Kathopanishad #2

There is one thing to keep in mind about the little Nachiketa, only then will his inquiry with Death become understandable to us. However small Nachiketa may be, however young his body’s age, the age of his Atman is beginningless. No child is merely a child! And no child is just a blank slate. Upon that consciousness is inscribed the tale of infinite births. The child has been old many times. Therefore, even with a child, one must behave with profound reverence.

This body may be new, but the consciousness hidden within is not new. As old as the universe is, so old is this consciousness as well. This consciousness has been born in bodies thousands of times and has taken leave of them. Pleasure and pain, the entanglements and comforts of life, life’s mysteries and its nectar, life’s illusions and truths—this consciousness has tasted them all.

Hence Nachiketa’s supremely grave quest is no cause of worry for the Indian mind. Western thinkers will certainly be troubled—how can such a small child raise such questions? For Christianity, Islam, and Judaism—the three major religions born outside India (all other significant religions were born in India)—hold that there is but a single birth and a single death, after which there is no return. According to their view a child cannot raise such questions—and a child cannot pursue such deep contemplation. To them, such contemplative inquiry is possible only in old age.

But Nachiketa is not merely a story. Thousands of other children have given such proof. There are many such evidences in the West too.

The great Western musician Mozart became as proficient in music by the age of seven as many do not become even by seventy. It astonishes, for the practice that ordinarily takes seventy years, how could it be accomplished in seven? And by three, Mozart had already revealed the promise of a great musician. Surely there must have been a journey behind. The past experiences may not be remembered, the treasure of the past may not be consciously known, yet it is there with Mozart.

By the age of two even, thousands of children have given such proofs as cannot be explained except by the doctrine of previous lives. Nachiketa is not unique. What Nachiketa asks announces that this quest is very ancient—and that this child is very old.

There is a tale about Lao Tzu—that he was born old. This Nachiketa too is such an old one. His search is linked to the beyond. What he is asking—he himself may not even know what he is asking. But he has asked it many times, across many, many births; he has knocked at many doors; he has sat at many masters’ feet. This stream which today appears on the surface has long been flowing underground.

If this is kept in mind, only then will Nachiketa’s questions seem intelligible; otherwise they will appear unnatural. Otherwise it will seem as if, in Nachiketa’s name, a rishi has imposed all those questions which even old people do not ask. But other children have asked in the same way.

Shankaracharya passed away at thirty-three. By thirty-three he had completed his great commentaries on the Brahma-sutras, the Upanishads, and the Gita. Even if a man were given three hundred years, he could not rival Shankar. What Shankar wrote at thirty-three—ordinarily there is no possibility of writing it even at three hundred.

Shankar began his commentarial work at seventeen. And at nine he expressed the wish to take sannyas.

At the age of nine… what is the age of nine! We, even at ninety, remain childish. Our inner being gains no maturity. In old age too our mind is as that of a naive ignoramus.

The arising of a desire for sannyas in Shankar at nine—when life has not yet been seen! When life has not been seen, whence the question of being free of it? When sorrow has not yet been known, what meaning is there in talk of release from sorrow? When indulgences have not been seen, what meaning can renunciation hold?

Surely indulgences have been seen many times. The very essence, distilled from having seen indulgence many times, is that a child of nine wants to become a sannyasin.

Many times people come and ask me, “You sometimes even give sannyas to small children!” No one is a small child. The age of the body is not the real age.

In the West a notion arose—mental age. It is worth recalling in this context. In France there was a valuable thinker, Binet. Binet first developed the idea of a person’s mental age. He said: one age is of the body and one age is of the mind. The mind’s age has no necessary relation with the body’s age. You may be seventy and the mind’s age may be seven. And conversely, the mind’s age may be seventy and the body’s age seven.

In the last world war America tried to ascertain the mental age of its soldiers, and the finding was startling. The average mental age of soldiers was thirteen; the body was certainly older. The mind had stopped where thirteen was completed.

Most people’s age does not go beyond thirteen or fourteen. As soon as a person becomes sexually mature, their mental age halts there. Women’s mental age stops even earlier than men’s, because they become sexually mature a year-and-a-half or two earlier. Then the age remains halted; the body’s age keeps advancing, but the mind remains stuck there.

Binet discovered the age of the mind, but the seers of the East account for three ages: one of the body, one of the mind, and one of the soul. The age of the soul cannot be reckoned. It is as ancient for a one-day-old infant as it is for a very old man. From the standpoint of the soul’s age we are all coeval. We all are the same age.

