Jin Sutra #58

The greatest riddle of life is not in life; the greatest riddle of life is in death. And the one who has not known death remains unfamiliar with life. The key to knowing life lies in death.
You must have read children’s tales. A king or a queen whose life is locked inside a parrot or a myna. Twist the bird’s neck, and the king dies. Try killing the king himself, he does not die.
Keep trying to solve life, and life will not be solved. The resolution of life is in death.
Hence the great seers of the world have endeavored to understand death. Ordinary people avoid death, run from it. As a result they are deprived of life. The more clearly you recognize this paradox, the more useful it will be.
Do not run from death. Whoever runs from death is running from life itself. For death is life’s consummation. Death is life’s ultimate tone. Life is completed, fulfilled, in death. Death is the fruit. Life is the journey; death is the destination.
Think a little: if you start avoiding the destination, how will the journey be? And if you avoid the final, you will begin to avoid the first as well. The one who fears death, who runs from death—upon him the rain of life does not fall. He remains untouched by life. Therefore no one is more pitiable than the coward.
A great Western thinker, Albert Camus, begins one of his books with the statement that ‘the greatest problem of philosophy is suicide.’
Ask Mahavira, ask Buddha, and they will say, death. Camus says suicide. He came close, but he missed.
There is a great difference between death and suicide. Suicide means life left you unfulfilled. The happiness you asked of life did not come. The values you sought could not be found. The hopes you cherished broke. The rainbows you had woven of imagination scattered. In that despair a man erases himself.
Such self-erasure is not life’s ultimate summit. It is not the last height of music; it is the breaking of the veena.
Suicide is the other extreme—lower than life. Death, in absolute contrast to suicide, is life’s last height, life’s Gaurishankar. Death has to be earned. For death one needs sadhana. Death must be held, carried rightly. Only the supremely skillful can attain the exact, the right death. And if the right death is not received, life slips away from your hands. You remained in the school, but the lesson was not learned. You went to the school, but you did not pass.
Therefore the East says: those who do not pass will be sent back again and again. It is fitting. If you have learned the lesson of death from life, then there is no coming back. The one who dies consciously, blissfully, ecstatically—there is no return for him. This is the whole doctrine of rebirth.
You too wish there be no return. But you wish it so that you will not have to die again and again. The one who does not return is the one who has learned how to die. The one who dies in such a way that nothing remains to die any further—there is no second death for him. You too wish there be no return, because if there is return, there will be death again. You are afraid of death. The one who truly does not wish to return does not fear death; he embraces death.
Today’s sutras are about death. They are extreme. Try to understand each sutra very attentively, because they run counter to you.
If you have come here, you have come in search of life. People went to Mahavira in search of life. They were losing in life, so they went to find tricks to win. But the true Master gives the formula of death.
We have given different names to that supreme death. Patanjali calls it Samadhi. Therefore, when a sannyasin dies we call his tomb a Samadhi. It means that his meditation and his dying have reached the same space. When an ordinary person dies we do not call his grave a Samadhi; we call it a grave, a mausoleum. Not a Samadhi, because this man will be born again and again. He has not attained Samadhi yet, he has not attained the last death.
Samadhi means the ultimate death—the last, the absolute. Then there will be no birth, no death. The lesson has been learned. This person has begun to return from the school towards home. He will be welcomed at home. He has passed; he carries his certificate.
These sutras will be against you. Only if you listen with even more care will you be able to understand. The first sutra:
'Sariram-ahu nav ti, jivo vuccai naviyo. Sansaro annavo vutto, jam taranti mahesino.'
'They call the body a boat; the jiva the boatman. This world is an ocean, which the great seers cross.'
We too have a body, but for us the body is not a boat. To say 'the body is a boat' means: let the body become a means to that which is beyond the body. As of now the body is the end. You do not eat in order to live; you live in order to eat. You do not wear clothes to protect the body; you protect the body in order to wear clothes. As of now the body appears to be the destination. Beyond it, nothing.
Mahavira says, the body is a boat. Meaning: you are to go beyond the body. The body is a boat. One must board it—and one must also disembark. The body is a passage. Before sitting in the boat, the traveler already was. He is, while sitting in the boat. He will be, after he disembarks from the boat. The boat is not the traveler. You were before entering the body, you are now; and the day you alight from the body in death, you will still be. Death is the other shore. Birth is this shore; death is that shore. The body is the boat. And the world is the ocean.
But most cannot see the world as an ocean. Until your body becomes a boat, you will not be able to see the world as an ocean. You remain clinging to this shore. You never launch out upon the ocean. Only he steps into the ocean who begins to move, of his own accord and willingness, toward death. Death—that other shore. Out of fear you hold fast to this shore. You make every arrangement that somehow this shore not be lost. Even though you sit in a boat, you do not journey.
