Kaivalya Upanishad #11

In the morning’s sutra we explored how the human mind becomes hypnotized—in waking, in dream, and in deep sleep—how it gets entangled in imagined pleasures and pains, how it fabricates mirages of joy and bears the fruits of sorrow. India has inquired deeply into these three states: waking, dream, and deep sleep. And these three words—let me remind you again—present yet another dimension of India’s exploration of the “three.”

What appears as man’s so‑called visible condition is built out of these three. Man’s life is woven of these three. The essence hidden behind this life, the core, lies beyond these three. The world is constructed out of these three—hence, this sutra must be understood rightly and in depth. It has many dimensions.

First, waking, dream, and deep sleep are not only conditions of our mind; they are also the fundamental pillars of our life. Upon these three we stand. And we are the Fourth. From these three our house is built—but the indweller is the fourth. Therefore in India it has been called Turiya. Turiya means: the Fourth. It has been given no name—only “the Fourth.” Names have been given to these three. That Fourth cannot be named; no clue to its name exists, and nothing can be compared to it. So it is simply called the Fourth.

These three—we pass through them daily. In the morning, when you awaken, you enter the waking state. In the evening when you sleep, you first enter dream; then, when dreams too are lost, you enter deep sleep. Within twenty‑four hours we circle repeatedly through these three states. And if you look more subtly, we sway among these three every moment. Outwardly it seems you are awake; within, dreams begin—that is what we call daydreaming. And sometimes it seems that for a moment you were not in this world at all, you lost all awareness—then deep sleep grabbed you. In the span of twenty‑four hours we traverse these three on a large scale—and moment to moment we waver among them as well.

Throughout life we sway in these three states—and across many lives too we revolve within them. The instant of death happens in deep sleep. The dying man passes from waking into dream first; then from dream he enters deep sleep. Death occurs only in deep sleep. Hence the ancients regarded sleep as a daily visitation of death, a slight glimpse of dying. Sleep is a glimpse of death.

When you are in deep sleep you are in the very condition in which death happens—or can happen. Without deep sleep death does not occur. Therefore in deep sleep you lose all sense of awareness; even the pain of death is not experienced. Otherwise death is a great surgical act—none greater.

If a doctor removes even a bone, he gives morphia. By morphia he forcibly takes you into deep sleep. Only then can a bone be removed, an operation performed; otherwise it is impossible. All operations are done in deep sleep. Until deep sleep comes, to operate is dangerous—there will be terrible pain; perhaps the operation will become altogether impracticable.

Death has always performed the greatest operation—drawing the entire life-force out of this body. Therefore death occurs in profound deep sleep. Birth too happens in deep sleep; hence we do not remember. The reason we do not recall the previous birth is simply that in between there is such a long deep sleep that the links at both ends are lost. In deep sleep death occurs; in deep sleep rebirth occurs. In the mother’s womb the child remains in deep sleep.

Children who do not remain in deep sleep in the mother’s womb begin to influence the mother’s dreams. Some children in the womb are in dream. Very rarely—perhaps one in many millions—a child may be in the dream state in the womb. But this will be the child whose previous death occurred in the state of dream. Tibet has carried out great experiments on this. In Tibet it is called “Bardo”—the practice of Bardo.

In Tibet they endeavor to prevent the dying person from slipping into deep sleep. If he falls into deep sleep, the memory of this life will be erased. To keep his memory of this life intact, special experiments are done at the dying man’s side. Through these methods, they try to keep the person deliberately awake. Not only to keep him awake, but to consciously generate dream within him—so that the dream continues, continues, and his death occurs while in the dream state. If death occurs in the state of dream, that person is born in the next life carrying all the memories of his previous life.

Understand it this way and it will be easier. Throughout the night you dream—but perhaps you will not believe this. Many people say they do not dream. They simply do not know. Many say, “I dream sometimes.” They simply do not remember. You dream all night. In a full night an average person sees about twelve dreams. There are those who see more; it is hard to find those who see less. Those twelve dreams occupy about three‑quarters of the night. In the remaining quarter there is deep sleep. The rest is dream. But you do not remember—because if after a dream even a moment of deep sleep intervenes, the link of memory is broken.

