Kathopanishad #11

In the minds of the rishis of the Upanishads there is no condemnation whatsoever of the human body. Toward the human body there is deep goodwill, profound reverence—for in truth the human body is a temple. How can that be despised within which Paramatma dwells? Because the Divine abides within, the body becomes sacred.
In the vision of the Upanishads the body is not impure. Ordinarily the so-called religious—those merely reputed to be religious—are filled with a kind of deep denunciation of the body, a condemnation, as if the body were something bad, vile, loathsome; as if owing to the body alone there is sorrow, pain and bondage in life; as if the body were the very gateway to hell.
But for this so-called religious outlook there is no foundation. If there is any basis, it is only in the minds of the sick.
The body is not holding you in bondage. The body is not clutching you. How could the body possibly clutch you? You are the one clinging to the body. You yourself have chosen the body. It is the embodied form of your own desires and cravings.
So first understand this: whatever body has come to you—of a human being, or of an animal, a bird, a tree, a stone; of woman or of man; beautiful or ugly; healthy or diseased—whatever form you have received, it is the crystallization of your own longings, your own desires and cravings. What you had wanted has come to you. But we do not see this because there is a great gap between the wanting and its fulfillment.
A man sows a seed. Years later the sprout breaks forth. He even forgets that he had sown it. You will be surprised to know that hundreds of tribes have lived on the earth—and even today some tribes in Africa exist—who do not believe that a child is born from sexual intercourse, for months pass between intercourse and the birth. Many tribes simply could not draw the connection that birth arises from union.
Then again, not every union brings a birth. Out of hundreds of acts, perhaps one results in conception. And even then the child does not appear immediately; months are required. Those tribes could not remember that birth has any relation to intercourse. They think birth is the grace of God, or a boon from some deity, or the blessing of a guru. They cannot connect it with intercourse. The gap is so great.
Between a man’s karmas, the cravings and desires of a man, and their fulfillment, often there is a very long gap. You yourself forget that this is what you had wanted.
Psychologists say that many illnesses you yourself invite. At some time you desired them, and that desire got buried in the unconscious. Slowly the body produces the illness. It is a little difficult to accept—troublesome to believe—for who would ever desire to be ill? Why would one sow such seeds? Yet there are deep reasons in human life—a complex web.
A small child: whenever he falls ill, people worry about him, take care of him. When he is healthy, no one pays attention. In the child’s unconscious a certainty takes root: to be ill is a virtue, only then do they attend to you. And everyone longs to be attended to. There is a deep hunger for others’ attention, for attention is food. When someone looks at you, you feel delighted; when no one looks, you become sad.
Slowly the child experiences that when he is ill some dignified event happens: the father loves him more, the mother sits by his side. He longs for this—that the mother sit near, the father show affection, all care for him—but no one does. When he is ill, his wishes are fulfilled. Illness becomes linked with a craving.
Years later, whenever he experiences that no one is paying attention, inwardly the desire strengthens: I should fall ill. This will not be conscious; it will be deep in the unconscious.
Most of women’s illnesses are illnesses of not being attended to. When a woman is loved, she is healthy. As soon as love begins to depart—or ends, or dwindles—she begins to fall ill. Her illness is declaring that now no one is paying attention to her.
Fifty percent of women’s illnesses arise from the craving for attention. The husband comes home and the wife falls ill. Until he comes, she is fine. And it is not that she is putting on a show. No, at the very sight of the husband she falls ill. Seeing him—let him attend to me, place his hand upon my head, care for me, be concerned—this desire is stirred. In the unconscious she releases many processes. She places herself in those conditions where the husband will attend, think about her, serve her.
The human mind is full of a very deep web. Psychologists say this today; but the psychologists of the East have always been saying this—that whatever we become, whatever we are, is the condensed form of our own desires. In this birth, in the previous birth, and in births before that, whatever we have desired, whatever we have accumulated—today it has come to fruition.
So there is no cause to hate the body. This very body you had asked for; this very body has come to you.
Second, understand well: this body is not holding you. How will the body hold you? It is you who are holding the body. And the day you are capable of letting go of the body, the body will depart—it will not stay even for a moment. Even for a moment, if within you you separate yourself completely from the body, the body will begin to leave.
Hence a sage can die at will. The art of dying at will is precisely this: he knows the secret of how to separate from the body. Perhaps he keeps one or two pegs fixed in the body, so that if there is some use to the body it may be fulfilled. The day he feels it is time to depart, he removes the last peg too—the boat loosens from its mooring.
That is why sages often announce the date of their death: on such and such a day I shall depart. This is not due to some foresight into the future, as people think—that a sage knows the future. No. A sage can free himself from the body at any moment. It is his freedom. The day he chooses, that day he can go. He has understood the secret that the body is not holding him; he has been holding the body. So as long as it is to be held—fine. When it is time to let go, it can be dropped.