Therefore sometimes you even say: the ocean of the world, the bhavsagar. But you are borrowing the words of Mahavira and Buddha. You sit on the shore and talk of the ocean. You have no knowledge of the ocean. Only the boatman knows the ocean—the one who has launched his little dinghy upon this vast ocean. And however large the boat, it is small, because the ocean is vast. He who has launched his boat upon this ocean, filled with storms and tempests, in search of a shore that cannot be seen from here.
That is why we do not call the world a river; we call it the ocean. If the far shore were visible, it would be a river. The other shore is not visible at all. Yet it is certain. That is why death is not visible. Yet it is certain. In this life, except death, nothing is certain. Everything else is uncertain. One thing alone is certain—death.
The shore is certain. For wherever there is one shore, the second shore must be. However far. However far. In the very presence of this shore, the other shore already is. You can hold it firmly: the other shore will be. No conjecture is needed. This is straight mathematics. If this shore is, that shore will be. If there is one end, there will be another end. If there is birth, there will be death.
We often tie life only to birth. Therefore we celebrate birthdays; we do not celebrate death-days. Yet what we call a birthday is, from one side, a birthday and from another side a death-day. Because each year is less. Death comes closer. If you ask rightly, it is more a death-day than a birthday, because birth recedes and death approaches. The shore of birth grows distant; the shore of death draws near. Still we keep looking back. We keep looking at the shore of birth.
The other shore is not visible; hence we say: bhavsagar—the ocean of becoming. Its being is certain, but it does not come into view. It is far away.
'Body is called a boat; the jiva the boatman. This world is an ocean which the great seers cross.'
And the one who touches that shore—he alone is a seer. The one who dies while living—he alone is a seer. The one who rows the boat of the body across to the other shore.
You too reach there—but most reluctantly. You too reach there—dragged. Hence the tragic image people carry of death: messengers of Yama—dark, ugly, fearsome, riding buffaloes; they drag you.
This is absurd. It only reveals your fear. You have painted death through the veil of your fear. You are afraid, hence the buffalo, the dark, the Yamadoots. But ask the seers. Ask those whose eyes are stainless. And their word will be true, because their eyes are clear. They say: in death they found the Divine. This small, petty life fell away; the vast life was attained. The boundary broke; the meeting with the boundless happened. Death is the embrace of the Infinite.
Ask the seers and they will say: the Divine stands with arms open. The world certainly falls away. But in the world there was nothing worth clinging to. The petty is lost; the immeasurable is gained. The finite is lost; the infinite is gained. The momentary is lost; the eternal is gained.
No—the god of death is not a dark Yamadoot riding buffaloes. Nothing is more beautiful than death, because death is rest. In this life have you known anything more beautiful than sleep? Deep sleep, when even dreams do not toss you about. All winds are stilled. Deep sleep, when the outer world casts no image, no reflection. When you are entirely withdrawn from the outer. Deep sleep, when you are immersed within yourself—deep, absorbed—have you known anything more beautiful in this world?
Death is its infinite form. Nothing is more beautiful than death. Nothing more peaceful than death. Nothing more auspicious and true than death. But because of our fear we distort the face of death. Out of our fear, perversion appears.
Mahavira says: the seers, making the body their boat, deliberately leaving the shore of birth, find the shore of death available of itself. They are not dragged or pulled. There is no coercion with them. They transit by their own will.
This means: live in such a way that your living is not the opposite of death. Live in such a way that even in your living there is the taste of death. Live in such a way that the attachment of life does not wholly possess your mind; let dispassion toward life also stay awake.
Vijay Anand once making a film—when the moment of the hero’s dying came—the hero would fall, fall, and die, but Vijay Anand’s heart would not be satisfied. Finally he would get exasperated and shout at the hero: put a little more life into your dying.
When I heard this I felt: this is a significant sutra. Reverse it a little. Vijay Anand said, put a little more life into your dying. I say to you: put a little more death into your living. Do not be frightened of death. Do not cut it off and keep it separate. Die every day, every moment, each instant.
As we breathe in, we also breathe out each moment. The incoming breath is the symbol of life. The outgoing breath is the symbol of death. When a child is born he takes his first breath in, because life is entering. When a man dies, he releases his last breath out, because life is going out.
Breath coming in is sitting in the boat; breath going out is getting off the boat. It is happening every moment. When you breathe in—life. When you breathe out—death.
If only this could keep arising upon the horizon of your mind as well. Each moment you die and live. Let birth and death happen each moment—and do not cling to either. Flow in both, and flow simply. Then one day when the vast death arrives, you will find yourself prepared. Then you have remained in the boat. Then you have used the body as a boat.
