My beloved Atman! Knowledge is power; knowledge itself is liberation. And knowledge is the journey of victory. That which we truly know, from it we are set free. And that which we truly know, over it we gain mastery as well. Our defeat and our downfall are nothing but our ignorance. There is darkness, therefore there is defeat. Let there be light, and defeat becomes impossible. Light turns into victory.
The first thing I wish to say to you regarding death is this: nothing is more untrue than death. And yet death appears as truth. Not only does it seem true, it seems to be the very central truth of life. It appears as though all of life is surrounded by death. And even if we forget, even if we force ourselves to forget, still death stands close all around us. Closer than even our own shadow, death is near.
The form we have given to life has been given largely out of the fear of death. Out of this fear, society has been fashioned, nations have been formed, families created, friendships gathered. Out of this fear has come the race to accumulate wealth, out of this fear the ambition for status. And the greatest surprise is this: out of fear of death we have erected our gods and our temples too. People, frightened of death, kneel and pray. People, frightened of death, raise folded hands toward the sky, toward Paramatma. And yet nothing is more untrue than death. Therefore, everything in life that we have arranged taking death as truth has itself become untrue.
But how are we to know that death is untrue? How to come to know that death is not? And until this is known, our fear will not dissolve. And unless we know that death is untrue, life cannot become our truth. As long as there is fear of death, life cannot be true for us. As long as we stand trembling, frightened by death, we will not be able to gather the capacity to truly live.
Only the one can live who has seen death’s shadow depart, dissolve from before him. How will a trembling mind live? How will a frightened mind live? And when death seems to be approaching each moment, how shall we live? How can we live?
And however much we may try to forget death, it does not forget us. Even if we build the cremation ground beyond the edge of the village, it still can be seen. Every day someone dies. Every day, somewhere, death occurs—and the foundations of our lives are shaken. And each time death is seen happening, we know, “I too shall die.” When we weep over someone’s death, we do not weep only over their death; we weep over the news of our own death. And when we feel sorrow and pain on seeing death, it is not only another’s death causing our sorrow; therein the possibility of our own dying has revealed itself.
Every death is our death also. And if surrounded thus we remain, how shall we live? Then living becomes impossible. Then we cannot come to know life—nor its bliss, nor its beauty, nor its nectar. Then we cannot reach even the doorway of life’s ultimate truth—Paramatma.
The fear of death has built a certain kind of temples; they are not the temples of Paramatma. And out of the fear of death a certain kind of prayers have been devised; they too are not prayers to Paramatma. To the temple of Paramatma only that one arrives who becomes filled with the ecstasy of life. The steps to Paramatma are filled with life’s beauty and life’s nectar. And the bells at the gate of Paramatma ring only for those who, freed from all fear, become utterly fearless.
Then the difficulty seems great. We want to live and yet remain full of death. This can never happen. Of the two, only one can be true. Remember: if life is true, death cannot be true; and if death is true, then life is but a dream—a lie. It cannot be the truth. The two cannot be true together.
But we have been clinging to both at once. It seems as if we live, and it also seems as if we shall die.
I have heard: at the foot of a faraway mountain lived a fakir. Many people would go to him to ask many things. Once a man went and said, Tell us something about life and death. The fakir said, If you wish to know about life, you are welcome—the doors are open. But if you wish to know about death, go elsewhere, for I have never died, nor can I ever die. I have no experience of death. If you want to know about death, ask those who have died, ask those who are dead. But then the fakir laughed and said, How will you ask those who are dead! There is no way to ask them. And if you ask me to give you the address of someone deceased, even that I cannot give. For since the day I came to know that I cannot die, I also came to know that no one ever dies. No one has died—so said the fakir.
How shall we accept his words? Every day we see someone die. Every day death happens. Death is such a stark truth, it pierces even into our breath. Close your eyes as you will, still it is seen. Run as much as you like, try to escape, it surrounds us nevertheless. How to deny such a truth?
Some do try to deny it. Some, out of fear of death, accept that the Atman is immortal—only out of fear. They do not know; they merely believe. Some get up every morning and repeat—sitting in temples, sitting in mosques—Atman is immortal, the soul never dies, the Atman is immortal. And they are under the illusion that by repeating it again and again perhaps the Atman will become immortal. Or perhaps they think by constant repetition death can be made false.
No, by repetition death does not become false. Death becomes false only by knowing.
Remember, it is a strange fact that we always accept the opposite of what we keep repeating. When a man says, I am immortal, the Atman is immortal, and keeps repeating it, he betrays that inwardly he knows, I shall die, I must die. If he truly knew that he will not die, there would be no need to repeat it. Only the frightened keep repeating.
Hence you will see that among those countries and societies that talk most about the soul’s immortality, it is hardest to find people who fear death less than they do. This is our land, which never tires of speaking about the Atman’s immortality—and yet, is there anyone on earth who fears death more than we do? No one fears more than we do.
How will these two things fit together? Those who truly know the soul to be immortal—could they ever be slaves to fear? They would be ready to die. They would be ready for risk. Because they know death is not. Those who know life is immortal, Atman is immortal, they will be the first to land on the moon, the first to climb Everest, the first to go down into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.
No—we are not among them. We neither climb Everest, nor land on the moon, nor descend into the Pacific depths—and we are the people who claim the soul is immortal. In truth, we are so frightened of death that out of that fear we go on repeating, Atman is immortal. And we are under the illusion that what we repeat again and again might become true.
No truth is born from repetition. If we repeat, There is no death, death will not vanish. Death must be known—what it is. Death must be encountered—what death is. We must bring death to stand before our eyes, we must see it, we must live it, we must become acquainted with it.
But we all keep running with our backs turned toward death—then how shall we see it? We close our eyes to death. If someone dies outside, if a corpse passes along the road, the mother locks her child inside and says, Do not go out, someone has died. Cremation grounds are built outside the village so they won’t be seen again and again. Lest death come face to face. If you talk to someone about dying, he will say, Please don’t speak such things.
I stayed for some days with a sannyasin. Every day he talked about the soul’s immortality. I asked him, Do you ever think that the day of your dying is drawing near? He said, Don’t speak such inauspicious words. Don’t even mention it. It is not right to talk like this. I said, If a man says the soul is immortal and yet sees bad omens in the very talk of death, then something is very wrong. He should see no fear in the talk of death, no ill omen, no evil—because for him death is not. He said, Yes, the soul is immortal. And yet I do not wish to talk about death. Such useless things should not be discussed, such dangerous things should not be mentioned.
We all do the same. We are running with our backs turned to death.
I have heard: once in a village a man fell into a great madness. He was walking along a road. It was blazing noon, the path was deserted, empty. He began to walk fast lest, in the desolation, some fear arise.
Although fear can arise where others are present; where there is no one at all, how can fear have a support? Yet we fear most where no one is. Truly, we are afraid of ourselves. And when we are left alone, great fear arises. We fear ourselves more than we fear anyone. So if someone is with us—anyone—our fear lessens. But if we are utterly alone, fear becomes intense.
