Ishavashya Upanishad #11

May life return into that from which it was born. May form dissolve into the Formless from which form was fashioned. May this breath become one with the wind. May the body merge back into dust, into earth. In such a moment—and there are two such moments, I shall speak to you of them—in such a moment the Rishi has said to his volitional mind: O my resolve-making mind, remember the deeds you have done, remember the deeds you have done.

There are two moments when this prayer can be meaningful. One is at the moment of death, and the other is at the moment of Samadhi. One, when a person truly stands at the threshold of death; or when, at a death greater than death itself, at the doorway of Samadhi, one is ready for the drop to lose itself in the ocean.

Ordinarily, those who have interpreted this sutra of the Upanishad have taken it only in the first sense. They have assumed that at the time of dying the Rishi is saying: everything of mine is returning to its source—at that moment he says to his mind of resolve, O my volitional mind, remember the deeds you have done.

But as I see it, this remembrance is not uttered at the time of ordinary death. It is uttered at the moment of Samadhi. Not at death, because death gives no prior notice. You do not know at which instant death will arrive. It arrives—and only then you know. But by then, the one who could know is already gone, has already left. Before death arrives, there is no knowing; and when it arrives, the knower has vanished.

Socrates was dying; his friends said to him, You do not seem afraid—not sad, not tormented, not anxious, not terrified! Socrates replied, I think this way: as long as death has not come, I am still alive—so why should I worry about death while I am alive? And when death has come and I am gone, who will remain to worry? And I also think: either death will obliterate me completely, leaving nothing at all—if so, there is no reason for fear. Or, as some say, even after death I will not die—if death comes and yet I do not die, then again there is no reason for anxiety.

I said, this sutra can be meaningful in two moments—at death or at Samadhi. But there is no foreknowledge of death. It is unpredictable; it comes unannounced; hence it may come at any moment. There is no certainty even that we shall be here the next moment. It may come at any time, yet it gives no prior signal. And this prayer can be uttered only when there is forewarning—when the Rishi knows: I stand at the gate of dying, I am dying. No—therefore I say this remembrance is not uttered at the time of death; it is uttered at the moment of the great death. The great death is the name of Samadhi.

I call ordinary death merely death—because only the body dies; the mind does not die. Only the body dies; the mind does not. I call meditation, Samadhi, the great death—because here the question of the body does not even arise; it is the mind that dies. And I say this is spoken at the moment of Samadhi also because the Rishi addresses his volitional mind: remember the deeds you have done, remember.

About this second part too there have been great confusions. The fact is: ordinarily those we call pundits do the interpreting. However skillful they are, a fundamental mistake enters their interpretations. It happens because they understand words, they understand doctrines, they understand scripture—but what is unsaid behind the words, they do not understand at all. And the truths of religion are not spoken in words; they are conveyed in the empty spaces between the words. Not in the lines, but in the gaps between the lines. One who cannot read the blank, one who can read only the black letters, will never be able to penetrate these great sutras.

In the West there is a movement called Krishna Consciousness. I was looking at a book on the Isha Upanishad by Swami Bhaktivedanta Prabhupada, who leads that movement. I was very surprised. The meaning he gives to this sutra—astonishing! He renders it thus: I am dying, I stand at the gate of death—O Lord, remember the renunciations I have made for You; remember all the sacrifices I performed for You! Remember the deeds I did for You!

No—those who cannot read the spaces might be forgiven such a mistaken meaning; but this seems as if someone who cannot even read the words is attempting to interpret.

The Rishi says, O my volitional mind! There is no question of God here. Nor is the Rishi saying: remember the acts I did for You, remember the sacrifices I made for You! But our utilitarian intelligence—our business mind—can only make such a meaning: the hour of dying has come; I donated; I built a temple; I lined a tank; remember! O Lord, the deeds I did for You, the renunciations I made—now the time has come, give me their proper fruits.

My volitional mind! Sankalpa is the source of the mind’s urge. Sankalpa means will. Understand this a little, then what follows will be clear.

Desire arises in everyone—desire, passion. But desire does not become sankalpa until ego is joined to it. Desire plus ego becomes sankalpa. Desire is common to all, but if one does not tie desire to one’s ego, desire remains only a dream; it does not become action. For action to happen, ego must join in. When ego is grafted onto desire, sankalpa is formed; then the sense of I-will-do, the insistence of the doer, is created. The moment ego joins a desire, you become the doer.

