Kathopanishad #1

The Upanishads are unique scriptures on this earth concerning the mystery of life. And among all the Upanishads, the Katha Upanishad is unique again. Before we enter the Upanishad, we must understand its inner prelude.

First, whoever wishes to know life in this world has no other way but to pass through death himself.

If one would know life, one must learn the art of dying. He who is afraid of death remains unacquainted with life as well—for death is the innermost, the most secret center of life. Only those come to know life who can enter death consciously, alertly, with a welcome in their heart.

All die—but not all, by dying, come to know life.

We too have died many times. And we are afraid we shall have to die many more. But our dying happens by compulsion. We do not want to die—we have to die; therefore death becomes a sorrow, a pain, a torment. And the pain of death is so intense that there remains but one way to bear it—that you fall unconscious. Hence, even before death arrives, we become unconscious. Surgeons discovered much later that the way to escape pain is anesthesia; but Nature has always known—out of fear of death, out of pain, consciousness faints.

We all die in a swoon. We have died many times—unconscious. That is why we have no remembrance. We have been born many times too—yet in unconsciousness. We remember not even that. Leave aside the past—this much is certain, that this time you were born. Yet you have no memory of this birth either.

He whose death happens in unconsciousness, his birth too happens in unconsciousness. For death and birth are two faces of the same coin. He who is unconscious at one end, will be unconscious at the other as well. He who dies unconscious, is born unconscious. Therefore we have no remembrance of birth.

You have heard that you were born. Father and mother say so; the family and the society say so. You yourself were born—yet you have no memory of your birth. All die, but die unconscious; therefore what can be learned from death is missed.

Dharma is the art of dying consciously.

Dharma is the science of entering death knowingly, with understanding.

And one who enters death consciously—death ends forever for him. For dying consciously, he knows: I am not dying at all. Dying consciously, he knows: that which is dying is my body, my sheath; no more than a garment. And my inner consciousness glows even in death. The storm of death cannot extinguish it.

For the one who knows in death—who is awake, full of awareness—death is finished. Death exists only for the one who dies unconscious. For the one who dies consciously—there is no death. Then death itself becomes the gateway to the immortal.

He who dies consciously is also born consciously. And one who is born consciously—his whole quality of life is transformed; he lives consciously too. Every fiber of him, every particle of his awareness, becomes filled with light, with knowing, with Buddhahood.

He who is born consciously—no death remains for him. No birth remains. Then this body falls away, but immersion in the Supreme Brahman remains. The wise have called it Nirvana, Brahma-realization, Moksha, Kaivalya.

For one who, recognizing death, has known the immortal, there remains no longer any reason to be bound to the body. We are joined to the body because we are unconscious. Unconsciousness is our bridge to the body, our link. With awareness—the link breaks. The body is separate and we are separate. And as this remembrance of separateness deepens, so too death is no more—because only the body dies, only the body is born. That which is hidden within the body—the bodiless—neither is born nor dies. It is life itself. How can life die?

And that which dies—its life was a deception, a loan. He who dies—there was no meaning in his life.

It is a strange truth. Man is the sum of two. One is the body—subject to dying. It is already dead. And one is the immortal Atman—it is life itself. Only due to the intimacy of the Atman does the body appear alive.

The body’s aliveness is borrowed, a reflection. As when you stand before a mirror and you appear in it. That which appears in the mirror is borrowed; it is not real. You move away and it moves away from the mirror. It is a reflection, not reality. It can give news of reality, it can hint toward it; but if someone takes it for reality itself, he will go astray—his connection with truth will be cut off forever.

The body only gives news—of the life hidden within. The body seems alive only because of the nearness, the presence. The Atman’s vitality is so intense that even a dead body appears alive. But one who takes the body’s life to be life itself is deprived of knowing life.

To enter death means—to step away from the mirror and enter the original. This is the very essence of this Upanishad. The rest is story.

But the rest of the story is very sweet—and points to many unique truths.

You must have read the Katha Upanishad many times, heard many talks upon it. But the Katha Upanishad is not as simple as it seems.

Remember, what is most difficult the Rishis have tried to say in the simplest way. Because the matters themselves are so difficult that even when told simply, they will not be easily understood. If said straight, you would have no connection with them at all.

The Katha Upanishad is a tale, a story. But within that story is all that is hidden in life. We shall begin to unfold it, layer by layer.

Om—remembering the name of the Supreme, compact with Sat-Chit-Ananda, we begin the Upanishad.

Beginning with the remembrance of the Divine!

In life we begin many things—but almost every beginning is with the remembrance of the ego. Whatever we do, in it the I is present. In truth, we do for this very reason—that the I may become thicker, denser, stronger. All our actions are efforts to fortify the I. Our entire sense of doership is an attempt to fill the ego. Therefore, in the world everything may begin with ego—but Dharma cannot begin with ego. Dharma will begin with egolessness.

The remembrance of the Divine is a remembrance that I am not, You are. My being is as good as not-being. I begin with Your remembrance means: I step away from the center. You are at the center. I become the periphery. I become secondary; You are the primary.

If the remembrance of the Divine is real, then by that remembrance alone all can happen. Perhaps there would be no need to go further into the Upanishad. Mere remembrance—that You are the All, and I am nothing—if this were to become truly real, alive, an experience; if our whole life-breath were filled with this one feeling, if each heartbeat rose with the same resonance of remembrance—then perhaps there would be no need to go further. Or, what has been said further has been said by those who were filled with such remembrance. For those who have known this remembrance, all the mysteries of life opened. For them, no veil remained. For them, life became an open book.

The Rishi says: With the remembrance of the Lord we begin this Upanishad. I would say to you as well—let us begin this meditation camp not from ourselves, but from remembrance of the Divine. Whoever begins from himself will return empty-handed. Whoever begins from himself has come in vain. He has not come at all. For meditation begins where you end. As far as you are, there is no meditation. Your death—your dying—is meditation.

The remembrance of the Divine means: I am not so valuable that I should be remembered. I step aside; I make space. And when you make space—like opening a door and letting the sun enter—no sooner do you step aside than the eternal light begins to pour within you. Besides you, there is no other obstacle.

People come and ask me, What is the obstacle? What is the hindrance? They try hard to meditate; it doesn’t happen. They pray; it remains incomplete. They remember—and yet it slips, it breaks. They turn the mala in their hands—the beads keep turning, but within something else keeps revolving. They go to the temple—and cannot arrive. They read the scriptures—and their life does not throb with it. What is the obstacle? What is the hindrance?

If there were another obstacle, I could remove it. You are the obstacle. Other than you, none can remove this hindrance.

Remembrance of the Divine means: I put myself aside, I forget myself—and I remember You.