That man was alone and became afraid, and started running. The place was silent, desolate, noon—no one anywhere. As he ran faster, he heard behind him the sound of his own feet. He became afraid that perhaps someone is behind him. He glanced back with furtive, frightened eyes, and saw a long shadow following him. It was his own shadow. But seeing a long shadow chasing him, he ran even faster. That man could never stop again before his death. Because the faster he ran, the faster the shadow ran behind him. In the end he must have gone mad.
But even the mad find worshippers. When he would dash through the village and people saw him running, they thought he was absorbed in great austerity. He would never stop. Only at night in the darkness would he stop, when the shadow disappeared. Then he would think, Now no one is behind me. At morning he would start running again.
Later he stopped even at night. It occurred to him that whenever I rest, it seems as if however far I run during the day, by morning the shadow returns and is behind me again. So he stopped resting at night. Then he went completely mad. He neither ate nor drank. Running, multitudes watched him, threw flowers. Someone along the way would thrust some bread into his hand, someone water. His worship kept increasing. Millions began to honor him.
But the man became more and more insane. And at last one day he fell and died. In the village where he died, they built a grave for him under the shade of a tree. They asked an old fakir of that village, What shall we write upon his grave? The fakir wrote a single line on his tomb.
Somewhere, in some village, that grave still exists. If you ever pass that way, read it. The fakir wrote: Here sleeps a man who ran all his life from his own shadow, who wasted his life fleeing a shadow. And the man inside knew not even as much as his grave knows—because the grave, being in the shade and not running, casts no shadow at all. The one who sleeps within knew not even as much as his grave knows.
We too are running. We may be amazed that someone ran from a shadow! We all go on running from shadows. And whatever we run from, that pursues us. And the faster we run, the faster it runs—because it is our own shadow.
Death is our own shadow. And if we keep fleeing it, we shall never stand before it and recognize what it is. Had that man only stopped and looked back, he might have laughed at himself and said, How foolish I am—running from a shadow.
If someone runs from a shadow, he can never get away. And if someone fights a shadow, he can never win. This does not mean the shadow is powerful and cannot be overcome. It only means the shadow is not—there is nothing there to conquer. That which is not cannot be defeated. This is why people go on being defeated by death—because death is only life’s shadow. As life moves, its shadow moves behind it. It is the shadow cast by life—and we never turn back to see what it is. We have fallen and collapsed many times from all this running. You have not come to this shore for the first time—you have been here many times. Perhaps not this very shore, another shore. Not this body, another body. But the running has been the same, the feet the same, the fleeing the same.
Afraid of the very same death we live many lives—and still we do not recognize, nor do we see. And we are so frightened that when death comes close, when its entire shadow engulfs us, we faint from fear.
Ordinarily no one remains conscious at the moment of dying. If one remains alert even once, the fear of death dissolves forever. If one sees even once what dying is, what happens in dying, then the fear of death will not return—because death itself will not remain. It is not that one conquers death. You conquer only that which is. Merely by knowing, death disappears. Nothing remains to be conquered.
But though we have died many times, whenever we have died, we have become unconscious. As a doctor or surgeon gives anesthesia before an operation, so that you won’t know the pain, we are so frightened of dying that at the time of death we ourselves become unconscious. A little while before death we faint. We die unconscious, and in unconsciousness are born again. We neither see death nor do we see birth. Hence we never understand that life is eternal. Death and birth are no more than stopovers in between, where we change our garments—or our horses.
In olden times there were no trains. People traveled by horse-drawn carriages. From one village to the next they would go, and there change horses, for the horses were tired. They would return the exhausted horses and take fresh ones from that inn; then at the next village again they would change. But those changing horses did not feel as if they had died and been born again—because they changed in awareness.
Sometimes a rider would be drunk. The horses were changed, and when he looked carefully he would say, Oh! Everything has changed, everything is different. I have heard that once a drunken horseman said, Perhaps I too have changed! This is not the horse I was riding—then perhaps I am not the same man either!
Birth and death are only the places where vehicles are changed; the old vehicle is left. The weary horse is left and a fresh horse taken. But both these acts happen in our unconsciousness. And he whose birth and death are in unconsciousness, his life too cannot be in awareness. His life passes almost half-unconscious, half-faint.
So what am I saying? I am saying that it is necessary to see death, to know it, to recognize it. But this will happen when we die. When I die, then I can see. What is the way now? And if someone will see only when he dies, then know that there is no way—because at the moment of dying he will become unconscious.
Yes, there is a way now. We can enter death voluntarily, experimentally. And I want to say to you: meditation, or Samadhi, is nothing else; Dhyana and Samadhi are a voluntary entrance into the experience of death. That event which will someday occur on its own when the body falls away—we can enter it now, by our own consent, leaving the body behind within, and we can know: death happened; death passed by. Even tonight we can encounter death. For the total meaning of death’s event is simply this: that in our journey the body and the soul of the traveler experience their difference, there where the cart is left behind and the traveler goes on ahead.
I have heard: once a man went to Sheikh Farid. He asked, We hear that when Mansoor’s hands were cut, his feet were cut, he felt no pain; it is unbelievable. If a thorn pricks the foot, it hurts. Cutting off hands and feet and no pain? These seem like fanciful tales. He also said, We hear that when Jesus was hung upon the cross, he was not the least troubled. And when he was asked, If you wish to make a final prayer, you may, that naked Jesus hanging on the cross, his hands pierced by nails, blood flowing—what he said in the last moment does not seem believable. Jesus said, Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
You too have heard this sentence. And those who follow Jesus around the world repeat it again and again. The sentence is very simple. Jesus said, Forgive these people, O God, for they do not know what they are doing. Usually readers suppose Jesus meant, These poor people do not know they are killing a good man; they are unaware.
No, that was not Jesus’ meaning. He meant: These madmen do not know that the one they are killing cannot die. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing. They are attempting an impossible thing. They are engaged in killing—an impossibility.
The man said, It is not believable that someone being killed could show such compassion. In that moment one would be filled with anger.
Farid laughed heartily. He said, You have asked a good question—but I will answer later. First do a small task for me. He picked up a coconut nearby, gave it to the man, and said, Break this—but be sure to keep the kernel intact, do not let it break. The coconut was unripe. The man said, Forgive me, this cannot be done. The coconut is raw; if I break the shell, the kernel will break too. The fakir said, Then keep it aside. He handed him a second coconut, a dry one: Now break this. Will you be able to keep the kernel whole? The man said, The kernel can be saved.
The fakir said, I have given you the answer. Did you understand? The man said, I did not. What has a coconut to do with my question? The fakir said, Keep both coconuts; there is nothing to break. I am saying: a raw coconut has its kernel and shell still joined. If you strike the shell, the kernel too will break. Then there is a dry coconut. What is the difference between a dry and a raw coconut? A small difference: the kernel has shrunk within and separated from the shell. A distance, a space has come between kernel and shell. Now you say that you can break the shell and keep the kernel safe. I have answered your question.
The man said, Still I do not understand. The fakir said, Then go, die—and understand. Without it you will not understand. But even then you will not, because you will become unconscious. One day the shell and the kernel will separate, but you will faint. If you wish to understand, learn now to separate the kernel and the shell—now, while you are alive. And if now the kernel and the shell separate, death is finished. From the moment the gap arises, you know: the shell is different, the kernel is different. Even if the shell breaks, I will remain; there is no question of my breaking, no question of my ceasing. Even if death occurs, it cannot enter within me; it will happen outside me. That which will die is that which I am not. What I am, will remain.
