Main Mrityu Sikhata Hun #15

Human life, in many senses, is the life of the mind. What we take to be a physical event is, in its depths, a mental event as well. Whatever appears upon the body has its birth in the mind.
If we understand a couple of points in this regard, then the question that has been asked will be easier to understand.
Until about fifty years ago all illnesses were thought to be physical. In these past fifty years, as our understanding of disease has grown, the proportion considered purely physical has gone down and the mental proportion has gone up. Today even the most diehard materialist is ready to accept that more than fifty percent of illnesses are mental. And even those that are physical are influenced more than half by the mind. The mind is the fulcrum of our personality. From there we live, from there we fall ill, from there we die. Hence resolve has great value.

If you have ever seen experiments in hypnosis, a few small observations there are worth remembering. A hypnotized person is one whose conscious mind has fallen asleep and whose unconscious has awakened. When the conscious mind sleeps, doubt stops—because all doubts belong to the conscious mind. If we divide the mind into ten parts, one part is conscious and nine are unconscious. Nine parts are in darkness, in the unconscious; only a small part is awake—conscious. This conscious mind doubts, thinks, reflects. If it sleeps, the nine remaining parts do only one thing: they accept. There, there is no doubt.

So a hypnotic state means your doubting mind has been put to sleep and your unquestioning, accepting mind alone remains. Then if we place a pebble on the hypnotized person’s hand and say, “I have put a live coal here,” the person will cry out and scream as one would with a live coal. The cry will be just the same, and the hand will fling the pebble away as if it were a coal. So far, so good—the idea has reached the mind. But the real surprise is that a blister will actually form on the hand, just as it would from a live coal. You placed an ordinary pebble, but the mind totally accepted it as a coal. The body has no means to deny the mind.

Keep this in mind: the body has no way to refuse the mind. If the mind accepts something completely, the body must follow. The reverse is also true—and even more astonishing: put an actual coal on the hand and say, “It’s a cool pebble,” and the person will hold it; the hand will not blister from the coal. Without the mind’s acceptance, the body cannot do anything.

That is why there are fakirs who dance barefoot on embers. There is no miracle in it; it is a small application of the science of the mind. And if ten fakirs are dancing on a bed of glowing coals, they will even invite others to come and dance. So there is no trickery. You too can dance—but only when, seeing ten men unburned, your certainty becomes unshakable: “If ten are not burning, why would I?” In that very state you arrive at what the hypnotized person reaches: one part of your mind is no longer doubting; nine parts are believing. Jump then—your feet won’t burn. And the one who has even a little doubt won’t jump; the one without doubt will.

Fire will not burn if the mind is unwilling to accept; and coolness can burn if the mind is ready to burn. Hypnotic experiments reveal deep truths about the mind.

I once experimented for some days with a girl in the house where I was staying. When she was hypnotized, I told her, “Your mother is not in this room.” Her mother was right in front of her, and about eight people were there; all told, there were ten of us in the room: the girl, myself, and eight others. I said, “Your mother has gone out of the room. Now open your eyes and count.” She opened her eyes and counted nine—because for her, the mother sitting right there did not exist. We asked her, “Who is on the sofa in front?” She said, “What are you saying! The sofa is empty.” Her mother called her by name from that sofa. The girl looked all around the room to see where the voice was coming from; on that sofa, her mother was not.

Then I asked her to close her eyes again—her father was not in the room—and told her, “Now your father has come and is sitting on the chair in front. Open your eyes.” She opened them. “Now count,” I said. She counted ten. The mother who was present on that chair was not present for her. We asked, “You were calling this chair empty just now; why are you counting it now?” She said, “Father has come and is sitting there.” The father was not there. But if the mind accepts completely, the event happens.

The possibilities of resolve in the mind are astonishing. Those who lose in life usually do so less because of circumstances and more because their minds have accepted defeat. Those who keep failing—society contributes very little to their failure; ninety percent they themselves are responsible for. And when a man is ready to lose ninety percent, if the world won’t deny him the remaining ten percent it would be too much—so the world gives that ten percent too. Those who keep winning, the same law applies; those who keep losing, the same law applies. The healthy, the same law; the ill, the same law. The peaceful, the same law; the restless, the same law. What you deeply want to be—that is what you become. Thoughts become things, thoughts become events, thoughts become personality.

So wherever and however we live, at the deepest level we ourselves lay the foundations. If this truth is seen, then what you have asked can be understood.

I have said that a person cannot be free of the fear of death until he voluntarily enters death. Death will come once—but then it will not be voluntary; it will come and you will have to enter compulsorily. And where you are being forced, it is no wonder if you close your eyes and go unconscious. Where you are being dragged, you cannot go in full awareness.

But this bondage to inevitability is not necessary. One can, while alive, die voluntarily. This death is most wondrous—far more so than ordinary death—because it is witnessed by your own choice. You may ask, how can one die voluntarily?

Understand that our organism, our body, our entire mechanism has two parts: voluntary and non-voluntary. One part functions by our choice: if I move my hand, it moves; if I don’t wish to, it won’t. But the blood flowing in this hand does not run by my choice; I cannot say, “Stop,” and it stops. That is non-voluntary. My heart is beating; it does not beat by my choice—I cannot say, “Be quiet for five minutes,” and it falls silent. My pulse is running; not by choice. Digestion is going on; not by choice—I cannot say, “Do not digest today,” and the stomach obeys.

So our system has two domains—within volition and beyond volition. But if someone strengthens the power of his will, that which is currently beyond volition can come within it. If someone’s will weakens, even what was within volition can slip beyond it.