The Rishi says, O my volitional mind—my mind filled with ego and desires—remember the deeds you have done!

Why does he say this? And not once but twice: remember the deeds you have done! remember! Why? What is the need of this remembrance at the threshold of Samadhi? Or even at the moment of death?

The Rishi is making a jest, a satire. He is saying: Now everything is being lost at the gate of Samadhi—mind is dissolving, body is dissolving, the past is being absorbed. Now, my mind, that which you thought you had done—what has become of it! Those lines you drew upon water—where are they now? Remember! You too are fading, and what you did has already faded. Remember—look back once. With what pride you had thought, I did this! With how much ego you had proclaimed, I achieved that! How many ambitions you had cherished—I will do this! Through births upon births, across endless journeys, how many footprints you left saying, These are mine! Today no trace remains—not even of them; and today you too are becoming nothing. Today even your trace will not remain. Today you too are departing. Today all pasts will be absorbed. Today the journey will end. Turn back once and remember in what delusion you lived, in what illusion, in what Maya. What mad dreams you dreamt, and how much pain you endured for those dreams; how many anxieties you suffered. When a dream did not come true, how much distress, how much failure, how much frustration you tasted. And if a dream did come true, how you swelled with pride! Today all dreams have gone, all deeds are lost. You too are on the verge of vanishing, on the edge of non-being. Remember once.

This is a deep irony—a waking-call to one’s own sankalpa and ego. Therefore I say, it is not an address spoken at the time of death; it is spoken at the time of Samadhi. For in death only the body dies; the volitional mind does not. After death you carry your mind along.

That very mind is the source of your endless births. The body falls here; the mind continues the journey. Desire goes along. Ego goes along. The memory of deeds done goes along. The craving for deeds that were left undone goes along. The entire psychic-body travels on. Only the gross physiological frame falls in death. But the mind goes on. That very mind grasps a new body. That mind has grasped countless bodies before and will go on grasping them.

Hence the wise do not call death a real death, because in truth nothing dies—only the garment changes. The body is no more than a garment. Understand this well too.

Ordinarily we think the body comes first, and then the mind is born within it. The thinking of the last hundred or two hundred years of the West has spread the delusion that first the body is formed and then the mind is produced out of the body—a by-product, an epiphenomenon, a mere property of matter.

As the old Charvakas said: take separately the ingredients from which wine is made—none will intoxicate you. When they are brought together, a by-product called intoxication appears. Intoxication comes from their union, not from some mysterious elsewhere. Separate the ingredients and the intoxication disappears. Likewise, the Charvakas said, the human body is formed from the five elements, and from their confluence mind is produced—a by-product.

Present-day Western science, still in a state of ignorance here, agrees: mind is but a shadow trailing the body. But in the East, where deep research was made, the sages say: mind is first, and the body is formed as its shadow.

Understand it like this: which comes first in life—action or desire? Desire arises first in the mind; then the action is born. But an outside observer sees the action first, and only infers the desire. Anger arose in me; I stood up and slapped you. The anger came first within—mind first—then the body acted. But you will see first the hand moving and the slap landing; only afterward will you think, He must have been angry. The bodily event is visible first; the mind is inferred behind it. But in reality, mind is first; then the visible event appears to occur.

When a child is born we too see the body first. But those who know deeply say: mind is first. That very mind has this body constructed—arranged, structured. The mind is the blueprint, the built-in program. When I die in this life, my mind travels with a blueprint, a plan. That plan will shape a new body, a new womb.

And you will be surprised: ordinarily we think a man and woman engage in intercourse, a body is formed, then a soul enters. But on deeper seeing one finds: when some Atman seeks to enter, then a man and woman become impassioned for intercourse. We see the body first; the mind we only infer. Those who have inquired from the side of the mind say: when a womb-seeking, conception-seeking soul begins circling around you, then the impulse toward union arises. The mind strives to have its body constructed.

At dusk you go to sleep. Have you ever noticed—catch the last thought as sleep is descending—just there, just as it has descended—what is the final thought in your mind? Then sleep. And when morning breaks and awareness returns, immediately look for the first thought that appears. You will be astonished: the last thought at night is the first thought in the morning. Precisely so, the final vasana at death becomes the first vasana at birth.