This is the meaning of meditation and Samadhi: we learn to separate the shell and the kernel. They can be separated, for they are separate. They can be known as separate, for they are separate.
Hence I call meditation a voluntary entrance into death. And one who, by his own choice, enters death, comes to a direct encounter: Here is death—and still I am.
Socrates is dying, the last moment. The hemlock is being prepared to kill him. He keeps asking, Why is it taking so long? When will the poison be ready? His friends are weeping, saying, You have gone mad! We want you to live a little longer. We have bribed the man grinding the poison, we have persuaded him to grind slowly. Socrates rises, goes out to the grinder and says, You are taking too long—so unskilled you seem—new to this task? Have you never ground this before? Have you never administered poison to one condemned to death?
The man says, I have done it all my life. But I have never seen a madman like you. Why such hurry? Breathe a little longer, live a little longer, remain in life a little longer—so I grind slowly. And you yourself keep asking like a madman, It is getting late—what is the hurry to die?
Socrates says, There is great hurry—because I want to see death. I want to see what it is. I want to see whether death happens and still I remain or not. If I do not remain, the whole matter is finished. If I remain, death is finished. In truth, I want to see who dies in the event of death—will death die, or will I? Shall I remain, or shall death? I want to see; without going, how can I see!
Then the poison is given to Socrates. All his friends are beating their chests, crying—they are not conscious. And what is Socrates doing? He is saying to them, My feet have died, yet I am alive. He says, The poison has reached my knees; my legs up to the knees are completely dead. Even if you cut them, I would not know. But friends, I tell you, my legs have died—but I am alive. So one thing is certain: I was not the legs. I still am—I am whole and entire; nothing within me has diminished. Then Socrates says, Now my legs are entirely gone; up to the thighs all has finished. If you cut me to the thighs, I would not know—but I am. And his friends weep on. Socrates says, Don’t weep. You have a rare opportunity—look! A man is dying and telling you that still he is alive. Even if you cut off my legs, I am not dead; I still am. And then he says, My hands too are becoming loose, the hands will die. Ah, how often I had mistaken these hands for myself—the hands too are going, and yet I am. And that man, that Socrates, goes on saying as he dies: Slowly, slowly, all is becoming quiet, all is sinking—and yet I am exactly as I am. And he says, It may be that after a little while I will not remain to give you news, but do not think that I have vanished. For when so much of the body has vanished and I have not, then when a little more vanishes, why should I vanish? It may be that I cannot give you news—because news can be given only through the body—but I will remain. And then the last moment: Perhaps this is the last thing I am saying to you; my tongue is faltering, beyond this I shall not be able to speak—but even now I am saying, I am. He died saying to the last moment, I am.
In meditation, too, one has to enter within in just this way. Gradually, one thing after another drops, distance arises from each. And then that moment comes in which it feels as if everything lies far away—like a corpse lying on the shore belonging to someone else—and I am. The body lies there, and still I am—separate, distinct, utterly other.
As soon as this is experienced, we have encountered death while alive. Thereafter we have no relation with death. Death will keep coming—yet it will be only a stopover, a changing of garments, where we take new horses, mount new bodies, and set off on a new journey, on new paths, in new realms. But death will not erase us.
This can be known only through direct seeing, by encounter. We must know, we must pass through. And because we fear dying so much, we are unable to meditate.
Many people come to me and say, We cannot meditate. What shall I tell them? Their real trouble is elsewhere. Their real trouble is the fear of dying. And meditation is a process of dying. In full meditation we reach exactly where a dying man reaches. The only difference is this: the dead arrive unconscious; we arrive conscious. That is all. The dead man does not know what happened—how the shell broke and the kernel remained. We know—the kernel separated, the shell separated.
So whoever is unable to go into meditation, the fundamental reason is the fear of death—no other. And whoever is afraid of death can never enter Samadhi. Samadhi is an invitation to death with one’s own hands. A call to death: Come, I am ready to die. I want to know whether, when death happens, I remain or not. And it is good that I know consciously, because if this event happens in unconsciousness, I will not know anything.
Therefore the first thing I say to you tonight: As long as you run from death, you will go on being defeated by it. The day you stand facing death, that very day death will depart—and you will remain.
In these three days, I shall speak only of the process by which you can stand face to face with death. In these three days I hope that many will learn how to die, will be able to die. And if you can die here—on this shore—and this shore is very wondrous, on this very shore the feet of that one stood who said in a battlefield to Arjuna: Do not worry and do not fear. Do not fear killing and dying, for I tell you, none kills and none is killed. No one has ever died, no one can ever die. And that which dies and can die, is already as-good-as dead. That which does not die and cannot die—there is no way to kill it—that alone is life.
Upon this shore Krishna’s feet fell; upon it we have gathered today. This sand saw Krishna come and go. People may have thought, Krishna has died—died indeed. For those who take dying to be the only truth, all die. But this ocean, this sand, did not know he died. This sky, the moon and stars, did not know he died. In life there is nowhere any wave of death. But we came to know he died—because we are obsessed with our own dying.
And why are we so obsessed with our own dying? We are alive now—yet why are we so frightened of death? Why do we tremble so much before death?
There is a secret behind it—a mathematics we must understand. We have never seen ourselves die, but we have seen others die. Seeing others die, the notion grows steadily stronger that we too will have to die.
A single drop lies among a thousand drops. The ray of the sun falls upon it with force and the drop evaporates into vapor. The nearby drops think it has died, it is finished. And they think rightly, for they saw that until now it was, and now it is not. But that drop is still in the clouds. How could those drops know—unless they too become clouds! Or the drop may have reached the ocean and become a drop again—how will those drops know unless they set out upon that journey!
When we see someone die nearby, we think—Gone, a man has died. We do not know he has evaporated—he became subtle, he moved into the unseen, and a new journey began. The drop became vapor to become a drop again. How can we see this? We only think—one more person is lost, one more has died. And so every day someone dies, every day some drop disappears, and slowly it becomes fixed in us: I too must die. I too shall die. Then a fear grabs hold: I am going to die. This fear we gather from seeing others. We live by looking at others—hence our great difficulty.
Last night I was telling some friends a story. There was a Jewish fakir. He was wearied by his sorrows—who is not? We are all harassed by our sorrows. And in our trouble with sorrow, the greatest trouble is other people’s happiness. Others appear happy, and we become more and more miserable. There is a mathematics to this—the same mathematics I spoke of in relation to death. We see our own sorrow, and we see other people’s faces. We do not see their inner sorrow; we see the smiles on their eyes and lips. And if we reflect about ourselves, we will understand: even when we are sad within, we keep smiling without.
Smiling is a trick to hide sorrow. No one wishes to show himself unhappy. If one cannot be happy, at least one wishes to appear so. To show oneself unhappy seems a great poverty, a defeat, a downfall. So we put on a smiling face—a drama, an acting. Inside we remain what we are. Inside, tears pile up; outside, we practice smiles. Then when someone looks at us from outside, he sees our smile; when he looks within himself, he sees sorrow—then he is in trouble. He thinks, The whole world is happy; only I am unhappy.