So Nachiketa asks from the age of the soul. His mental age must also have been very mature. For the questions he raises announce that they spring from deep experience.

Look at old people, look at children. Among children, you will certainly meet some old ones. And among the old, you will often meet many children. With age the differences appear, but they are superficial. Small children, little boys and girls, are marrying their dolls; the grown-ups, the elders, are playing at the Ram Lila! They make a Ramchandra, they make a Sita, the wedding happens, the procession passes. The mind’s age has not grown. It is the same as it was. The dolls have become a little bigger; their names have been given as Rama and Sita. But the enjoyment of marrying the dolls is the same. The procession moves. Pageants are held. Now they are held all over the country. These are days of old children! They are enjoying weddings! Enjoying officiating at weddings! Joining the barat!

Surely, when the old do childish things, they rationalize them, they set reasons around them—otherwise they would feel ashamed of their old age, they would feel restless.

Small children fight over small things. The old do not seem to fight over great things either. Their quarrels too are small. But since the age is big, they inflate their trivial matters to look big.

The other day I went out, passing by Chowpatty. I saw schoolchildren gathered there at Chowpatty, big leaders too were present, and all together they were singing—“Let our flag fly high.”

A childish mind. And what is a flag? A piece of cloth tied to a pole with a notion attached to it. Lives will be sacrificed behind that flag. If that flag is lowered, hundreds of necks will be cut! And the other’s flag must not be higher, and ours must remain high.

Small children stand on a chair beside their father and say, “I am bigger than you”—this is “Let our flag fly high…” The father smiles, if he is wise. Otherwise he too is hurt, he too can stand up and say, “No, I am bigger than you.”

This search—“I am bigger”—is childish. But adults provide reasons for this childish search. They present it in a manner. They do not say, “I am big.” Saying so would look very small. They say, “My nation is great.” But why is my nation great? Because I was born in it—on my account! If I were born in Pakistan, then Pakistan would be great; if in Afghanistan, then Afghanistan would be great. Wherever I am, that nation is great. “My religion is great. My scripture, my Gita, my Puranas, my Tirthankaras, my Bhagwan, my Avatars—are great.” Hiding behind them, we become great. And this madness is upon everyone in the world.

It seems humanity has not yet matured. The average age of humanity is around ten. Hence so many wars, so many follies. Behavior stuffed with sheer ignorance.

If the old behave childishly, sometimes a child also behaves with the dignity of elders. That second possibility is the essence of Nachiketa. Now we enter the sutra—

Asking for the third boon, Nachiketa says: “Regarding a man who dies, there is a doubt—some say that after death the Atman remains; others say it does not. Through your instruction may I understand this decision clearly—this is the third of my three boons.”

All religious inquiry is just this. The innermost heart of all religions rests upon this one point: Is the death of the body the death of man? When one dies, does everything die—or does something remain? And this is such a central question that everything depends upon it. All the values of life, the meaning, the purpose, the dignity, the song and the glory of life—everything depends upon this one thing: does everything end with the body?

If everything ends with the body, then neither ethics has meaning, nor religion. Then there is nothing good and nothing bad. For the good too turn to dust, and the bad too turn to dust. There is no qualitative difference between the dust of a good man and that of a bad man. There is no difference at all in the dead bodies of a thief and a saint. And if both the thief and the saint reach to the same dust and become equal, then the difference in their lives was imaginary, for death reveals that all differences were imaginary. Whether you were good or bad—of no more than two coppers’ value.

If everything ends with death, then in this world no moral, no religious, no value has any meaning. Then dishonesty and honesty are equal. Then murder and giving life are equal. Then there is no difference between violence and nonviolence. Then what difference between truth and untruth? Then whether I remain good or bad—when in the end all becomes equal and both, good and bad, merge into dust and are lost—the whole foundation of being good collapses.

All saintliness is founded upon a single notion: that not all ends with the body. And the meaning of life depends upon this: when the body falls, something remains unfallen. When the body dissolves into dust, not all dissolves into dust. Something within me, some flame, sets out upon another journey. I remain—in some sense.

If I remain, then only does the distinction in my life remain. If I do not remain, then what distinction? Then perhaps those whom we call bad are more intelligent; those whom we call good are naive.

If the Atman is also mortal, then the saints are fools, the meditators ignorant. The temples are assemblies of madmen. Those who say their prayers in mosques are deranged. For whatever they are doing would be meaningless. Then whether you pray or gamble—equal.

Only if the Atman survives the body—then temples, mosques, gurdwaras; the Quran, the Bible, and the Vedas—have meaning. Then Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, and Muhammad bear a difference; some secret is with them. They are seeking the key to a great life.