The body falls with each death, but the mind travels on. So your body may be fifty years old, but your mind may be five million years old. All the minds of all your births are stored within you even today. Buddha gave it a beautiful name—perhaps the first to name it. He called it Alaya-vijnana—the Storehouse of Consciousness. Like a warehouse, all the memories of all your births are accumulated within you.

Your mind is very ancient. And it is not that it contains only human memories. If you have had animal births—as you have; if you have had tree births—as you have—then memories of trees, of animals, all are present within you. Those who go deep into the process of Alaya-vijnana say this: if someone, on seeing a rose, is suddenly flooded with love, the deep reason is that a memory of being a rose still lingers within—resonant, it begins to echo on seeing the rose. If a person loves dogs immensely, it is not accidental. In the storehouse within are memories that create a kinship, an intimacy, a nearness with the dog. Nothing in our life is accidental. A deep chain of cause and effect is working behind it all.

In death the body falls, but the mind journeys on, accumulating. Therefore sometimes you will see in yourself traits you will say are not mine. Many times you will feel you do things in spite of yourself. A man quarrels and suddenly bites the other with his teeth. Later he thinks, I could bite with my teeth! Am I a wild animal? He is not now—but sometime he was. And in some moment the memory within can become so active that he behaves exactly like an animal. We all behave like animals on many occasions. This behavior does not descend from the sky; it comes from the store of our own inner mind.

Our death is only the death of the body; the volitional mind does not die. If death were happening here, the Rishi would have no chance to make this jest. Hence I say: this sutra belongs to the moment of Samadhi. There is a difference: Samadhi can be preannounced. For death comes; Samadhi is brought. Death happens; Samadhi must be organized. Step by step, through meditation, one reaches Samadhi.

Understand also: the word Samadhi is a beautiful word. We even use it for a tomb. When a sadhu dies, his tomb is called a Samadhi. It is true. Samadhi is a kind of death—a very deep death. The body may remain, but the inner mind is annihilated.

At that moment of the mind’s annihilation the Rishi says: O my volitional mind, remember what you have done, remember what you have wrought.

Why? Because this mind deceived so much—and now this very mind is dying. The mind we took to be ours; on its support we lived and died; by it we acted, lost and won; by it we wove hopes of victory and defeat; by it we were happy and unhappy—this mind, thought to be our lifelong companion, is now betraying us. The shoulder on which we leaned through such a long journey is departing. The boat we took to be a boat proves to be water, and is melting into the river.

In this very instant the Rishi says: O my volitional mind, now remember. Remember your deeds—your intended deeds. Remember—what promises you made! What assurances! What confidences! What you made me do! How you gave me the illusion that I was doing. How you made me forge dreams—and how you made me commit insanities. And now you yourself are departing. I enter a realm where you will not be. Yet until now you have said to me, Where there is no sankalpa, you will not be. But today I see—you are leaving, and yet I am utterly whole.

The mind always says: without sankalpa you will be annihilated; you will not withstand the struggle of life. Without ego you will be lost; you will not survive. The mind goes on insisting: do purushartha, will, fight! If you do not fight you will not survive; if you do not struggle you will be extinguished.

Naturally, the Rishi’s jest is appropriate today. He can say to the mind: you are dissolving, yet I remain intact. You are fading, but I am not. Yet until now you deceived me: if you are not, I will not be. Today you go—and I remain.

This—this moment the Rishi makes into satire for two reasons: one, for his own mind; and second, for the minds of those who have not yet reached the gate of Samadhi but are busy with action. Those whose minds are still saying, Do this, do that. If you do not, your life is wasted. If you do not raise this palace, all is futile. If you do not attain this position, what meaning has your life? If you do not prove your prowess, you are worth two pennies—your life has been useless, purposeless. To them also the Rishi is speaking in irony: think once again!

Mind is the greatest deception. All our deceptions spring from mind. We are not more than Sheikh Chillis. And the mind is so clever it never lets us look deep enough to see we are being duped. Before you can know it, the mind manufactures a new deception. Before the old deception falls apart, it constructs new houses of deceit and says, Come here, rest here. If one desire is fulfilled, if the mind were to allow even a single gap, a single interval, you would see that for the sake of fulfilling that desire, after so much suffering, nothing at all has come into your hand—not even ash.