The dreams you do remember are almost always the dawn dreams, those of early morning—after which deep sleep does not come; waking comes. A dream after which deep sleep does not intervene and you wake directly—only that one you remember. If between any dream and awakening even a little stretch of deep sleep comes, the thread of memory snaps. Memory does form—but ordinarily you do not recall it. It is not that memory is not made; it is made, but it goes into the unconscious. Even in deep sleep memory is formed, but it becomes unconscious; you have no awareness of it. With effort it can be brought up from the unconscious—but ordinarily it does not come to mind. Hence only the morning dreams are remembered.

I say this so that the Tibetan experiment of “Bardo” may come into your view. Tibet has done significant work with human dreaming—perhaps no other land on earth has done so. And they discovered this secret: if we can arrange for someone to die in the dream state, he will enter his next birth with all the memories of this life. And if memories of this life accompany him into the next, that next life will be transformed; it will change. Because then, committing the same stupidities, he himself will become aware that he has done all this before—the same desires, the same ambitions, the same running—and what was the fruit of a whole life? The previous life, running and running, became empty, and in the end only death was attained. After all those desires nothing was gained—only death.

If this remains in memory, the next birth will be of a different quality. Its very constitution changes. He will no longer be able to run in the same desires—the face of death will always seem to stand before him. To run in those same desires would mean emptying his hands again, going to die again. No—this time he can do otherwise. A dense effort to transform life will arise. To make this possible is the purpose of Bardo.

The practice of Bardo is scientific. When a person is dying, everything is done to keep him awake—with fragrance, with light, with music, with kirtan, with bhajan—experiments to keep him from sleeping. As soon as he nods, the formulas of Bardo are spoken into his ear.

The sutras of Bardo are such that they help generate dream. He will be told to understand that he is separating from the body. The moment he nods, he is told: “You are now separate from the body. Death has happened, and you are setting out on your journey.” The nature of the path, the trees on both sides, the birds flying—such symbols are spoken into his ear.

Earlier people wondered: what could be the use of saying something into the ear? But now this cannot be doubted. In Russia large‑scale experiments in hypnopaedia are underway; Russian scientists think that in the coming century children will not go to school by day—the school will teach them at night in their sleep. They say that when a child is asleep, if words are spoken into his ear at a special pitch and wavelength, they enter the unconscious. Many experiments have succeeded. A child weak in mathematics, whom no amount of effort can help—the teacher is at his wit’s end—such a child becomes proficient when taught mathematics in sleep. And he never even knows he has been taught.

In the matter of language the results have been astonishing—what takes three years to learn can be taught in three months at night. No time is lost; your sleep is not disturbed. You go on sleeping; you do not even know. Only in the morning you will have to be examined as to what happened in the night.

So now in Russia they have established institutes that teach thousands of children at night. A small device is fitted into each child’s pillow—he goes to sleep. At exactly midnight the teaching begins. For two hours the lesson runs; then the child is awakened once—this too is done by the device itself. A bell rings and the child wakes. He is awakened so that if deep sleep comes after the lesson he will forget. I mention this to help you grasp the sutra—otherwise the sutra will not be understood.

He is awakened. Two hours of instruction, then the bell rings. The child wakes, washes face and hands, and goes back to sleep—nothing else. The point is simply that a layer of deep sleep should not come over what has been taught—otherwise in the morning it will be forgotten. Then at four o’clock the teaching begins again. From four to six the same lesson is repeated. At six he gets up.