But we are amusing creatures. Even when we remember the Divine, it is still we who remember. And where you are, the Divine cannot be. There is no way for you and Him to meet. Your meeting Him is impossible—there never has been such a meeting. It is as impossible as the meeting of light and darkness. When darkness is, light is not. When light is, darkness is not.

You are darkness. Even our remembrance of the Divine is within this darkness. We make even remembrance a part of this darkness. Our religion is smaller than ourselves; our prayer is smaller than ourselves. And just as we keep other things in our possession, we keep our prayer too. But the master remains the ego.

Remembrance of the Divine means: now I am not. And if once, with the whole heart, this sense arises—that I am not—then you become all. There is nothing more to attain.

Remembrance of the Divine is self-forgetting.

Remembrance of the self is forgetting the Divine.

That which is hidden within us will remain hidden as long as our ego—as long as the sense of I—is strong. The moment the I recedes, that which is hidden within is revealed. That which is hidden within is the Divine.

The Divine is not seated somewhere in the sky. If you are sending your prayers toward the sky, you are sending them in vain. Nor is the Divine hidden in some temple. If you are seeking a temple, you are wasting time and life. The Divine is hidden within you. But so long as you are, that which is within cannot be revealed. Just as a seed, when it breaks, sprouts and becomes a tree—the seed coat hides the tree.

Until you break and mingle in the soil, until you dissolve, until you die, that which is hidden within will not be revealed. You are the obstacle. Hence the Upanishad begins with remembrance of the Divine.

It is said: The son of Vajashrava, Uddalaka—desiring the fruit of sacrifice—gave away all his wealth to the Brahmins in a Vishvajit Yajna. He had a son famed by the name Nachiketa.

We must unfold this story layer by layer.

It is said: Uddalaka, son of Vajashrava, desiring the fruit of sacrifice, gave away all his wealth to the Brahmins in a Vishvajit Yajna.

So much is hidden in this one sentence! First—people, even in the name of religion, desire to conquer the world. Vishvajit Yajna—May I conquer the whole world! May I be lord of all! People renounce too—but only to gain! Then renunciation becomes futile. That renunciation has no value at all which is done for some enjoyment. What meaning is there in a renunciation behind which there is the desire, the lust to get! It is a bargain, not renunciation.

You too renounce. Everyone does in this way. To buy something in the market you must empty your pocket—but you do not call that renunciation. You call it a deal. When you want to gain, you must give something—but no one calls that giving renunciation.

Renunciation means: when one gives and does not want to get. When there is giving, but no asking. When one only gives—and lays down no conditions for return. One who does not say, I give for this reason. One who does not say, I give to get that. Such giving is dana. Otherwise, dana is a deception.

If you give in order to obtain heaven, you are only extending the shop. You are making an investment. You set out to purchase heaven. And whatever can be purchased will be hell. Whatever can be purchased will be samsara.

The Divine cannot be bought. Therefore if you give something to attain the Divine, you will not find Him. You may give away the whole world—but if the desire to get remains within, then the whole world still remains within. Desire is the world.

Buddha said: Desire, thirst, craving—this is the world. Not the world spread outside as you see it—no. That will remain as it is. It was there when you were not; it will be there when you are no more. It remains even when one like Buddha is free of all desire. This world remains. There is no question of the world—there is question of that craving which you stretch from within toward the world. Those hands of desire that spread like wings and would clutch the entire world.

The Rishi of the Upanishad is saying: Uddalaka performed a Vishvajit Yajna—Let me be the conqueror of the world.

He who wants to be a conqueror of the world—what has he to do with Dharma! This is the desire of Alexander, of Napoleon, of Hitler. The wish of all the insane is this.

Jesus said: Even if you gain the whole world and lose your own self—what will it profit you? Uddalaka is full of the urge to conquer the world. There is no urge to find himself. No thought of the self is in sight.

Uddalaka has no connection with Dharma. He is high-born. His lineage is famous. Clever, intelligent, a scholar. He performs sacrifice—but to conquer the world! He is not wise—he is experienced. He has age. Yet his experience has not distilled into wisdom. Therefore in the name of religion whatever he does will be merely formal—only formality, no inner soul. He gave all his wealth to the Brahmins; but the lust is there—for world-conquest, for renown, for fame! The lust is for ego!

The ego can leave everything—only do not leave the ego itself unguarded. The ego can leave everything; it can kick palaces, kick thrones, throw away wealth, abandon wife and children. The ego can leave everything—if only you agree to preserve the ego alone. The ego fears only one thing—that you might leave it. Leave all else. For the ego is very cunning; whatever you leave, it fills itself with that very leaving.

Ego is not filled only by wealth—it fills itself with renunciation too. The arithmetic of ego is very clear. It makes no difference whether you live in a palace or a hut. You can leave the palace and live in a hut, and the ego will strut—“I kicked palaces! What is there in palaces for me!” The ego can stand naked—“I kicked clothes!” The ego can take relish from anything.

So Uddalaka has given—no lack in the giving. Therefore, do not be overawed by your small acts of charity. Uddalaka gave everything, all—yet his intelligence is not even as pure as that of a small child. His own son, Nachiketa, who knows nothing yet, is purer, more innocent. Even he can see that Father is making a great mistake.

Understand this too.

Many times what the father cannot see, the son sees. For the father’s intelligence is often dust-laden. The bitter-sweet experiences of time and life do not refine intelligence—they blunt it; it rusts. Do not think that with age one becomes wise. One becomes old—not wise.

Truth is: the child has a cleaner intelligence. The child has an innocent eye. He sees things straight. He has an honest heart—not because he has practiced honesty, but because he knows not yet what dishonesty is. Soon he too will become dishonest, for you all are busy teaching him. There are mother and father, family and society, universities and teachers—all engaged in teaching. Before he can protect his innocence, we shall inject all our poisons. He is useful to us only when he is corrupted, when he is sick.

All our systems of education devise means to destroy that innocent intelligence with which every person is born—a clean heart, upon which no stain has yet fallen. But stains will come. This clean heart is no achievement. It will soon be soiled. He too must go into the world. His father once had such a clean heart.

Therefore childhood is a natural event; there is no glory in it. But when one has grown old and yet regains the eyes of a child—then there is glory. When even as an old man one does not allow the heart to grow old, keeps it fresh and innocent—then there is glory.

Hence Jesus said: Only those shall enter the kingdom of my Father who are like little children. Like little children! Had Jesus known of Nachiketa, he would surely have named him. For in all history it is difficult to find a heart as pure as Nachiketa’s. Every child has it.

Do not think your child does not have it. Uddalaka could not understand; you too will not. Just listen closely to your son, your daughter. Uddalaka did not listen; you too will not. You think sons are foolish—you are the wise. People take age as a synonym for wisdom!

If only we could listen to children carefully. If only we could set aside our cleverness and listen to them—millions of Upanishads like the Katha would be born. Some Rishi grasped this tale; Uddalaka did not.