But the mind gives no interval, no chance. As one desire is not yet fulfilled, the mind begins sowing seeds of the next. As one desire is fulfilled and proves futile, the mind raises fresh sprouts of longing. The race starts again. It never gives a moment’s pause, a rest in which you might see the deception you are in. If a small piece of ground is pulled out from under your feet, it does not let you see the pit; it quickly supplies a new patch of ground for you to stand on.

Buddha would tell a small, sweet story—let me tell it to you. You have heard it, but perhaps have not pondered it in this way. A man is running in the jungle. We run for two reasons—either something ahead pulls, or something behind pushes. Either a pull in front, or a push behind. This man had both. He had gone into the forest in search of diamonds—someone had told him there was a mine, so he was running. But just now his run had become very fast, because a lion had begun to chase him. Diamonds were forgotten; now he only wished to escape the lion. He ran breathless and came to a place where the path ended; ahead a precipice. There was no way back.

There is, in fact, no way back anywhere—on any path, in any forest. Whether you run for diamonds or a death is chasing you, there is no return. In time, all the paths behind collapse. You cannot go back—not an inch.

He could not go back—the lion was behind, the path ended ahead. In terror, having no other recourse, he did what the helpless do: he hung down into the chasm, clutching the roots of a tree. He thought, Let the lion go away; then I will climb back. But the lion came up and waited. Lions have their desires too. Someday you will come up.

When he saw the lion standing above, waiting, he looked down. Below, a mad elephant was trumpeting. He said, Now there is no way. We can understand the torment he must have felt. But that was not all—life has endless torments; however many come, more can still come. He saw the branch he was clutching slowly bending. He looked up: two mice were gnawing the roots—one white, one black—day and night chewing away at a man’s roots. We can imagine how his life was imperiled.

But no—the human desire is astonishing; the play of the mind’s deception is marvelous. He saw a honeycomb above; drops of honey were falling. He protruded his tongue; a drop fell onto it. He closed his eyes and said, Blessed! So sweet! In that instant there was no lion above, no elephant below, no mice gnawing at the roots—no death, no fear. For a moment—sweetness. He said, So sweet—honey is very sweet!

Buddha said, every person is in this same condition; but the mind keeps dripping drops of honey. With eyes closed man says, How sweet! This is the situation—all the time. Death below, death above; wherever life is, it is surrounded by death. Every moment the roots of life are being cut; life is being emptied—moment by moment. As in an hourglass the sand keeps falling, so time empties out of life and life becomes hollow. Yet if one drop of honey falls, dreams are manufactured, eyes close. The mind says, How sweet! And before one drop is over, another has already begun to fall. The mind keeps dripping the drops of deception.

Hence the Rishi says, O my volitional mind, how many deceits, how many delusions you have given me—now remember them once. Remember all that you did, all you thought you were doing—as the doer. And today you are ending, becoming void, dissolving.

At the gate of Samadhi the mind becomes empty; thought ceases; the imaginations and counter-imaginations of consciousness are dissolved. The waves of the mind become wave-less. Where mind is not—that is Samadhi.

I said the word Samadhi is also used for a sadhu’s tomb. A second meaning is: Samadhi—where there is a solution, where no problem remains. It is a wonder that wherever there is mind, there are problems and problems and problems—but no solution. The mind is a great alchemy for producing problems—as leaves sprout on a tree, so problems sprout in the mind. Solutions never do. On the plane of mind, there is never a solution; where the mind disappears, there is solution.

Therefore when someone comes and says, Solve my mind, I tell him: do not get into this mess. You will never solve the mind. Drop the mind—and there will be solution.

A friend said to me this evening: How can I be free of greed? I said, You cannot—because you are greed. As long as you are, you cannot be free of greed. If you are not, greed will not be.

The mind never gets solved. When mind is not, there is resolution. Hence it is called Samadhi: where all is resolved, where no problem remains. As long as mind is, it will go on manufacturing problems. Solve one, it will create another. Even if someone gives a solution, the mind will generate ten problems out of that solution.

A friend came two days ago. He had written me: I am coming to the camp—there is great restlessness in my mind. He came. Three days of experiment evaporated the restlessness. After three days he came to me and said, The restlessness has gone—but is this peace not perhaps a deception? I asked him, Did the mind ever say that your restlessness was not a deception? He said, Never. How long have you been restless? He said, Always. But the mind never said, Is this restlessness a deception? Now after three days of peace, the mind says, Perhaps the peace is a trick!