But if everything ends with the body, then what key and what seeking! Then life is a futile bustle.

Shakespeare’s words are significant—“A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Life is like a story told by a fool; much noise, no meaning at all.

The immortality of the soul, the Atman remaining beyond the body, the Atman transcending the body; the lamp may be snuffed, but the flame remains—this is the question Nachiketa raises. Nachiketa says, there is great doubt: some say something remains behind; some say nothing remains. What happens after death? This is my third boon—this I want to know.

This is what everyone wants to know. If something remains after death, then even now there is something within you. And if nothing remains after death, then even now there is nothing within you. Even now you are empty—a mere mechanism. Not more than a machine. You are still not—if after death you will not be. Then it is a deception—only a notion that you are—if you are a heap of matter, a chemical arrangement, functioning like a machine.

A car runs, a clock runs, a machine runs; but we do not say the machine “is.” A machine is only a composite. If we disassemble the parts, nothing remains behind.

Is man also a composite such that if all parts are taken apart, nothing remains within? For death will take apart the parts. And if nothing remains within, and you are only a composite—then you never were. Your being is not. You exist only in thought—a delusion of being.

Neither does your intelligence reveal that there is an Atman within—for the works of intelligence you perform, machines, computers can perform more intelligently. Nor does your skill reveal the soul—for you cannot reach the skill of a machine. A machine is more skillful. Wherever greater skill is needed, man is not to be trusted; the machine must be trusted.

What is your excellence? That you can calculate? That you can speak language? Machines can do all this. They have nearly begun to do it. Man’s distinctness from machines does not lie in being intelligent. Even what Einstein does, a computer can do with greater efficiency. Then your brain is no more than a machine, a computer. You too are a machine.

Man produces children. But scientists have now developed such machines as can produce their own offspring. A machine can generate, within itself, a machine like itself—manufacture it. Then that too is no great thing. A machine can manufacture, automatically, another machine like itself—and arrangements have been made so that the machine it produces will be superior to it. Thus every machine that is born from it, and then from that one, will be superior to the previous one.

Your son need not be superior to you. Often he is not. Good fathers often beget bad sons. In a machine an inner arrangement can be made that the machine it produces will be superior. Whatever errors were in the former will not be in the latter. Then the one that the latter produces will be yet more superior. And a point may come when, producing machines upon machines, the most superior machine is created—something man has not yet managed.

And what you call pleasure and pain are all mechanical events.

Skinner is a very great psychologist. He has done many experiments discovering that your pleasures and pains are mechanical. The deepest pleasure known to man is sexual pleasure. But the findings of Skinner, Delgado, and other psychologists are astonishing.

Skinner and his colleagues worked on rats. They discovered those points in the brain where pleasure is experienced—pleasure points—and those where pain is experienced. So they connect an electric wire to the pleasure point; if that point is stimulated with electricity, a great pleasure is felt. If the electrode is connected to the pain point, a great pain is felt.

Skinner experimented on a rat. He studied in which part of the brain the delight of sexual climax is felt, then attached a wire to that part. He showed the rat a button. As soon as the button was pressed, the rat was greatly delighted. Thereafter the rat learned to press the button by itself. You will be amazed: in one hour the rat pressed the button five thousand times—five thousand! He did not stop until he fell unconscious.

Skinner says that in the coming century we shall give every person a small device to keep in his pocket. Man will not need woman, woman will not need man. Whenever one wants sexual pleasure, just press a little button and the brain’s pleasure center will be operated. While walking on the road you will be making love—no one will even know. And the disturbances one must endure for sex—making a home and household, suffering the trouble of a wife, bearing the nuisance of a husband—none of that. You become complete master of yourself.

Similarly the centers of pain are also in the brain. Skinner says they can be cut off—no pain will be experienced. If you think pain is experienced because there is pain, you are mistaken. You only have a pain center; if it is cut off, you do not experience pain. When you are given morphia or chloroform, the pain center is veiled. Therefore even if your limbs are cut, you do not know. Even if someone kills you, you do not know.

All these centers are mechanical. And you will be surprised to know that these new discoveries will bring man into a very dangerous situation.

Delgado has conducted experiments in operating people’s minds from afar by radio. He inserted electrodes into the brain of a bull—and you will be amazed to know that if something is inserted into your brain, you will not know it. There is no sensation there. If a surgery is done on your brain and something is left behind there—a piece of iron—you will never know that a piece of iron lies there. For in your brain there are no nerves for experiencing sensation.