Take a man with paralysis. More than seventy percent of paralyses are mental. In fact, paralysis has not struck; his legs have simply slipped outside the circle of volition. He says, “Walk,” and they don’t. The legs haven’t gone anywhere—what power do the legs have to go? His circle of will has shrunk; like a short blanket—pull it up, the feet stick out.

It has often happened: a man was paralyzed for years, could not get up. In the night a fire broke out in the house. Everyone ran out; then they remembered the paralyzed man. But they saw him running after them! He wasn’t supposed to be able to get up! They were shocked—forgot the fire—astonished: “You couldn’t walk; how are you walking?” When they pointed it out, he said, “Me? How could I walk!” and he fell down again. In the shock and fear of fire, his circle of will expanded; the feet came back under the blanket; he came out. Outside, he remembered, “How can I walk?” The circle shrank again; the feet stuck out.

The pulse, too, can come within volition. Not only for great yogis—yours can, too. No big experiment is needed. Sit and count your pulse with a watch for a minute. Then close your eyes for ten minutes and only feel, “The pulse is increasing.” Then measure again. Rarely will you find someone whose pulse has not gone up. This is why when the doctor takes your pulse, it is never what it was a moment before; his touch increases your anxiety; as he examines you, you get unsettled, the pulse climbs. And if the doctor is a lady, it will go up even more—more anxiety!

The heartbeat can also come within volition—brought almost to the point of stopping. Scientific experiments have been done and accepted: it can happen.

About forty years ago, at Bombay Medical College, a man named Brahmayogi amazed doctors by stopping his heart completely. He repeated it at Oxford and at Calcutta University. He could do three things: stop the pulse entirely; not only that—if a vein was cut, blood would flow only until he said “Stop,” and then it would halt right there; not a drop more would leave the cut vein. A third feat—by which he ultimately died: he would ingest any poison and, after half an hour, expel it from the body. Many X-rays were taken of his abdomen while he had poison inside. Until he gave the command, no fluid, no blood in his body would mix with the poison; a gap remained between them. But he died in Rangoon. After a demonstration at Rangoon University, he got into a car to go home—his capacity was not more than half an hour—but the car met with an accident and it took forty-five minutes to reach home. He arrived unconscious. He could keep the poison outside his circle of will for only thirty minutes; he missed by thirty; those extra fifteen minutes gave the poison a chance to enter the domain of volition; it entered.

There is no part of our body that cannot be brought within will—and none that cannot slip outside it. Both can happen. Voluntary death is a profound experiment of this. It is the experiment of deliberately contracting the life-energy. Note well: if the resolve is complete, the energy will contract—there is no way for it not to. In fact, our life-energy is spread out as a result of resolve.

Scientists say: where your eyes are—we commonly think, “Because eyes are here, we see from here.” But they say the truth is the reverse: because we wanted to see from here, eyes formed here. Otherwise, there is no fundamental difference between the skin of the eye and the skin of the hand. The eye is covered by skin—but that skin has become transparent to see. The same skin is on the nose—there it has become sensitive to smell, transparent in the direction of smelling. The same skin, bone, elements on the ear—there they have become hearing. These are results of resolve. Over millions of years, the resolve we have made has borne fruit. Not one person’s resolve—collective will, group resolve—generation after generation. That resolve has borne fruit.

In Russia there is a woman who can read with her fingers—not Braille for the blind, but ordinary print: with eyes closed, she places a finger on the letters and reads. Her fingers, through lifelong use, have become so sensitive they can distinguish even the slight depression made by black ink from plain paper. Our fingers cannot.

A painter sees greens on trees; we see “green” trees. He sees thousands of shades of green. For an ordinary person, green is one color. For a painter, with his sensitivity, green is not one; it is a thousand colors. The difference between one green and another can be as much as between green and yellow, or green and red. But to perceive such fine gradations, the eyes need a special sensitivity—which we do not have.

A musician perceives very subtle positions of notes that never come within our grasp. He not only hears fine shades of notes; he begins to experience the interval, the silence between two notes. True music is born there. True music is not born from notes, but from those moments of silence between them. The two notes merely serve to bring that silence into relief; they do nothing more. But we have no sense of that silence. For us, music is noise, sound. For the musician with deep penetration, music has nothing to do with word or note; the two notes are only to highlight the unstruck, soundless state between them. What we use constantly, what we resolve constantly, begins to manifest.

This entire personality of man—and of birds, plants, animals—is the fruit of resolve. What we resolve deeply, we become.

There is a valuable account in Ramakrishna’s life. He practiced the disciplines of five or seven religions. He thought, “All religions lead to the same summit; let me walk all the paths and see if they do.” He practiced Christian disciplines, Sufi disciplines, Vaishnava disciplines, Shaiva disciplines, Tantric disciplines—whatever was available to him.

One extraordinary event occurred—because most of these were inner; outsiders could not tell. Ramakrishna could say it, but how would we know what was happening inside when he did Sufi practices? Then he passed through a method whose effects were visible to all.

In Bengal there is a Sakhi sect whose practitioner lives only as Krishna’s beloved or wife. He becomes a sakhi—a companion. Whether he is male or female does not matter. The only male is Krishna; the practitioner becomes his beloved, his Radha, his sakhi. For six months Ramakrishna practiced the Sakhi discipline. Astonishingly, his voice became feminine; from a distance no one could tell he was a man. His gait became feminine.

In truth, a man and woman cannot walk the same, because there are skeletal and fat-distribution differences. A woman’s abdomen must carry a child, so there is a special space there which a man does not have. Their gait differs; their feet fall differently. No matter how carefully she walks, a woman’s gait can never be exactly like a man’s; she can never run like a man—there is no way; the frames differ.