The fakir felt the same. One night he said to God, I will not ask You not to give me sorrow—for if I am worthy of sorrow, I will receive it—but I can pray this much: do not give me so much. The whole world appears to be laughing, and I alone am a weeping man. All seem happy; I am unhappy. All seem joyful; I alone am lost in darkness. What harm have I done You? Do me one kindness—give me somebody else’s sorrow, and give my sorrow to him. Exchange mine with anyone’s; I will agree.
He slept that night and had a dream. He saw a vast hall, and upon its walls were a million pegs. Millions were coming in. Each person had a bundle of sorrows strapped upon his back. Seeing all those bundles he was terrified, amazed—because he noticed that the size of everyone’s bundle was the same as his own. He too had his bundle of sorrows on his back—and the shape, the size of every bundle was exactly the same.
He was astonished. This neighbor—he always appeared to be smiling! In the morning when he asked him, How are things? he would say, All is bliss, OK! He would say, Everything is fine. And this man too is carrying just as heavy a load! Leaders too carry the same burden; followers as well. Teachers as much; disciples as much. The wise and the ignorant, the rich and the poor, the sick and the healthy—all are carrying equal bundles. He was amazed. For the first time he saw the bundles of sorrow. Until now he had only seen faces.
Then a loud voice resounded in the hall: Everyone hang your own sorrows upon a peg. He quickly hung his bundle on a peg. Everyone rushed to hang their sorrows. No one wants to carry his sorrow even for a moment—if given a chance to hang it up, we will hurry to do so.
Then another voice resounded: Now choose whichever bundle you wish.
We might think the fakir would quickly choose someone else’s. No—he did not make that mistake. He panicked and ran to grab his own bundle lest someone else pick it up first—in that case he would be in trouble, because all bundles were equal. He thought, Better to take my own—at least I am familiar with its contents. Who knows what unknown sorrows lie inside someone else’s! Known sorrow is at least less sorrow—familiar, recognized. In fear he ran and took hold of his own bundle, lest anyone else take it.
When he picked it up and looked around, he saw that everyone had rushed to take his own—no one had taken another’s. He asked, Why are you in such a hurry to pick up your own? They said, We were frightened. Until now we thought everyone else was happy and we alone were unhappy. Everyone in the hall said the same: We thought everyone else was happy—we even thought you were happy, you would pass on the road smiling. We never imagined you too had such a bundle of sorrow.
The fakir asked, Why pick up your own, why not exchange? They said, We had prayed to God tonight to exchange our bundles of sorrow. But we were afraid. We had never imagined that everyone’s sorrows could be equal. Then we thought, Better to take our own. At least it is known, familiar. Why get into new sorrows? Old sorrows—slowly we have become accustomed to them.
That night no one chose anyone else’s bundle. The fakir awoke. He thanked God: Your grace is great—you returned my own sorrow to me. I will never make such a prayer again.
There is a mathematics here: we see others’ faces and our own reality. Then a great mistake is made. The same mistaken arithmetic is at work regarding life and death. We see others die; we have never known ourselves dying. We see others’ death—but what remains within them, we do not know. And when we die, we become unconscious—thus death remains unfamiliar.
Therefore it is necessary that we descend into death by our own consent. Once one has seen death, he is freed from death; he becomes, so to say, a victor over death. To say “victor” is unnecessary—because nothing remains to be conquered. Death becomes untrue; it is no more.
It is like someone writing that two and two make five. If tomorrow he understands that two and two are four, will he say, I have conquered five and made it four? He will say, There was no question of victory at all—five never was. Five was my mistake, my illusion. My arithmetic was wrong. The account was four; I was thinking five—my mistake. The mistake is seen, the matter ends. Will he then ask, How shall I be free of five? Now that two and two are four, how shall I be freed of the five I added? He will not come asking for liberation; the moment it is seen that two and two are four, the matter is finished. The five has vanished—what is there to be freed from?
We have neither to be freed from death nor to conquer it. Death has to be known. Knowing itself becomes liberation; knowing itself becomes victory. Therefore I said at the beginning: knowledge is power, knowledge is liberation, knowledge is victory. Knowing death dissolves death—then, effortlessly, for the first time, we can be related to life.
Therefore, about meditation I said one thing: meditation is a voluntary entrance into death. And second I wish to say: one who enters death voluntarily, effortlessly enters life. He goes seeking death—but finds not death; he finds there the Supreme Life. He goes to search in the house of death—but reaches the temple of life. And one who runs from the house of death does not reach the temple of life.
Shall I tell you? The temple of life has pictures of death’s shadows carved upon its walls. The temple of life bears on its walls the designs of death. And because we run away from death, we keep running away from the temple of life as well. For had we agreed to the presence of death, we would have agreed to the walls and, entering within, reached the temple of life. Life is the deity, and death are the walls. Life is the temple, and upon the doors and thresholds death’s images are carved. Seeing them, we kept running away.
If you have ever been to Khajuraho, you will have seen something most wondrous. You will see that upon the walls of those temples are carved all around images of sex, of union—naked and to some, obscene. If a man, seeing them, runs away, he will never reach the deity of the temple within. Inside is the idol of God; outside are the carvings of sex, of desire, of coupling.
Great were those who built Khajuraho. They chiseled a deep truth of life. They said: upon the outer walls there is sex—if you run from the walls, you will never attain to Brahmacharya; but Brahmacharya is within. If you enter within past the walls, you will attain to Brahmacharya. Upon the outer walls is the world; if you keep fleeing the world, you will never reach Paramatma—because within the walls of the world sits Paramatma.
Exactly this I say to you. Somewhere we must build a temple whose outer walls bear death, and within sits the deity of life. This is the truth. But because we run from death, we remain deprived of the deity of life.
So I say both things together: voluntary entrance into death is meditation; and he who enters death voluntarily attains life. That is, one who goes to have the direct seeing of death, finally finds that death has dissolved, and that he is embraced by life. It seems upside-down—go seeking death, and life is found! But it is not upside-down.
I wear clothes. If you come seeking me, first you will encounter my garments. Yet my garments are not me. If you become afraid of my garments and run away, you will never find me. If you are unafraid of my garments and come closer and closer, within the garments is my body—you will meet it. But even the body, in a deeper sense, is a garment. If you flee the body itself, you will not find the one who sits within. If you are not afraid even of the body, and regard the body as a garment and journey within, then you will find within the one whom all long to meet.
What a wonder! The wall is the body and the deity of the soul is enthroned within. The wall is matter, and within sits Paramatma, consciousness. These are seemingly opposite things—the wall of matter and the deity of life! If this is rightly understood, then death is the wall and life is the deity.
Painters often do this: to bring out white, they give a black background all around. Against the black, the white lines stand forth. If someone is afraid of the black, he will never reach the white. He does not know that black brings out the white.
As with a rose—thorns grow, and the flower blossoms. If someone is afraid of the thorns, he will never reach the flower. If he keeps running from the thorns, he will be deprived of the flower. But one who agrees to the thorns, draws near and drops fear—he is amazed: the thorns are only the flower’s protection, its outer wall of defense. Between them the flower blooms. And there is no enmity between thorns and flower. The flower too is a limb of the thorns. The thorns too are a limb of the flower. Both flow from the same sap of the same plant.