The mind is astonishing. Even if God were to be found by your mind, the mind would say, Who knows—true or fake? Therefore God is not found while the mind remains, because the mind will create great trouble. Even if bliss comes, the mind doubts it—perhaps it is, perhaps it is not. The mind manufactures doubts, suspicions, problems, anxieties. Still, why do we cling to mind so tightly? If mind is the root of all disease, as all knowers say, why are we holding it to our chest?

For the very reason the Rishi mocks: we fear that if the mind is not, we will not be. Consciously or unconsciously we have taken the mind as our being; we have identified with it. We have assumed: I am mind. As long as you believe I am mind, you will cling to all illnesses and press them to your heart.

You are not the mind. You are that which knows the mind, sees the mind, recognizes the mind. You must step a little back from mind—stand a little aside—rise a little beyond. Stand on the bank and watch the river of the mind flowing: there it flows. You are not the mind; but we have believed we are the mind. As long as you believe I am mind, how will you drop it? Dropping it will feel like death. Letting go of mind will feel like dying. Only one who knows I am not the mind can drop it.

The first step of Samadhi is the experience: I am not the mind. When this deepens, when it becomes clear and luminous within you, the day this realization is complete, the mind disappears. That day it vanishes like the flame of a lamp whose oil has been exhausted. When the oil is gone, the wick still burns a little—from the oil soaked in it—but only a little.

Such is the Rishi’s state: the oil is finished. He has known: I am not the mind. But a little oil clings to the wick—the flame still flickers. In this final flicker, with its last light, the Rishi says: You deceived me—you said you would remain and give light forever. Your moment to be extinguished has come! I now see the oil is gone—how long will my volitional mind burn? The story is ending. Yet I am. So to his departing mind he says: I was, I have always been other than you—but I always took you to be one with me. That was my delusion. That was the world. That was Maya.

He speaks to himself—and, as I said, he speaks to you as well. Perhaps—perhaps you too may take heed. Look back, and perhaps it will occur to you. Go back twenty years—you were a child. How tremendous was the ambition to stand first in class! Nights you could not sleep. Exams seemed matters of life and death. It seemed all depended on them. Today there is no exam, no class. Look back: what difference did it make—first, second, third, or not at all? What difference? Today you do not even remember.

Go back ten years—you quarreled with someone; it felt like a matter of life and death. Today, after ten years, it is as if lines drawn on water have vanished. Someone abused you on the road—it seemed, How will I survive? You survived well enough. The abuse is gone; there is no trace; today you do not even remember. Look back: how much value you gave in that moment! Does that value remain? Nothing remains. What you value today—remember—tomorrow it will be as valueless. Therefore do not give so much value today. Draw upon yesterday’s experience for today’s valuing.

On the basis of all experience the Rishi says: I gave you great value, O volitional mind. Today, in this final farewell I say to you: it was deception, delusion, stupidity. I was other than you, and am other than you. In this moment when mind dissolves, all dissolves—for everything was strung upon the mind. The mind is the nucleus; upon it the whole wheel of life turns. Hence the Rishi says: air will merge into air, fire into fire, space into space—everything will be lost—because the mind that bound it all together is itself dissolving.

On the day Buddha became enlightened, he said something wondrous. The day his mind first disappeared, and he entered a mindless state, he spoke just as this Rishi of the Upanishad speaks. He said: O my mind, now I dismiss you. Until now there was need of you, for I had to build houses—the houses of body. But now there is no need to build houses; now you may go. Until now I needed you; a body had to be built—then I had to call the mind, the architect, the engineer. Without you no bodily house could be built. Today I send you away—for now I need no more houses. I have found my ultimate abode; I need build nothing. I have arrived at the house that is mine. In the house of the Uncreated I abide. In my ownness, in my very self—now no building is needed. Mind, you may go.

For the seeker such sutras are of value. There is no profit in committing them to memory; there is profit in committing them to the heart. If you memorize them and repeat them daily, they will go stale; slowly even the meaning will be lost, leaving only dead words. But if the message reaches the heart—not an intellectual understanding, but a vital understanding—if it penetrates your very prana that the mind is nothing but deception, then your life will enter a new journey, a new revolution.