What happened? What happens every day? This happens daily. You lost your childhood—you sold it. You purchased a few things of the world. To buy them you had to sell your innocence. You enlarged some safe, built some house, bought some land—you lost childhood.

And when a child says something to you, you two do not understand each other’s language. The child speaks from another world. For the child, other things are valuable. You speak from yet another world. There is a great gap between you. You have lost your childhood. There is a gulf between you both.

When the child speaks, you do not understand. When you speak, there is no way the child can understand. If the child runs after butterflies—you think he is mad. And when you count money every night, sitting with doors closed—the child cannot understand: so many beautiful butterflies in the world, and what has happened to this old father that he counts filthy scraps of paper! The child will throw these papers away, tear them up. And if he tears your notes, your soul is torn. You cannot imagine that for the child these notes have no value. For notes to have value one needs a mind perverted like yours. Then value arises—because value is injected.

I once saw—in a house where I was staying—the father scolding his son: I told you twenty-five times—do not hit your little brother. And still you hit him! I explained so many times that hitting one younger than yourself is bad! And the father slaps him. The boy, startled, looks up and says: I too am small—and you are big! But the father does not at all see there is a mistake here.

The boy can see: If I hit one smaller than myself, it is wrong; and one bigger than me hits me—and for this very reason, that hitting the small is wrong—so there is no mistake! And what is the child learning from this? He is learning only this: it is not wrong to hit the small—what is needed is to become big. This child will be big tomorrow. And the father will become small, old. Then with many clever devices the child will also hit the father.

All children hit their fathers. Devices change. And fathers then suffer and are unhappy. They do not know—it is only the echo of their own voice returning. They are reaping the crop of seeds they sowed. The time for harvest has come.

If one could understand the language of children, it would become very easy to understand the language of saints. Saints often become like children. Not exactly children—but childlike. All of life’s experience remains with them. They passed through the place where blackening could happen—and passed without being blackened.

Kabir said: I have returned your robe as you gave it. That robe you gave me—I have kept it just as it was, safe; I let not a single stain fall upon it. This means: I have returned childhood into your hands. He says to the Divine: As the child you sent me, as that child I have returned in death.

If, at the time of death, one is as innocent and simple as a child—no obstacle remains to his liberation.

He had a son named Nachiketa... When the cows were brought as dakshina to be given to the Brahmins—

This the child saw—the father did not.

These cows have drunk their last water, eaten their last fodder, their last milk has been milked. Nachiketa began to wonder: What meaning is there in giving such cows in charity?

But people give cows in charity only when their last milk has been milked. Not only cows—of everything you give only when the last drop has been squeezed.

Among the Christians there is a small and unique sect—the Quakers. The Quaker rule is: every week give something in charity. But give that which is dearest to you. That which you would absolutely not want to give—give that; otherwise charity has no meaning.

You too give charity. The junk that piles up in your house, that which you no longer need—that is what you give.

You may think great rich men give much. For them money is no longer needed; the milk has been drawn. Money has a limit—beyond that no milk can be taken out of it. Understand—Andrew Carnegie or Ford or Rockefeller or Birla—what can they now buy with money that they don’t already have! What money can buy—they have purchased. Now money is futile. What to do with it now? Now they begin to try to purchase heaven. Thus Birla temples begin to arise! The cow’s milk has been sucked dry. From this money nothing more could be had—what could be had has been had—and the money became useless. Useless money is then turned toward the Divine. Not the heart—but the garbage is offered.

Nachiketa began to see. The Rishi of the Upanishad says: A wave of reverence arose in Nachiketa.

In truth, simplicity is reverence. Innocence is reverence.

Nachiketa cannot argue, but no argument is needed. Even a small child can see—this cow gives no milk; why is it being given in charity?

The father will be angry—because the word stings. It touches a wound. Sons often touch the wound. This word stings the father—for the father knows too that these cows give no milk; that is why he gives them away. If milk still remained, he would not give. The father is not as naive as Nachiketa.

For a pure eye a kind of un-worldly foolishness is needed. Cleverness becomes cunning. Hence, as the world becomes educated, it becomes cunning. People ask me: so many pass out of universities—yet cunning should lessen; it increases! I say—it will. For with cleverness cunning grows. When a man does arithmetic precisely, arranges logic exactly—cunning will grow, not lessen. The more universal the education, the more universal the cunning. So it has happened.

Educate anyone—and if he yet remains simple, know he is a saint. With education, simplicity is lost.

This father knows—he is smart. He knows arithmetic. He knows: give the cow only when the milk is exhausted. Then by losing the cow nothing is lost; and by giving, something is gained. He will stand before God and say: I gave a thousand cows in charity.

But you cannot deceive a small child—will you deceive God? Nachiketa felt, What is happening here? Seeing these decrepit cows, faith arose in him; innocence awakened; simplicity awakened—not cunning.

In my understanding, atheism is a matter of arithmetic; theism is innocence. The atheist says, I can prove that God is not. He has logic and calculation. And when a theist says, I can prove God is, know that he is not a theist either—he too is an atheist.

The theist says: I cannot prove—but God is. The theist says: even if you prove God is not, I will yet say—God is. For God’s being is not a matter of arithmetic, logic, intellect; it is my heart’s deep experience. The theist says: however much you try, however much you prove—by all your proving you only prove that you are clever, skilled, a logician; God is not disproved by it.

Keshav Chandra once came to Ramakrishna to prove that God is not. He hoped Ramakrishna would respond. But when Keshav began to argue, at every argument Ramakrishna would rise and embrace him. Keshav was in great difficulty! He was disproving God—and this simpleton did not understand, or what was the matter? A theist should be angry, should answer, should rebut. When no rebuttal came, Keshav was baffled, and his companions too—who had come to enjoy the scene. They thought this rustic, unlettered Ramakrishna would be cornered. But it is difficult to disgrace a simpleton. How will you disgrace the uncalculating? You can disgrace the calculating!

When Keshav tired and saddened, he asked, Will you not answer? Ramakrishna said, What shall I answer? Seeing you, my trust that God is has grown even firmer. Keshav said, Seeing me? Ramakrishna said, Seeing you—for such brilliance cannot be in the world without God. Who but God could disprove God!

This is the theist.

So the Rishi says: reverence dawned in Nachiketa, and he felt: what is Father doing, giving these decrepit cows!

Those who have drunk their last water, whose eating of grass is ended, whose last milk has been drawn, whose senses are destroyed—such useless, dying cows—he who gives them as gifts attains low wombs, the worlds of hell, where all joy is ended, all joys are void. Therefore, Father must be warned.

He felt: this is deceit, dishonesty. And not ordinary deceit—deceit of the Divine.

If someone picks your pocket—he deceives you. One man deceives another—that can be understood. But when someone sets out to deceive the Supreme Power, how can the result be anything but great misery? How will you deceive the Supreme?