You have utterly forgotten this. You think as if the body has seized you. Then much foolishness is born of it.
There was a Christian sect whose ascetics would whip themselves day and night to torment the body—because the body was the enemy. And the more lashes one inflicted, the greater a saint he was considered. If today such saints appeared, we would call them masochists—sick people who take pleasure in tormenting themselves. We would keep them in an asylum. But in the Middle Ages all of Europe was full of such saints. They were not saints—only sick, diseased people.
There were Christian ascetics who wore shoes with nails driven inside; they wore belts studded within with spikes so that the body would be pierced and receive pain day and night, awake or asleep. People gave them great respect.
We too respect in the same way those who torture the body. Someone fasts himself to death; someone stands in the sun; someone stands only on his feet, never sits; someone lies upon thorns. Go to Kashi and see—so many displays are set up. Go to the Kumbh Mela—there is a whole exhibition of this madness.
Yet in us too rises respect for those who torment the body—what a marvel! Nothing is happening. To torment the body only means this much: you have not yet understood even this—that the body is not holding you; you are holding the body.
It is like getting up and beating your car, complaining that it is carrying you wherever it wants. How will the car take you anywhere? You pour the petrol; you keep it serviced; you hold its steering. It is you who want to go somewhere—therefore the car goes. Though you sit inside, the car goes where you lead it. You do not go where the car leads.
The body is a chariot, as this Upanishad says. A car—you sit within it and drive. So if you go toward sin, do not think the body is taking you. That is great foolishness. You want to go toward sin; the body accompanies you. You drive the car to a brothel—the car reaches the brothel. The car has no intention about where you go. Its job is to move. You want to go to the temple—the car stops at the temple gate. But when it stops at the brothel door, you get out and start beating the car. You are the fool.
Not only you—many to whom people have given great respect have done such things. Fakirs have cut off their hands, for the hand did some evil. How can the hand do evil? Mystics have gouged out their eyes, saying the eyes aroused lust. What will the eyes arouse? You are hidden behind the eyes. Wherever you lead the eyes, they go. The eyes do not move by themselves; they move because of you. You do the wrongdoing—by blinding the eyes whom are you punishing?
Ascetics have cut out their tongues, severed their genitals—these are insanities. You are not able to understand that the body is only an instrument. The body has no consciousness; you are the consciousness. If there is a fault, it is yours; if there is a virtue, it is yours. If you go to hell, it is you; if you go to heaven, it is you.
He who blames the body is utterly unintelligent. Understand this Upanishadic insight and then enter this sutra.
Simple, pure, knowledge-essence, unborn—such is the Lord; the human body is a city with eleven gates.
Therefore we have called man purusha. Purusha means: in whose pur—in whose city—Paramatma dwells, is hidden. Purusha is a most precious word, born of pur—city. And we should indeed say city, not house, for a house is a small thing. Your body is truly a city. And its population is not small. There are seven crore living cells. Seventy million living cells build your body—a vast city.
From the perspective of those cells—if we were to enlarge a single cell to the height of your body—your body would become a city as large as London, in that proportion. As in London there are roads, a river flows, and there is a network of wires—telephones, telegraph; there are policemen, the military, citizens; masters and slaves; poor and rich—within these seven hundred crores of inhabitants all such states exist. There are police. If you ask medical science, you will be astonished.
The body is an extraordinary phenomenon. You receive a small wound and soon you find pus has gathered there. Have you ever wondered why pus collects as soon as there is a wound? It is not pus; it is the white cells of your blood, which perform the body’s policing all the time. Wherever there is danger, disturbance, injury—they rush there and encircle the place. Encircling it, infection cannot enter. If the place remains open, any germ, bacteria, carriers of disease can immediately enter. So the white cells of your blood rush and cover the wound from all sides. You call it pus. It is not pus—it is your body’s protection.
Now, it is astonishing—medical science cannot explain how these white cells know whether the injury is in the foot or in the head or in the hand! Yet they travel from all over the body through the blood and arrive there, immediately encircling the spot. If your white blood cells decrease, you will fall ill more often—for your security force has weakened. A certain measure of white cells must be maintained. If not, your resistance—your capacity to fight disease—will become weak, because they are fighting. They know nothing of you.
The great wonder is that, in this city of seven hundred crores of cells, you have no experience that you are in it—nor can you. There is no meeting between you and them. They are engaged in their work. Some are making blood; some are digesting food. You take the food in; the organisms break it down, digest it, transform it into chemical substances—blood and flesh are formed. The whole work goes on—and all is well divided.