If I speak on these sutras, it is not so that you may understand them and become a little more knowledgeable. No—you are already overburdened with knowledge. There is no need for increase. I speak so that you may remember the reality of life, that a remembering may arise, a wakefulness—that the way you are living, perhaps these sutras cast some light upon it!

Chuang Tzu was a fakir in China. One evening he was passing by a cremation ground. A skull struck his foot. His disciples were with him. Chuang Tzu picked up the skull, held it to his head, and again and again begged forgiveness: Forgive me, brother—forgive me!

His disciples said, What are you saying? We always took you to be wise. What madness is this? Chuang Tzu said, You do not know; this is not a cemetery of the common folk—it is the graveyard of the big people. Here the village’s important men are buried. They said, Whoever it may be—big or small—death makes all equal. Death is a great communist—it equalizes utterly.

But Chuang Tzu said, No—apology must be made. If this man had been alive, who knows what my condition would have been? They said, But he is not alive—do not worry. Chuang Tzu took the skull home and kept it near his bed. Whoever came would be startled to see the skull there. Chuang Tzu would say, My foot happened to strike it. Now the man is dead. It is a great difficulty—whom shall I ask forgiveness of? So I brought his skull; each day I ask forgiveness—perhaps it may be heard.

People said, What are you talking about! Chuang Tzu said, I brought this skull also so that I may remember every day that today or tomorrow my own skull will lie like this in some graveyard; people’s feet will strike it. And even if someone asks forgiveness, I will not be in a condition to forgive—let alone to be angry. Since I brought this skull, great understanding has arisen about my own. If someone kicks my skull, I will look at this skull and remain quiet.

This is existential understanding—not intellectual. It has an effect; the man is changed.

If this sutra reaches your heart, then whenever you are doing a deed or planning one, and the mind says, Do this—an election is approaching, contest it and win… This sutra should be given to Morarji now—the mind will be making great resolves. It continues making resolves up to the very last breath. Though nothing comes of anything. Morarji has traveled from deputy collector to deputy prime minister. Nothing is resolved. However much further one travels, nothing is resolved.

The mind, if it loses, puts you into trouble; if it wins, it puts you into trouble. The mind is like a gambler. If the gambler loses, he thinks: one more throw—perhaps I will win. If he wins, he thinks: Now I must not miss—one more throw, since I am winning. Therefore a gambler never returns having won. If he wins, he stakes again—winning increases hope. Until he loses, he goes on saying, One more throw. If he loses, the mind says: You have lost—it is not proper to return after a loss. Try one more throw—who knows, you may win!

The mind is like a gambler. Remember this sutra. When the mind talks of staking, of winning and losing, say: O my volitional mind, remember what you have done! This will weaken the heavy attachment to action, and the rigidity of being the doer will break. Then steps can move toward Samadhi; the journey toward meditation can begin.

Remember: with mind, unconsciousness will not work. If you go on in a stupor with the mind, it will repeat only what it did yesterday. Perhaps it has not occurred to you: your mind does nothing new. It merely repeats.

You were angry yesterday; the day before you were angry. The wonder is: the day before, after anger, you repented, saying, I will not do this again. Yesterday too you were angry and repented, saying, I will not do it again. Today you have been angry and again you repent. The anger is old; the repentance is old. You go on repeating. If anger cannot be dropped, at least drop the repentance—let something old break. But no: anger continues, repentance continues. The same repeats. The whole life is a repetition—no different than an oil-pressing bullock. Even he must suspect he is on a great journey, eyes blindfolded, legs moving—he must think, How far I have traveled! Perhaps I have gone around the earth—where have I reached!

The mind too goes in a circle like that bullock. You do the same every day. If a man kept a diary, he would be amazed: Am I a machine? The same repetitions! The same morning, the same rising, the same evening! If a husband and wife live together for twenty years, the husband, coming home late, the wife already knows what he will say—twenty years of experience! Whatever the husband says, the effect it will have on the wife, the husband already knows. Yet he will say the same, and she will say the same.

One who is immersed in the mind’s mechanicalness, unconscious, will miss all the opportunities that life gives. Opportunities are not few—they are many. But we miss them all. We are skilled in missing. Every day life offers: be new—do not repeat the old. Yet we repeat.

