Someone asked Jesus, When were you born? The answer Jesus gave is astonishing. Among the Jews there was an ancient prophet, Abraham, two thousand years before Jesus. Abraham is the oldest name in Jewish history. Jesus said, Abraham was; before him, I was.
The listener must not have believed it. We only believe what we have experienced. It must have sounded like a riddle, because the prospect of Jesus being there before Abraham is inconceivable. His body could not have been. But a man like Jesus telling a lie for no reason is also inconceivable.
One day someone asked Lao Tzu, When were you born? What is your date of birth? Lao Tzu said, As far as I know, I was never born. And regarding my birth, if others say something, do not trust them. For about my birth, I know far more than anyone else could ever know.
But all of us trust what others tell us. What Lao Tzu said is a great joke. You too have no clue about your birth, except what others have said. Others say you were once born. Suppose no one told a child that he was ever born; would there be any way for that child to find out on his own that he has been born? If no information came from outside, would you ever come to know that you were ever born? And the strange thing is, you were the one who was born, and yet the information came from outside. And those who informed you have no knowledge of their own birth either; they too were told by others. And so it goes on.
Birth is a false notion, a proverb of the people. People say you were born. No man is ever born. In the same way people say, He died. Those who did not even know their birth, how will they know their death? But others tell us that we were born once, on such and such date. And because others die around us, we think, perhaps we too will die. From witnessing others die, we infer about ourselves that we will die as well. News of our birth comes from others, and death is a supposition, an inference: since others die, so will I.
But when we see a man die, what do we actually see? Truly, what do we see?
In the South there was a sannyasin, Brahmayogi. He conducted a most remarkable experiment three times — at Oxford, Rangoon, and Calcutta University. He experimented with dying. He would die for ten minutes — die medically, so that physicians could certify: death has happened.
When he experimented at Calcutta University, ten eminent physicians were present. The greatest physicians and surgeons of Calcutta University were all there. When Brahmayogi died for ten minutes, all ten signed a certificate: this man is dead; we testify. Breath ceased, the heart stopped, blood no longer flowed; every single sign of death was complete.
After ten minutes the man returned, and he said, If your certificate is right, I could not have returned. And if I have returned, then every death certificate you have ever issued is false. For what else could be the meaning besides these two alternatives?
Those ten doctors wrote something else as well: As far as we understand, and as far as our science knows, this man had died. But we cannot call our eyes false — and the man is alive again.
This event troubled physicians all over the world. What then is the meaning? What we call death is merely the shutting down of some functions — breath does not move, blood does not flow, the heart does not beat. If life were only the sum of these, of course death would happen when they stop. But who said that life is their sum? Life is a far greater matter. What begins at birth, ends at death — so we think. But life neither begins at birth nor ends at death.
We, however, take heartbeat, blood flow, the pulse — and call that our being. From this a great complexity arises. Thus we live between two lies — the lie of birth and the lie of death. There are no bigger lies on earth. Yet they appear to be the greatest truths, because the maximum number of people — one should say, all — accept them. And whatever falsehood is widely accepted begins to look like truth. Yet sometimes someone casts doubt. Sometimes someone casts doubt.
Alexander came to India. While returning, as he reached the frontier of India, he remembered that his friends in Greece had said: When you return, bring back a sannyasin from India. Everything else you will bring — wealth, diamonds, pearls; all those exist in Greece as well — but bring a sannyasin.
Alexander plundered all else, and forgot the sannyasin. At the last moment he remembered, and said, Go, catch some sannyasin and bring him.
The soldiers went to a village and asked the villagers. They said, There is a sannyasin here, but we doubt you can take him. The soldiers said, Do not worry about that. We are soldiers of Alexander. If we tell the mountains to move, the mountains move. Have you seen these naked swords? What could a sannyasin do? The villagers said, That is precisely why we worry — whether your swords can do anything with a sannyasin! In any case, go try once.
They went. Outside the village, naked, a sannyasin had been by a riverbank for thirty years. Greek historians wrote his name as Dandamis. Who knows what his real name was. They gave him a Greek name: Dandamis. Perhaps he was a dandi sadhu, a dandi swami — a man of the staff. The soldiers surrounded Dandamis and said, It is Alexander’s command: come with us!
The naked fakir laughed. He said, From the day I became a sannyasin, I stopped obeying commands. I obeyed as long as I was afraid. The one who does not fear — from him you cannot extract obedience.
They said, You do not understand. See these naked swords; we will cut off your head!
The sannyasin said, You can cut it off — very well, you can. We will not even object. But we will not be afraid because you cut off the head. Only one who thinks cutting off the head is death is afraid of the head being cut.
For the first time in front of such a man, rust gathered upon the swords! Naked swords were in their hands, but their hands suddenly went limp. A man who agrees to die with such rejoicing — to kill him is utterly futile. And a man who is not willing to die with such rejoicing — to keep him alive is equally futile. But that is another matter.
They returned and told Alexander, He cannot be taken. He is a strange man! We have seen many — those who die, those who kill, those who fight, those who flee. He is of a third kind. He neither runs nor fights, he has nothing to fight with — but he does not fear.
Alexander said, I will go myself. He told the fakir, We will honor you, we will give you royal hospitality — whatever you desire, we will give.
The fakir said, You can give nothing, because I desire nothing.
Often beggars have been humiliated before emperors, because emperors refused them alms. But sometimes it so happens that emperors are humiliated before beggars — because the beggar refuses to take anything!
He said, You have nothing, because we want nothing.
Alexander said, Even so, you will have to come. Otherwise this sword will rest upon your neck.
The fakir said, Rest it.
Alexander said, You fool, the head will be cut and fall to the ground!
The sannyasin said, I became a sannyasin the day I saw: even if the head is cut and falls, I do not fall. Otherwise I would never have become a sannyasin. When the head falls you will also see the head falling, and I too will see the head falling — though you will not be able to see me. I will go on seeing you.
Alexander told his historians, Write this down — the sannyasin could not be taken. The last resort was to frighten him with death.
Birth and death are the two ends of our so-called life, and therefore we have nothing like life — only an illusion of it. It seems as if we lived! We slide from birth toward death and it seems as though we have lived. Not for a single instant does a ray of life dawn; not for a single instant do the flowers of life bloom; not for a single instant does the music of life play; not for a single instant do we know what we were, what we are. Not even in this instant do we know.