But Ramakrishna began to run and walk like a woman; his voice became like a woman’s. Even that could be explained—someone might imitate a woman’s walk and speech. But there was a greater surprise: Ramakrishna’s breasts enlarged and became feminine. Still, in old age men’s breasts can enlarge—so perhaps. But Ramakrishna began to menstruate—an amazing event—and a regular cycle began, like a woman’s.

For medical science this was deeply perplexing: how could this be? And even after he dropped the practice at six months, the effects lingered for a year and a half; it took that long to recede. Resolve! If Ramakrishna accepted with his whole being, “I am Krishna’s sakhi,” the personality became that of a sakhi.

In Europe there are many Christian mystics on whose hands the stigmata appear. Stigmata means: when Jesus was crucified, nails were driven through his hands; blood flowed. Many mystics, on the Friday of the crucifixion, identify themselves with Jesus. They become Jesus. As the hour of crucifixion approaches, thousands watch—these men stand with arms outstretched; their arms extend as if hanging on a cross. And from their hands—from which no nails have been driven—streams of blood begin to flow. By resolve they have become Jesus so completely, and the crucifixion is happening—and it happens. Without any instrument, without any pierced wound, blood flows.

The possibilities of human resolve are immense. But we have no inkling. This experiment of voluntary death is the deepest experiment of resolve. Generally, it is not difficult to resolve in favor of life—we want to live. To resolve in favor of death is very difficult. But those who truly want to know the full meaning of life must once die and see. Without dying and seeing, they will never know the kind of life within them that cannot die. There is a current of nectar within. To know it, one must pass through the experience of death. For once you die voluntarily, the fear of dying disappears forever. Then death is no more.

So, with complete resolve: “My consciousness is contracting. I gather myself in from all sides.” With eyes closed, contract: “My consciousness is shrinking; it has begun the inner journey from the feet, from the hands, from the head.” Energy begins to collect at the center from which it had spread. All the rays begin to return. Done with an intense mind, this experiment suddenly renders the whole body dead in a single moment, and within, a single living point remains. The whole body lies there like a corpse; only one point within is alive. That living point can now be seen very clearly as separate from the body. It is like this: in great darkness, many rays are scattered—you cannot tell what is ray and what is darkness. But if all the rays contract to one place, the contrast between darkness and rays becomes clear.

When the life-energy within us gathers densely into one point—condensed—the body appears separate and that point appears separate. Now only a slight resolve is needed to be outside the body. Merely think, “I am outside,” and you are outside. Standing outside, you can look at the body lying there like a corpse. A little threadlike connection will still remain, linking you to the body. That is the doorway for coming and going—a silver cord, a golden thread, linking to the navel.

As soon as this point comes out, another astonishing experience occurs: this point assumes the shape of a new body. It spreads and takes on a new form: the subtle body. It is a replica of this physical body, but tenuous, filmlike, transparent. If a hand passes through it, it passes through; nothing is harmed.

The first element in this discipline of resolve is to collect all the pranas at one point. When they are gathered, the leap out happens by itself—only the wish “out,” and you are out; the wish “back,” and you are back. There is nothing to do in that. The only doing is to collect the energy. Once gathered, you can go out and come in—no difficulty.

Once a seeker has this experience, his life-journey changes immediately, is transformed. What he used to call life until yesterday, he can no longer call life; what he called death, he can no longer call death. What he used to chase, it becomes difficult to chase; what he used to fight for, difficult to fight for; what he neglected, he can no longer neglect. Life changes, because an experience has come after which life cannot be what it was before. Therefore, for every meditator, an out-of-body experience is an inevitable stage one day—bringing wondrous consequences for his future.

It is not difficult; only resolve is needed. Resolve is difficult; the experiment is not. And so if someone wants to jump straight into it, it will be a little hard. He should do small experiments of resolve. As he succeeds in small ones, his power of resolve grows.

Across the world, what are called religious practices are not truly religious; they are preparations in resolve. A man fasts three days—this is only a discipline of resolve. The benefit is not from fasting; it is from resolve. Someone says, “I will stand in one place for twelve hours.” Standing does not bring benefit; the benefit is from the resolve to stand, and its completion. Gradually we have forgotten that these are exercises in resolve. Now a man thinks standing itself is enough—he just stands. He has forgotten that the point is not standing, but the inner resolve that decides and then fulfills.

These resolves can be done in any way. They are very small—not grand. A man can stand in a gallery and resolve, “I will stand for six hours but will not look down.” That will also do. The question is not whether not-looking-down benefits anyone; the point is: he decided and he fulfills it. When a person fulfills what he decides, his inner energy strengthens; he becomes self-possessed. He feels he is not a leaf blown by the wind. A kind of crystallization begins within; for the first time, foundations are laid in his personality.

So practice very small resolves and gather energy through them. Life offers many opportunities. You are sitting in a car on a drive. You can make just this resolve: “Today I will not read the roadside signboards.” No one is harmed. No one gains or loses. But you will get an opportunity for resolve, and there is no need to tell anyone. This is your inner journey. You say, “I won’t read the boards today.” You will find that half an hour in the car did not go to waste; you step out a little more than when you entered—you have gained something, whereas otherwise you would have lost.

It is not a big question where you experiment; I am giving examples. You can pick anything by which your capacity to hold a resolve increases. Keep doing such small experiments.