What we call life, and what we call death—both are limbs of the one Great Life. Both are limbs of the one Great Life. I breathe in. One breath goes out, one breath comes in. The breath that goes out soon returns within; the breath that comes in soon goes out. The coming of breath is life; the going of breath is death. But both are steps of the one Great Life—right and left—moving together. Birth is one step; death is the other. But if we can see, if we can descend within, the vision of the Great Life dawns.
In these three days, the meditation we will experiment with is an experiment in entering death. I will speak to you about many of its aspects. For now, tonight, let me explain a little about the first experiment we will sit in.
You have understood my approach—that we are to go to that place where no way remains to die—deeper, deeper within. And we must leave behind all the outer circumference that falls away at death.
At death the body is left; emotions are left; thoughts are left; friendships are left; enmities are left. All is left. All of the outer world is left. What remains is only we alone—only I remain—only consciousness remains within.
So in meditation too we must let all go and die. And let only this remain—that I, the knower, the mere witness, remain within—then death will have happened. And if through continuous experiment over these three days you can let go of yourself and show the courage to die, the event will happen which is called Samadhi.
Remember, Samadhi is a wondrous word. The perfection of meditation is called Samadhi—and when someone dies, his tomb is also called a samadhi. Have you ever thought? Both are called samadhi! In truth there is a secret—an affinity of meaning between them.
He who attains Samadhi—his body remains only as a tomb, and nothing else. Then he knows there is someone else within; outside is only a ring. When someone dies, we make his tomb and call it samadhi. But that samadhi others will make. Before others build our samadhi, if we can build our own while alive, the very event for which we thirst happens in life. Others will have the chance to build a samadhi anyway; but it may be that we fail to build our own.
If we build our own samadhi, then only the body will die—there is no question of my dying. I never have died, nor can I die. No one has ever died, nor can anyone die. But to know this, we must descend all the steps of death. So I want to tell you three steps. Now we will experiment as well. Who knows—upon this shore the event may happen that your samadhi is made! Not the samadhi others build—the samadhi you fashion by your own choice.
There are three stages. First is bodily looseness—relaxation of the body. Leave the body so relaxed that it begins to feel as if it lies far away, we have nothing to do with it. Draw all force out of the body and back within. We have poured our force into the body. As much as we put in, so much is there; as much as we draw back, so much withdraws.
Have you ever noticed? If you get into a quarrel, from where comes so much strength into your body? In anger you can lift and throw a stone so heavy you could not even have budged it in a peaceful state. Where did that strength come from? The body is yours—where did it come from? You are pouring it in. A need has arisen, there is danger, trouble, an enemy stands before you. The stone must be moved or life is in danger. So you pour all your force into the body.
Once it happened: a man had been paralyzed for two years—he lay on his cot, could not rise, could not move. Doctors tried and tired—at last they said he would remain paralyzed for life. Then suddenly one night his house caught fire. Everyone ran out. Only outside did they remember they had left the head of the family inside—the old man. He cannot run—what will happen to him? But then they saw—in the dark, with some holding torches—that the old man had come out before them. They asked, Did you walk out? He said, Ah! and he fell again into paralysis. He said, How could I walk? How did this happen?
But he had walked—there was no question of “how.” The house caught fire, and the whole house was running. For a moment he forgot he was paralyzed. All his energy returned to the body. But outside, when the torches lit and people saw—You! how did you come out?—he said, I am a paralytic. He fell again; his energy returned within.
Even he cannot understand how this happened. Now everyone tells him, You are not paralyzed, for you walked at least this much. You can walk all your life. But he says, My hand will not lift, my foot will not lift. How it happened, I cannot say. Who knows who brought me out!
No one brought him out—he came himself. But he does not know that in danger, his Atman poured all energy into the body. And it is also his feeling that he drew the energy back and again fell into paralysis. And this has not happened to only one paralytic—hundreds of such incidents have occurred on earth. In danger from fire or some crisis, the paralytic comes out—having forgotten, in danger, what condition he is in.
So I say to you: the energy in the body is our own poured energy—but we do not know how to take it back. At night we get rest because energy returns within on its own, and the body relaxes. In the morning we are fresh again. But some cannot draw their energy back even at night—energy remains in the body; then sleep becomes difficult. Insomnia is only one symptom: the force poured into the body does not know the way to return.
So the first stage of meditation, the first step into death, is to draw all energy out of the body. Now the delightful fact is: merely by suggestion the energy returns within. If for a little while one goes on creating an inner feeling—my energy is returning within; my body is relaxing—he will find the body relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. The body will reach a point where even if you wish to lift your hand yourself, you will not be able; all will be relaxed. It is by our feeling that we can draw back from the body.
So the first thing is that the whole vitality returns within. Then the body will lie like a shell—and it will be clearly felt that a gap like in a coconut has arisen—we are separate and the outer shell lies like clothing.
The second thing: leave the breath relaxed. Breath holds our life-force more deeply to the body. That is why when breath breaks, a man dies. Breath binds us more deeply to the body. Breath is the bridge between body and soul—there we are tied. Therefore we call breath prana. When it goes, prana is gone. Many experiments are possible here. If someone leaves his breath totally relaxed, entirely at ease, gradually the breath comes to such a point that within one cannot tell whether it is moving or not. Sometimes a suspicion arises—Perhaps I have died? The breath is not moving—what has happened! Breath becomes so peaceful that it cannot be detected at all.
And if even for a moment the breath pauses… Do not stop it; the one who stops cannot have it stop. If you stop it outside, it will try to go in; if you stop it inside, it will try to go out.
Therefore I say: do nothing from your side—only leave it relaxed, quiet, quiet, quiet. Slowly the breath will come to the midpoint and pause. If even for a single instant it pauses, in that very instant an infinite distance between soul and body is revealed. In that moment the lightning flashes through the whole personality—and it is seen: the body is separate, I am separate. Death has happened.
So on the second plane, leave the breath relaxed. And on the third, leave the mind relaxed. Because even if breath relaxes and mind does not, lightning will flash—but you will not notice what happened. The mind will remain entangled in its thoughts.
If lightning flashes here and I am lost in my ideas, it will flash, and I will say, Oh, something happened—but by then it has gone, and I remain lost. Lightning will flash when the breath pauses—but attention will go there only when thoughts have stilled. Otherwise the chance will be missed. Therefore the third thing is to leave thought relaxed.
We will practice these three stages. In the fourth stage, we will remain silent for ten minutes—simply sitting. You may lie down if you wish, or remain seated. Lying down will be simpler. And what a fine shore this is—its opportunity can be used well.
So everyone make space to lie down. If anyone wishes to sit, he may. But if a sitting person begins to fall later, he should not restrain himself. When the body becomes totally relaxed, you may fall; if you try to prevent it, the body will not relax completely. We will meditate in three stages, and then for ten minutes remain in silence. In that silence, in these three days, we will seek to bring death to descend—bring about the direct seeing of death.
So I suggest you create the feeling: the body is relaxing; the breath is relaxing; the mind is relaxing. Then I will be silent; it will be made dark here; then you will remain quietly where you are for ten minutes. Whatever is happening within, simply watch it—in silence.