In these four hours so much can be taught as is hard to imagine. Russian scientists say we will soon free children from the prison‑house of schools. Schools are dangerous prisons—small children neither play nor frolic, neither dance nor leap; from childhood they are seated in a jail. Forcing little ones to sit in school for five or six hours cripples their lives forever. Until now there was no alternative. The most precious golden time of their lives is wasted sitting on school benches. For most people the cause of life’s misery is precisely this—when the means for the greatest joy were available, when life was fresh and in bloom and could have bonded with existence, that time was spent on geography, history, and mathematics. And what is gained from all that is not life, but livelihood. It means life was sacrificed for livelihood.

But Russian scientists say this will not continue for long. We have found ways by which children can play all day, rejoice, go on excursions—do what they are called to do. And by night, by night they can be educated. They call this hypnopaedia—sleep‑teaching. Yet even here there is the same principle: the child is awakened between lessons. And if we can educate within, then Bardo is right—by speaking into the ear dreams can be produced.

If a person dies in dream, he will receive another birth with the memory of the previous one. Such a child will remain in the dream state even in the mother’s womb. Such a child will take a new birth in the dream state. There will be a fundamental difference between this kind of child and one born out of deep sleep—a difference at birth itself.

When a child remains in dream in the mother’s womb, many dreams will arise in the mother’s mind. Regarding Buddha and Mahavira—and especially the twenty‑four Tirthankaras of the Jains—there is a tale that whenever they entered their mother’s womb, the mother saw special dreams. The mothers of the twenty‑four Tirthankaras all saw the same set of dreams—across hundreds and thousands of years. The Jains made a whole science of it. They determined that when such dreams occur to a mother, a Tirthankara is to be born from her womb. The dreams became fixed symbols. For example, seeing a spotless white elephant—a thing not ordinarily seen, not even if you try to see it—meant a Tirthankara was to be born. These became symbolic—the insignia of a Tirthankara. Whenever the consciousness of a Tirthankara enters, the mother will see such dreams.

The Jains, researching this, catalogued the dreams: so many dreams—if these occur, the child to be born will be a Tirthankara. The dreams for Buddhas are also defined—when a person of Buddha‑consciousness is to be born, what dreams will occur? Such dreams can arise only when the one entering within died in the dream state, is born in the dream state, and remains in dream in the womb. Then the mother’s dreams will be intensely influenced by the child. The truth is, the mother will become fully overshadowed by the child—because the child is entering with a vaster individuality than the mother’s. Such a child—born out of dream—if he wills, can attain liberation in a single life. If he wills. If not, he may take further births. But now liberation can happen to him at any moment—whenever he chooses.

Just as there are births and deaths in deep sleep and in dream, so too there are ways of being born and dying in waking. That is the ultimate matter: when someone dies in waking. If one dies in waking, he will take another birth only if he chooses; otherwise there will be no birth—because now the choice is in his hands. For one who dies in waking, the choice is his. Only if he wishes, only if he exerts, will there be birth; otherwise, not. Such a person will enter the womb awake, remain awake in the womb, be born awake. Even a child born out of deep sleep influences the mother.

Therefore a mother… often, when the child is in the womb, the mother’s very disposition changes. Her behavior changes, her speech changes—many alterations are noticed. Sometimes ordinary women suddenly become beautiful with pregnancy; they become thoughtful. Sometimes beautiful women become plain with pregnancy; the thoughtful become thoughtless; the quiet become restless; the restless become calm. For nine months another life is within—and it exerts an influence.

A deep‑sleep child also influences, but not much. A dream‑child influences greatly—the mother’s dreams and thoughts are overshadowed by him. But if an awake person is to be born, the mother is totally transformed. Here lies the difference between the Jain idea of a Tirthankara and the Hindu idea of an Avatar. The Hindu believes an Avatar is one who is born already awake. Born awake—hence he is called the descent of God, an avatara. Because such a person, if he wished, could have merged with God right then.

Understand this well.

After the previous death, had he wished, he could have merged with God. There was no hindrance, nothing pulling him back to earth; there was no reason for a new birth. He was standing at the very threshold of meeting God—had even entered—and then returned. This the Hindu calls avatara—descent. It is not called birth, because, they say, this man has returned from above. An Avatar. This happens in waking.