The Supreme is seated in the innermost of our heart. Uddalaka must know this. That which Nachiketa says—within Uddalaka too a childhood is hidden; he knows. Even the most dishonest knows within that it is dishonesty; the thief knows it is theft; the deceiver knows he is deceiving. That inner child, that innocent element, cannot be destroyed. However deep we may have buried it, it is there—alive—and it presses from within.

Hearing Nachiketa, the father grew angry—for the father’s own Nachiketa within must have stirred, struck by the blow. He too must have felt within that the word is true.

Mark this: when someone speaks a lie, anger does not arise. When someone speaks truth—anger arises. If you are not a thief, and someone says, You are a thief—you can laugh; there is no reason to be angry. But if you are a thief, and someone says, You are a thief—you are filled with fire, for he has touched a wound. He has brought out something you had hidden. He has pressed a nerve, and the pus begins to flow. So whenever you are angry, know some truth has come close to you. Anger indicates the wound has been touched.

Buddha and Mahavira do not grow angry—because there is no wound you can touch. There is nothing hidden you can expose. All is exposed. If we abuse saints and they laugh, it is not that your abuse delights them. The only reason is—you are doing something laughable—ridiculous. You are making yourself the joke. Your abuse is meaningless, out of tune with anything.

When someone abuses you, you immediately stand to defend. Whom are you defending? Something is hidden inside that the abuse will break; something hidden that the abuse will reveal; something hidden that the abuse will make you aware of.

The father was annoyed—for the son had touched the wound exactly. He had put his hand precisely where it hurts.

Nachiketa thought: I should warn Father. But it is very difficult. Whenever a son warns a father, the father feels hurt. He cannot accept that you can be wiser than he! Impossible.

The father of Jesus could not accept that Jesus was wise. Nor could the father of Buddha accept that Buddha was wise. The father of Buddha said—after Buddha had become enlightened—Leave your foolishness, come home. Enough now. I am your father; I can still forgive you. I have a father’s heart. Stop this wandering. In my lineage none ever begged alms—and you, in my own capital, go about as a beggar! Do not drown my face in shame. Do not destroy my reputation.

Consider—Buddha’s father was no unlettered man; he was a king. Educated, cultured, learned in the scriptures, surrounded by scholars. Yet to recognize a Buddha is difficult.

The father’s ego cannot accept that before me—and my son—has attained knowledge! Buddha said humbly, You are right—no one in your lineage has begged. But as far as I know, I am an ancient beggar. I have begged before. The father said, Do you know yourself more than I know you? My blood flows in your veins; my bones are your bones. I gave you birth. I know you well. Buddha said, You are making a small mistake. I was born through you—not by you. You were a road by which I came. But you are not my creator.

Naturally, when a son says to a father, You are not my creator—there will be pain; the ego is wounded. Buddha said, You were a crossroads through which I passed. But my journey is very ancient. I was before I was born to you.

Someone said to Jesus—Your father and mother have come to see you. Jesus said, Who are my father and who my mother! A strange statement. For I was, even before them. Before Abraham, I am.

Knowledge hurts the father’s ego. Therefore if a son would warn his father, let him do so with great care. There is danger. To warn another is all right—but warning the father is dangerous, for there the ego is deeply struck. My son—to warn me! He who came after me, born from me—he warns me!

Nachiketa made that mistake. From an innocent heart such mistakes happen—they must. He felt Father was falling into error. This charity is false, this is dishonesty, deceit—and its consequence will be great suffering.

Thinking thus he said to his father, To whom will you give me?

For the father had said, I will give away all that is mine. Nachiketa thought: I too am his—and when all is given away, I too must be given.

Fathers consider sons their property. Husbands think of wives as their property. We even turn persons into possessions—we say, mine!

In a world where even things are not mine, how can a person be mine? To possess a person is madness. Yet the father feels, The son is mine.

So Nachiketa felt: Father says, Nachiketa, you are mine; and says, I will give away everything. It follows simply that now I too will be given away. So let me ask—to whom will you give me? This is the question arising in a simple heart. If you are giving away everything, will you give away your attachment too, or not? Will you give away your possessiveness too, or not? Will you give away your delusion too, or not? This son whom you call mine—will I too be given away, or not? Nachiketa has asked the right question. The truth is that it is possessiveness that must be dropped; abandoning objects and persons has no real meaning. One should drop the feeling of “mine-ness.” So, the cows are old and you are giving them away—fine. To whom will you donate me? To whom am I going to be sent? This made the hurt even deeper. The father felt, “This boy is going beyond all limits!” Even the father had not imagined that when he said, “I will give away everything,” it would include giving his own son in charity. He had not thought that at all—nor was there any reason to think so. He was relinquishing wealth, not attachment and possessiveness. But the son provoked him. The wound must have gone deep. “To whom will you give me?” The father fell silent.

Silence does not prove a man is not angry. Often a man becomes silent out of anger. If the son had been clever, he too would have fallen silent; he would have sensed the father’s anger. But he was a simple, straightforward child—he asked again, and again a third time, “To whom will you give me?” The father flared up. And as any father would say, quite naturally the father said, “I give you to Death.” Often when a father is upset he says, “It would have been better had you never been born.” When a mother is upset she says, “Go die; get out of my sight; disappear.”

Uddalak said, “I give you to Death.”

This is very natural. He who has given birth—if utterly enraged—can also give death. In fact, an angry father would want to kill the son: “Whom I made, I will unmake.” There is a deep psychology behind this.

In the father’s mind, the idea of giving birth carries secretly, along with it, the idea of giving death. The two go together. That is why no son is ever easily able to forgive his father. It is very difficult. And when a son does forgive his father, the supreme flower of saintliness blooms. Sons remain set against their fathers.

Turgenev wrote a remarkable book—Fathers and Sons—in which he built the whole narrative on an original, essential idea. Turgenev’s view is that the conflict between father and son is ancient, perennial, eternal. The father fights the son, the son fights the father. And that same conflict broadens into a struggle between generations. Generations begin to clash. Today there is conflict all over the world. The generation of sons is doing something else, the generation of fathers is saying something else. There is a gulf between them. There is no dialogue left in-between.

And the more affluent a country is, the wider the gap between father and son becomes. The poorer the country, the smaller the gap. Because the more affluent the nation, the more the sons are educated and the longer they remain young. In poor lands even a ten- or twelve-year-old boy goes to work. Then child marriage happens, and he himself becomes a father. Before he can truly become a son and fight his father, he himself becomes a father. This child-marriage may be an old invention of fathers: before the son creates upheaval, turn him into a father. The moment he becomes a father, he becomes a stakeholder and partner in the fathers’ generation.