In meditation we say to someone, “Keep your eyes closed for forty minutes.” He opens them three times in between. Such a person is without resolve, without self. There is no great benefit or harm in closing the eyes. But if he cannot keep a simple decision for forty minutes, how can we hope for much else? We tell him, “Breathe deeply for ten minutes.” After two minutes he starts breathing shallowly. Tell him again, he takes a breath or two, then again shallow. He lacks self-mastery. Ten minutes of deep breathing is not hard. And the point is not what deep breathing will give or not give. One thing is certain: by resolving to breathe deeply for ten minutes, the man will become self-possessed. Something will become dense within him. He will win over something, break some resistance. The vagrant mind will weaken—because the mind will learn it cannot run the show with this man; to live with him, it must obey him.

You drive daily—you may never read the boards. But the day you decide, “Today I won’t,” that day the mind will try its utmost to make you read. The mind’s strength depends on your lack of resolve. Your will strong—the mind is dead. The mind strong—your resolve weak. So on ordinary days it never insists; you never challenged it. Today, this too is a challenge to it. It will find a thousand excuses: “This one was necessary to read, that’s why I read.” “Such a loud noise—there must be a riot—just look out to see what’s happening!” It will try to make you forget, to distract, so you slip once, look out, read a board. It will do everything. That’s how it is.

Ordinary people live with the mind. A seeker begins to live with resolve. He who lives with the mind is not a seeker. He who lives with resolve is a seeker. The meaning of seeker is precisely this: the mind is now transforming into resolve.

So choose very small points—no difficulty; you yourself can choose. In twenty-four hours do two or four experiments that no one will know about. No need to sit aside, no need to inform anyone—just do them quietly and pass on. Very small.

A small resolve: “When someone gets angry at me, I will smile.” And for every anger directed at you, you will receive such an amazing reward that you will thank the one who was angry. A small resolve: “Whenever anyone is angry with me, I will smile—no matter what.” After fifteen days you will find you are a different person; your quality has changed. You are no longer who you were.

Make very small decisions and try to live them. As confidence grows that you can now take on bigger resolves, take them. The final resolve for a seeker is to die voluntarily. Some day when you feel, “Now I can,” do it. The day you make that resolve and see your body lying like a corpse, from that day no scripture in the world will have anything new to say to you; from that day no guru on earth will be able to tell you anything new.

Suicide could be used as an experiment for resolve, but generally people who commit suicide do not do it for that. And, ordinarily, it is not really the person himself who is doing it. Often he feels as if some people are forcing him toward suicide. Certain circumstances and events push him toward it. If those circumstances were different, he would not kill himself. He loved someone and could not have her; now he is going to die. If he had gotten her, he wouldn’t be going to die. In truth, the one who commits suicide is not showing a readiness to die; he had a conditional readiness to live, and the condition was not fulfilled—so he refuses to live. There is no juice in dying for him; the juice has gone out of life.

So first, his suicide is a compulsion. That’s why, if you can stop a person inclined to suicide even for a couple of moments, perhaps he won’t try again. A short delay can be enough, because in those moments his mind will scatter; it had only been forcibly gathered together.

And the person who commits suicide is not exercising resolve; in fact, he is fleeing from resolve. Generally he is not brave—he is a coward. Life was demanding resolve from him. Life was saying: the one you loved yesterday—now resolve to forget. That is beyond him. Life says: leave the one you loved yesterday and love someone else now. That is beyond him. Life says: yesterday you were wealthy; today you are bankrupt—still, live. He has not the courage. He cannot muster resolve anywhere in life. He sees only one way: drown himself in death. He’s doing this to avoid resolves. This is not his resolve, not his positive will; it is his negative will.

Negative will, a negative resolve, has no value. Such a man will be born with an even weaker soul than before, because where he had an opportunity to kindle resolve, he ran away.

It’s like a child whose exams draw near and he runs away from class. In one sense he, too, has made a “resolve,” because while thirty students sat the exam, he slipped out. But that resolve is negative. The true resolve was to face the exam—that was creative. There was struggle there, and he fled the struggle. An escapist also “resolves”: when a man sees a lion and runs and climbs a tree, he too is exercising a kind of resolve. But we would not say that makes him a man of resolve, because after all, he is fleeing—he is an escapist.

So the suicidal tendency is escapist. There is no resolve in it. But yes, death can be used for resolve—that is another matter. In Mahavira’s tradition, even death has been used for resolve. If a seeker wishes to use death for resolve, Mahavira alone, out of the whole world, has given permission. No one else has. Only Mahavira says you may use death for spiritual practice. But not a death by swallowing poison, for that happens in a single moment. In a single moment, resolve is never revealed. For resolve, you need a long chain of moments.

So Mahavira says: undertake a fast and die through fasting. For a normal healthy person, dying by fasting takes about ninety days. If the resolve is even slightly weak, by the second day the desire to eat will come. By the third day he’ll think: how can I save myself, how can I escape—what trouble have I gotten into! But to remain sustained for ninety days, steadfast in the will to die, is a very difficult thing. That’s why there is no danger of deception in it. Mahavira said: remain hungry and die. There’s no danger of self-deception here, because anyone even a little lacking in resolve would have run away long before. There’s no trick to it. But to tell someone to die by poison, or drown in a river, or jump from a mountain—those are matters of a single moment. We can all gather together a moment’s worth of resolve. But a one-moment hero is of no use on the battlefield, because in the next moment he will turn coward—and with the same “resolve” with which he became a hero, he will become a coward.

So Mahavira sanctioned Santhara—the self-willed death—for the sake of spiritual practice, so that if someone wishes to test himself on the ultimate touchstone, even in death, he may do so. This is a weighty matter and one to be pondered, for Mahavira alone on this whole earth gives such a permission. There are two reasons.