The birth of one like Jesus in Christianity is also in waking—fully in waking. Another point should be understood here: whenever an awakened person is born, there is no sexual intercourse between man and woman. This is why Christianity got into great difficulty—for Jesus is born of a virgin. Christianity lacks the complete science to explain this—how can this happen? How can a child be born of a virgin?

A sleeping child cannot be born of a virgin. A sleeping child, by its very nature, will be born in an entirely animal fashion—through sexual intercourse. A dream‑child is not born of ordinary intercourse but of yogic intercourse—tantric union—a specific union in which there is awareness, no swoon. An awakened one is not born through intercourse at all—intercourse has nothing to do with it. He is born only of a virgin mother. Often this has been concealed—hidden because it would not be believed, would create needless trouble.

In the case of Jesus this fact became open. It came out because Jesus’ father said he had had no relations with his wife. For the first time this hidden secret was revealed. Otherwise the truth is, whenever an Avatar is born, his birth has no connection with sexual intercourse. Husband and wife may have continued marital relations—but his birth is unrelated to it.

One born awake has nothing to do for liberation—he is born liberated. These three states—dream, deep sleep, and waking—are interwoven in our births and deaths too.

Let us look at these three from another side.

Hindu thought holds that in waking, dream, and deep sleep there are also three bodies. This is of great value. Sthula, Sukshma, and Karana—gross, subtle, and causal—these three bodies are acknowledged. The gross body is related to waking; the subtle to dream; the causal to deep sleep. When you are awake, you are in the gross body. This is why, when you are given anesthesia, this body can be cut and you do not know—because you are in another body.

Some day medical science will learn these secrets from Hindu insight and will have a great revelation: in these scriptures there is not only philosophy, but much else besides. But everything is given so much in sutra that unless someone opens it, it does not occur to the mind—there is no way it could. An operation can be done on the gross body only because your consciousness, under anesthesia, slips out of the gross and enters another body. If consciousness enters the causal body—that is, deep sleep—then nothing done to this body is registered. If it enters the subtle, you will know dimly—because the subtle (dream) body is very near. For example, when a person takes bhang, he enters the dream body.

All drugs—LSD, marijuana, mescaline, bhang, ganja, opium, charas, alcohol—break your connection with the gross body and push you into the subtle, the dream body. This is their only art. You have seen a bhang‑intoxicated man? He staggers on the road. He wants to place his feet correctly but cannot, though it seems to him he is placing them rightly. Yet something goes wrong—because he is no longer in this body. The drunkard who staggers is walking in another body, and this body is merely being dragged along. He is moving in the subtle body. Still, he has some sense of this body too; if you strike him with a stick, he will feel pain—though not as much as when he is in the gross. That is why a drunkard falls into a gutter at night—you have seen? Try falling yourself! He falls nightly into drains, is dragged home, and in the morning goes off to the office fresh as ever. Does he not get injured?

Look at children—when they fall, they are not much hurt. If you fell as much, bones would instantly break. Children are in the dream body; their entry into the waking body happens gradually. When a child is born… in the mother’s womb he sleeps twenty‑four hours; after birth he sleeps twenty‑three hours, then twenty‑two, then twenty, then eighteen—he is slowly coming out of the deep‑sleep body. Gradually sleep lessens. But when out of sleep, he will still often be in dream.

Notice: small children cannot distinguish between dream and reality. If someone beat him in a dream at night, he wakes in the morning crying; he says someone beat him. If someone snatched his doll in a dream, he wakes sobbing. The gap between dream and waking is not yet there; he lives in the dream body. Hence children’s eyes seem so dreamy and innocent; the sole reason is that their eyes are open in dream. Their world is still colorful—a world of dreams. Butterflies are everywhere, flowers bloom everywhere. They have not yet had a taste of life’s hard realities.

Why?