You will be surprised to know that until you become a father, you remain young. The day you become a father, that very day you become old. A deep transformation happens within. Until a man marries and has a child, his ways are different. He can be a wanderer. He does not worry about security. He can kick money aside; he can fight society; he can be a rebel. The moment he marries, it is as if he is tethered to a stake. The house surrounds him from all sides. But when a son is born, he becomes old. He begins to think like a father. He even begins to find his father’s words sensible.

It is a great fun-fact: until you become a father you will not find your father’s words right. You will feel, “The old man has gone senile. His mind is rotten. Why are you talking the same worn-out things from some ancient time?” But the moment you become a father, you start saying the same worn-out, old-time things yourself.

In America the young are hippies in large numbers. But as soon as they marry and have a child, the hippie vanishes. They return to society. They begin to find their fathers’ words right: “Father was correct.” In truth, there is no other way than experience. Until you become a father, you cannot understand the father’s standpoint.

This ongoing struggle between children, youth and elders has the same cause: the father, having given birth, wants to be the complete owner. He will not like even a little rebellion. He wants the son to be his reflection, his echo, his voice. If he says night—then night; if he says day—then day.

But there is a difficulty. The son has his own ego. As the son grows, his ego strengthens. The son wants to be independent. On many occasions, even if it is day and the father says it is day, the son will say it is night—because apart from rebelling against the father, his ego has no way to stand up. By fighting the father, the ego gets formed. The more the son fights the father, the more the father tries to suppress him. And in the father’s mind, because he has given birth, the thought is lurking that if he wishes, he can also give death.

Nachiketa’s father said, “I will give you to Death.” Nachiketa accepted that. Sons at such a young age cannot argue. Faith does not argue. Innocence does not argue. He accepted that surely he would be given to Death. He accepted it.

This quality of acceptance is revolutionary. And this was no small acceptance! He did not ask, “Why will you give me to Death?” He did not say, “Have you gone mad that you will give me to Death? What wrong have I done that you will give me to Death?” He neither argued nor assumed that being given to Death was something bad. He thought, “If father gives me to Death, it must be right. If father gives me to Death, then surely the Lord of Death must have some need of me.” He accepted it. This acceptance is the foundation of this entire scripture. One who accepts even death will go beyond death and become immortal.

There is another, more esoteric secret in the father’s words. The ancient scriptures have said that Death is the guru. And they have also said that the guru is in the form of death. Because when the disciple goes to the guru, the guru cuts him, erases him—erases him so much that he does not remain. A pure void arises within. Samadhi is formed. In that samadhi alone is the vision of the Supreme.

There is a difference between a teacher and a guru. A teacher gives you something; a guru takes something away from you. A teacher fills you; a guru empties you. A teacher gives you information; a guru takes away what so-called knowledge—your ego—thinks it knows. A teacher gives you livelihood; a guru gives you life.

To give livelihood, one has to teach you things: mathematics, geography, history, science, chemistry, physics. But to give knowing, whatever you have learned has to be unlearned. It has to be erased.

In school, college, university there are teachers. The guru has been lost in this century. The guru was one to whom you went when you were tired of learning and wanted to put down the burden.

Hence the scriptures say the guru is in the form of death—he kills. He effaces you. And when you return, you are reborn; you come back new, dvija, twice-born. One womb is the mother’s, and one womb is also the guru’s.

Death is the guru. This is the hidden thread of this story. And for Nachiketa, Death indeed proved to be the guru. It can prove to be the same for you as well.

If you learn how to die, you will gain everything worth gaining. Nothing will remain to be gained.

I have called you here so that you too can become Nachiketa. Here I would also like to place you in the hands of Death. I would like Death to surround you from all sides, and for whatever in you can die to die. And whatever cannot die—what death has no way to kill—let only that remain within you, shining. Let the rubbish burn away; let the gold be refined. You too will have to pass through this fire.

Further on, Death says to Nachiketa that the fire shall be known by your name—the fire by passing through which a man becomes new and attains immortality.

Hearing this, Nachiketa began to think within: “I have been walking on first-grade conduct. Whatever is called auspicious, I have done. If sometimes difficulties arose and I could not follow the highest conduct, even then I certainly followed the middle course. Never have I adopted the low. Then why did father say such a thing? Surely Death must have some work. But what work of Death could there be that might be accomplished through me? Of what use could I be to Death?”

Reflect on this.

Naturally, when someone says to you, “I will give you to Death,” the first thought is that you must have some fault, some error, for which you are being punished. But Nachiketa thought, “I have committed no such fault. Whatever is considered auspicious, I do. And even if I sometimes slip, I do not fall to the lowest; I remain at least in the middle. Then there is no reason for blame in me. Only one thing remains: that Death has some work which could be fulfilled through me. Surely father is giving me to Death for this reason.”

This is very worth pondering: even here, Nachiketa does not think that father must be giving him away out of anger. This is the mark of a religious mind. It first looks for its own fault—“Perhaps I have erred.” He cannot find an error. Then he thinks, “Yama must have some work which I can do.” But he cannot imagine what work of Yama could be done by him. Yet not even by mistake does it occur to him that the father is angry—that the father is at fault. Such a thought does not arise.

Religion begins in life when a person sees his own faults. We are all always engaged in seeing the faults of the other. If someone abuses you, you think the one who abused has created the disturbance. That you might be worthy of abuse does not even occur to you. That the abuse might be perfectly apt, might touch you precisely, might be exactly suitable—this does not come to mind. Or that the abuse might have some purpose—that the giver has given it so that some work may be accomplished—this too does not occur. What occurs is: “This man is wicked. This man is a devil.” This is the difference between the religious and the irreligious mind.

The rishi says: Nachiketa began to think. But the delightful thing is—he did not even slightly think that the father spoke out of anger. And yet the father had said it out of anger.

So the issue is not whether the other abused you out of madness. He might well have abused you out of derangement, a fire burning within him—he might be a devil. That is not the issue. The issue is how you think. If you think, “He abused me due to some fault in me,” you will set about changing your life. If you think, “It is his fault,” you will not pay attention to yourself at all.

And if this becomes your style of thinking—as it has—that fault is always seen in the other, then life remains unchanged. How can any transformation, any revolution happen? Whether the other is right or wrong is not the question. The decisive thing is that my attention remain on myself—then slowly I will change myself. And a thread of new life can begin within me.

He said to his father, “Reflect upon the conduct that your forefathers have always followed. And also look at the conduct of other noble people today. Then decide your duty. This mortal man ripens like grain—that is, he grows old and dies—and like grain he is born again.”

This metaphor of a little child is worth thinking about. In truth, those peoples who still live like innocent children—tribal people in the forests—their way of thinking and reflection is just this.

Therefore, hearing Nachiketa speak like this, do not think, “How can such a small child speak such wisdom—that just as grain ripens and falls, then sprouts again, ripens and falls again, so too is the cycle of birth and life? This is deep knowledge; how can such a small boy say it?” Please understand: peoples who are still primitive, who still live in very ancient ways, close to nature, who have not constructed scientific civilization—their way of thinking is just this.