It is surprising that the brain experiences everything, yet within it there are no sensory nerves. Therefore you do not know what is going on inside the brain. A very big work is going on. A huge factory. Some seven hundred million neurons. Electricity-like traffic hums there twenty-four hours. You do not know.

Delgado placed an electrode in a bull’s brain and linked it to his radio. From that radio he began to operate the bull. When he pressed the button that should provoke anger, the bull would instantly snort and become filled with rage. There is no wire connected—wireless. Even if Delgado sat thousands of miles away—the bull in Mount Abu and Delgado in America—he could make it angry from there. Just press the button and it would fly into rage, snort, and attack whoever was near.

When he demonstrated this experiment in Europe—in Spain—people were astonished. Hundreds of thousands gathered to see. The bull snorted and charged—Delgado too was there in the arena, holding his radio in his hand. The bull came right up to him—it was a moment of panic—its horns about to go into his belly; just then he pressed the button. The bull stopped there, one foot away. Stood still—as if gone into meditation!

Such a dangerous situation—politicians will use it today or tomorrow. Electrodes can be inserted into children right at birth in the hospital—they will never know. From Delhi it would only be necessary to press a button and everyone would shout, “Let our flag fly high!”

Surely tyrannical governments will use it. Even if the country is starving, no matter; if the center of pleasure can be operated, the hungry too will be filled with bliss. However happy you may be—if your pain center can be operated, you will become miserable in an instant.

So pleasures and pains do not reveal your soul; they reveal only your mechanical brain.

There is only one possibility by which man is not mechanical—and in all other conditions we are mechanical. The body is a machine, but what is hidden within is not a machine. The body is a very complicated, very subtle, delicate machine. The master is hidden within.

Nachiketa asks: This is my third boon—that I want to know whether, when this entire machine-body falls, I still remain or not. There is great doubt, for some say something remains; others say nothing remains.

Yama thought: instructing one who is unprepared in the truth of the self is harmful.

This needs a little understanding. To instruct the unqualified, the unfit, in the truth of the self is harmful. In fact, the unqualified will use even truth for harm; the qualified will use even untruth for well-being.

What is taught to you is not valuable—the valuable thing is whether you are qualified or unqualified. For example, the unqualified have misused all teachings. In this country we taught rebirth. The purpose was: the pleasure you seek is futile; you have sought it many times, and many times you have obtained it, yet you gained nothing. Countless times you have fallen in love with women, tied your love to men; countless palaces have you built; countless wealths have you amassed—and each time you have died unhappy. And again you are doing the same!

If the remembrance arises—“This I have done many times and found nothing—and again I am doing the same”—then the hands will stop.

But what did the unqualified do? They said: if there are many births, then what is the hurry? We shall seek the self someday. Indulgence is fleeting; if we do not seek now, it will be lost. But the self is eternal, it does not perish, it takes birth again and again. If Samadhi is not attained in this life, it will be attained in the next. There is no hurry at all. This is the meaning the unqualified drew… The qualified had said: become weary of it; the unqualified thought: there is no hurry!

Therefore you will be surprised: in Eastern lands there is no time-consciousness; no sense of time. A man says to you, “I will come at five o’clock.” He does not come even by ten at night! No sense of time—because time is infinite. There is a sense only when things are scarce. The poor man has a sense of money. If he loses one coin, he knows, because it is so little. What sense of losing a coin will Kubera have? Even the loss of millions is nothing—because the treasure is infinite.

In the Eastern lands there was no concept of time. Hence the East could not invent the clock. That fell to the West. In the West there is a sense of time. Time is running—and time is short. For Jesus and Muhammad and Moses taught—seeing the errors of the unqualified in the East—that there is only one birth.

It is amusing. They too taught in view of the unqualified—because the East had already erred. Since Western religions arose later than those of the East, they wished to avoid the mistake the East had made. But they did not know the unqualified are very skillful. You cannot save him. If you save him from the pit, he will jump into the well.

So Jesus, Muhammad, and Moses said there is only one birth—rebirth is false. The statement is not false; but as a result of what the unqualified in the East had done, they wanted to avert this danger in the West. Jesus pressed: there is only one birth. Therefore whatever is to be done—meditation, prayer, worship, transformation of life—do it now; there is no time ahead. Do not postpone it. Every moment is precious, for it will not return. The wealth of time is limited.

The unqualified heard and said: if the wealth of time is so limited, then for the Atman of which we have no inkling, and the God of whom we only hear talk, with no experience—shall we leave this real world for that empty imagination? And there is only one birth! Once lost, lost forever!

