from one’s own side, voluntarily—voluntary death. Keep dying; become as if already dead. When someone abuses you, remember: I am dead. When you will be dead and someone comes to your grave and abuses you—what will you do then? Do that now. When you are dead and your skull lies somewhere and someone kicks it—whatever you do then, do the same now. This is sannyas.

Then you will descend into Asambhuti Brahman, or else the opportunity of death will also be missed. And it is not that you have missed only once—you have missed many times. You have missed birth many times. This time you have certainly missed it; before this you have missed birth many times, and death many times. We are not new to living and dying—we are old hands. We have been born many times; we have died many times—habit has set in, we are addicted. This has become our style. But whether to carry this style further or not—this decision must be taken. A new opportunity of death is approaching. Prepare for it—and you will enter the unmanifest.

Whoever enters Asambhuti—the Rishi says—he knows the immortal. Whoever knows Sambhuti conquers death. Whoever enters Asambhuti knows the nectar of immortality.

Remember: only by entering death is immortality known. For when you enter death completely, die in every way—and still find that you have not died—then the attainment of the deathless has happened. When someone abuses you and you are as a corpse—and yet you know that you are; and no answer arises to the abuse; and when someone cuts off your hand or your head—and the head is cut, and yet you know the head is being cut off and still I am—then the door of the immortal opens. Whoever escapes death is deprived of immortality. Whoever enters into death attains the immortal.

By knowing Asambhuti Brahman there is attainment of the immortal, for the Asambhuti is the immortal. It is before birth and after death—therefore it is immortal. It never takes birth; hence there is no way it can die. That is what we are. Only the body is born, only that is composed, only that is received from the parents. We have been long before. When there was no body, we were. But upon entering a body, identification with the body happens. With identification, when the body dies it seems, I am dying. And death comes suddenly—death does not give notice. If death were to give notice, you would be in great trouble; out of compassion it does not. If death were to come with notice twenty-four hours earlier, then what would happen in death would happen—but what would happen in the twenty-four hours is hard to reckon. Its compassion proves costly. If it gave notice, the pain would be heavy; but perhaps you would pass through death knowingly. If death were to say, I am coming in twenty-four hours, then the agony would be immense. Its compassion is that it does not give you notice. But if it did, the agony would be heavy—and those twenty-four hours would be a hell. Each moment would pass with difficulty. You would live without a beating heart. The pulse would be lost, the intellect deranged—though even as it is, it is not much. But perhaps—perhaps—you would pass knowingly. I say perhaps, because there is great likelihood that if you knew twenty-four hours in advance, you would become unconscious twenty-four hours in advance. You would not remain conscious; you would fall into a coma and die. Therefore there is scarcely any usefulness in getting prior notice of death.

Sannyas is giving yourself the news of death, by your own hand. Saying to yourself: the bell that tolls in the church is tolling for me. That corpse passing on the road—that is my corpse. The man burning at the cremation ground—that is me burning, only me.

Hence the sannyasin’s head used to be shaved, as the dead man’s is shaved. Formerly, in the process of initiation into sannyas, the head was shaved and the family wept as they do when a man dies. Even now if you take sannyas, the family will weep a little—they weep because you are deciding to die. Let them weep. For at the time of your actual death you will not be able to protect them from their weeping. Though this present weeping will pass in a couple of days, because they will see: however much this man has decided to die, he is still alive. In two days it will be over; they will cross it. It is good that in your knowing presence you allow them to pass through the pain of your death—because when I actually die and they suffer, I will not be there to show compassion or give consolation.

When a man was given initiation, they would place him on a funeral pyre. Those were very simple times—innocent people. They would lay him on the pyre, light the fire beneath, and the Master would shout: remember, you are dead! Remember, you have died—you are no more what you were till yesterday. Then they would lift him from the burning pyre and give him a new name, so that the old name is gone, the old man is gone. Those were simple days. With this small process, with this small mantra, by placing him on the pyre—the man accepted that he had died and become another.

Today there is not such simplicity. Today even if we were to place you upon the pyre, you would climb down the same person who climbed up. Even if we shave your head, you will paste the photo into the same album that contains your picture with a full head of hair. The continuity will persist.

Man has become too clever. Therefore sannyas has become difficult. But apart from sannyas there is no way to know Asambhuti Brahman. The worldly man can know only Sambhuti Brahman; only the sannyasin can know Asambhuti Brahman.

Enough for today. At night we shall speak further.

Now let us move into the journey of Asambhuti—let us die!