Long ago the Hindus envisioned four varnas—almost the same four varnas exist among the cells. There are shudra cells engaged in service; there are vaishya cells occupied in transforming things—turning one thing into another, making a chemical into a hormone, a hormone into something else—always in business. There are kshatriyas, constantly engaged in protection. There are brahmins, engaged in thinking—the cells of your brain are brahmin cells.
The Hindus imagined that the shudra are of the feet and the brahmin of the head—an invaluable symbol. The whole body is divided. It is quite possible that, through the yogis’ inner seeing, the arrangement within came to mind, and they applied the same arrangement to society, and the system of varna became prevalent. It is very possible—for how else did the idea of four varnas arise? And it arose only in India. Outside India there is no idea of four varnas. Truly, outside India there was no attempt to enter the city of the body. Through deep inner vision this was understood and then extended upon society.
Whether the world recognizes four varnas or not—four varnas do exist. Whether it is Russia or America—the shudra exists. In Russia he is called the proletariat—the sarvahara. Names change, nothing else. Someone is there who does the labor. Whether society changes, the state changes, economics changes—someone will continue to perform the work of the shudra. Be it democracy, dictatorship, any form—someone will sit upon the chest like a kshatriya.
And whatever the system, it is impossible to bring the brahmin down from the head. There is no way, for the brahmin is the head. However much effort one makes, the brahmin always reaches the head.
Today in Russia, the honor accorded to professors, doctors, engineers, scientists—no one else has it. They are brahmins—their work is vidya. In America there is a growing fear that within a hundred years scientists will become so powerful they may seize the entire machinery of the state, for the key is in their hands. Today the politician appears powerful outside, but behind him the scientist is powerful—because the key to the atom is in his hands. Today or tomorrow he can climb onto the chest. And the politician goes to him for counsel. As soon as Kennedy became President, he called at once the most intelligent men of America from among professors, scientists, great authors, poets—to be his advisers. A kshatriya’s own intelligence does not function much; he has always sought counsel from the brahmin. The brahmin is not in front; he is behind. The kshatriya is in front, while the brahmin guides from within.
Within the body there is a great city—and its functioning is more orderly than any city has ever been. It runs silently, automatically. Whether you sleep or wake, work or rest—it goes on. And it poses no nuisance. By itself it continues. When was your food digested? When did it become blood? When were bones formed? When were dead cells thrown out?—you have no concern. The whole city is automatic.
In the midst of this city—you are. This city is worthy of reverence. And this city has given you the opportunity—if you wish, you may travel to hell with its support; if you wish, you may reach heaven; and if you wish, you may be free of both heaven and hell and attain moksha. The body is a means.
This sutra says—
Simple, pure, knowledge-essence, unborn—such is the Lord; the human body is a city with eleven gates.
Five senses of knowledge, five organs of action, and the mind—thus eleven are its gates.
While living within it, by meditating upon the Lord and practicing sadhana, a man never grieves; rather, becoming jivanmukta, after death he becomes vidheha. This indeed is That Paramatma of whom you asked.
While living within it, through meditation and sadhana upon the Lord, man never grieves—rather, he becomes liberated in life. And being liberated in life, he becomes vidheha. Then the city is no longer needed; then one is freed from the instrument.
This instrument of the body can be used in two ways. One is for self-forgetfulness—that is called vāsanā. The other is for self-remembering—that is called dhyana. Either you use this body to pursue petty pleasures—and what is pleasure? Wherever, for a while, you can forget yourself, there you think there is pleasure.
Pleasure is nothing more than forgetting oneself. A man drinks and forgets—he says, great pleasure. A man listens to music and forgets—great pleasure. A man in sex forgets—great pleasure. A man in food forgets—great pleasure. A man, seated upon a throne, forgets—great pleasure. What is our definition of pleasure? Wherever we do not remember ourselves, we say there is pleasure. And wherever we remember ourselves—we say there is pain.
In truth, wherever the remembrance of oneself begins, there suffering begins to intensify. For then you begin to feel—what am I doing? Where am I? Why? What is all this? Anxiety grips you. Then you again forget yourself. Someone forgets by reading a newspaper; someone by reading the Gita. The paths of forgetting are many—but the effort to forget is the same.
Vāsanā is self-forgetfulness. One who is forgetting himself—how will he become a man of the Self? One who is forgetting himself—how will he attain to consciousness? Paramatma becomes very far. The more you forget yourself, the farther the Divine is.
Therefore all religions have opposed alcohol. The opposition is not to alcohol—alcohol is innocent; why oppose it? The opposition is to forgetting oneself. Only the Tantrikas did not oppose alcohol—but their point is the same. They say: what is there to oppose in alcohol? If, drinking, you preserve awareness, there is no harm.
So Tantra devised a method: drink and keep awareness. Gradually increase the quantity and also sustain awareness. Increase only as much as awareness remains. Then increase further. Then even poison the Tantrika can drink and not lose awareness. Then the Tantrika is unaffected by wine or poison; he keeps a serpent even—lets it bite his tongue. No result occurs. Then the Tantrika says: now I have truly awakened—now nothing can put me to sleep.