We are all alive here; no one here is dead. We are all alive. But what do we know of life? And if we do know, then Buddha and Mahavira were mad. What life were they seeking? If we know, then Krishna and Christ — what life were they seeking? Either what we call life is not life, or Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Mahavira are deranged, insane — and we are the wise!
We cannot even call ourselves wise; we cannot. For if there is any final measure of wisdom, it would be the joy of our life. Wisdom that cannot bring joy — what else can it bring? And I say to you, even if Buddha and Mahavira were mad, their madness is worth accepting — because it overflows with immeasurable bliss and with the fearlessness of life.
Why do I say this? Because we have gathered here under the pretext of a birthday. It makes little difference in whose name we gather. Whether A’s birthday, or B’s, or C’s — that is not of much consequence. Why do we turn a birthday into a festival? Only because we have no taste of life. If we knew life, every moment would become a celebration. Life is a great festival. If we knew it, I think we would not celebrate birth at all, for birth is only a beginning. And in the life we are living, if there is no joy, how can its beginning be joy? Can Gangotri be blissful while the Ganga flowing at Kashi is not? If the Ganga at Kashi is not in ecstasy, what ecstasy could there be at Gangotri — the same Ganga, narrower, smaller?
What we call birth — what is it? Merely the most primary form of this very life. If in this life, in its full flow, there is no joy, what joy could there be in birth? Is merely knowing that one was born any joy?
No — but we are adept at deceiving ourselves. Life is painful, so we imagine false pleasures: great happiness in birth, great happiness in birthdays! If we were to say, There is great happiness in life, our eyes would ask: Where? If we said, Life is full of joy, our feet would ask: Where is the dance? If we said, Life itself is happiness, the heartbeats would ask: Where is it? So we say, No, birth is a great happy day. But birth is not today; it was once. We cannot catch it, examine it, recognize it.
And we become accomplices in deceiving one another. This world of ours is a world of mutual lies — built on mutual understanding, or rather mutual misunderstanding. We support each other in it. We gather to celebrate each other’s births. The same people will come to our birthdays. We deceived them; they will deceive us. And so we live! If birth is joy, death becomes sorrow — the other side of the same logic. In a world where birth is happiness, death will be grief. And remember: birth has already happened; death is yet to come. So the sweetness of birth is nothing; the bitterness of death is heavy. Perhaps that is why we go on celebrating birthdays — to forget the sorrow of death.
Every birthday reminds us less of birth and more of the death that is coming. But we look backward; we do not look ahead. The real meaning of every birthday is simply this: one more year has died, one more year of dying is completed, one more year has emptied out of life, is spent, finished. But we look back. And by looking back, are we not avoiding looking ahead? Is this not an ostrich’s device — head sunk in the sand so that what lies ahead is not seen?
But however much we talk of births, death comes. Placing its feet upon every birth, death comes. Making every birth a step, death comes. Behind every birth stands the shadow of death. Therefore, he who is happy in birth should remember — he will be miserable in death. In truth, he is celebrating birth only to forget the sorrow of death.
This is self-deception. Yet life is so filled with suffering that we seek some oasis in this desert — false if need be, a dream if need be — somewhere to hang our happiness, our joy. But hung-up happiness cannot serve. That is why I thought it fit to say to you: until you come to know life — and it can be known, for we are alive; if anything is nearest to us, it is life; if anything is in our very hands, it is life; if anything is at this moment throbbing, it is life; if anything at this moment is speaking and hearing, it is life. Breath goes in and out — that is life. Life is the nearest; we are life — yet we are unacquainted with it. We have no recognition of it. And we keep squandering the chance to become acquainted with it.
No — there is no point looking back. The day of birth has no meaning. If anything has meaning, it is this that is here now. If there is anything to be known, to be realized, it is this that is here now.
But the mind has a device: miss what is present and keep thinking about what is absent. Earlier I asked, We have all been born — why do we not know birth? It may be — I say, it may be, from your side; from my side I say, it is so — that when you are being born, the memory of the previous death lies deep upon the mind, and you miss the moment. The previous death — where you died before this birth — it lies so deep upon the mind that the mind remains stuck there, and you miss seeing the moment of birth. The reason is the same as now. Now too you miss seeing life because the mind is stuck in the past. Then death will come, and again you will miss it, because again the mind will be stuck — in the market, in the shop, in house, friends, loved ones, enemies; somewhere else — in life.
It is a great wonder: a man lives his whole life without ever knowing life; when he begins to die, his mind is in life — and while death stands before him, he misses that too. If he could know death; if he could know birth; if he could know life — one thing becomes certain: that which is within us has no birth and no death.
But do not misunderstand this. I am always wary. When I say, It has no birth and no death, and I look toward you, I become afraid. You feel I am saying: You have no birth, you have no death. I am not saying that. You will die. What is appearing here as I will die. When I say, It has no birth, no death, I am not talking about you. I am speaking of that within you — of which even you have no inkling.
We feel very assured hearing, No death, no birth — and we think, Fine, we will be saved. You will not be saved. There is no way for you to be saved. You will go — you are already going. Even to say you will go is wrong; that is a fault of language. We use such words. You are already going. To say you will go makes it sound as if something will happen in the future.
No — it is as with a river. We say, The river is. We should not say, is. We should say, The river is happening. The river is flowing every instant. Nothing in the world ever is in the static sense. All things are flowing. We say, So-and-so is young. Not is — we should say, becoming young or becoming old. Something is becoming. In the static state, nothing stands still.
Therefore I say, You are already going — so that you do not become exhilarated hearing, No, there is no dying. Religious people have been very exhilarated for long hearing that there is no death. Not that they came to know anything; only that they think, If there is no death, then we can go on living just as we are!
No. You will go; I will go. All those known as I and you — lines drawn on water — will be erased. Even as we draw them, they begin to dissolve. Yet still, behind, something remains. The remaining — that which remains — the search for that is religion. That search is truth. That search alone makes a man self-knowing. For the first time he realizes there is something that does not change. The day our feet find that which does not change, the same day we stand upon rock. Before that, all is sand. However tightly we shut our eyes and persuade ourselves, it changes nothing — it all slides like sand.