Thus the West said: half a loaf in the hand is better than a whole dream. Who knows of those distant dreams—and life will not return—so enjoy. Therefore the West, having taken the teachings of Jesus, Moses, and Muhammad, derived the benefit that one should indulge, for time is very short—enjoy quickly, enjoy much. And who knows what is after death! For the sake of that darkness, it is not right to leave what is here in the light.

So in the West—the very mistake that arose in India from the teachings of Buddha, Krishna, and Mahavira—occurred in reverse. The East indulges because there are many lives—what is the hurry! The West indulges because time is so little that indulgence cannot be dropped—and the rest is so dark that it is unreliable.

It is amusing—whatever the teaching, the unqualified always come to harm.

Yama thought: Nachiketa is still so small; his age is little; he is naive—innocent, pure, but without experience. If I speak of the self to this unqualified one, there may be danger—he may derive some meaning of his own.

Many wise ones have remained silent—for fear of you! Not because what they wanted to say could not be said at all. It is difficult to say, but it can be said. But for fear of you! For whatever is said to you, you will extract from it that which leads to hell. Many wise ones remained silent. But their silence makes no difference—you draw meanings even from their silence which were never theirs. Therefore many wise ones spoke lest you derive from silence something even more dangerous.

Buddha remained silent; he did not answer many questions—only because answers to those questions would lead the unqualified into great trouble. No sooner had Buddha died than the sects of Buddha became twenty-five—because different unqualified ones drew different meanings from his silence. Had Buddha said something, it would still have been better. Now there was nothing—people began to think why Buddha remained silent. Someone said: Buddha remained silent because nothing can be said about the soul. Someone else said: Buddha remained silent because there is no soul—what is there to say!

You will draw meanings even from silence. So some wise ones, for fear that you might draw wrong meanings from silence, kept speaking. You draw wrong meanings even from speech. The wise one dies a great death—whatever he may say…!

Yama began to think whether to tell this Nachiketa or not. First he tried to avoid it.

Every true master will do the same. And the master who does not try to dissuade—know that he is not yet worthy to be a master. He will try to dissuade, for if you become content with a small thing, it indicates you are unfit. You asked for a diamond, you asked for Kohinoor, and the master picks up a pebble and gives it; and if you are satisfied, thinking this is Kohinoor, it means you were not a vessel for Kohinoor—and giving it would be a mistake.

He who can mistake a pebble for Kohinoor can someday mistake Kohinoor for a pebble. There is no difference for him. He has neither insight, nor discrimination, nor a touchstone. No magnetism—nothing.

So Yama said to Nachiketa: “O Nachiketa! Concerning this matter even the gods have doubted—and did not come to understanding. For this subject is very subtle and not easy to grasp. Therefore ask for another boon—do not press me. Leave this boon concerning self-knowledge.”

Many important things are said. First, that even the gods are in doubt. Those who dwell in heaven, live in pleasure every moment—even they are doubtful. So you, a dweller on earth—do not get entangled. Those who have become auspicious in every way, who have accumulated every good karma—even they are in doubt—the gods are in doubt, they have no certainty—so do not fall into this worry.

When Buddha became enlightened, it is said even Brahma came to his feet and said, “Tell me too.” Granted that I made the world, yet I do not know what remains when all ends. So Brahma is a great engineer, very powerful—he creates the world—but he too asks: after dissolution, does anything remain or not? And is what is hidden within me immortal or mortal?

In the life of Mahavira there are tales: those who listened to Mahavira were of many kinds—among them were human beings, gods, and animals and birds. For what would the gods come to hear Mahavira? The gods should at least know. But understand our conception of gods.

Hell belongs to those who, living in unconsciousness, did everything—who did nothing but sin in life, who took their pleasure in giving others pain. Heaven belongs to those who understood their own joy as giving joy to others—who lived in virtue.

But remember, one thing is common to heaven and hell: both keep the attention upon the other. Hell is for those who found their delight in giving pain to others; heaven is for those who found their delight in giving pleasure to others. But both keep their eyes on the other. The gods are as deluded as the denizens of hell—the gaze is upon the other.

A wise one means: he whose gaze has withdrawn from the other—not eager to give pain to the other, nor eager to give pleasure to the other—eager to awaken himself.

Therefore we have three words—Naraka, Swarga, and Moksha.

Moksha is not the name of heaven. Moksha is that state where a person has become utterly free of the other, where he has come to rest in himself, self-accomplished. Where one has attained and known the completeness of one’s own being—there one is free.

Even the gods are not free. Those bound in hell are bound by pain—their chains are of iron. Those bound in heaven are bound by merit—their chains are of gold. But both are chains.