So the Tantric too is opposed to drunkenness. The whole world’s opposition is to unconsciousness; the religious quest is a quest for awareness—the processes differ. A Jain monk, a Buddhist monk—he cannot even think of wine or poison. The Tantrika says: drink, but do not lose awareness. Both are saying the same thing. He says do not drink, lest you lose awareness. And the Tantrika says: drink and keep examining whether awareness is lost. Awareness should increase.
And I hold that, if Tantrikas and others were to stand side by side, the awareness of the Tantrika would be of a kind no other monk could possess—because the Tantrika preserves awareness in adverse conditions; therefore its worth and height are very deep. If all the monks of the world were gathered and made to drink, only the Tantrika would remain aware; the rest would fall into chaos. If there were a rain of poison, the Tantrika would not become unconscious—he has trained awareness alongside it.
Hence the process of Tantra is arduous—and an ordinary man can deceive himself, thinking: we drink because we are Tantrikas.
Tantra has opposed no evil—says: in every so-called evil, awareness can be mastered. Hence it has not opposed sex either. If awareness remains in sex, sex too becomes meditation. One thing is certain—whether there is opposition or not—there is universal opposition to unconsciousness and universal agreement about awareness.
He who uses the body to cultivate awareness—he becomes free even while in the body. As awareness grows, it becomes clear: I am separate, the body is separate. The distance grows wider. Then if something happens to the body, it does not feel as if it is happening to me. It feels it is happening to the body.
You are driving and the car begins to rattle—you think: there is something wrong with the engine. You do not think: there is something wrong with me. You stop and examine the car.
If something is amiss in your body—when awareness has been cultivated—you will feel: something is wrong in the body; you will not feel: something is wrong in me. You will have the body treated, arrangements made. But there is no cause for inner suffering and disturbance. Hunger comes—you will feel the body is hungry, just as when the car runs out of petrol you say: the tank is empty, petrol must be filled; you do not pour petrol into yourself.
As awareness awakens, all actions belong to the body; only one action remains yours—the action of awareness, of meditation. Therefore dhyana is of the soul; all else is of the body. One who does not cultivate meditation—he lives only in the body, he cannot enter the soul. There is only one thread that belongs to the soul: meditation.
This sutra says: while living within it, by meditating upon the Lord and practicing sadhana, man never grieves—because there is no cause for grief. Sorrow has no cause. Sorrow arises because the conviction “I am the body” has become deep. Sorrow vanishes the moment it is clear: I am not the body. And within this very body one becomes a jivanmukta.
Jivanmukta means one to whom it has become evident: I am not the body. The jivanmukta may remain in the body for some time. You too are in the body; the jivanmukta also remains in the body for a while. Mahavira attained knowledge and remained forty years more. Buddha too remained forty years more. Why did they remain? You remain; Buddha and Mahavira remain. You remain to fulfill desires; Buddha and Mahavira remain to share what they have found—out of compassion.
After births upon births, a treasure becomes available to a Buddha. If at that very moment he leaves the body—and he could—Buddha too wanted to. For seven days after enlightenment he sat silent. There is a sweet story that the devas came to his feet and said: Speak. Help people to understand. For after ages one attains this state—someone becomes a Buddha. Do not remain silent; do not dissolve; do not be lost. Stay a while at this shore.
Buddha remains forty years at this shore. This staying is not to gain anything—it is to give. We cling to the body to get; Buddha holds the body to give.
The jivanmukta too can live in the body. But the moment one becomes liberated in life, one thing is certain: once this body is dropped, there will be no other. No entry will happen again. Vacating this house, there is no other house to be had.
When Buddha attained enlightenment, his first words were: O lord of desire! You shall not need to raise another house for me. My last house has been built—and undone. No more bodies shall you fashion for me. How many bodies you fashioned for me! O lord of desire! For births upon births what bodies you forged for me! Now you are freed—I shall need no further service.
He who, while the body is, realizes “I am not the body”—as soon as this body falls, his state becomes vidheha. He is; but he has no form. There is being, but no house for this being. Then there is identity with the Vast. As a drop is in the ocean—not as a drop—but as the ocean. As a small flame merges into the sky—it does not disappear, for no energy can be lost—but becomes part of the great Sun, part of the great Light. But only one who attains while in the body.
Some think they will practice at the end. Some stretch this logic so far that they are lying there dying, and people are reciting mantras into their ears—reading the Gita, chanting Namo’kar—while they are dead, or nearly dead, when they can hear nothing. Those who never had the intelligence to listen while alive—at death people pour Ganga water into their mouths, hoping perhaps liberation will happen.