Make enough space that if anyone falls, he does not fall upon another. Those who wish to lie down, find your space and lie down. Put out the lights.
Do not talk. Do not disturb the silence. Move quietly aside. Sit anywhere that feels right. Better to spread out across the shore—very good. Do not talk at all. There is no need for conversation. Sit in your own place or move away, lie down if you wish. In a moment it will be dark; then lie at ease. If someone remains seated and begins to fall back, he must let go—fall.
Do it quickly, do not waste time. Sit down or lie down now. Best would be to lie quietly upon the sand. No one will speak; no one will get up in between. Sit where you are or lie down. Close your eyes. Close your eyes… close your eyes and leave the body relaxed, loose. Now I suggest: experience along with me. As you experience, the body will relax more and more. Then the body will become utterly relaxed—as if no life remains within it.
Experience: the body is relaxing… leave it looser and looser… let it go loose and feel within: the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… Experience: let every limb become loose, and feel within: the body is relaxing. My energy is returning within… from the body the energy is returning within… the energy is returning. The body is becoming relaxed… the body is relaxing… relaxing… relaxing… leaving completely, as if no life remains. If it falls, let it fall. Leave it utterly loose… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed. Leave it… leave it. The body has relaxed. The body has become utterly relaxed, as if there were no prana within it. All the body’s force has reached within… the body has relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… Leave it, leave it completely, as if the body is no more—we have slipped within. The body has relaxed… relaxed… relaxed…
The breath is becoming quiet… leave the breath loose too… utterly loose… let it come and go by itself… leave it loose. Do not hold it, do not slow it—only leave it relaxed. However it comes, let it come; however it goes, let it go. The breath is relaxing… feel that the breath is becoming quiet… quieter and more relaxed… quieter and more relaxed… the breath is relaxing… relaxing… becoming quiet… becoming quiet. The breath has become quiet… the breath has become quiet… the breath has become quiet…
Now leave the mind relaxed too, and feel: thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting…
The body is lying far away… we have slipped within. The breath too has remained far… we have slipped further within. Thoughts too have been left… we have moved even further within.
For ten minutes, remain in this silence as a witness… only watch what is happening… what is happening… what is happening. You will hear the sound of the ocean’s waves—keep listening. Remain a silent witness—just listening… watching within… watching. Gradually it will feel that death has occurred—something has died, and yet I am… something outside has died, and yet I am.
For ten minutes I will be silent. For ten minutes, sink deeper and deeper. Look within… look within… continue looking within… slowly it will seem: something has died; something lies outside. And I have become separate.
(The meditators lie without moving—some seated, some leaning against trees… the deep stillness of night… the roar of the waves striking the shore… all of nature is silent and still… as if no creature or human is nearby… the meditators lie as if dead… their breath has become utterly gentle… peace has deepened upon their faces… and their life-force seems to have gathered within for some profound inner journey… For ten minutes the meditators remained absorbed in this state… then they were gently suggested to return from meditation.)
Remain a witness, watching within—only keep watching within: what is happening… If a sound comes from outside, let it be heard… remain only a witness… silently watch within what is happening. A distance from the body will become visible. The body will begin to appear separate—as if some shell lies outside… far, very far… and we have become separate. See—look within—the body will begin to appear separate. As one standing inside his house sees the walls as separate, so look from within and the body will appear separate. Do not be frightened—if it feels as if something within is sinking… sinking… let it sink. Do not fear—let yourself go, utterly let go.
Remain quietly watching—gradually the distance from the body will go on increasing. It will be clear: the body separate, I separate. See this distinction clearly within. The mind will go on becoming still… still… still… gradually the mind will become utterly void…
The mind has become still… the mind has become silent. Now slowly take two or four deep breaths, and keep looking within—the breath will be felt as separate. Slowly take two or four deep breaths. With each breath the mind will become stiller. Take two or four deep breaths. Then slowly open the eyes… gently open the eyes… open the eyes slowly.
We have done this experiment here to understand. Those who have come to the camp, I request you: at night, in this moonlit night, go anywhere along the shore and do this experiment in solitude for half an hour. In the morning session there will be questions and answers. Those who wish to ask anything may submit questions in writing in the morning. And the morning session will not be open to all; it will be only for the camp participants.
Osho's Commentary
Knowledge is power; knowledge itself is liberation. And knowledge is the journey of victory. That which we truly know, from it we are set free. And that which we truly know, over it we gain mastery as well. Our defeat and our downfall are nothing but our ignorance. There is darkness, therefore there is defeat. Let there be light, and defeat becomes impossible. Light turns into victory.
The first thing I wish to say to you regarding death is this: nothing is more untrue than death. And yet death appears as truth. Not only does it seem true, it seems to be the very central truth of life. It appears as though all of life is surrounded by death. And even if we forget, even if we force ourselves to forget, still death stands close all around us. Closer than even our own shadow, death is near.
The form we have given to life has been given largely out of the fear of death. Out of this fear, society has been fashioned, nations have been formed, families created, friendships gathered. Out of this fear has come the race to accumulate wealth, out of this fear the ambition for status. And the greatest surprise is this: out of fear of death we have erected our gods and our temples too. People, frightened of death, kneel and pray. People, frightened of death, raise folded hands toward the sky, toward Paramatma. And yet nothing is more untrue than death. Therefore, everything in life that we have arranged taking death as truth has itself become untrue.
But how are we to know that death is untrue? How to come to know that death is not? And until this is known, our fear will not dissolve. And unless we know that death is untrue, life cannot become our truth. As long as there is fear of death, life cannot be true for us. As long as we stand trembling, frightened by death, we will not be able to gather the capacity to truly live.
Only the one can live who has seen death’s shadow depart, dissolve from before him. How will a trembling mind live? How will a frightened mind live? And when death seems to be approaching each moment, how shall we live? How can we live?
And however much we may try to forget death, it does not forget us. Even if we build the cremation ground beyond the edge of the village, it still can be seen. Every day someone dies. Every day, somewhere, death occurs—and the foundations of our lives are shaken. And each time death is seen happening, we know, “I too shall die.” When we weep over someone’s death, we do not weep only over their death; we weep over the news of our own death. And when we feel sorrow and pain on seeing death, it is not only another’s death causing our sorrow; therein the possibility of our own dying has revealed itself.
Every death is our death also. And if surrounded thus we remain, how shall we live? Then living becomes impossible. Then we cannot come to know life—nor its bliss, nor its beauty, nor its nectar. Then we cannot reach even the doorway of life’s ultimate truth—Paramatma.
The fear of death has built a certain kind of temples; they are not the temples of Paramatma. And out of the fear of death a certain kind of prayers have been devised; they too are not prayers to Paramatma. To the temple of Paramatma only that one arrives who becomes filled with the ecstasy of life. The steps to Paramatma are filled with life’s beauty and life’s nectar. And the bells at the gate of Paramatma ring only for those who, freed from all fear, become utterly fearless.
Then the difficulty seems great. We want to live and yet remain full of death. This can never happen. Of the two, only one can be true. Remember: if life is true, death cannot be true; and if death is true, then life is but a dream—a lie. It cannot be the truth. The two cannot be true together.