“The gods too are doubtful,” Yama said to Nachiketa, “and this matter is very subtle, not easily understood.”

The truth is, it is not understandable—so long as understanding remains. Only when understanding drops—when thinking drops, when trust in the intellect is gone—then it becomes known. This is the paradox. And this is the fine line dividing fitness and unfitness. As long as you think, as long as you reason, as long as you move by logic, as long as you hold the intellect supreme—what lies beyond death will not be understood.

The boundary of the intellect is matter. The intellect can know the object, not the subject. The intellect looks outward; it cannot look within. You put on glasses—they help you see the outside; for dreams you need no glasses. For seeing within, glasses do not work.

The intellect is exactly the arrangement for looking outside. If I want to see you, I shall see through the intellect. If I want to explore the world, I must do it through the intellect—hence science is intellect-dependent. But if I want to see myself, the intellect is of no use—therefore religion is intellect-free.

Religion is to go beyond the intellect; science is to go with the intellect, into the intellect. Hence science and religion stand opposite each other; science cannot understand religion, religion cannot understand science. It is natural. For the instrument of religion is the transcendence of intellect; the instrument of science is the processes of the intellect. Their methodologies are so opposite that their languages become unintelligible to each other.

Yama says: This matter is very difficult, supremely subtle—not easily understood. If you can become “uneasy” in the old ease—if you can drop the ease of the intellect—then it can be understood. The process of intellect is easy. To leave the process of intellect and dissolve in meditation is very uneasy—for those living by intellect. Once someone enters meditation, meditation becomes easy; the intellect becomes uneasy for him. But so long as we live in the intellect, entry into meditation is difficult.

Yama says: It is subtle, not easily understood. Therefore ask another boon—do not press me. Leave this boon concerning self-knowledge.

But hearing of the difficulty, Nachiketa was neither frightened nor did his enthusiasm wane. Rather, with greater firmness he said: “O Yama! You have said that even the gods have reflected upon this subject and could not decide, and that it is not easily known. Not only that—besides, no one other than you is available to speak on this. Therefore, to my understanding, there is no other boon equal to this.”

Surely, other than Death, who can tell whether something remains beyond death? Death alone is worth asking—for that secret is known to him. And only the one who questions Death comes to know.

Therefore I say: until you learn the art of dying, you cannot know whether something remains beyond death. The art of dying means: to stand before Yama; to ask directly of the one who stands at the door through whom all must pass—many, many times. But people pass in unconsciousness. If you pass with awareness, you can ask Death the question.

Nachiketa asks with even greater firmness: “That which even the gods could not know, and which is so difficult, therefore I will not let go of it. For where will I find again one like you to tell me? The gods cannot tell—they are themselves doubtful. Intellect cannot comprehend—I have intellect, but it cannot comprehend; so that quest is futile. And I will not find again someone like you to tell me, therefore I cannot leave this boon.”

Nachiketa was not frightened. He remained firm in determination—and passed one test. Yama saw that the person is of resolve—not one to run from difficulty. He can remain steady; he is ready to enter the fire. So he arranged the second test—he laid out various temptations.

He said: “Ask for sons and grandsons with lifespans of hundreds of years; and many cows and other cattle, elephants, gold, and horses. Take a kingdom with vast stretches of land. You yourself live as many years as you wish.”

“O Nachiketa! If you ask for wealth, prosperity, and the means to live for an endless time, then you will attain the status of a great emperor on earth. I shall make you the enjoyer of all pleasures—the finest of pleasures.”

Understand this. For those who enter meditation, there comes a moment when their capacity to enjoy becomes supremely intense in this world. This is not merely a tale. If a meditator engages in sex, the kind of nectar he can taste a non-meditator never can—because the meditator’s sensitivity becomes profoundly deep.

If a meditator smells a flower, the fragrance he can receive a non-meditator never can—for the non-meditator, though the flower is in front, himself is lost somewhere. The nose will take the scent, but the mind does not receive it—the mind keeps wandering. The meditator becomes wholly present to the flower. The fragrance that comes to him cannot come to a non-meditator.

As meditation deepens, enjoyment deepens. And from the last step—where one leaps into the soul—the meditator can, if he chooses, leap back into the body. For there pleasures become so deep that the question arises—whether to go further or to stay.

Therefore even from the last step to Moksha people fall. And there the temptation is as great as you have never known. From where you stand, there is nowhere to fall—for you stand at the lowest place; below it, where will you go! You cannot be made to fall; you stand at the lowest sensitivity.