While alive they could not go to the Ganges; now the Ganges sealed in bottles is poured! They could not journey toward knowledge while living; now the dead words of scriptures are being chanted at their ears. And those who chant are hired. They are not chanting for themselves. They will get a fee. They themselves do not know what they are saying. At their own death they too will need to hire someone to chant.
Man has not only deceived in this life—he has arranged deceits for the supreme life as well. We are so clever we think we will deceive the Ultimate too. So we have spun such stories: a man, a sinner, dying—his son was named Narayana. At the moment of death he called, “Narayana!” And the Narayana above thought he was calling Him; and the sinner, who had never remembered the Lord, went straight to heaven.
Certainly sinners concocted such a story. He was calling his son whose name was Narayana—perhaps to tell him some secret of sin: Son, you also do likewise! A dying father calls his son for this—so that he may impart the trade secrets. He had sinned his whole life—cheated, stolen, picked pockets. He wanted to teach the tricks. The Narayana above got confused! Then the Narayana above proves a fool. But sinners devise such stories to console themselves.
It is not so easy. There is no way to deceive Existence. No path to deceive Paramatma. And there no errors occur—this is not a government office where files get misplaced. With the Supreme, our relationship is only as true as our truth. We are utterly naked there—as we are, so we stand. There is no possibility of shelter or subterfuge.
So do not lull yourself with such tales. And do not think: no problem—we shall name our son Narayana too. Many perhaps name their sons after God for this reason: Narayana, Ram, Krishna—so that Ajamila’s trick might be at hand when needed. Otherwise there is the hired priest to whisper God’s name in your ear.
Can a hired man chant God’s name for you? Can prayer be done for you by another? Can puja be done by proxy? Then you do not understand what prayer and worship mean—what their dignity is. It is like falling in love and hiring a servant: love on my behalf, I have no time. You would never commit such a folly in love. But regarding prayer this folly has continued for centuries.
Prayer is love—the greatest love possible. But the rich build a temple, hire a priest who performs puja on their behalf. The Tibetans are very clever—they invented a device called a prayer wheel. A small wheel on which a mantra is written. Sitting, they keep turning it! They do other work and keep it spinning. The number of turns equals the number of mantras completed!
A Tibetan lama came to see me. I said: What are you doing? Connect it to an electric plug—it will go on by itself; you do your work—why get entangled? It interferes—you must keep turning it. Let electricity do the job.
But have prayers ever been fulfilled like this? Man is dishonest and spreads his dishonesty in every direction—even toward God.
He who, while the body is, attains to the state of meditation—he, becoming liberated in life, one day becomes free of the body too.
This indeed is That Paramatma of whom you asked.
He who is pure, self-luminous, dwelling in the Supreme Abode—Purushottam—He is the Vasu abiding in space, the Guest present in homes, the Agni established upon the altar of yajna and the One who offers the oblation; He who dwells in all human beings, in the gods superior to men, who abides in Truth and in the sky; who appears in manifold forms in waters, in manifold forms upon the earth, manifests in good deeds, manifests in mountains—He is the greatest Truth, He alone is everywhere.
In all places—here and there, below and above, outside and within—He alone is manifest. But this revelation of the One will become clear to you only when your meditation is deep and you are able to see yourself apart from the body. So long as you see yourself one with the body, you will see the many—for bodies are many.
Just as if we place a thousand pots here where you sit—a thousand pots, each with the sky within it—the same sky is within each pot. But one who counts the pots will say: here are a thousand pot-sky’s; the sky of each pot is its own, enclosed within; that which is enclosed in one cannot be in another; so a thousand pot-sky’s.
Then someone comes and with a stick breaks the pots one by one—and only one sky remains.
Your bodies are nothing more than pots. And when death breaks your pot, if in your life you have not been attached to the pot, you will say: good—break the pot, for the sky does not break by the stick; only the pot breaks. Break it—it has gotten old too.
If at the time of dying someone can see that the pot is breaking, while the sky is safe—then there is no need of any pot, then there will be no entry into another body. But we take the body itself to be our being; therefore as many bodies as there are in the world, so many personalities, so much division—each body becomes a wall enclosing the vast sky.
The same sky is within all, the same Atman. But if you accept it only as a doctrine and repeat it all your life—nothing will happen. If you know it as experience within—be separate from your pot—then you will see all the pots have vanished; within the pots only one sky remains. The name of that One Sky is Brahman. He is outside and He is within; He is below and He is above; He is everywhere—in the small and the vast, in the low and the high, in mountains and rivers, on earth and in the sky—everywhere He alone is.
He who lifts prana upward and presses apana downward, seated in the middle—the heart—Him, the highest, most worship-worthy Paramatma, all the gods adore.