But we have been clinging to both at once. It seems as if we live, and it also seems as if we shall die.
I have heard: at the foot of a faraway mountain lived a fakir. Many people would go to him to ask many things. Once a man went and said, Tell us something about life and death. The fakir said, If you wish to know about life, you are welcome—the doors are open. But if you wish to know about death, go elsewhere, for I have never died, nor can I ever die. I have no experience of death. If you want to know about death, ask those who have died, ask those who are dead. But then the fakir laughed and said, How will you ask those who are dead! There is no way to ask them. And if you ask me to give you the address of someone deceased, even that I cannot give. For since the day I came to know that I cannot die, I also came to know that no one ever dies. No one has died—so said the fakir.
How shall we accept his words? Every day we see someone die. Every day death happens. Death is such a stark truth, it pierces even into our breath. Close your eyes as you will, still it is seen. Run as much as you like, try to escape, it surrounds us nevertheless. How to deny such a truth?
Some do try to deny it. Some, out of fear of death, accept that the Atman is immortal—only out of fear. They do not know; they merely believe. Some get up every morning and repeat—sitting in temples, sitting in mosques—Atman is immortal, the soul never dies, the Atman is immortal. And they are under the illusion that by repeating it again and again perhaps the Atman will become immortal. Or perhaps they think by constant repetition death can be made false.
No, by repetition death does not become false. Death becomes false only by knowing.
Remember, it is a strange fact that we always accept the opposite of what we keep repeating. When a man says, I am immortal, the Atman is immortal, and keeps repeating it, he betrays that inwardly he knows, I shall die, I must die. If he truly knew that he will not die, there would be no need to repeat it. Only the frightened keep repeating.
Hence you will see that among those countries and societies that talk most about the soul’s immortality, it is hardest to find people who fear death less than they do. This is our land, which never tires of speaking about the Atman’s immortality—and yet, is there anyone on earth who fears death more than we do? No one fears more than we do.
How will these two things fit together? Those who truly know the soul to be immortal—could they ever be slaves to fear? They would be ready to die. They would be ready for risk. Because they know death is not. Those who know life is immortal, Atman is immortal, they will be the first to land on the moon, the first to climb Everest, the first to go down into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.
No—we are not among them. We neither climb Everest, nor land on the moon, nor descend into the Pacific depths—and we are the people who claim the soul is immortal. In truth, we are so frightened of death that out of that fear we go on repeating, Atman is immortal. And we are under the illusion that what we repeat again and again might become true.
No truth is born from repetition. If we repeat, There is no death, death will not vanish. Death must be known—what it is. Death must be encountered—what death is. We must bring death to stand before our eyes, we must see it, we must live it, we must become acquainted with it.
But we all keep running with our backs turned toward death—then how shall we see it? We close our eyes to death. If someone dies outside, if a corpse passes along the road, the mother locks her child inside and says, Do not go out, someone has died. Cremation grounds are built outside the village so they won’t be seen again and again. Lest death come face to face. If you talk to someone about dying, he will say, Please don’t speak such things.
I stayed for some days with a sannyasin. Every day he talked about the soul’s immortality. I asked him, Do you ever think that the day of your dying is drawing near? He said, Don’t speak such inauspicious words. Don’t even mention it. It is not right to talk like this. I said, If a man says the soul is immortal and yet sees bad omens in the very talk of death, then something is very wrong. He should see no fear in the talk of death, no ill omen, no evil—because for him death is not. He said, Yes, the soul is immortal. And yet I do not wish to talk about death. Such useless things should not be discussed, such dangerous things should not be mentioned.
We all do the same. We are running with our backs turned to death.
I have heard: once in a village a man fell into a great madness. He was walking along a road. It was blazing noon, the path was deserted, empty. He began to walk fast lest, in the desolation, some fear arise.
Although fear can arise where others are present; where there is no one at all, how can fear have a support? Yet we fear most where no one is. Truly, we are afraid of ourselves. And when we are left alone, great fear arises. We fear ourselves more than we fear anyone. So if someone is with us—anyone—our fear lessens. But if we are utterly alone, fear becomes intense.
That man was alone and became afraid, and started running. The place was silent, desolate, noon—no one anywhere. As he ran faster, he heard behind him the sound of his own feet. He became afraid that perhaps someone is behind him. He glanced back with furtive, frightened eyes, and saw a long shadow following him. It was his own shadow. But seeing a long shadow chasing him, he ran even faster. That man could never stop again before his death. Because the faster he ran, the faster the shadow ran behind him. In the end he must have gone mad.
But even the mad find worshippers. When he would dash through the village and people saw him running, they thought he was absorbed in great austerity. He would never stop. Only at night in the darkness would he stop, when the shadow disappeared. Then he would think, Now no one is behind me. At morning he would start running again.
Later he stopped even at night. It occurred to him that whenever I rest, it seems as if however far I run during the day, by morning the shadow returns and is behind me again. So he stopped resting at night. Then he went completely mad. He neither ate nor drank. Running, multitudes watched him, threw flowers. Someone along the way would thrust some bread into his hand, someone water. His worship kept increasing. Millions began to honor him.
But the man became more and more insane. And at last one day he fell and died. In the village where he died, they built a grave for him under the shade of a tree. They asked an old fakir of that village, What shall we write upon his grave? The fakir wrote a single line on his tomb.
Somewhere, in some village, that grave still exists. If you ever pass that way, read it. The fakir wrote: Here sleeps a man who ran all his life from his own shadow, who wasted his life fleeing a shadow. And the man inside knew not even as much as his grave knows—because the grave, being in the shade and not running, casts no shadow at all. The one who sleeps within knew not even as much as his grave knows.
We too are running. We may be amazed that someone ran from a shadow! We all go on running from shadows. And whatever we run from, that pursues us. And the faster we run, the faster it runs—because it is our own shadow.
Death is our own shadow. And if we keep fleeing it, we shall never stand before it and recognize what it is. Had that man only stopped and looked back, he might have laughed at himself and said, How foolish I am—running from a shadow.
If someone runs from a shadow, he can never get away. And if someone fights a shadow, he can never win. This does not mean the shadow is powerful and cannot be overcome. It only means the shadow is not—there is nothing there to conquer. That which is not cannot be defeated. This is why people go on being defeated by death—because death is only life’s shadow. As life moves, its shadow moves behind it. It is the shadow cast by life—and we never turn back to see what it is. We have fallen and collapsed many times from all this running. You have not come to this shore for the first time—you have been here many times. Perhaps not this very shore, another shore. Not this body, another body. But the running has been the same, the feet the same, the fleeing the same.
Afraid of the very same death we live many lives—and still we do not recognize, nor do we see. And we are so frightened that when death comes close, when its entire shadow engulfs us, we faint from fear.
Ordinarily no one remains conscious at the moment of dying. If one remains alert even once, the fear of death dissolves forever. If one sees even once what dying is, what happens in dying, then the fear of death will not return—because death itself will not remain. It is not that one conquers death. You conquer only that which is. Merely by knowing, death disappears. Nothing remains to be conquered.