As meditation grows, the senses begin to be purified. With purified senses, the purity of enjoyment arises. Pleasures become very blissful. Hence, just before Moksha, heaven becomes a temptation. One moment before the attainment of Moksha, the whole world becomes heaven. If one falls then, that fallen person is what we call a deva. If, even at that time, one can remain courageous—which is extremely difficult, for the whole life becomes filled with a great music, all sorrows disappear, no pain remains; every fiber dances with bliss—at that moment there is deep attraction to return to the world. It is as if the entire gravitation, the pull of the universe, is drawing you back.

This is no mere story. What Yama says is symbolic. Yama says: I shall make you an emperor. Take long lives as you desire. Ask for as much wealth as you want. But leave this boon.

But Nachiketa remained steadfast. Yama increased the temptation: “Ask for all the pleasures that are rare in the human world—ask for them at will. Take the heavenly apsaras with chariots and all manner of instruments. Such women are unattainable to men. These women, given by me—enjoy them, be served by them. But, O Nachiketa! Do not ask what happens to the soul after death.”

This is heaven’s temptation before Moksha.

But Nachiketa stayed firm—he did not waver at all. He knows: the greatest pleasures of this world and the next cannot compare even with the tiniest fragment of the bliss of self-knowledge. For whatever is obtained here is snatched away—whether snatched in a year or in a million years, it will be snatched—certainly. Nothing in this world is eternal. It may be long, but not infinite. In the end it will all be taken.

Yama is not saying, “I will make you immortal.” Yama is saying, “I will push your death far away—you will not die today, nor tomorrow, nor the day after—but you will die—and I shall give you all pleasures.”

But Nachiketa understands: the boon for which such pleasures are offered in exchange must certainly be superior to them all. These temptations are not a match for what I have asked.

And as Yama kept offering temptations, Nachiketa became more resolute.

When you begin to go deep in meditation and pleasures begin to exert a profound charm—know that the hour is near when the great bliss can be born. These are nature’s final temptations—her last net being cast. If you can slip through it, you will be free of sorrow forever; the cessation of sorrow will happen. If you fall into temptation, pleasures will come—but in this world all pleasures end. Here nothing can be forever, nothing is eternal.

Nachiketa said: “O Yama! The fleeting pleasures you describe, and the delights obtained from them, wear away the inner radiance of man along with the brightness of all his senses.”

Those pleasures do not awaken consciousness—they lull it to sleep. Those pleasures do not deepen the flame—they bring darkness.

Remember, all pleasures dull the senses. Whatever pleasure you enjoy, with its enjoyment your sensitivity diminishes—it does not increase. It is a wonder. With meditation sensitivity increases; with indulgence it decreases.

Today you eat some savory food; tomorrow the same food will be less savory; the day after, less. If on the fourth day you must eat it again, you will begin to feel miserable. And on the fifth day, you will throw the plate away. On the first day you felt heaven through that food; on the fifth, it has become hell. If you must go on like that all your life, you will commit suicide.

A piece of music—you hear it today; again tomorrow; again the day after—the senses become dull. They cease to receive it. Sensitivity decreases.

Nachiketa says something very important: these pleasures will lessen my awareness and my sensitivity. I will become inert. The indulgent gradually becomes inert; the yogi becomes ever more radiant.

“And then, however long life may be, it is little—for it will end someday. Therefore keep your chariots, vehicles, apsaras, dancing and singing to yourself—they are not for me.”

“Man can never be satisfied by wealth. Having had your very darshan…”

Nachiketa says: Having seen Death himself, we cannot be satisfied by wealth. The one who has no awareness of death may live under the illusion of being satisfied by wealth. But one who knows he must die cannot be satisfied by wealth. One who knows he must die cannot be satisfied by love. One who knows he must die—nothing in this world can satisfy him. For death stands there.

If someone tells you that you will die after an hour, all your pleasures will vanish. You sit here and the news comes that in an hour an atom bomb will fall on Mount Abu—your pleasures will end. The most beautiful woman will suddenly become invisible to you; though food is in front, hunger will vanish. If someone says at that moment, “I will make you emperor of the whole world,” you will say, “Keep it yourself. The atom will fall in an hour!”

But that hour is never far. It is never far at all. Whether the atom falls or not—death stands behind. Whether after an hour, a year, or seventy years—what difference does time make? Only this much—if your intelligence is not far-seeing, you feel it is not there. An hour later—you too can see that death is; for the intellect can enter that far; it cannot enter seventy years—time becomes dense. But for those whose intelligence can enter—even seven thousand years later…

Nachiketa says: however long life may be, it is short. That which will end—how can it be long? Keep all this with you. And that which you are so eager to give has no value—once having seen you.