But we do not remember. We simply do not remember. We lack remembrance.
Jung has written somewhere that man seems so frightened of death that he has pushed it out of his conscious mind. He does not speak of it, does not think of it, does not bring it to mind — for his hands and feet would tremble; he would collapse where he stands; something within would begin to shake and sway; all assurance would be lost; his solid mansions would turn into a house of cards — a little gust, and everything would fall.
Perhaps out of this fear we keep death outside and keep birth within. Birth sits deep in our minds. A friend’s birth — we take flowers, we offer congratulations. All the while we know well that congratulations will not help, flowers will not help, good wishes will not help.
No, I do not say do not do these things. Life is bad enough without your good wishes; cutting them down will not make it better. Nor do I say do not send flowers on someone’s birthday. What else is there to send, but flowers! The flower is a beautiful symbol: it carries the news that no sooner has it come than it has begun to wither. On a birthday, we should send flowers, because they carry the news. The greatest gift can be a flower, the costliest gift can be a flower — because it also brings the message: in the morning it arrives, in the evening it must be thrown away. In the morning it came with the news of birth-day; by evening it has carried away the news of the day of death.
Send flowers by all means. Offer congratulations and good wishes. But do not give birth to any illusion thereby. Our good wishes are like what I have heard of Bhagat Singh. When he was sentenced to death, two or three of his friends were also sentenced. Every morning they would send each other good wishes. Those sentenced to hang — the sun rising every day, and yet... But even good wishes could not be sent straight. We too cannot send them straight. Locked in their cells, they made a code by knocking on the walls — this many knocks means: I am still alive, and I send you good wishes that God keep you alive. They made a code of knocks; they would tap the signal. Then joy would spread through the cells: all companions are still alive. But what irony! That living is only for dying. Today if not tomorrow — the hanging is certain. That living is only for dying tomorrow. Yet for one more day, a ripple of joy — songs begin, for all companions are alive; the knocks have come from every door; we have sent each other the good wish: we are alive; thanks to Paramatma! But alive for what? For the gallows — today or tomorrow, the gallows waits. Alive only to die?
Our condition is not very different from Bhagat Singh and his companions. There is a small difference: they were at least assured of their death; we are not even that sure. But where we stand is much like a queue in a prison of those going to the gallows. Yet how much commotion we create in those few moments; how much we spread ourselves; how much we do in those few moments! Only we neglect one thing — that in those few moments we could have known the essence that came and will go; that we could know. We remain deprived of that alone.
So you brought good wishes — thank you for them. But do not go away reassured about life because of those good wishes. I seek no assurance from them. Do not go away thinking there is life, there is birth. Do not cut death away and keep it separate. If the world were right, I would say — let us celebrate death-days.
But we celebrate death only when a man has died. Then it is meaningless. We should, rather, when a person is five years old, say: death has come five years closer. At ten: death has come ten years closer. At twenty: death has come twenty years closer. We should celebrate the day of death. That is more realistic. And perhaps if we begin to celebrate the day of death, perhaps then something will change in our lives. Because every year we would remember that death has come one year nearer; then we would not remain what we are.
We have built cremation grounds and graveyards outside our villages, lest they be visible. If I had my way, they would be in the middle of the village. We should pass by ten times a day and see the cremation ground — ten times remember death. For the sad truth is: death is the only element whose sting, if it pierces us deeply, can transform our lives; otherwise not. If death surrounds us and grips us hard, perhaps we will take a leap; otherwise not.
That is why when a bhikshu came to Buddha saying, I have come to seek God, to seek truth; I want to know the soul — Buddha would say, Stop all that. First I ask you: have you any thought of seeking death?
The man would say, What has death to do with it? I want to seek the soul; I want to seek Paramatma.
Buddha would say, No — first seek death. He who knows death will know Paramatma; he who does not know death cannot know Paramatma either.
Death is the essential situation of life — the necessary situation out of which everything within us is born. So Buddha would say, Go and stay at the cremation ground for a few days, then return. If you ask of Brahman then, I will answer. If you ask of the soul, we will speak. First go and dwell by the cremation ground.
Often he sent bhikshus there to remain day and night.
Imagine — twenty-four hours in the cremation ground. A corpse comes; a pyre is lit. Another dies; someone comes weeping. Day, night, midnight, morning, evening — there is no time, no off-time. People keep dying; they keep coming to the cremation ground. How long can a man watch? How long can he watch? Eventually the thought comes: I too stand somewhere in this queue. It is not far off.
The cremation ground stands outside our consciousness; therefore we never know for certain. When someone dies we say, Poor fellow! We do not realize that we have moved a little forward in the queue. He has vacated the place. Every death is our death. Every death is a remembrance of our own. And if that remembrance could become deep, perhaps we would succeed in knowing life.
So let me say two or three things in the end.
One: what is called birth — do not take it as birth. It is a social myth, a communal fairytale. What is called death — do not take it as death. It is only another name for our ignorance. What is called life — do not take it as life. Rising every morning and sleeping every evening; the same food, the same earning, the same friends, the same enemies, the same net — unending repetition. It is astonishing that we go on endlessly repeating and do not even get bored.
Camus began one of his books with a strange sentence: The only metaphysical problem before man is suicide.
When asked, What have you written? he said, From the moment I had a little awareness, I have been asking myself: if this is life, what is wrong with suicide? If this is life — what I lived yesterday and the day before, which I have to repeat tomorrow and the day after — just thinking I must keep repeating it, I wonder: what is wrong with suicide, if this is life?
But how many of us have ever thought like this? That what we call life — if this is life... If God himself were to appear and say, We will grant you this same life again — we would say, We agree completely. Sixty more years of the same dead routine — we will do it again. This only means we have no sensitive reflection, no sensitivity about what we are doing.
So do not be surprised that those who commit suicide are not necessarily cowards; it is possible they are more sensitive than you. And do not think that because you do not commit suicide you are brave. It is quite possible you lack even the courage to die — to speak of living is another matter. So you go on living. To die requires some thought, some decision. But living — people just drift and drift.