Because the gateway to life’s reality—the body, the gross—has not yet been fully entered. Nature knows this and acts accordingly. Only if the child sleeps twenty‑four hours in the womb can this body grow. If he enters this body too soon, growth becomes difficult. For growth his personal presence is not at all needed; his presence would hinder. A great operation is going on in the body—things are growing and forming. Such a vast work is underway that meanwhile his waking is not right—better he stays asleep.

Therefore a child born at seven months will have a weak gross body for life—because he moved from deep sleep into dream too soon, and now bodily formation will be hindered. What could have happened in a month in the womb will not happen even in six months outside. The child’s dream body will continue for years—because the body is still growing.

Complete freedom from the dream body happens when the child becomes sexually mature—around fourteen. With sexual maturity he fully enters the gross body. You will be astonished to know that the sexual gland is present from birth, but without entry into the gross body it lies dormant. At fourteen, entry into the gross happens and the sexual gland becomes active. This entry can be delayed—increased or decreased.

Perhaps you do not know: over the last fifty years the age of sexual maturity has been falling by ten or twenty years. If boys became sexually mature at fifteen, now they do at thirteen. If girls matured at fourteen, now they do at twelve. In America the age has fallen lower: if in India it is twelve, in America it is eleven; in Switzerland and Sweden lower still—ten. Scientists say: the better the health and food, the earlier sexual maturity comes. Not only that—what they do not fully see is that the more the atmosphere is saturated with sexuality, the sooner children leave the dream body and enter the gross.

India conducted the reverse experiment: we succeeded in holding children back from maturity till twenty‑five, with remarkable results. Do not think that in ancient gurukulas children matured sexually at fourteen and were then kept celibate till twenty‑five—that is impossible. If a child matures at fourteen, to keep him celibate till twenty‑five is impossible; if attempted, he will go mad, become perverted; distorted forms of sexuality will arise.

No, the experiment was different: up to twenty‑five he was given a special diet and placed in an environment where there was not even a scent of sexuality—no news of it. He was given food that would not let him come out of the dream body till twenty‑five. And this was a great opportunity—whatever is taught in this period enters directly into the dream body.

The interesting thing is: after fourteen, whatever is taught does not go deep; it remains superficial. What is taught before fourteen goes deeper; before seven, even deeper. If someday we discover how to teach a child in the mother’s womb, the depth of that imprint will be beyond measure. And we will one day do it; work in that direction goes on. India has worked in that direction. If maturity can be held back to twenty‑five, the child remains in the dream state—and the dream state is highly receptive.

Have you noticed that in dream doubt never arises? You suddenly see a horse approaching; as it comes closer you see it is not a horse but your friend; a little closer—you see it is a tree. And yet not even the smallest doubt arises in your mind: what is happening? How can it be—a horse, then a friend, now a tree? Not even such a doubt. The dream body is trusting, full of faith; doubt does not arise. Whatever is put into the dream body descends without question. The gross body is not trusting; it raises doubts. Once the gross body dawns, teaching becomes difficult.

Have you noticed that as soon as your children become sexually mature, disorder and trouble erupt in their lives—rebellion in everything, stubbornness in everything, conflict with everything, an effort to break free of everything, a refusal to respect anyone? This is the natural result of the gross body.

In old age too, one regains the three bodies in reverse. Before dying, the old man’s gross body is the first to fail. Youth ends the day we notice that the gross body has begun to wane. But though the gross body declines, desire does not—desire belongs to the subtle, the dream body. Hence the old man’s suffering: he bears the same desires as the young, but has not the young man’s body. His pain becomes great. This is why old people are so full of condemnation of the young, so critical, so full of moralizing—ninety‑nine times out of a hundred the deep reason is not wisdom but jealousy. The same desires burn in them, but the body has weakened; the gross body will not cooperate.

After this, the dream body begins to fail. When the old man’s dream body wanes, his memory is affected—he cannot remember, he becomes inconsistent, loses logic; he says something now and something else later—no coherence: the dream body is failing.