If we look at life, it is circular. In the morning the sun rises; in the evening it sets. Then it rises again; it sets again. A circle is formed. Summer comes, rains come, winter comes; then again summer, again rains, again winter—a circle is formed. The seasons go round and round. The crop grows, seed ripens, seed falls; then sprouts, crop ripens, seed falls—there is a circle.

So all societies that think with a guileless mind have not considered man an exception. They have said: as the seed falls, ripens, falls, ripens, such is birth and death. Man dies, is born again, dies again, is born again. All life is circular. The moon and stars revolve in circles. The seasons go round. Man’s life too is circular.

Children can understand this metaphor: when everything is circular, man cannot be linear. He too must be circular.

There is a great difference between Western and Eastern thought in this regard. The West thinks: life is linear, moving along a straight line like railway tracks. The East thinks: not so; the entire movement of life is in a circle. Childhood, youth, old age—then childhood again. Where the beginning is, there is the end; then beginning again, then end again. Hence we have conceived of the circle of birth and death.

The word samsara means wheel, a turning wheel. That chakra which we have put on India’s national flag is very ancient. Ashoka had it carved on his pillars, in line with the Buddha’s teaching. Because Buddha says life turns like a wheel. Life does not move in a straight line.

So the little boy began to say, “There is nothing to worry about if you give me to Death, because man dies and is born again. No death is final. There will be birth again and again. It is not important that you give me to Death. I only request that you reflect a little and consider whether you are saying this in anger.”

This is worth understanding a bit.

He is not saying here, “Do not give me to Death,” or “Giving me to Death is bad.” He is saying, “If you are giving me away in anger, you will needlessly suffer due to that anger.”

“Give me to Death. No one actually dies. All things return to their source. From Gangotri the Ganga flows, falls into the ocean, then as vapor rises into the sky, then clouds rain again over Gangotri and the Ganga begins to flow once more. So I too shall return like the crop. There is no harm in giving me to Death. But please reflect a little whether you are saying this out of some inner pain, anger, sorrow, anguish.”

Remember, if you are even alert for a moment, anger dissolves. Even for a moment—if you wake up consciously—anger dissolves. There is only one remedy for anger, one antidote: become filled with awareness. When anger arises, close your eyes and be alert. You will find: as awareness increases here, anger declines there. The very energy of anger, the very power of anger, becomes awareness.

Buddha has said: I do not say, “Do not be angry.” Be angry with awareness. But no one can be angry with awareness. Buddha has said: I do not say, “Do not steal.” Steal with awareness. But no one can steal with awareness.

Whatever is bad in life happens in unconsciousness. Whatever is auspicious happens in awareness. If awareness is complete, whatever happens will be auspicious. If unconsciousness is deep, whatever happens will be inauspicious.

Actions are neither auspicious nor inauspicious in themselves. Everything depends on the doer’s awareness. It is possible that in unconsciousness you might be doing a good deed and feel you are doing good—its result will still be bad. And it is possible that someone does something with awareness and you feel it is bad—yet it will be good. The final decisive factor is: how deep is the inner awareness, how awakened is the person—not asleep. Sleep is sin; wakefulness is virtue.

Nachiketa began to say to his father, “Whatever you do, think a little; be filled with a little discrimination.”

“For this impermanent life, one should never abandon one’s duty and fall into false conduct. Abandon your grief, adhere to your truth, and grant me permission to go to Death.”

Surely hearing these words of Nachiketa, the father must have felt sorrow. Awareness must have dawned; a slight shock must have been felt. He must have felt, “What have I said! What words have I uttered!” A father may say to his son, “Go, die!”—but it has no real meaning. A moment later he thinks, “What have I said!” A moment later attachment returns. And these words of the son are so precious—the essence of a whole life—that even the father must have felt—though it is very hard for a father to feel—that the son is speaking rightly; and he must have felt remorse.

Nachiketa must have seen sadness in his father’s eyes, on his face. So he says, “Abandon your grief, and fulfill the word you have given—that you will give me to Death. Fulfill what you have said; do not now make it untrue.”

Hearing the son’s words, Uddalak was pained. But there was no other way now. And seeing Nachiketa’s truthfulness, he sent him to Yama. When Nachiketa reached Yama’s abode, he learned that Yama was away. Therefore, Nachiketa waited three days, without food or water, for Yama’s return.

There was no alternative. The word had been given. And Nachiketa was pressing, “Do not grieve now; what has happened has happened. What is done cannot be undone; and you have given your word—now send me.” So he was sent to Death. This is a story, a symbol. There is no Yama sitting somewhere to whom you can be sent. But the story is very sweet and points in many directions.

Nachiketa reached the door of Death. He knocked at Death’s gate. But Death was out. Understand two things in this. First, other than Nachiketa, no one has ever knocked at Death’s door. Death always knocks at your door. And you are always found at home—never outside! Where would you be outside? There is no way to be outside.

The body is the house. And whenever Death knocks, it finds you there. Nachiketa went to Death’s door—the whole event turned upside down. Because ordinarily Death comes to man; man does not go to Death. And when man goes to Death, everything reverses. These are symbols of that reversal. Nachiketa went and did not find Death at home.

The whole process reverses. The moment a person himself prepares to die, everything reverses. Where you saw life you begin to see death, and where you once saw death you begin to see life. Where all seemed essential, it turns into trash. And where you had never even imagined, there the treasure of life opens. This is only a symbol—that everything turns upside down.

When a man, gathering courage, knocks at Death’s door, he finds that Death is not there. When you go to Death, you will find that Death is not. Death does not exist. Its existence is only in running away from it. The more we run, the more it exists. The more we try to escape, the more it exists. The more we want that death should not come, that we should not die, the more we die.

The brave man dies once; they say the coward dies a thousand times. Finally, what is the difference between brave and coward? Only this: the coward is constantly trying to escape death, therefore he dies every day. The brave says, “When it has to come, it will come,” and therefore he dies once.

But a person like Nachiketa, who knocks at Death’s door, finds that Death is not there. She is not at home. Whoever has knocked at Death’s door has not found her there. She is an illusion. An illusion has one quality: if you go away from it, it increases; if you come close, it decreases.

A rope lies on the path in the dark. You pass by and there is the illusion of a snake. You run; perspiration starts—because perspiration does not care whether the snake is real or false—your heart thumps, blood pressure rises, veins tense, legs run. And the more you run, the more panic increases.

The Western psychologist William James used to say: people do not run because they are frightened; they become frightened because they run. They do not run due to fear; because they run, they become fearful. There is some truth in his words. The more you run, the more panic grows. Your running gives life to your panic. And the farther you get from the rope, the more the snake becomes “real.” Now there is no way to know it was a rope. The only way to know would have been to go nearer—light a lamp, sit right by the rope and see. You would have found there is no snake.