First, Mahavira has a firm certainty that no one dies; therefore there is no need to be overly anxious about “dying.” With that certainty that no one dies, there is no harm—make an experiment.

Second, he has the experience and the firm certainty that for a person to desire death, without doubt and with unwavering intent, for fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred days—this is such a great event that it is no ordinary thing.

For a moment or two, the thought of dying comes to all of us. It is hard to find someone who has not, two or four times in life, wished to die. That he did not die is another matter. Such moments come when a person wishes to die. Then he has a cup of tea and forgets. A wife thinks, “Now I’ll hang myself against my husband,” but if the husband comes home and says, “I’ve bought tickets for the movie,” she drops it: “Oh, forget it—what’s the point in dying!”

I once lived somewhere, and a Bengali professor lived next door. The very first night I stayed there, husband and wife began to quarrel loudly. Through the wall I could hear everything. I was very surprised. I thought I should go, because there was no one else—he was threatening to kill himself. They were strangers to me; I didn’t think it proper to barge in. It was my first night in that room, and this was going on next door. Still, I felt this isn’t a matter of acquaintance—if the man dies, I too am responsible. Yet I kept restraint: if he actually sets out to die, then I’ll go out and stop him. After a while the talk stopped; I thought the matter was settled. Then I thought I should go and see what had happened. The door was open; the wife sat inside near the door; the gentleman had gone.

I asked her, “Where has your husband gone, the one you were arguing with?” She said, “Don’t worry; he has gone like this many times. He’ll be back in a little while.” I said, “But he’s gone to die!” She said, “He’ll surely return. You rest easy.”

And fifteen or twenty minutes later the man was returning. I was standing outside; I asked, “You’ve come back?” He said, “Looks like it’s going to rain. Don’t you see, the clouds are gathering? So I came back—I hadn’t taken an umbrella.” He had no idea that I knew he had gone to die. If it looks like rain and there’s no umbrella, even a man bent on dying won’t step out.

We all think of dying many times. But when we think of dying, it isn’t really about death; it’s only that there is a small snag in life. Because of a lack of resolve, we start thinking of death. There is an obstruction in life, a little blockage—and off we go to die. The one who goes to die because of life’s obstruction is not a man of resolve. But one who goes to experience death positively, constructively—to know what death is; who is not fleeing life, not opposing life, not denying life—such a man is going to seek life even in death. That is a different matter.

There is also a further important point: we are ordinarily not decisive about our birth. Birth, too, in the ultimate sense, is our decision—but an unconscious one. We don’t know why we took birth, where we took birth, for what we took birth. In one sense, death is the occasion on which we can be decisive. That is why death is a very unique event in life—decisive. For our birth we cannot firmly decide where, why, or how we are born. But about death we can decide: how we die, where we die, why we die. The manner of death we can determine.

For this reason also Mahavira permitted this experiment with death: the one who dies by using death as practice becomes the decider of his next birth as well. One who arranges his dying voluntarily is granted by nature the chance to choose his next birth voluntarily. That is the other side of it. When he goes out through this door with dignity, in awareness, then the other doors will also welcome him with dignity and allow him to enter by his own consent. Those who wish to decide their next birth should pass through this death voluntarily. That is also why permission was given. But the ordinary suicide—the commonplace self-killer—is not a man of resolve.

In truth, practicing witnessing is itself a very great resolve, and practicing tathata is an even greater resolve—this is the great resolve. When a man decides, “I will live as a witness,” there is no bigger resolve than that.

For example, one man decides, “Today I will not eat,” he resolves to fast. Another decides, “I will eat, but I will not see myself as the eater; I will see the seeing.” This second one is the tougher resolve. Not eating is not such a big difficulty. In fact, for people who get proper food, not eating for a day or two in a month is quite easy.

That is why whenever a society begins to have adequate food, the cult of fasting starts to spread. As in America these days, fasting is a strong trend. Naturopathy quickly catches on when people are well-fed. And it even feels right—sometimes stay empty; fasting seems lighter and more delightful.

In a poor society, perhaps staying hungry can be a resolve; in a rich society, staying hungry is a convenience. Truly, when the whole world has adequate food, fasting will become necessary for everyone; sometimes one will simply have to remain empty-stomached. But being a witness is a far more difficult thing.

Understand it this way: I decide, “I will not walk; I will sit on this chair for eight hours.” That is not such a big deal—if I am not walking, I am simply not walking. Or I decide, “I will walk for eight hours.” That too is not such a big deal—if I have decided, I walk. Witnessing means: I will walk, and I will also know that I am not walking. What does witnessing mean? I will walk, and I will also know that I am not the walker; I am only watching the walking. This is a subtler resolve, a great resolve.

And tathata is an even greater resolve. It is the ultimate resolve. There is none greater than that. Even a man resolving to die is not taking up as great a resolve. Tathata means: things as they are are accepted. Even the resolve to die arises out of some rejection—“we want to know what death is,” “we want to see whether death is or is not.”

No—tathata means: if death comes, we will die; if life continues, we will live. We are concerned neither with life nor with death. If darkness comes, we will sit in the dark; if light comes, we will sit in the light. If good comes, we will endure the good; if bad comes, we will endure the bad. Whatever happens, we are in agreement. We have no disagreement at all.

Let me explain with an example. Diogenes was passing through a forest—naked fakir and very beautiful. It wouldn’t be surprising if human beings first began to wear clothes only to cover up the body’s ugliness; it is very likely so. We are eager to cover whatever is ugly. Diogenes was very beautiful; he lived naked—huge-bodied, radiant. Four men thought of catching him; they were slave-catchers. They thought, “If we can trap such a handsome man, he will fetch a good price. He seems to belong to no one, has no master—he’s walking alone, without clothes. Magnificent, strong, dazzling. But how to catch him? He looks so powerful—what if he troubles all four of us?” Then they said, “Let’s try anyway. At worst we’ll take a few blows and run.”