And when the dream body has faded, then death happens in deep sleep. In death the deep‑sleep body is also thinned out—but not destroyed. Carrying the tendencies of all three, the deep‑sleep, causal body sets out on a new journey. It is like a seed. Then a new birth, a new journey, the same play, the same cycle.

Now let us understand the sutra:

“Driven by the actions of previous lives, man returns from the state of deep sleep into dream and waking.”

“Driven by the actions of previous lives, man returns from deep sleep into dream and waking.” Whenever a new person is born, he is born in deep sleep carrying the actions, impressions, and conditioning of previous lives. Then he comes into dream; then into waking. A new life begins.

“Thus it is known that the jiva sports in three kinds of bodies—gross, subtle, and causal. From this arise the entire illusory phenomena of the world.”

This whole pageant of life depends upon these three bodies. In this sutra they are called pur—three cities. Hence the Indian word for the Self is Purusha—one who dwells within the puras. These three are his cities: Sthula, Sukshma, and Karana. In these three the Purusha goes on sporting. These are his towns; he travels from one to another. Only when these three bodies are dissolved does the jiva, free of the illusory game, experience unbroken bliss—when the three are absorbed.

At death our gross body merges as a seed into the subtle; the subtle, as seed, merges into the causal. The gross into the subtle, the subtle into the causal.

The word “causal” is wonderful. If we ask: what is the cause of the tree?—we must say, the seed. You have noticed that a seed resides in a tree; if you break that seed open you will find nothing. But bury it in the earth and it will sprout, and the very tree in which it was borne will appear again. It means the tree, with its gross and dream bodies, had dissolved into this seed—had merged into the causal body. In the right season it manifests again.

I live a life: what I have done, what I have been, what I have thought—all that is first enacted in waking; then its essence is collected and stored in the dream body; then that storehouse too is condensed into the causal seed. Carrying that seed I set out into a new life. That very seed will become the beginning of the new birth. Then dreams will rise; then the tree of waking will spread; the full tree of life will stand again.

Until these three bodies are destroyed, the Indian seers say, one does not attain that Fourth which one truly is. Until one is free of these three, there is no experience of bliss—for these three are prisons, and they repeat endlessly. Transfer from one prison to another—one jailer hands you to the next, the next to the third—and the wandering is without end.

Let these three bodies be absorbed… How will they be dissolved? When these three are dissolved, what happens is not called death; it is called liberation. When the ordinary man dies, we call it death—meaning the three bodies are merged into the causal—not finished—and the causal sets out on a new journey.

Understand the meaning of death.

It will surprise you: death has a strange meaning. Death is so called only for the one whose next birth is to happen. It may never have occurred to you that death is named because of birth: if a new birth is to happen, this is death. If a new birth will not happen, this is Moksha—liberation. Hence we do not say Buddha died; we say he entered Samadhi. We do not say Mahavira died; we say he entered Samadhi. Samadhistha means all three bodies were absorbed—finished, reduced to emptiness—and this person entered the Fourth, from which there is no coming and going.

Hence, interestingly, in India we cremate bodies—except the body of a sannyasin. Perhaps you have noticed or not: everyone’s body is burned, except the sannyasin’s—and a child’s. We do not cremate a child’s body because his three bodies had not yet manifested—hence no impurity had entered the child’s body. Until the gross body has fully manifested—until sexual desire has awakened—the child’s body is not impure. Therefore we do not burn it—we consign it directly to the earth; the earth will assimilate it directly.

But you will be surprised: once sexuality awakens, first we purify by fire, then we consign to earth. Impurity has entered—hence we burn. The purpose of cremation is only this: the body has become impure, desire‑ridden, consciousness has reached the gross—it is tainted. Fire will purify it. Fire will reduce it to ash; then we give the ash to the earth or to the river; then there is no difficulty.

We do not burn the child—and we do not burn the sannyasin.