One should sit sometimes and take a little account. Fifty years lived — in those fifty years, how many moments were moments of life? Moments which, if God asked, you would ask to have again? Sand will appear to slip through the fingers. Not a single moment will seem worth asking for again. Life is so stale. Like a rotten fish over which someone keeps pouring tomato sauce, we go on pouring the sauce of hopes upon our rotten life: tomorrow something will happen, the day after something will happen!
And note: it will still be you tomorrow. You were there yesterday — what did you do? You were there the day before — what did you do? You will be there tomorrow — and weaker than today. Every day strength diminishes; every day moments run out; time wanes; opportunities wane; power wanes. If you could not attain today, you will not be able to attain tomorrow.
Do not think I am disheartening you. Do not think I am a pessimist, a prophet of sorrow, saying nothing can be done. I am only saying this: in the hope in which you live, nothing will ever be done. If even despair were to seize you, something could happen.
Remember, on this earth, except for fools, no one can be very hopeful. Life does not offer that kind of chance. Whoever sees life as it is will be disillusioned — and should be. And when disillusionment becomes so deep that this life seems utterly futile, only then does the desire arise to take a leap — to seek another kind of life.
Buddha once said to a man, Leave all this now. The man said, Let me wait a little. Next year I will marry my daughter — then I will come. Buddha said, Imagine a year has passed, your daughter is married. Will you come for certain? He said, Let a year pass first. Buddha said, Imagine a year has passed, your daughter is married. What do you say? He said, How can I say now? In a year a thousand issues may arise. Buddha said, If I survive, I will come next year.
Buddha left that village. The man did not come to hear him again; he was afraid. He thought, Perhaps he will recognize me. And such men do not forget; they recognize and they catch hold. He might say it again! And nothing has been resolved; questions have only multiplied — for in a year he created more questions. Man is the creature who creates questions.
Buddha sat, people gathered, and he was waiting for someone. They said, Begin now; time is passing. Buddha said, A man promised me in your village — where is he? They said, It is difficult; he is avoiding you. Bring him, Buddha said. Who knows whether I will survive to next year? His business will surely be postponed to next year.
They brought him. He said, Forgive me; I made a great mistake. But we do not understand. Distant worries have grown. The boy has grown up, mother’s health is poor, father is old, there is much work at home — but when you come next year...!
Buddha said to the others, Do you see this man? He has not yet become disillusioned about the world. It still does not seem to him that the world is on fire; so he can postpone.
If this house were on fire, there would not be a man here who said, I will come in ten minutes. If fire has broken out, the competition would be: who gets out first! No one would agree to be the last.
But toward the truth of life there is no such competition. In fact, the search for the truth of life is the only field where there is no competition. You can go alone and come first — no one will stop you. There is not even a second person!
Disillusionment — see life as it is and disillusionment will seize you. What is our love? What is our friendship? Search love thoroughly and, except for a few tears, nothing is found within. And when those tears become your own experience, they are bitter as the waters of the sea. Friendship — what is the friendship we know?
Rabindranath wrote a poem. A Buddhist monk, a sannyasin, is leaving a town. A courtesan falls in love with him and comes down from her palace and says, Come! This is the first time I invite anyone. Until now people have invited me and knocked at my door. I did not open for everyone.
In a sense she was an empress. The whole city was mad for her; she was the city’s jewel, the most beautiful. Not every emperor could hope to meet her.
The monk stopped. He said, When there is need, I will come. When there is need, I will come.
The woman said, Need? I am inviting you to love!
The monk said, I have heard your invitation and accepted it. But first let those come who are your friends and lovers. Soon a moment will come when neither friends nor lovers will be found. If then you need me, I will come. I can wait until then.
The matter passed. The courtesan remained sad and wounded. Years went by. And what was to happen happened — she became a leper. The town cast her out. Her body decayed; limbs fell off. No one came near; her stench travelled far. People avoided that road lest she call someone. The same people who had once knocked at her door. On an amavas night, pitch dark, she lies writhing. She is thirsty; there is none to give water. And then a hand reaches her forehead. Someone pours water into her mouth. She opens her eyes and asks, Who are you?
He says, I am that same monk who passed your door years ago. You knew one kind of friendship; I know another — maitri.
The courtesan says, Now you have come in vain. I have nothing left to give.
The monk says, Friendship that comes to take is not friendship. I have not come to take anything.
But have we known any friendship that does not come to take? In truth, we have known two kinds of enmity — from our own and from others. We call the enmity of our own ‘friendship’ and the enmity of strangers ‘enmity’. Both are eager to take. The ways of our own are pleasant; the ways of strangers are harsh. Both are ready to grab.
We have not known friendship, we have not known love, we have not known life; we have no news of peace and bliss — though that is the very search. And that search will never be fulfilled until the futile appears futile. Until the false is seen as false, the true is never sought. The false must be known as false. Once, crystal clear, it must be seen: this is false.
How many days will it take to see? How many births? Count even one life — fifty, sixty years — and we cannot call the false false. Those who know will count many lives and say: even many lives do not suffice to see what is false. As if we have decided never to see the false as false; we will go on seeing it as true. We have taken a vow.
That vow must be broken. The day that vow begins to crack, I say, your birth has begun. The day this life begins to appear futile, I say, your real life has begun, your true birth has begun. Such a man alone is dvija — twice-born. Not the one with a thread around the neck; that can be put on anyone. We call dvija the one who enters the other life. One birth is from father and mother — at most a birth of the body. The other birth is from the search for oneself — that alone is the beginning of life.
So on this birthday — not mine, for I am content with Jesus, Buddha, and Lao Tzu — but on this birthday, which could be A’s, B’s, C’s, or D’s, I want only to say this: there is another birth. Seek it. There is another life — very near. Turn just a little, and perhaps it will be found — just at the edge, at the corner. And until that life is found, do not celebrate birthdays. Do not think about birth. For what you call birth is only the hidden face of death. Yes, the day you glimpse what I call birth, celebrate. From that day, every moment is a birth, for thereafter there is only life — eternal, infinite, without end. May you set out upon the journey of such a birth — this is my prayer to Paramatma.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace — I am blessed by that. I bow down to the Paramatma seated in each of you; please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Someone asked Jesus, When were you born? The answer Jesus gave is astonishing. Among the Jews there was an ancient prophet, Abraham, two thousand years before Jesus. Abraham is the oldest name in Jewish history. Jesus said, Abraham was; before him, I was.