The four went and suddenly surrounded him with force. He stood perfectly still in the middle and said, “What are your intentions?” They were astonished. They produced chains, and he stretched out his hands. Their hands were trembling—they feared he might strike them down. He said, “Don’t tremble—why are your hands shaking? Here, let me tighten the chains.” He helped them bind him. They were amazed. Once the chains were fastened, they asked, “What kind of man are you? We’re putting chains on you and you’re helping us! We were afraid there would be a fight, blows, some ruckus.” He said, “No. If you are enjoying chaining me, I am enjoying being chained. What is there to quarrel about? It’s quite fun. Now tell me, where are we going?” They said, “We feel ashamed to tell you, but we are slave-catchers. We’ll take you to market to sell you.” He said, “Let’s go.” He set off so cheerfully that they couldn’t keep up with his pace. They said, “Walk a little slower—what’s the hurry?” He said, “But since we are going to the market anyway, let’s go quickly.”

They reached the market. A great crowd gathered—the buyers of slaves had rarely seen such a slave; he looked like an imperial king. They put him on the platform where slaves were auctioned. The auctioneer shouted, “A slave has come to be sold—who wants to buy...?” Diogenes said, “Be quiet, fool! Ask them: was I going ahead or were they? Did they put chains on me, or did I have myself chained?”

The men said, “He’s speaking the truth. To be honest, even now we don’t know whether we could have chained him—he had us chain him. And as for who was leading, he walks so fast we have been running behind him. So it’s wrong to say we brought him to market. It’s right to say we came after him. And it’s not right to say we made him a slave—what’s right is that he agreed to be a slave. We did not make him one.”

Diogenes said, “Fool, don’t talk like that. I’ll make the announcement myself—and your voice is weak; it won’t carry in such a crowd.” Then Diogenes shouted, “Today a master has come to be sold in this market. Whoever wishes to buy, let him buy.” Someone asked, “You call yourself a master?” He said, “I call myself a master. By my own will I had the chains put on. By my own will I came. By my own will I will be sold. By my own will I will go. Nothing can happen against my will, because whatever happens, I make it my will.”

You understand, don’t you! He is saying: whatever happens, I make it my will.

This man has attained to tathata. Tathata means that whatever is happening, he is in agreement with it; there is no opposition in him. You cannot defeat such a man in any way, because he will be the one to be defeated. You cannot beat him, because he will agree to be beaten. You cannot suppress him, because before you press him down, he will already have lain down. There is nothing you can do to him, because there is no resistance to anything you do.

This is indeed the great resolve. Tathata is the supreme resolve—the ultimate will. The one who is available to tathata is available to the divine.

So do not ask the question in this way: Will the practitioner of witnessing or the practitioner of tathata get, without resolve, what one gets through the practice of resolve? He already has it; there is no difficulty for him. The practice of resolve is primary, the practice of witnessing is intermediate, the practice of tathata is ultimate. Begin with resolve, travel through witnessing, arrive at tathata. There is no conflict among these three. There is no conflict among these three.

In witnessing, duality remains. The witness takes himself to be separate from that which he knows. If a thorn gets lodged in his foot, the witness says, “It hasn’t pierced me; I am the knower. The thorn has pierced the body.” The piercing is one thing, the knowing another. In the practice of witnessing there is a split between “knowing” and “being.” Therefore witnessing cannot rise to non-duality. Seekers who stop at witnessing will remain ringed by a kind of dualism. In the end they will divide existence into two: the conscious and the inert—conscious that which knows, inert that which is known. Ultimately they will not rest without breaking existence into Purusha and Prakriti.

These words are very fine—Purusha, and Prakriti too. You may never have considered what Prakriti means. It does not mean “nature.” In fact, English has no word like Prakriti. Prakriti means that which is before becoming—pra-kriti—what is there even prior to formation. It does not mean creation (srishti), which is what exists after becoming; Prakriti means that which was even when nothing had yet become—that which was before creation. And Purusha is also a very meaningful word, born of very special experiences. Pur we know as “city,” as in Kanpur, Nagpur. Pur means city, and the one who dwells in that city is Purusha. The body is a town, and someone resides in it—a resident—that is Purusha. Prakriti is the city, and the one dwelling in it, set apart, is Purusha.

So witnessing will go as far as Prakriti and Purusha. It will split: here is nature, the inert; and here is consciousness, the knower. The distance between the knower and the known will stand.

Tathata is a greater thing. Tathata means there is no duality—no knower and nothing to be known; or, the knower is the known. Now it is not that the thorn is piercing and I am knowing. Now it is not that the thorn is separate and I am separate. Now it is not even that it would be better if the thorn had not pierced, or that it would be better if the thorn were removed. No—none of that. The thorn’s being, the piercing, the awareness of piercing, the pain—all are accepted, and all are ends of the same one thing. The thorn is also me; the piercing is me; the knowing is me; the recognizing is me—everything is me. Therefore there is nothing to be known outside this “I.” I cannot even think, “If only the thorn had not pierced,” for how could I? The thorn too is me, the piercing too is me, the knowing too is me. Nor can I think, “It would be good if the thorn did not pierce,” for how could I cut my own self out?

Tathata is the supreme state: what is, is—utter acceptance of what is, without any division. But one cannot reach tathata without witnessing. One may, if one wishes, stop at witnessing and not reach tathata. Without resolve (sankalpa) no one can even reach witnessing; yet one can choose to stop at resolve and not come to witnessing.