The reason for not burning the sannyasin is different: one who has already burned the three bodies within—what purification can we add? Supreme purity has happened; our fire is of no use. His inner fire has arisen and consumed the three bodies; our fire is of no service. We consign him directly to the earth; she receives him directly—there too nothing is impure. The child had not yet become impure; the sannyasin has become pure—therefore we do not burn child or sannyasin.

Death is death only so long as another birth is to come. We call it death because birth is going to be. It sounds inverted. India says: birth and death are two sides of the same coin. If there is birth, there will be death; if there is death, there will be birth. Therefore we do not call the passing of Mahavira or Buddha “death”—because the other side is not there; no birth is to be. This is not death—this is Samadhi; this is liberation. Consciousness has stepped onto another path—off our circular track; for it there is no birth upon our rails. How can we call it death? We can meaningfully call it death only when birth is to follow. As there will be no birth, we do not call it death—we call it Samadhi.

Samadhi means: one whose soul has attained solution, resolution. It is a delightful truth that we call the culmination of meditation Samadhi—and the culmination of life also Samadhi. We call both Samadhi. We call the tomb of a sannyasin a Samadhi; we call the fullness of life Samadhi; we call the fullness of meditation Samadhi.

There must be a single thread joining all three—perhaps all three lead to the same place. When meditation is complete, life is complete; when life is complete, meditation is complete. And where there is completion, there is no death—there is resolution; there is Samadhi. The very pathway of the journey changes: we no longer circle in the round of birth and death—we step off the wheel and take another journey. In that journey there is only life, life alone—no birth, no death. It is eternal life.

But how are these three bodies to end? How are they to be absorbed? Briefly, a few points to keep in mind—then in the later sutras we will speak in more detail.

Dhyana is the sutra that leads to Samadhi. So Dhyana will be the method for freedom from these three bodies. Begin with attention in waking. Even in waking we are not attentively awake. You walk along the road, fully awake—but one more dimension can be added. Walk while awake—and be mindful too. You will ask: if I am already awake, what is the meaning of being mindful? You are awake, certainly—but mindfulness means that as your foot lifts, as your hand moves, as your eyes rise, as eyelids blink, as you turn your head—let all this happen with awareness, not mechanically, not in a swoon.

Someone sat before Buddha; Buddha was speaking and the man was wiggling his big toe. Buddha paused and asked, “Why is your big toe moving?” The man said, “Why do you raise such trivial things? You were speaking of knowledge and now my toe…!” But the moment Buddha asked, the toe stopped. The man said, “I had no idea; it must have been moving out of habit.” Buddha said, “Look—this is his toe, it is moving, and he does not know. He says, ‘It must have been moving.’ Are you awake? Yes, you are awake enough to hear me—but you are not awake attentively. Your toe moves, and you are unaware.”

Add awareness to waking. Whatever you do, be mindful in it. The word Buddha used for mindfulness is precious here: samyak smriti—right mindfulness. Whatever you do, let it be done with right remembrance. Buddha would say: if you turn left, let the mind know, “I am turning left.” If someone insults you, hear the insult and also know, “This man has insulted me, and I have heard it.” If anger arises within, know also, “This insult has stirred anger in me. Anger is arising.” Then you will find the whole situation changes—because one who sees anger arising, anger cannot arise in him. One who sees anger catching hold, anger cannot catch him. One who knows “now anger is coming,” anger cannot come. Awareness transforms the mind.

If awareness is joined to waking, and all acts of waking become mindful—you are free of one body.

Then the same process must enter dream: awake within the dream—mindful even in sleep. Buddha has said: even sleep mindfully; even turn over mindfully; even see dreams mindfully. But this cannot begin all at once. If attention is established in waking, you stand at the door of dream—then you can pass through into dream as well. One who has become mindful in waking can slowly take the arrow of awareness into dream. You will then see a dream and know, “A dream is happening.”