A deep discovery of Indian yoga is hidden in this sutra. Western medical science is still almost unfamiliar with this. The discovery is of prana and apana.
Ayurveda, Yoga, Tantra—all recognize that in the body the vital air has two directions. One direction is upward—its name is prana. The other is downward—its name is apana. The air within the body has a twofold form and two currents. Excretion of feces and urine is due to apana—the downward-flowing air carries waste downward in its current. And in life whatever moves upward does so by prana.
Therefore one who masters pranayama becomes skillful in rising upward—he is expanding, extending, enlarging the upward current.
These are two currents—two streams of air within the body. And between them sits Paramatma—or Atman, or consciousness—whatever name you wish. The thumb-sized Atman is present between these two currents. He pushes the air downward—He pushes the air upward. Prana—the air that goes upward. Apana—the air that goes downward.
Western medical science has not yet recognized this double current; it holds that air is only of one kind. Hence many things based on the vital air which Ayurveda can accomplish allopathy cannot. One who understands these currents well can create great revolutions in life.
A small child breathes: when a child breathes, his stomach rises and falls—the chest hardly moves. His breath is very deep. When you breathe, the chest rises and falls—your breath is shallow, not deep.
Psychologists are puzzled: why does this happen? With age, why does breath become shallow? Why is a child’s breath deep? Animals breathe deeply; so do forest dwellers. The more civilized a man, the shallower his breathing. What connection does civilization have with breath? When does the child stop deep breathing?
Yoga knows the secret—and psychology is now beginning to glimpse it. Psychologists say: the day fear of sex—fear of desire—arises in the child, the day parents warn him about sex, from that day his breath becomes shallow. For when breath goes deep, it strikes the sex center; it becomes apana and arouses sexuality.
The deeper the breath, the more vibrant sex will be. Children are frightened—sex is bad, sex is sin—they become afraid; they hold the breath upward, do not let it go deep. Gradually the breath only moves on the surface. A gap opens between the sex center and the self. In such people sexuality becomes distorted; they cannot take any joy in intercourse—for intercourse requires very deep breathing.
When breath is deep, the whole body is stirred; by the total movement of the body, by being wholly involved in the process—by diving totally—one gets a hint of pleasure. But even that hint becomes impossible because the breath does not go deep. And countless illnesses are born with it—for your apana becomes weak.
Those who breathe shallowly will suffer constipation, because apana—the air that descends to expel waste—is not going down. But the fear is the same: semen is also a waste—its expulsion too requires air to go down—apana. Those who are afraid of sex will be gripped by constipation, for one and the same air pushes both.
Brahmacharya is not achieved by obstructing apana; brahmacharya is attained by increasing prana. Understand this difference well. We all, in the name of brahmacharya, have done the wrong thing—obstructed apana. As a result we have become only sick and diseased. The dignity and health possible for our personality have been destroyed; the body is filled with toxins. The apana that should throw out the toxins does not. You are afraid. This is the negative method of brahmacharya.
There is a positive method—do not interfere with apana; increase prana. Let prana become so great that, in contrast, apana remains very small. Draw a very long line—apana remains pure and prana becomes vast; then your energy begins to flow upward.
Hence pranayama is so useful in yoga—because it propels energy upward. The very sex-energy which, through apana, becomes sex—through prana becomes kundalini. It begins to flow upward; moving upward, when it reaches the brain, its lotus opens.
Driven by apana, the same sex-energy becomes the birth of a child; driven by prana, the same energy becomes your own new birth—but only when it reaches the brain. Prana brings it upward.
This sutra says: between prana and apana is hidden That Paramatma of whom you asked. He moves apana downward—the basis of nature. He moves prana upward—the basis of the beyond. It depends on you which current you enter. If you want to go downward, you will have to strengthen apana.
In all animals apana is powerful; prana is weak. Only in yogis is prana strong. Apana is healthy and prana so strong that even a healthy apana cannot overpower it; the dominion remains to prana. The ordinary man’s prana is weak—and out of fear he weakens apana as well.
The fearful man does not breathe deeply; only the fearless breathes deeply. For any reason, the frightened man will not breathe deep. Place a knife at your chest—your breath will stop. Whenever you are afraid, breath stops. You become agitated—have gone to meet some high official—your breath becomes shallow, only moving on the surface. Only after coming out do you breathe freely again.
We have frightened one another so much that our entire breathing apparatus has become unhealthy.
Between the two is hidden Paramatma—Master of both.
There is no need to fear apana, for the body’s health depends upon it—elimination is its work. If elimination is not proper, toxins will accumulate—and they have. In everyone’s blood toxins are circulating.
If a man exercises—runs, walks, swims—apana becomes strong; in the body freshness and health arise. But if one only takes deep breaths—pranayama is not merely deep breathing; pranayama is conscious, aware deep breathing. Understand this difference well. Many practice pranayama, but not with awareness—they only breathe deeply.