Illusion means: that which increases by moving away and decreases by coming closer. Now this is delightful: if we understand this definition, we will find that our lives consist of nothing but illusions.

A woman appears very beautiful. Just don’t let yourself meet her—and she will remain beautiful forever. Let there be meeting—and everything will go awry. If you are made to marry that woman, she will no longer be beautiful. The one who once made you ecstatic, made you dance—she will not create even a heartbeat within you.

The truth is, men stop seeing their wives at all. Even if the eye falls, the wife is not seen. Only the wives of others can be seen; one’s own wife cannot be seen. Very difficult—because the illusion leaves nothing. Everything breaks, everything is exposed.

What you do not have appears very valuable. On coming close, its value is lost. Therefore, sages like Shankara have called the world illusory, false, unreal—maya. All they mean is exactly this: maya is that which, by coming close, disappears, and by moving away, increases.

You think the rich man in his palace is in great bliss. Only you think so. No rich man is in bliss. But you will not know this until you become rich and reach the palace. On the way into the palace you will realize, “Where have I come? There is nothing here!” But you will come to know. Those passing by your house think you are in great bliss.

You see—Jainism’s twenty-four tirthankaras are princes. Buddha is the son of a king. All the Hindu avatars are princes. Why? Because without becoming a king the world’s illusions do not completely break. King means: one who has everything. When there is everything, it becomes visible that everything is useless.

A tirthankara can only be a prince. The son of a pauper becoming a tirthankara is very difficult—because how will illusions break? Illusions do not break with distance; they break with nearness.

In the West, almost all restraints between man and woman have been removed. A man forms relations with hundreds of women; a woman with hundreds of men. Now something very interesting is happening in America: an illusion that never broke in all of history is breaking. People in America are asking, “There is nothing in this.” There is nothing in sex. “We need something more.” So LSD, mescaline, marijuana—there is hope that some drug, some injection, might give a little pleasure.

The ancients were very clever. They had erected so many barriers between man and woman that the attraction never broke. In this land even the attraction to one’s own wife never broke—because the husband could not even see her in the day. Husband and wife met almost furtively at night. In the extended family, the large family, husband and wife could not meet freely in front of everyone. The flavor lasted a whole lifetime. Very clever people. There was no question of divorce; they never got to meet fully! Divorce is the outcome of full meeting.

The more you know life, the more life becomes futile. That which becomes futile by knowing is illusion. That which grows more meaningful by knowing is truth.

Therefore, that to which you go again and again and feel “truer and truer”—know that it lies outside maya’s net. I call that God: that which becomes more true the closer you go; and I call this world that which becomes more untrue the closer you go.

It is a very sweet thing: Nachiketa knocked at the door of Death and found she was not at home. You too knock! In the coming days my effort will be that you too stand at that place and knock once. And I assure you, you too will find that Death is not there.

Death does not exist. Death is a downright lie—the biggest lie possible in this world. But we are so frightened of that lie, so scared, so fleeing from it, that it appears true.

Nachiketa sat fasting for three days. He said, “Without meeting Death, I cannot eat.” Death is not there—“not at home,” in the language of the story. Nachiketa fasted three days.

Understand this a little.

What we call life runs on food. So if we want to experience death, it is necessary to stop this food. Hence fasting became a great process. Fasting means: that by which life runs we suspend for a while—so that death can start to run. So that the movement of life stops and we can recognize whether, when life’s movement stops, we die or not.

Mahavira took the science of fasting to its peak. It is said that in twelve years Mahavira ate only three hundred and sixty-five days. Sometimes a month, sometimes two, sometimes three months he remained without food. This effort was to see: when there is absolutely no food... Remember, ninety days is the last limit. If you remain without food and are wholly healthy, you can remain without food for ninety days. After ninety days comes that moment where the body will stall, cannot go on; where bodily life becomes zero. In that very moment it must be seen: am I alive or not? When the body becomes corpse-like and you still find that you are alive, the work of fasting is complete. Through fasting, the taste of the deathless is experienced.

Nachiketa sat three days without eating or drinking. He said, “Until I have the vision of Death, I will not eat.” This is the science of fasting. “Until Death is seen, food will remain stopped.” This is one process—among thousands.

But even those who fast do not know what they are doing. There is a very subtle process inside it. As the life of the body weakens, awareness within should increase. If along with the weakening of the body’s life, dullness and depression arise within, then all is wasted. Awareness should increase there, aliveness should increase. And there comes a moment when the body is utterly corpse-like, and yet you are fully alive. Then you come to know: food does not give life; it only fuels the body. Life is not produced by food; only the body runs on it. If food is utterly finished, the body will end, because the body is made of food. But you will not end.

In the story this is a symbol: three days Nachiketa sat fasting.

When Yama returned, Yama’s wife said, “When a Brahmin enters the house as a guest, know that a deity has entered. It is our duty to arrange for his bed and food. This Brahmin-boy has come and sat here; for three days he has not eaten. Go and honor him.”

Whoever enters the field of sadhana through fasting—the hour soon arrives when Death manifests. Because the body runs only on food. Without food it cannot run long. I said, it can run ninety days if fully healthy, because the body stores food—builds a reservoir. Your flesh and marrow are stored food. For times of need, you store. That store is there. For three months you will eat your store.

There is a dual process in the body. If you stop taking food from outside, you will suffer for three, four, five days. After the fifth day, the suffering stops. Hunger does not bite, because the body begins to digest its own flesh. Therefore, in fasting, each day one to two pounds of weight drops. Where does it go? You are digesting it. You are eating—yourself. There is a dual process in the body.

There is stored food in your body—you are digesting that. In three months it will be exhausted; only bones will remain if no food at all remains. Death will occur. Death will be present.

These three days are symbolic. And perhaps with a heart as simple as Nachiketa’s, even in three days the Lord of Death will appear. The body will appear dead; only self-awareness will remain alive.

Hearing his wife, Yama went to Nachiketa. He said, “O Brahmin! You are a venerable guest—the word atithi means one who comes without giving a date, without notice, without even a postcard saying, ‘I am coming.’ You are a guest, a Brahmin. You have stayed three nights in my house without food. Therefore, ask of me one boon for each night.”

This is a story. Understand the symbol of the story. Whoever fasts rightly—before death occurs—many powers that are hidden within him will arise. These are what we call siddhis. Whoever undertakes long fasting—right before the event of death—many siddhis arise. And very likely he will forget what quest he had set out upon and will get entangled in those siddhis. Those boons prove to be curses. In the last moments—just before death can give you knowledge of the soul—the last temptations of the mind grab you.