Then dreams cannot continue for long. One who is watching with awareness will smile—madness becomes obvious; dreams cannot last long. Dream requires sleep, unconsciousness. When dreams dissolve through attention, you stand at the third door—deep sleep. For now it is impossible even to imagine: how to be attentive in sleep? When you are utterly asleep, no awareness remains—how to be attentive? But one who has practiced in dream can enter the third. The day someone awakens in sleep—awakening in dream frees you of the subtle body; awakening in deep sleep frees you of the causal body.

When Krishna says, “The yogi wakes while all others sleep; their sleep too is his wakefulness,” it is said for this third experiment in awareness. When one becomes mindful in deep sleep, freedom from all three bodies happens. Such a person dies awake—dies with awareness. Because he has awakened in deep sleep—and death happens in deep sleep—now he dies consciously.

When Buddha’s death came, he said, “Today my death arrives. Within, it has become clear: everything is on the verge of falling apart. If you have anything to ask, ask now.” Hearing this, everyone’s heart sank—who could ask then? People began to weep and beat their chests. Buddha said, “Do not waste time in weeping—I will not remain long. Within it is becoming clear, as when the oil in a lamp runs out; if you have eyes—not blind ones—you can see the oil is finishing, the flame is about to go out. Do not wail and cry.” We are blind; the lamp goes out and we do not even notice. The oil runs out, and we sit as if there were an ocean of oil.

Buddha said, “The oil is nearly finished. In a moment or two my flame will burn.” If you have anything to ask, ask—do not waste time in lamentation. But who was ready to listen? If Buddha was awake even in deep sleep, those around him were awake‑asleep; they were beating their chests, crying; they did not hear. They fell into thoughts—what will happen when Buddha is no more? He is still here; more could yet be learned.

Buddha asked three times; it was his habit. When his discourses were published, editors were troubled—he asked everything thrice, said everything thrice; in print it seems threefold. But Buddha had a reason: “People are so asleep that who hears in one telling? If one hears in three, he is already fairly awake.” Thrice Buddha asked, “Do not cry; I am near to leaving, the time has come, the boat is ready, the shore is receding, the lamp is going out; if you have anything to ask, ask.” No one could. Then Buddha said, “Very well—shall I go now?” No one has ever asked thus: “Shall I go now? Shall I dissolve?”

Having taken their leave, he went behind the tree where he sat. He closed his eyes and let go of one body, entering the next. When he was in the second body, a man ran from the village—Subhadra. He said, “There is great difficulty; I heard Buddha is near death; I must ask something.” The bhikkhus said, “Now it is impossible. He has already moved toward dissolution; how can we draw him back? And how could we? We have no means. His breath is shallow, the heartbeat cannot be heard, the body is near dead—no, nothing can be done.” Subhadra said, “Something must be done. How many times did he pass your village?—Many times. ‘But sometimes my shop was crowded, sometimes a wedding at home, sometimes my health was poor—sometimes I was on my way out and someone came to visit—so each time I missed; I thought I would meet him next time; but now I must meet him—for who knows after how many aeons such a man will come again?’” He cried out.

Buddha rose and returned. He said, “You have come at the right moment. If I had gone below the subtle, even your words would not reach me. I am still in dream; I was just leaving it. If I had entered deep sleep, it would have been very difficult—your voice would scarcely have reached me.

“From deep sleep too, one can somehow return; but if deep sleep too breaks, then there is no question of returning.” Buddha said, “Do not stop him; let him ask. Do not let an accusation fall upon me—that I was alive, a man came to ask, and went away empty‑handed.”

Having answered Subhadra, Buddha went again—leaving one body after another—then he dissolved into the Fourth. Disappeared.

These are the three bodies—and the Fourth is our Self. It is not a body; it is our essential nature. When the three are lost, what is experienced is bliss, is nectar—that is Nirvana, that is Moksha.

“From This are born prana, mind, and all the senses. From This the earth is created, which upholds the sky, the air, the fire, the waters, and the whole world.”

This Fourth is the foundation of the entire cosmos—the Supreme, Paramatman. From This all arises, and into This all dissolves.