One who stops at resolve will become very powerful, but will not become wise. Hence there can be misuse of resolve, because knowledge is not necessary there; power comes in abundance, and it can be used for anything. A person of strong resolve is filled with power. What use he will put it to cannot yet be said. He may use it badly. Power is neutral. But power is needed—needed both for doing evil and for doing good. And I hold that it is better to be powerful, even if you sometimes do wrong, than to be powerless; because one who can do wrong can someday do right, but one who cannot even do wrong cannot do right either.

So, better to be powerful than to be nerveless and powerless. Even among the powerful, there are journeys of the auspicious and the inauspicious. Better to be powerful and be on the auspicious journey. If the auspicious journey of power proceeds rightly, it will bring you to witnessing. If the inauspicious journey proceeds, you will not reach witnessing; you will remain lost in the power of resolve. Then there will be mesmerism, hypnotism, tantra, mantra, sorcery and witchcraft of all kinds. But there will be no journey of the soul. That is a derailment—power, but gone astray. If power takes the auspicious path, witnessing is born. For ultimately, when power arises, a man can use it to know and attain himself—that is its auspicious journey. To use it to subdue another, to possess another, to tighten one’s grip on another—that is the inauspicious journey, black magic. To use power to find oneself, to recognize and live oneself, to know who and what one is—that is the auspicious journey. If power is on the auspicious journey, you become a witness.

Now, if the attitude of witnessing is satisfied merely with “Let me know myself,” then the matter reaches as far as the fifth body and ends there. But if witnessing deepens and also inquires, “I am not alone; I exist with all. In my being the moon and stars are included, the sun is included; in my being stone, soil, flowers, plants are all included; in my being the other’s being is also included; my being is co-being”—if this current of insight begins, one can reach tathata.

And tathata is religion’s supreme attainment—total acceptance. As things are happening, he is consenting to all of it. Only one who is wholly consenting to whatever is happening can be perfectly at peace. For where there is even a trace of discontent, restlessness will continue. If the mind is even a little filled with complaint, restlessness will continue. If there is even a slight sense that “it should have been like this, and it is not,” tension will continue.

Ultimate peace, ultimate release from tension, ultimate liberation are possible only in tathata. With resolve you can go up to witnessing. With witnessing you can go up to tathata. For one who has not yet learned to be the witness cannot know total acceptance. One who has not yet known “I am separate from the thorn” cannot know “I am one with the thorn.” In fact, one who has known separateness from the thorn can take the second step into oneness with the thorn.

So tathata is the essence. In the whole field of sadhana, the highest discovery is tathata. Therefore one of Buddha’s names is Tathagata. It helps to understand the word Tathagata a little—it will aid you in understanding tathata.

Buddha uses Tathagata even for himself. He says, “Thus has the Tathagata said.” Tathagata means “thus come, thus gone”—came just so, went just so. Like a gust of wind that comes and goes—no purpose, no meaning—just a breeze that passes through within and moves on. One who comes and goes just like that, whose coming and going are as purposeless and desireless as a gust of wind—such a one is called Tathagata.

But who can come and go like a gust of wind? Only the one who has attained tathata—for whom neither coming nor going makes any difference. If he comes, he comes; if he goes, he goes. Just as Diogenes went—no difference whether you put chains on him or not. Diogenes later said, “Only one who can be a slave is afraid of slavery; we cannot be slaves, so why should we fear slavery? Only one who has even a little fear of being enslaved can fear slavery—and one who is afraid is already a slave. We are masters. You cannot make us slaves. Within your chains we remain masters. Even if we fall into your prison, we will remain masters. We are masters.” So what difference does it make where you put us? It makes no difference. Our mastery is complete.

From resolve to witnessing, from witnessing to tathata—such is the journey.

No, there is no difference.
Witnessing and the state of the seer are one and the same?
One and the same.
And after that, tathata?
Only then is there tathata.

No, not that meaning. “Constitutionally” means his constitution is like that. “Constitution” means a statute, a framework. Yes, as with a person: “constitutionally” means that person’s structure is such, that person’s constitution is such. The word prakriti is something very different. We use it in the sense of “so-and-so’s nature is like this.” That is not a correct usage. Prakriti means before the making (kriti). Pralaya means after the making. Prakriti means that which was there even when nothing had been made; that which does not need to be made at all, that which is beginningless, that which simply is. Srishti means that which is made.

In the European languages there is no word for prakriti, because they are influenced by Christianity. So in Europe there is creation and creator. In the languages of this land there is the word prakriti—and even then, not in all. In Sankhya, Vaisheshika, Jain—their vocabulary has it; the word prakriti is theirs. Because they do not accept creation, nor do they accept any God. They say: that which has always been, which has never been made—its name is prakriti. Before you make anything, it already exists.

Now, for example, this house we have built. The framework of this house—that is the constitution. But the clay we brought for this house—that is prakriti. The air we used for this house—that is prakriti. The fire we used for this house—that is prakriti. That which has been put together and finished—that is its structure. But even before making this structure, that which was already present, which we did not make, which no one made, which is uncreated, which simply was—its name is prakriti. In the languages of Europe there is no word for prakriti.

One small question:

In fact, when we say “just awareness,” mere alertness, there is a slight difference between that and tathata. And there is also a slight difference between that and the witness. Think of “just awareness” as the link between the witness and tathata—when you pass from witnessing to tathata, this will be the link in between: just awareness. In witnessing, the sense that “I am and you are” is firm. In just awareness there is only “am”; the sense of “you” has been forgotten—only the sense of being. In tathata, it is not only the sense of being; my being and your being are one being. Because as long as there is just awareness, as long as there is only the sense of being, there will be a boundary outside that sense of being—something I am not, from which I am separate. In tathata there is no boundary. There is only Being. So if we say tathata, then it is just Being, not “just awareness.” Being is the bigger word.