The listener must not have believed it. We only believe what we have experienced. It must have sounded like a riddle, because the prospect of Jesus being there before Abraham is inconceivable. His body could not have been. But a man like Jesus telling a lie for no reason is also inconceivable.
One day someone asked Lao Tzu, When were you born? What is your date of birth? Lao Tzu said, As far as I know, I was never born. And regarding my birth, if others say something, do not trust them. For about my birth, I know far more than anyone else could ever know.
But all of us trust what others tell us. What Lao Tzu said is a great joke. You too have no clue about your birth, except what others have said. Others say you were once born. Suppose no one told a child that he was ever born; would there be any way for that child to find out on his own that he has been born? If no information came from outside, would you ever come to know that you were ever born? And the strange thing is, you were the one who was born, and yet the information came from outside. And those who informed you have no knowledge of their own birth either; they too were told by others. And so it goes on.
Birth is a false notion, a proverb of the people. People say you were born. No man is ever born. In the same way people say, He died. Those who did not even know their birth, how will they know their death? But others tell us that we were born once, on such and such date. And because others die around us, we think, perhaps we too will die. From witnessing others die, we infer about ourselves that we will die as well. News of our birth comes from others, and death is a supposition, an inference: since others die, so will I.
But when we see a man die, what do we actually see? Truly, what do we see?
In the South there was a sannyasin, Brahmayogi. He conducted a most remarkable experiment three times — at Oxford, Rangoon, and Calcutta University. He experimented with dying. He would die for ten minutes — die medically, so that physicians could certify: death has happened.
When he experimented at Calcutta University, ten eminent physicians were present. The greatest physicians and surgeons of Calcutta University were all there. When Brahmayogi died for ten minutes, all ten signed a certificate: this man is dead; we testify. Breath ceased, the heart stopped, blood no longer flowed; every single sign of death was complete.
After ten minutes the man returned, and he said, If your certificate is right, I could not have returned. And if I have returned, then every death certificate you have ever issued is false. For what else could be the meaning besides these two alternatives?
Those ten doctors wrote something else as well: As far as we understand, and as far as our science knows, this man had died. But we cannot call our eyes false — and the man is alive again.
This event troubled physicians all over the world. What then is the meaning? What we call death is merely the shutting down of some functions — breath does not move, blood does not flow, the heart does not beat. If life were only the sum of these, of course death would happen when they stop. But who said that life is their sum? Life is a far greater matter. What begins at birth, ends at death — so we think. But life neither begins at birth nor ends at death.
We, however, take heartbeat, blood flow, the pulse — and call that our being. From this a great complexity arises. Thus we live between two lies — the lie of birth and the lie of death. There are no bigger lies on earth. Yet they appear to be the greatest truths, because the maximum number of people — one should say, all — accept them. And whatever falsehood is widely accepted begins to look like truth. Yet sometimes someone casts doubt. Sometimes someone casts doubt.
Alexander came to India. While returning, as he reached the frontier of India, he remembered that his friends in Greece had said: When you return, bring back a sannyasin from India. Everything else you will bring — wealth, diamonds, pearls; all those exist in Greece as well — but bring a sannyasin.
Alexander plundered all else, and forgot the sannyasin. At the last moment he remembered, and said, Go, catch some sannyasin and bring him.
The soldiers went to a village and asked the villagers. They said, There is a sannyasin here, but we doubt you can take him. The soldiers said, Do not worry about that. We are soldiers of Alexander. If we tell the mountains to move, the mountains move. Have you seen these naked swords? What could a sannyasin do? The villagers said, That is precisely why we worry — whether your swords can do anything with a sannyasin! In any case, go try once.
They went. Outside the village, naked, a sannyasin had been by a riverbank for thirty years. Greek historians wrote his name as Dandamis. Who knows what his real name was. They gave him a Greek name: Dandamis. Perhaps he was a dandi sadhu, a dandi swami — a man of the staff. The soldiers surrounded Dandamis and said, It is Alexander’s command: come with us!
The naked fakir laughed. He said, From the day I became a sannyasin, I stopped obeying commands. I obeyed as long as I was afraid. The one who does not fear — from him you cannot extract obedience.
They said, You do not understand. See these naked swords; we will cut off your head!
The sannyasin said, You can cut it off — very well, you can. We will not even object. But we will not be afraid because you cut off the head. Only one who thinks cutting off the head is death is afraid of the head being cut.
For the first time in front of such a man, rust gathered upon the swords! Naked swords were in their hands, but their hands suddenly went limp. A man who agrees to die with such rejoicing — to kill him is utterly futile. And a man who is not willing to die with such rejoicing — to keep him alive is equally futile. But that is another matter.
They returned and told Alexander, He cannot be taken. He is a strange man! We have seen many — those who die, those who kill, those who fight, those who flee. He is of a third kind. He neither runs nor fights, he has nothing to fight with — but he does not fear.
Alexander said, I will go myself. He told the fakir, We will honor you, we will give you royal hospitality — whatever you desire, we will give.
The fakir said, You can give nothing, because I desire nothing.
Often beggars have been humiliated before emperors, because emperors refused them alms. But sometimes it so happens that emperors are humiliated before beggars — because the beggar refuses to take anything!
He said, You have nothing, because we want nothing.
Alexander said, Even so, you will have to come. Otherwise this sword will rest upon your neck.
The fakir said, Rest it.
Alexander said, You fool, the head will be cut and fall to the ground!
The sannyasin said, I became a sannyasin the day I saw: even if the head is cut and falls, I do not fall. Otherwise I would never have become a sannyasin. When the head falls you will also see the head falling, and I too will see the head falling — though you will not be able to see me. I will go on seeing you.
Alexander told his historians, Write this down — the sannyasin could not be taken. The last resort was to frighten him with death.
Birth and death are the two ends of our so-called life, and therefore we have nothing like life — only an illusion of it. It seems as if we lived! We slide from birth toward death and it seems as though we have lived. Not for a single instant does a ray of life dawn; not for a single instant do the flowers of life bloom; not for a single instant does the music of life play; not for a single instant do we know what we were, what we are. Not even in this instant do we know.