If you only breathe deeply, apana will become healthy—not bad, good—but there will be no upward movement. Upward movement comes when, with the depth of breath, your awareness is linked within.
Buddha said: when breath moves, touches the nose—know it touches the nose. When it goes within, touches the nostrils—know it is touching the nostrils. When it descends through the throat—know it is in the throat. When it enters the lungs, goes down to the belly—keep watching; let your remembrance follow behind it. Then, for a moment, it will stop—a gap. That gap is precious.
When you breathe deeply, for a moment upon reaching within there will be no breath—neither out nor in—everything will pause. Then the breath will return. After resting for a second, it will move outward. Then go outward with it—rise with it—come to the throat, come to the nose. It exits—keep following. Outside too for a second everything pauses. Then a new breath begins—again within, again without.
Buddha said: make a mala of this; with these very beads keep awakening your remembrance. If there is awareness with deep breathing, prana expands, and the current of life-energy begins to move upward.
Awareness is the key above; stupor is the key below.
If someone, whenever he remembers, simply keeps cultivating awareness of the breath—no other sadhana is needed; it is enough. But it is difficult—to remain, twenty-four hours, whenever remembrance arises, with the breath. No one will even know—it can happen silently. No one will know what you are doing.
Jesus said: when your left hand does something, let not the right hand know.
This is such a process—no one will know. Quietly, with your breath, you will be filling yourself with remembrance. And as remembrance deepens and breath becomes deep, its conscious stroke will begin to raise your energy upward along the spine. This is not fantasy—you will distinctly feel an electric current rising in your spine. Waves will run along it—hot waves. You can even touch and feel with your hand; where the waves are, the spine will become warm. As the warm energy rises upward, your spine will grow hot. You will experience where this energy goes—then it falls—then again it rises.
By steady practice, one day this energy reaches the sahasrar at the crown. Meanwhile it passes through other chakras—each with its own experiences. At each chakra a new light; as the energy passes through, new fragrance, new meanings, new significances appear—new flowers begin to bloom.
Yoga, after thousands upon thousands of experiments, has determined exactly what happens at each center—and has named the chakras accordingly.
For instance, the center between the two eyes is called the Ajna Chakra—the Command Center—because on the day your energy passes through it, your body and senses begin to obey you. Whatever you say happens that very moment. Your personality comes into your hands—you become the master.
Before this center, you are a slave. The day energy enters this center, from that day your mastery begins; from then your body obeys your ajna. Right now you have to obey the body, because the place from which the body can be commanded is empty—there is no energy there. Hence the name Ajna Chakra.
Similarly, all the chakras have meaningful names, each with a distinctive experience. The last chakra is Sahasrar—meaning the lotus of a thousand petals. On the day energy reaches there, the whole head feels as if it has become a lotus of a thousand petals—open, turned toward the sky, all petals blossomed. An incomparable bliss is experienced; an incomparable shower of fragrance descends; for the first time complete light dawns. It is apt that we chose the lotus for this. There are many reasons—we call it the Sahasradal Kamal.
A lotus has this beauty: it is born in the mud—and yet nothing more beautiful, more pure, exists. It is born in the filthiest place—but from the filth a stalk rises and rises and crosses beyond the water. That stalk is your spine. That filthy mud is your sexuality. From the stalk of your spine a flower blossoms one day. And when this lotus blooms, it is so wondrous that, though born in the mud, even water cannot touch it—water falls upon it yet cannot adhere. Nothing touches it. It remains untouched—aspirsha. Born in the mud, beyond the mud—this purity possible to the lotus is the possibility of every human being. Hence we have called the last chakra the Sahasradal Kamal.
These two—prana and apana—are the vital airs. Between them sits That Paramatma.
Within this body, when the jivatma—who goes from one body to another—departs, what remains here?
That which departs—This, verily, is That Paramatma of whom you asked.
No mortal lives by prana nor by apana; rather by That Other, in whom both find their support, do all live.
In that very Paramatma—in that jivatma hidden in the middle—both have their refuge: prana and apana. By Him we live.
O Nachiketa of the Gautama clan! I shall tell you again what that mysterious, eternal Brahman is—and how the jivatma remains after death.
Some truths must be spoken again and again—not because repetition gives anything to the speaker, but because you are so deaf that once the words may touch your ears and yet not reach. So—again.
It was Buddha’s habit to say every important thing three times. Those who now translate the scriptures cut two parts, calling them repetitions—why so much repetition? They appear wiser than Buddha. But repetition is needed: the one Buddha is speaking to will not understand once, or even twice. Buddha is doing his utmost that some blow may land—hence he repeats thrice.
So Yama too says to Nachiketa: Now I shall tell you again.