Remember, each moment something is dying. Do not think as people commonly think, that after seventy years one day a man suddenly dies. What kind of arithmetic is that? Death does not occur by accident. It comes inch by inch, grain by grain. You die day by day; then after seventy years you can die. Drop by drop you die; then after seventy years you can die. The pitcher of life empties drop by drop; then one day it is wholly empty. It is not that one day a man was entirely alive and suddenly another day he died! That he slept one evening fully alive and found himself dead in the morning—no, it does not happen so.
From birth itself dying begins. No sooner born, you take in the breath, and the preparation to breathe it out has begun. From birth onward life and death walk together. Think of them as your two legs; or as the two wings of a bird. The bird cannot fly without two wings; you cannot walk without two legs.
Birth and death are life’s two legs, two wings.
Do not emphasize only one. That is why you limp. You have made life a one-legged race. One leg you so deny that you do not even accept it as yours. If someone points it out, you do not even want to see. If someone says you will have to die, you get angry. You think this man is an enemy. If someone says death is approaching, you do not receive it with welcome. Even if you say nothing, you at least feel this man is ill-mannered. Is death a fit subject for conversation? Does anyone talk of death?
Therefore we make the cemetery outside the village, so it is not seen. If it were up to me, it should be right in the middle of the village. The whole village should know when a man dies. The pyre should burn in the center so that everyone’s mind is struck again and again. Why keep it hidden far outside the village? Those who are compelled to go, go. And those who go, go upon the shoulders of four men, not on their own feet.
A Zen fakir was dying. At the moment of death he suddenly sat up and said to his disciples: where are my shoes? They said: what do you mean? What will you do with shoes? The physician says these are your last moments, and you yourself said this is the last day. He said: that is why I ask for my shoes. I will walk to the cremation ground. Enough of going upon others’ shoulders. I will not go by force. They say: the first man of the human race! His name was Bokuju. This Zen fakir walked to the cremation ground. He helped dig the grave, then lay down and died.
Now this is something. He used life as a boat. He rowed across to the other shore. But for this, preparation from the very beginning is needed. For this, one must arrange one’s whole life. To meet death one must slowly learn to die throughout life.
From the vision of Dharma, life is the opportunity to learn the art of dying.
'Certainly the steadfast must die, and the coward must also die. Since death is inevitable, therefore it is better to die with composure.'
And when dying is certain, when it is assured, inevitable, when there is no facility by which it can be postponed—it has never been postponed; though a man, in his ignorance, assumes: perhaps for others it could not be postponed, but I will manage. The stupidity of man knows no limits.
What has never happened, a man still believes: some trick will be found, for me it will happen. Man’s ego is so intoxicated that he believes: I am the exception. Others die—always others die. I do not die. It becomes convenient to believe so. For whenever you saw a bier, it was always someone else’s. Whenever a coffin was prepared, it was always someone else’s. The pyre burned—always someone else’s. You have always been the onlooker. Thus it seems perhaps a way will be found. Death is not mine. It happens to others. All these others are mortal. I am somehow different, untouched, beyond the rule.
Mahavira says: death is inevitable; without exception it will occur. Then, when what is to be cannot be avoided, the desire to escape it is futile. When what is to be cannot be avoided, fear is also futile. The steadfast must die, the brave must die, the bold must die, the coward must die. Death is inevitable.
Then to die with composure is right. Then to die with grace is right. When what is to be is certain, to do it as prasad is right. When what is to be is certain, to do it with adornment is right. When what is to be is certain, to do it ceremoniously is right. When one has to die, why die weeping, whining, screaming—ungracefully?
What is in man’s hands is only this—for it is not in our hands to avoid dying—what is in our hands is only this: to die like a coward, or to die like a courageous man, like a steadfast man. The choice is not between death and no death. The only choice in our hands is: shall we die with dignity, or die crying? Shall we die filled with tears, or filled with song? Shall we rise and embrace death, or scream and run—and be dragged by death?
Mahavira says: the choice lies here—to die accepting death, or to die while rejecting it.
There is a saying: the brave man dies once; the coward many times. The saying is right. For as many times as he is frightened, that many times death happens. The brave dies once. If you ask me: the saying is right, yet not wholly. The brave does not die at all. The coward dies again and again. For the one who has accepted death—where is death for him? Death happens because of our rejection. It happens because of our refusal. We are dragged, therefore it happens.
That Bokuju, who set off to the cremation ground with his shoes—did he die? How will you kill him? With him, death was defeated.
'Even the steadfast must die, and the coward as well. Since death is inevitable...' Mahavira’s logic is straight: '...therefore it is better to die with composure.'
What does it mean to die with composure? It means: do not allow even a trace of the fear of death to arise. Let death not make you tremble. The steadfast one is like unmoving water—a lake at rest. Like a lamp-flame without a quiver—no gusts of wind come.