We are all alive here; no one here is dead. We are all alive. But what do we know of life? And if we do know, then Buddha and Mahavira were mad. What life were they seeking? If we know, then Krishna and Christ — what life were they seeking? Either what we call life is not life, or Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Mahavira are deranged, insane — and we are the wise!
We cannot even call ourselves wise; we cannot. For if there is any final measure of wisdom, it would be the joy of our life. Wisdom that cannot bring joy — what else can it bring? And I say to you, even if Buddha and Mahavira were mad, their madness is worth accepting — because it overflows with immeasurable bliss and with the fearlessness of life.
Why do I say this? Because we have gathered here under the pretext of a birthday. It makes little difference in whose name we gather. Whether A’s birthday, or B’s, or C’s — that is not of much consequence. Why do we turn a birthday into a festival? Only because we have no taste of life. If we knew life, every moment would become a celebration. Life is a great festival. If we knew it, I think we would not celebrate birth at all, for birth is only a beginning. And in the life we are living, if there is no joy, how can its beginning be joy? Can Gangotri be blissful while the Ganga flowing at Kashi is not? If the Ganga at Kashi is not in ecstasy, what ecstasy could there be at Gangotri — the same Ganga, narrower, smaller?
What we call birth — what is it? Merely the most primary form of this very life. If in this life, in its full flow, there is no joy, what joy could there be in birth? Is merely knowing that one was born any joy?
No — but we are adept at deceiving ourselves. Life is painful, so we imagine false pleasures: great happiness in birth, great happiness in birthdays! If we were to say, There is great happiness in life, our eyes would ask: Where? If we said, Life is full of joy, our feet would ask: Where is the dance? If we said, Life itself is happiness, the heartbeats would ask: Where is it? So we say, No, birth is a great happy day. But birth is not today; it was once. We cannot catch it, examine it, recognize it.
And we become accomplices in deceiving one another. This world of ours is a world of mutual lies — built on mutual understanding, or rather mutual misunderstanding. We support each other in it. We gather to celebrate each other’s births. The same people will come to our birthdays. We deceived them; they will deceive us. And so we live! If birth is joy, death becomes sorrow — the other side of the same logic. In a world where birth is happiness, death will be grief. And remember: birth has already happened; death is yet to come. So the sweetness of birth is nothing; the bitterness of death is heavy. Perhaps that is why we go on celebrating birthdays — to forget the sorrow of death.
Every birthday reminds us less of birth and more of the death that is coming. But we look backward; we do not look ahead. The real meaning of every birthday is simply this: one more year has died, one more year of dying is completed, one more year has emptied out of life, is spent, finished. But we look back. And by looking back, are we not avoiding looking ahead? Is this not an ostrich’s device — head sunk in the sand so that what lies ahead is not seen?
But however much we talk of births, death comes. Placing its feet upon every birth, death comes. Making every birth a step, death comes. Behind every birth stands the shadow of death. Therefore, he who is happy in birth should remember — he will be miserable in death. In truth, he is celebrating birth only to forget the sorrow of death.
This is self-deception. Yet life is so filled with suffering that we seek some oasis in this desert — false if need be, a dream if need be — somewhere to hang our happiness, our joy. But hung-up happiness cannot serve. That is why I thought it fit to say to you: until you come to know life — and it can be known, for we are alive; if anything is nearest to us, it is life; if anything is in our very hands, it is life; if anything is at this moment throbbing, it is life; if anything at this moment is speaking and hearing, it is life. Breath goes in and out — that is life. Life is the nearest; we are life — yet we are unacquainted with it. We have no recognition of it. And we keep squandering the chance to become acquainted with it.
No — there is no point looking back. The day of birth has no meaning. If anything has meaning, it is this that is here now. If there is anything to be known, to be realized, it is this that is here now.
But the mind has a device: miss what is present and keep thinking about what is absent. Earlier I asked, We have all been born — why do we not know birth? It may be — I say, it may be, from your side; from my side I say, it is so — that when you are being born, the memory of the previous death lies deep upon the mind, and you miss the moment. The previous death — where you died before this birth — it lies so deep upon the mind that the mind remains stuck there, and you miss seeing the moment of birth. The reason is the same as now. Now too you miss seeing life because the mind is stuck in the past. Then death will come, and again you will miss it, because again the mind will be stuck — in the market, in the shop, in house, friends, loved ones, enemies; somewhere else — in life.
It is a great wonder: a man lives his whole life without ever knowing life; when he begins to die, his mind is in life — and while death stands before him, he misses that too. If he could know death; if he could know birth; if he could know life — one thing becomes certain: that which is within us has no birth and no death.
But do not misunderstand this. I am always wary. When I say, It has no birth and no death, and I look toward you, I become afraid. You feel I am saying: You have no birth, you have no death. I am not saying that. You will die. What is appearing here as I will die. When I say, It has no birth, no death, I am not talking about you. I am speaking of that within you — of which even you have no inkling.
We feel very assured hearing, No death, no birth — and we think, Fine, we will be saved. You will not be saved. There is no way for you to be saved. You will go — you are already going. Even to say you will go is wrong; that is a fault of language. We use such words. You are already going. To say you will go makes it sound as if something will happen in the future.
No — it is as with a river. We say, The river is. We should not say, is. We should say, The river is happening. The river is flowing every instant. Nothing in the world ever is in the static sense. All things are flowing. We say, So-and-so is young. Not is — we should say, becoming young or becoming old. Something is becoming. In the static state, nothing stands still.
Therefore I say, You are already going — so that you do not become exhilarated hearing, No, there is no dying. Religious people have been very exhilarated for long hearing that there is no death. Not that they came to know anything; only that they think, If there is no death, then we can go on living just as we are!
No. You will go; I will go. All those known as I and you — lines drawn on water — will be erased. Even as we draw them, they begin to dissolve. Yet still, behind, something remains. The remaining — that which remains — the search for that is religion. That search is truth. That search alone makes a man self-knowing. For the first time he realizes there is something that does not change. The day our feet find that which does not change, the same day we stand upon rock. Before that, all is sand. However tightly we shut our eyes and persuade ourselves, it changes nothing — it all slides like sand.