According to karma, and according to the inner mood arising through hearing the shastras, many jivatmas attain diverse wombs for taking on bodies; many others follow the immobile state—becoming trees, creepers, mountains.
He who, fashioning manifold enjoyments according to beings’ karma, remains awake when all sleep at dissolution—that Supreme Person, that Paramatma—He is the supremely pure element; He is Brahman; He is called the Immortal; in Him all worlds find shelter; none can transcend Him. This, verily, is That Paramatma of whom you asked.
There is something here to understand well. He who, when all sleep at the time of dissolution, remains awake—He is that Paramatma of whom Nachiketa asked. At the time of dissolution, when everything is destroyed, or everything sleeps—when all the activity of nature sleeps—He who still remains awake…
We do not know dissolution—how shall we understand it? Understand it through your own sleep. In sleep the body—all that is nature—sleeps. But have you noticed that someone within you remains awake?
A mother—her little child beside her. Outside a storm may rage, thunder roll, lightning strike—her sleep will not break. But if the child stirs slightly, she will awaken at once. Strange—lightning thunders outside and she sleeps; the slightest sound of the child and she wakes. Someone within remains awake who remembers the child.
A thousand of you may lie here asleep; I come and call, “Ram!”—none will hear; but he whose name is Ram will say, Who is disturbing my sleep? Surely some part remains awake that knows: my name is Ram.
In the morning you rise and say: I slept very deeply last night. Who has known this? If you had entirely slept, who is it that says: I slept deeply? Who is the knower even of sleep? If sleep was complete and all slept, who was there to know? But someone remained awake. Some part watched whether sleep was deep or not, whether there were dreams. The dreams of the night someone remembers in the morning. If you had slept totally, who created the memory? Who brought the dreams to waking? No—you never sleep totally.
Hypnosis is the deepest of sleeps. In the West much work has been done on hypnosis—now it is a whole science. No longer a trick of showmen; it is used in hospitals—even for major surgery. In ordinary sleep you cannot operate—prick with a needle and he will jump up. But under hypnosis—even the abdomen can be cut—appendix removed—hours pass while the patient sleeps.
Hypnosis is the deepest sleep—but there is an interesting fact: you may cut the intestines and the person sleeps; but if you ask him to do something against his deepest moral beliefs, he will awake at once. If a Hindu woman, who truly according to her Hindu upbringing has never desired anyone but her husband—if she is hypnotized and told: a man sits beside you—kiss him—no matter how deep the hypnosis, it will break instantly; she will sit up: What did you say? Impossible. You can cut the belly and sleep will not break—surely someone within remains awake.
If a woman agrees, psychologists say that she wanted to kiss; it was suppressed in the unconscious, but due to social understanding she had held it down. Hypnosis gave her the chance—no responsibility of her own. She can say, I was unconscious—what I did is not my responsibility. So she can kiss.
Against moral convictions, even in hypnosis, man remains awake. You cannot make him do anything contrary. If he himself wants, he does. Even there, the final choice is his. Even in the deepest sleep someone remains awake.
This sutra says: That which remains awake in your bodily sleep—when the entire nature sleeps at dissolution—that same Principle remains awake.
Pralaya means the great night of nature. Therefore, the arithmetic India developed—Western scientists and mathematicians are now looking at it with respect. In the West, due to Christianity, the notion was that God created the world only a few days ago—four thousand four years ago. This has proved utterly wrong—harming Christianity—for they insisted their book says so. But their own scientists have discovered that this earth is about four billion years old—and you say four thousand four years! There are remains in the earth which give evidence of millions of years. That notion fell. But the Hindu notion did not.
The Hindu arithmetic is of billions of years—and these billions they called one day of Brahma. The beginning of nature, creation and dissolution—they called it the day of Brahma—one day of the Divine. For us billions of years; for the Divine, one day. Then comes the night—pralaya—when everything sleeps—nature in totality.
After all, nature too will tire. Not only you tire by day—trees, plants, mountains, this earth, moons, stars—all will tire. This vision of fatigue is very clear in India. If you tire, one day everything will tire—however long its span. The day everything tires and falls into rest—that is pralaya—Brahma’s night.
Even that day He remains awake—He is that Paramatma of whom you asked.
The relationship between you and your body is the same as between nature and Paramatma. You can say: this entire world is His body. You are a miniature cosmos. The body and you—so nature and the Divine. When all sleep—He remains awake.
Therefore Krishna says in the Gita: the yogi remains awake even when the worldly man sleeps. The night is not darkness for him within. Only his body sleeps; within he is continuously awake.
As your awareness grows, you will find that you remain awake even in sleep. And the day you feel: even in sleep I am awake—sleep too is a direct experience—know then that the pegs at the body’s shore have begun to loosen, and the boat has begun to drift toward the soul.
Now prepare for meditation.