Why? Because we do not have this sutra in our awareness: Remember what you have done. When you are about to be angry tomorrow, before angering say to your mind: O my mind, remember the angers you have done before! First say this. Then pause for two moments and remember your previous angers. I tell you, you will not be able to be angry. When desire rises tomorrow, say to your mind: O my volitional mind, remember your earlier desires! Remember them first. Before setting out on a new journey, bring the old experience into account. Then you will not set out. The desire will falter and stop. That much awareness is enough to break the mind’s mechanicalness.

Gurdjieff wrote in his memoirs: My father was dying. One sentence of his changed my whole life. He was dying; I was very small—the youngest son. My father was very old. He called all his sons to his side and whispered something to each. He called the youngest too. He said, Bend down; I will tell you one thing—remember it. I have no other property to give you. The innocent boy bent his ear. The father said, Give me this promise: whenever there is a question of doing a bad deed, wait twenty-four hours before doing it. Do it—by all means—but wait twenty-four hours. Promise me. If you must be angry, be angry—I do not forbid you. But wait twenty-four hours. If you must kill someone, kill—but wait twenty-four hours. The boy asked, What does it mean? The father said, It means you will be able to do it properly. If you wait, you will plan well; there will be no mistake—this is my life’s experience. I give it to you.

Gurdjieff wrote: That one thing changed my life. For twenty-four hours is too long; even if one stops for twenty-four seconds before doing evil, one cannot do it. Twenty-four seconds.

When anger arises, look at the clock and say, Let me watch for one minute—then I will begin. Watch the second hand make its sixty steps. Then put the clock down and start the anger. You will not be able to do it. Remembrance will have come—in those sixty seconds, all the scenes of your previous angers will return—the regrets, the vows you had taken: I will not do it again—all will be revived.

But we do not pause even that much for wrongdoing. Yes—for good we pause.

A friend wants to take sannyas. He came today. He said, My birthday is coming in two or three months—then I will take it. If he had to be angry, he would not wait till his birthday; but to take sannyas, he waits till his birthday! I said, Are you sure? It might happen that next time you say, I will take it when my death-day comes! Is there any guarantee that the birthday will not become a death-day? Is there certainty of even a single moment? But we postpone the good, and we do the bad immediately—lest the time pass and we miss our evil.

Postpone the bad; do the good immediately. For there is no guarantee of a moment. If good misses a single moment, there is no certainty it will have another chance. And if you hold back evil even for a moment, I say you will not be able to do it—one who can stop for that instant becomes incapable of evil. That capacity to pause for a moment is a great strength. When blood rushes to the eyes and the fists clench—then to pause for a moment in anger—that is the greatest strength in this world.

Therefore the Rishi has given this sutra—for his own mind in satire, and for all of you as satire. Your laughter is in it too.

Shall we take one more sutra? No—for today, this much.

Let us understand two or three things concerning meditation; then we will sit for meditation. And let me say first: do not postpone meditation—not even for a moment. Do not think, I will do it tomorrow. Do it now. Understand two or three things, then we shall rise. Remain seated for now.

First, those who are sitting at the back—whom I asked yesterday to sit back—I did not tell you to keep sitting. It seems you understood that you are to sit and only sit! No—I asked you to sit and do. Yesterday I looked back—hardly eight or ten were doing; the rest were sitting.

By sitting nothing will happen. Sometimes I am amazed—so many are doing, so many are stirred, so many are rejoicing and dancing—are your hearts made of stone that there is not a ripple within? Seeing so many rejoicing—doesn’t even a single hair on your body tremble?

No—I feel the hairs must tremble; but you are very clever, you suppress it, sit tight so that nothing trembles. Kindly drop yourselves. Let go! When so many bodies are dancing, when so many are free-hearted, simple-hearted, childlike—do not sit clutching your hardness. Drop the hardness. Be moved.

And remember, some friends think: when it happens by itself, then I will do it. Ninety percent of people—it will happen by itself; ten percent—it will not. And the ten percent are those under the delusion of being intelligent. They will have to break a little from their side.

So I say to you: those for whom it does not happen by itself—begin to do it. Do it for two moments; in the third, spontaneity will arrive. Once the spring is broken, once the flow begins, the natural effulgence starts by itself.

Today—one day remains—so I would like that no one be left out. Therefore let all join. Those below—stand up. Those above, who wish to do it standing—come down!