But we do not remember. We simply do not remember. We lack remembrance.
Jung has written somewhere that man seems so frightened of death that he has pushed it out of his conscious mind. He does not speak of it, does not think of it, does not bring it to mind — for his hands and feet would tremble; he would collapse where he stands; something within would begin to shake and sway; all assurance would be lost; his solid mansions would turn into a house of cards — a little gust, and everything would fall.
Perhaps out of this fear we keep death outside and keep birth within. Birth sits deep in our minds. A friend’s birth — we take flowers, we offer congratulations. All the while we know well that congratulations will not help, flowers will not help, good wishes will not help.
No, I do not say do not do these things. Life is bad enough without your good wishes; cutting them down will not make it better. Nor do I say do not send flowers on someone’s birthday. What else is there to send, but flowers! The flower is a beautiful symbol: it carries the news that no sooner has it come than it has begun to wither. On a birthday, we should send flowers, because they carry the news. The greatest gift can be a flower, the costliest gift can be a flower — because it also brings the message: in the morning it arrives, in the evening it must be thrown away. In the morning it came with the news of birth-day; by evening it has carried away the news of the day of death.
Send flowers by all means. Offer congratulations and good wishes. But do not give birth to any illusion thereby. Our good wishes are like what I have heard of Bhagat Singh. When he was sentenced to death, two or three of his friends were also sentenced. Every morning they would send each other good wishes. Those sentenced to hang — the sun rising every day, and yet... But even good wishes could not be sent straight. We too cannot send them straight. Locked in their cells, they made a code by knocking on the walls — this many knocks means: I am still alive, and I send you good wishes that God keep you alive. They made a code of knocks; they would tap the signal. Then joy would spread through the cells: all companions are still alive. But what irony! That living is only for dying. Today if not tomorrow — the hanging is certain. That living is only for dying tomorrow. Yet for one more day, a ripple of joy — songs begin, for all companions are alive; the knocks have come from every door; we have sent each other the good wish: we are alive; thanks to Paramatma! But alive for what? For the gallows — today or tomorrow, the gallows waits. Alive only to die?
Our condition is not very different from Bhagat Singh and his companions. There is a small difference: they were at least assured of their death; we are not even that sure. But where we stand is much like a queue in a prison of those going to the gallows. Yet how much commotion we create in those few moments; how much we spread ourselves; how much we do in those few moments! Only we neglect one thing — that in those few moments we could have known the essence that came and will go; that we could know. We remain deprived of that alone.
So you brought good wishes — thank you for them. But do not go away reassured about life because of those good wishes. I seek no assurance from them. Do not go away thinking there is life, there is birth. Do not cut death away and keep it separate. If the world were right, I would say — let us celebrate death-days.
But we celebrate death only when a man has died. Then it is meaningless. We should, rather, when a person is five years old, say: death has come five years closer. At ten: death has come ten years closer. At twenty: death has come twenty years closer. We should celebrate the day of death. That is more realistic. And perhaps if we begin to celebrate the day of death, perhaps then something will change in our lives. Because every year we would remember that death has come one year nearer; then we would not remain what we are.
We have built cremation grounds and graveyards outside our villages, lest they be visible. If I had my way, they would be in the middle of the village. We should pass by ten times a day and see the cremation ground — ten times remember death. For the sad truth is: death is the only element whose sting, if it pierces us deeply, can transform our lives; otherwise not. If death surrounds us and grips us hard, perhaps we will take a leap; otherwise not.
That is why when a bhikshu came to Buddha saying, I have come to seek God, to seek truth; I want to know the soul — Buddha would say, Stop all that. First I ask you: have you any thought of seeking death?
The man would say, What has death to do with it? I want to seek the soul; I want to seek Paramatma.
Buddha would say, No — first seek death. He who knows death will know Paramatma; he who does not know death cannot know Paramatma either.
Death is the essential situation of life — the necessary situation out of which everything within us is born. So Buddha would say, Go and stay at the cremation ground for a few days, then return. If you ask of Brahman then, I will answer. If you ask of the soul, we will speak. First go and dwell by the cremation ground.
Often he sent bhikshus there to remain day and night.
Imagine — twenty-four hours in the cremation ground. A corpse comes; a pyre is lit. Another dies; someone comes weeping. Day, night, midnight, morning, evening — there is no time, no off-time. People keep dying; they keep coming to the cremation ground. How long can a man watch? How long can he watch? Eventually the thought comes: I too stand somewhere in this queue. It is not far off.
The cremation ground stands outside our consciousness; therefore we never know for certain. When someone dies we say, Poor fellow! We do not realize that we have moved a little forward in the queue. He has vacated the place. Every death is our death. Every death is a remembrance of our own. And if that remembrance could become deep, perhaps we would succeed in knowing life.
So let me say two or three things in the end.
One: what is called birth — do not take it as birth. It is a social myth, a communal fairytale. What is called death — do not take it as death. It is only another name for our ignorance. What is called life — do not take it as life. Rising every morning and sleeping every evening; the same food, the same earning, the same friends, the same enemies, the same net — unending repetition. It is astonishing that we go on endlessly repeating and do not even get bored.
Camus began one of his books with a strange sentence: The only metaphysical problem before man is suicide.
When asked, What have you written? he said, From the moment I had a little awareness, I have been asking myself: if this is life, what is wrong with suicide? If this is life — what I lived yesterday and the day before, which I have to repeat tomorrow and the day after — just thinking I must keep repeating it, I wonder: what is wrong with suicide, if this is life?
But how many of us have ever thought like this? That what we call life — if this is life... If God himself were to appear and say, We will grant you this same life again — we would say, We agree completely. Sixty more years of the same dead routine — we will do it again. This only means we have no sensitive reflection, no sensitivity about what we are doing.
So do not be surprised that those who commit suicide are not necessarily cowards; it is possible they are more sensitive than you. And do not think that because you do not commit suicide you are brave. It is quite possible you lack even the courage to die — to speak of living is another matter. So you go on living. To die requires some thought, some decision. But living — people just drift and drift.