Nachiketa says: Having come to know Death, nothing else has any value. Only one thing has value now—what goes beyond death. Otherwise all is futile.

“Therefore why ask for these? The boon worthy of my asking is self-knowledge.”

“This man grows old and is mortal. What man among the dwellers of the earth, who understands this well, having obtained the company of great ones like you who are free of old age and death—would still, thinking again and again of women’s beauty, of play and pleasure, hope to live long?”

Having seen you…! He is saying something exquisite.

Nachiketa says: On seeing a great one like you—Death himself—who would think of spending time in the play of pleasure, sexual sport, the color and melody of women? Having seen you! Having seen a great being like you! Now it is not possible. Now only one longing arises—whether there is anything even beyond you. Having seen you, the world has turned to dust. All pleasures have become futile.

To whomsoever the remembrance of death comes, all becomes futile.

You know the story of Buddha. He saw a dead man and asked his charioteer, “What has happened?” The charioteer said, “This man is dead.” Buddha had seen his first corpse. Immediately he asked, “Will I also die?” At that time Buddha was young—in the full upsurge of life. The charioteer said, “It is not appropriate to say—but I cannot lie. Whoever is born will die. You too will die.” Buddha was on his way to a festival—a youth festival. He told the charioteer: “Turn the chariot back. For if I must die, I am already dead. There is no zest now in going to a youth festival. I have become old.”

This realization—that death is—finished. What raga-ranga now! That very night he left home.

With the vision of death, the search for the deathless begins. Death is a great master. Whoever sees it, sets out in search of the soul.

We all hide death. We avoid seeing it. If death appears, we divert the mind elsewhere. If someone dies, we say, “Poor fellow!”—as if he has died and you will remain. You pity him—“Poor fellow, died untimely!” You are denying the indication, the hint, that the news was for you too—that you will also die.

Every death is news of your death. And whenever someone dies, if there is a bit of awareness in you, you will feel that you too have died. But man lives in the delusion that all others will die—I am the exception. I am not to die. It never occurs to anyone that I must die. However many die, man continues to trust in his own immortality.

This trust in immortality is dangerous—better are the darshan of the great master that is Death. From it, the search will begin.

“O Yama! Concerning that great, wondrous self-knowledge of the other world about which people doubt whether the Atman remains after death or not—please tell me the decision in this matter. This boon, of utmost gravity—other than this, Nachiketa asks for no other boon.”

Standing before Death and seeking the deathless—this is the state of Samadhi. Toward this we shall travel.

Let us understand a little about the morning meditation. This meditation has four stages. In the first stage, for ten minutes, breathe in and out as forcefully as you can—utterly chaotically, anarchically; as if the whole body has become a blacksmith’s bellows; forget everything, let only one awareness remain—breath in and out, breath in and out. Put all energy into taking and throwing the breath—let the whole body be seized by a storm, a cyclone; then the Nachiketa fire hidden within you will be struck. In this storm the hidden fire within will be kindled.

In the second ten minutes, whatever is hidden within you—craziness, suppressed urges, sickness—throw it all out. If you must scream, scream; if you must weep, weep; if you must dance, dance. Whatever happens by itself—do not stop it. Put all your cleverness aside and allow the mind whatever it wants to do. Every person has accumulated much madness. Until it is thrown out there is no freedom from it. The second stage is catharsis.

In the third ten minutes, use a great mantra: Hoo. Loudly—Hoo! Hoo!—while dancing, shouting, whirling—make this sound. This “Hoo” will set your inner fire ablaze. If used rightly, in these three stages you will be erased.

In the fourth stage you are not present. The fourth is the stage of silence—of no-being. You will remain lying, standing, sitting—wherever and however you are, stop there. When after the third stage I say, “Stop,” you must stop right there. Do not make arrangements for your comfort—like quickly lying down comfortably. In making that comfort, your ego will return. After what has happened in the three stages, when I say “Stop!” you must stop as if dead. If your hand was raised, let it remain raised; if one foot was lifted, let it remain lifted. You will think, “What if I fall?” If you fall, no harm—but do not make any arrangement from your side. When I say, “Stop!” then stop—no one remains here. Only corpses remain. This is the fourth stage of ten minutes.

After this fourth stage there will be five to ten minutes for expression, for celebration. Whatever peace and bliss has thickened within you—express it with joy. As if you have become small children again. Dance, laugh, leap.

Now prepare for meditation.