The siddhis Patanjali mentions begin to arise in one who fasts long. This statement of Yama to Nachiketa—“For your three nights of fasting, I grant you a boon for each; ask”—this happens to every seeker. Whoever is quickly satisfied by ordinary boons is deprived of the supreme boon.

But Nachiketa was not one to be satisfied with ordinary boons. He keeps asking—further, and further—wanting to open the supreme secret.

Nachiketa said, “O Lord of Death! Let my father Uddalak of the Gautama lineage become calm in resolve toward me, cheerful in heart, free of anger and regret; and when, sent back by you, I go to him, let him trust me, treat me as his son, and converse with me lovingly. This I ask as my first boon of the three.”

The first boon is for the father—the one who sent Nachiketa into Death. The first boon is for him for whom ordinarily we would have asked the first curse. He who gives us death—we would want to give him double death. You would have said, “First, wherever my father is, end him right now.” For the enemy—and he who gives death will seem an enemy—the first boon is: let my father become peaceful; let his anger dissolve. And when I return home, let him accept me with love, as a son.

There are several things here. First, for one who did wrong, a prayer for his good.

Buddha said: if your prayers are not for your enemies, they are in vain. And Jesus said: if you have even one enemy, go back; ask his forgiveness, make him a friend—then return to the temple. Because before that, no prayer can be fulfilled. If anywhere in your mind there is a thorn—remove that thorn; otherwise the flowers of life cannot bloom.

Nachiketa said, “Let my father become calm. And when I return, let him lovingly accept me as his son.”

This second part is very difficult—because Nachiketa will return knowing death. It will be very hard to accept this enlightened son as a son.

Yama said, “Seeing you freed from the jaws of death, your father Uddalak, inspired by me, will become as before—saying, ‘This is indeed my son Nachiketa’—and will be free of sorrow and anger. During the remaining nights of his life, he will sleep happily.”

Receiving this boon, Nachiketa said, “O Yama! In heaven there is not the least fear; there, you—Death—are not. There no one fears old age. The inhabitants of heaven are beyond hunger and thirst; far from suffering, they live in joy.”

“O Lord of Death! You know the fire that leads to heaven. Therefore, explain to me well that Agni-vidya by which the dwellers in heaven attain immortality. This I ask as my second boon.”

Nachiketa is saying, “I ask for that second boon which takes me beyond death, by which I attain the deathless.” Such a boon can be received only from Death. Those who wish to know what lies beyond death—what kind of life—can know it only by passing through death.

Then Yama said, “O Nachiketa! I, who know well the Agni-vidya that gives heaven, will tell it to you thoroughly. Learn it well from me. Understand this science as the one that grants the infinite heavenly worlds and is hidden in the cave of intelligence which is its foundation.”

The fire through which you will attain immortality is hidden within you. You will attain that great bliss where there is no suffering; that supreme freedom which is liberation. But that fire is hidden in the cave of your own heart. You do not have to go anywhere to find that fire. You do not have to kindle it somewhere else. It is already lit. You are already its master; you are already immortal. But you lack awareness of it.

Yama taught that cause-form Agni-vidya of the heavenly world to Nachiketa. He explained in detail all its processes. Seeing his extraordinary intelligence, Yama said, “Now I give you an additional boon here: this Agni-vidya shall be known by your name. And accept this garland of many kinds of jewels.”

How to kindle this fire hidden in the heart—there is a complete process. How this becomes the sacrificial fire-pit; how the fire is born by rubbing the arani sticks; with which bricks the altar is constructed; how you will burn within it, your rubbish will be consumed, and you will emerge pure gold—Yama explained all this.

Its detail is not given here. But in these eight days I will give you the complete process. It has not been given in the text knowingly. In the Upanishads, those things are kept hidden which the guru gives directly. If written, there is danger. Misreading can happen. Reading a word, someone may attempt and calamity may ensue. And playing with the inner fire is far more dangerous than playing with outer fire.

The meditation processes we will go through here are processes to light the inner fire. And in these eight days it will become clear to you how the heart becomes a blazing fire-pit, how death ends, and how the deathless is experienced. This will happen only through experience. And my effort will be to take you through the process—not to say it in words, but to make it your deed. We will arrange for that here.

Yama told Nachiketa, “This fire shall be known by your name. He who performs this fire-ritual three times according to scriptural method, linking himself to the three Vedas—Rig, Sama, and Yajur—and who performs the three actions of sacrifice, charity, and austerity with desirelessness, crosses over birth and death. Knowing this venerable Fire, the knower of the creation born of Brahma, and selecting it properly without desire, he attains the infinite peace which I have attained.”

What Death has attained, you too can attain. Death has attained the deathless, because death has no death. You will die; Death cannot die. How could Death die? Death is the thread of immortality. If you learn to die, you too attain immortality.

Yama said, “Whoever organizes this fire cuts the noose of Death right here, in the human body, goes beyond sorrow, and experiences bliss in heaven.”

“O Nachiketa, this is that Agni-vidya granting heaven which you asked for as your second boon. From now on, people will remember this fire by your name. Now ask your third boon.”

We will pass through this fire. Rather than my telling you something, it would be proper to take you into that fire—to take you to that place where you too can knock at Yama’s gate. Understand this process well now, because we will begin tomorrow morning.

Tonight, before sleep, lie down for ten minutes, darken your room. Close your eyes, and forcefully exhale through the mouth. Begin with exhalation—not inhalation. Exhale forcefully through the mouth. While exhaling, make the sound O… As the sound becomes clear, Om will form by itself. You only utter O… The last part of Om will arise on its own as the sound settles. You are not to say Om; you are only to say O, and let the m arise. Throw the entire breath out. Then close the lips and let the body take the breath—do not take it yourself. Exhaling is yours to do; inhaling is the body’s.

Usually we inhale and the body exhales—and there is a reason. Incoming breath is linked with life; outgoing breath is linked with death. When a child is born, the first thing he does is take a breath in; there is no breath within him to throw out. In-breath is the first pulsation of life. When a person dies, the last thing he does is exhale—because if breath remains inside, death cannot happen.

Death is the going out of breath. Life is the coming in of breath.

Moment to moment, when you take breath in, you are born; when breath goes out, you die. Here we are preparing to become Nachiketa. Therefore in this whole camp the emphasis will be on exhalation. Do not bother about inhalation. Do not be afraid you will die—the body will take the breath. Do not hold any breath. In inhalation you are to do nothing—not to inhale, not to hold—only to let go. Ten minutes before sleep at night. Because sleep too is a part of death; sleep is a small death. And if you fall asleep with the outgoing breath, your entire sleep will become a deep death.

For ten minutes, exhale with the sound O through the mouth. Then inhale through the nose. Then again exhale through the mouth; inhale through the nose. Continue like this, with the sound O… O… until you fall asleep. This is for the night. Then there is a morning practice—I will explain that to you in the morning.