One should sit sometimes and take a little account. Fifty years lived — in those fifty years, how many moments were moments of life? Moments which, if God asked, you would ask to have again? Sand will appear to slip through the fingers. Not a single moment will seem worth asking for again. Life is so stale. Like a rotten fish over which someone keeps pouring tomato sauce, we go on pouring the sauce of hopes upon our rotten life: tomorrow something will happen, the day after something will happen!
And note: it will still be you tomorrow. You were there yesterday — what did you do? You were there the day before — what did you do? You will be there tomorrow — and weaker than today. Every day strength diminishes; every day moments run out; time wanes; opportunities wane; power wanes. If you could not attain today, you will not be able to attain tomorrow.
Do not think I am disheartening you. Do not think I am a pessimist, a prophet of sorrow, saying nothing can be done. I am only saying this: in the hope in which you live, nothing will ever be done. If even despair were to seize you, something could happen.
Remember, on this earth, except for fools, no one can be very hopeful. Life does not offer that kind of chance. Whoever sees life as it is will be disillusioned — and should be. And when disillusionment becomes so deep that this life seems utterly futile, only then does the desire arise to take a leap — to seek another kind of life.
Buddha once said to a man, Leave all this now. The man said, Let me wait a little. Next year I will marry my daughter — then I will come. Buddha said, Imagine a year has passed, your daughter is married. Will you come for certain? He said, Let a year pass first. Buddha said, Imagine a year has passed, your daughter is married. What do you say? He said, How can I say now? In a year a thousand issues may arise. Buddha said, If I survive, I will come next year.
Buddha left that village. The man did not come to hear him again; he was afraid. He thought, Perhaps he will recognize me. And such men do not forget; they recognize and they catch hold. He might say it again! And nothing has been resolved; questions have only multiplied — for in a year he created more questions. Man is the creature who creates questions.
Buddha sat, people gathered, and he was waiting for someone. They said, Begin now; time is passing. Buddha said, A man promised me in your village — where is he? They said, It is difficult; he is avoiding you. Bring him, Buddha said. Who knows whether I will survive to next year? His business will surely be postponed to next year.
They brought him. He said, Forgive me; I made a great mistake. But we do not understand. Distant worries have grown. The boy has grown up, mother’s health is poor, father is old, there is much work at home — but when you come next year...!
Buddha said to the others, Do you see this man? He has not yet become disillusioned about the world. It still does not seem to him that the world is on fire; so he can postpone.
If this house were on fire, there would not be a man here who said, I will come in ten minutes. If fire has broken out, the competition would be: who gets out first! No one would agree to be the last.
But toward the truth of life there is no such competition. In fact, the search for the truth of life is the only field where there is no competition. You can go alone and come first — no one will stop you. There is not even a second person!
Disillusionment — see life as it is and disillusionment will seize you. What is our love? What is our friendship? Search love thoroughly and, except for a few tears, nothing is found within. And when those tears become your own experience, they are bitter as the waters of the sea. Friendship — what is the friendship we know?
Rabindranath wrote a poem. A Buddhist monk, a sannyasin, is leaving a town. A courtesan falls in love with him and comes down from her palace and says, Come! This is the first time I invite anyone. Until now people have invited me and knocked at my door. I did not open for everyone.
In a sense she was an empress. The whole city was mad for her; she was the city’s jewel, the most beautiful. Not every emperor could hope to meet her.
The monk stopped. He said, When there is need, I will come. When there is need, I will come.
The woman said, Need? I am inviting you to love!
The monk said, I have heard your invitation and accepted it. But first let those come who are your friends and lovers. Soon a moment will come when neither friends nor lovers will be found. If then you need me, I will come. I can wait until then.
The matter passed. The courtesan remained sad and wounded. Years went by. And what was to happen happened — she became a leper. The town cast her out. Her body decayed; limbs fell off. No one came near; her stench travelled far. People avoided that road lest she call someone. The same people who had once knocked at her door. On an amavas night, pitch dark, she lies writhing. She is thirsty; there is none to give water. And then a hand reaches her forehead. Someone pours water into her mouth. She opens her eyes and asks, Who are you?
He says, I am that same monk who passed your door years ago. You knew one kind of friendship; I know another — maitri.
The courtesan says, Now you have come in vain. I have nothing left to give.
The monk says, Friendship that comes to take is not friendship. I have not come to take anything.
But have we known any friendship that does not come to take? In truth, we have known two kinds of enmity — from our own and from others. We call the enmity of our own ‘friendship’ and the enmity of strangers ‘enmity’. Both are eager to take. The ways of our own are pleasant; the ways of strangers are harsh. Both are ready to grab.
We have not known friendship, we have not known love, we have not known life; we have no news of peace and bliss — though that is the very search. And that search will never be fulfilled until the futile appears futile. Until the false is seen as false, the true is never sought. The false must be known as false. Once, crystal clear, it must be seen: this is false.
How many days will it take to see? How many births? Count even one life — fifty, sixty years — and we cannot call the false false. Those who know will count many lives and say: even many lives do not suffice to see what is false. As if we have decided never to see the false as false; we will go on seeing it as true. We have taken a vow.
That vow must be broken. The day that vow begins to crack, I say, your birth has begun. The day this life begins to appear futile, I say, your real life has begun, your true birth has begun. Such a man alone is dvija — twice-born. Not the one with a thread around the neck; that can be put on anyone. We call dvija the one who enters the other life. One birth is from father and mother — at most a birth of the body. The other birth is from the search for oneself — that alone is the beginning of life.
So on this birthday — not mine, for I am content with Jesus, Buddha, and Lao Tzu — but on this birthday, which could be A’s, B’s, C’s, or D’s, I want only to say this: there is another birth. Seek it. There is another life — very near. Turn just a little, and perhaps it will be found — just at the edge, at the corner. And until that life is found, do not celebrate birthdays. Do not think about birth. For what you call birth is only the hidden face of death. Yes, the day you glimpse what I call birth, celebrate. From that day, every moment is a birth, for thereafter there is only life — eternal, infinite, without end. May you set out upon the journey of such a birth — this is my prayer to Paramatma.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace — I am blessed by that. I bow down to the Paramatma seated in each of you; please accept my pranam.