“Won’t ‘just awareness’ accommodate everything?”
The moment you say “just awareness,” something has been left out. The word “just” is an excluding word. When we say “only consciousness,” then outside that “only” we have left something—otherwise why put “only”? When we say “merely consciousness,” we have denied something outside that “merely”—otherwise why put “merely”?

“If we say ‘only awareness’?”
Yes, say awareness, that will do. But don’t add “only.”

“Awareness?”
Yes, say awareness, that will do. Then there is no difficulty. No difficulty at all.

The last question is:

No, that is not necessary. What is the difficulty? The difficulty is that producing a scientist depends on many things, and giving a scientist a job depends on many other things. Bringing forth a scientist depends on the previous journeys of a scientific soul. And if the moment of lovemaking between two persons is such that that soul gains entry through the door of intelligence, it will gain that entry; it will be born. But giving a scientist a job depends on the entire social arrangement—this scientist may get ten thousand rupees in America, and a thousand in India. And in America he may get a laboratory; in India he might have to wait a thousand years to get one. And if his research is done in America, it will not rot in government offices; it may receive a Nobel Prize. Here, if he conducts research, his superior officer will sit on it and suppress it, never letting it see the light. And even if someday it does come out, it may appear under a leader’s name, or an officer’s name. Under his own name, the trace of his research may never be known. It will depend on a thousand things.

So among the beings we bring to birth on this earth, many have to take birth on other planets. In fact, those who brought news of other planets to this earth were themselves originally from other planets. Only today has it occurred to scientists that there may be some fifty thousand planets where life exists. But the yogi has known this since ancient times. The yogi had no method to investigate whether life existed on other planets. There was only one way: certain souls who were born here from other planets brought the news. And the news of this planet is carried to other planets by other such souls.

At the moment of death, a person’s consciousness gathers up in its entirety. All its imprints, all its tendencies, all its desires, the distilled essence of the life—its perfume, the fragrance or the stench—collects together, and it sets out on its journey.

Ordinarily, this journey is unchosen; there is no deliberate selection—it is automatic. It is like pouring water: it flows toward a hollow and fills it. Typically, a womb functions as that hollow; when a nearby consciousness is available, it enters.

Therefore, as a rule, a person is born again and again in his own society, his own country. Very little changes. Change occurs only when a womb is not found. This is why it is quite surprising that in the past two hundred years many precious Indian souls had to be born in Europe. For example, Annie Besant, Blavatsky, Leadbeater, or Olcott—these are all Indian souls, but they had to be born in Europe. Lobsang Rampa is a Tibetan soul, but was born in Europe. The reasons arose: where they had been taking birth, a suitable womb was no longer available, so they had to seek one elsewhere.

Otherwise an ordinary person is born immediately. It is like this: if you leave this house in this neighborhood, you will naturally first look for a house within the same neighborhood. Only if you don’t find one here will you look in another neighborhood. If you don’t find one in the city, you go to the suburbs. And if you don’t find one even in the suburbs, only then do you move further out. But if you find one nearby, the matter ends there.

A very wondrous use was made of this. Two points about that use are worth keeping in mind—and especially now. The most marvelous use was made in India by creating the varnas. It was a very precious use.

India divided the whole society into four varnas, and it tried to ensure that when a Brahmin’s soul dies, it enters the Brahmin varna; when a Kshatriya’s soul dies, it enters the Kshatriya varna. Naturally, if varna is assured in a society, when a Kshatriya dies he is very likely to search in the neighborhood and enter a Kshatriya family. And if a person’s soul remains Kshatriya for five or ten births, the kind of Kshatriya that emerges cannot be produced by a day of military training. And if a soul is born for ten or twenty births in Brahmin families, the purest Brahminhood that arises cannot be created by setting up a gurukul and schooling someone.

You will be surprised to know that while we think of educational methods within one lifetime, some people devised an educational arrangement across countless lifetimes. Hence it was a marvelous experiment. But it decayed—not because it was wrong, but because its original principles were lost. And those who claim it today have no principles at all. The Brahmin has no principle; the Shankaracharya has no principle on the basis of which he can claim. The claim is only this much: our scriptures say the Brahmin is a Brahmin, the Shudra is a Shudra. Scriptures cannot govern; scientific principles do.

So a remarkable event was that one country undertook a great experiment in rebirth. That is, we were not preparing a person in a single lifetime; we were giving him a planned channelization for future births—proper canals—so that in his next journey he could again travel by holding to a particular class. Because it may happen that a Brahmin has to be born in a Shudra’s home, and what he earned and attained in past births might face great obstacles in the next birth due to the lack of a suitable arrangement. And it may also happen that what could be achieved in ten days by being born in a Brahmin family may not be achieved in ten years in a Shudra family.

Such a far-seeing vision of development divided the country into clear segments, and it arranged neighborhoods so that, across births...

For instance, the twenty-four births of Mahavira or the twenty-four births of the Buddha all belong to the Kshatriya tradition. The whole stream flows in an ordered way. A person’s entire preparation proceeds; where one preparation leaves off, the next begins without a gap—there is continuity. Therefore we were able to produce very unique people. Now it has become very difficult to produce such people in an organized way. It is only by coincidence that such a person may be born; systematically producing them has become very difficult.

We will talk more tomorrow.