But though we have died many times, whenever we have died, we have become unconscious. As a doctor or surgeon gives anesthesia before an operation, so that you won’t know the pain, we are so frightened of dying that at the time of death we ourselves become unconscious. A little while before death we faint. We die unconscious, and in unconsciousness are born again. We neither see death nor do we see birth. Hence we never understand that life is eternal. Death and birth are no more than stopovers in between, where we change our garments—or our horses.
In olden times there were no trains. People traveled by horse-drawn carriages. From one village to the next they would go, and there change horses, for the horses were tired. They would return the exhausted horses and take fresh ones from that inn; then at the next village again they would change. But those changing horses did not feel as if they had died and been born again—because they changed in awareness.
Sometimes a rider would be drunk. The horses were changed, and when he looked carefully he would say, Oh! Everything has changed, everything is different. I have heard that once a drunken horseman said, Perhaps I too have changed! This is not the horse I was riding—then perhaps I am not the same man either!
Birth and death are only the places where vehicles are changed; the old vehicle is left. The weary horse is left and a fresh horse taken. But both these acts happen in our unconsciousness. And he whose birth and death are in unconsciousness, his life too cannot be in awareness. His life passes almost half-unconscious, half-faint.
So what am I saying? I am saying that it is necessary to see death, to know it, to recognize it. But this will happen when we die. When I die, then I can see. What is the way now? And if someone will see only when he dies, then know that there is no way—because at the moment of dying he will become unconscious.
Yes, there is a way now. We can enter death voluntarily, experimentally. And I want to say to you: meditation, or Samadhi, is nothing else; Dhyana and Samadhi are a voluntary entrance into the experience of death. That event which will someday occur on its own when the body falls away—we can enter it now, by our own consent, leaving the body behind within, and we can know: death happened; death passed by. Even tonight we can encounter death. For the total meaning of death’s event is simply this: that in our journey the body and the soul of the traveler experience their difference, there where the cart is left behind and the traveler goes on ahead.
I have heard: once a man went to Sheikh Farid. He asked, We hear that when Mansoor’s hands were cut, his feet were cut, he felt no pain; it is unbelievable. If a thorn pricks the foot, it hurts. Cutting off hands and feet and no pain? These seem like fanciful tales. He also said, We hear that when Jesus was hung upon the cross, he was not the least troubled. And when he was asked, If you wish to make a final prayer, you may, that naked Jesus hanging on the cross, his hands pierced by nails, blood flowing—what he said in the last moment does not seem believable. Jesus said, Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
You too have heard this sentence. And those who follow Jesus around the world repeat it again and again. The sentence is very simple. Jesus said, Forgive these people, O God, for they do not know what they are doing. Usually readers suppose Jesus meant, These poor people do not know they are killing a good man; they are unaware.
No, that was not Jesus’ meaning. He meant: These madmen do not know that the one they are killing cannot die. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing. They are attempting an impossible thing. They are engaged in killing—an impossibility.
The man said, It is not believable that someone being killed could show such compassion. In that moment one would be filled with anger.
Farid laughed heartily. He said, You have asked a good question—but I will answer later. First do a small task for me. He picked up a coconut nearby, gave it to the man, and said, Break this—but be sure to keep the kernel intact, do not let it break. The coconut was unripe. The man said, Forgive me, this cannot be done. The coconut is raw; if I break the shell, the kernel will break too. The fakir said, Then keep it aside. He handed him a second coconut, a dry one: Now break this. Will you be able to keep the kernel whole? The man said, The kernel can be saved.
The fakir said, I have given you the answer. Did you understand? The man said, I did not. What has a coconut to do with my question? The fakir said, Keep both coconuts; there is nothing to break. I am saying: a raw coconut has its kernel and shell still joined. If you strike the shell, the kernel too will break. Then there is a dry coconut. What is the difference between a dry and a raw coconut? A small difference: the kernel has shrunk within and separated from the shell. A distance, a space has come between kernel and shell. Now you say that you can break the shell and keep the kernel safe. I have answered your question.
The man said, Still I do not understand. The fakir said, Then go, die—and understand. Without it you will not understand. But even then you will not, because you will become unconscious. One day the shell and the kernel will separate, but you will faint. If you wish to understand, learn now to separate the kernel and the shell—now, while you are alive. And if now the kernel and the shell separate, death is finished. From the moment the gap arises, you know: the shell is different, the kernel is different. Even if the shell breaks, I will remain; there is no question of my breaking, no question of my ceasing. Even if death occurs, it cannot enter within me; it will happen outside me. That which will die is that which I am not. What I am, will remain.
This is the meaning of meditation and Samadhi: we learn to separate the shell and the kernel. They can be separated, for they are separate. They can be known as separate, for they are separate.
Hence I call meditation a voluntary entrance into death. And one who, by his own choice, enters death, comes to a direct encounter: Here is death—and still I am.
Socrates is dying, the last moment. The hemlock is being prepared to kill him. He keeps asking, Why is it taking so long? When will the poison be ready? His friends are weeping, saying, You have gone mad! We want you to live a little longer. We have bribed the man grinding the poison, we have persuaded him to grind slowly. Socrates rises, goes out to the grinder and says, You are taking too long—so unskilled you seem—new to this task? Have you never ground this before? Have you never administered poison to one condemned to death?
The man says, I have done it all my life. But I have never seen a madman like you. Why such hurry? Breathe a little longer, live a little longer, remain in life a little longer—so I grind slowly. And you yourself keep asking like a madman, It is getting late—what is the hurry to die?
Socrates says, There is great hurry—because I want to see death. I want to see what it is. I want to see whether death happens and still I remain or not. If I do not remain, the whole matter is finished. If I remain, death is finished. In truth, I want to see who dies in the event of death—will death die, or will I? Shall I remain, or shall death? I want to see; without going, how can I see!
Then the poison is given to Socrates. All his friends are beating their chests, crying—they are not conscious. And what is Socrates doing? He is saying to them, My feet have died, yet I am alive. He says, The poison has reached my knees; my legs up to the knees are completely dead. Even if you cut them, I would not know. But friends, I tell you, my legs have died—but I am alive. So one thing is certain: I was not the legs. I still am—I am whole and entire; nothing within me has diminished. Then Socrates says, Now my legs are entirely gone; up to the thighs all has finished. If you cut me to the thighs, I would not know—but I am. And his friends weep on. Socrates says, Don’t weep. You have a rare opportunity—look! A man is dying and telling you that still he is alive. Even if you cut off my legs, I am not dead; I still am. And then he says, My hands too are becoming loose, the hands will die. Ah, how often I had mistaken these hands for myself—the hands too are going, and yet I am. And that man, that Socrates, goes on saying as he dies: Slowly, slowly, all is becoming quiet, all is sinking—and yet I am exactly as I am. And he says, It may be that after a little while I will not remain to give you news, but do not think that I have vanished. For when so much of the body has vanished and I have not, then when a little more vanishes, why should I vanish? It may be that I cannot give you news—because news can be given only through the body—but I will remain. And then the last moment: Perhaps this is the last thing I am saying to you; my tongue is faltering, beyond this I shall not be able to speak—but even now I am saying, I am. He died saying to the last moment, I am.
In meditation, too, one has to enter within in just this way. Gradually, one thing after another drops, distance arises from each. And then that moment comes in which it feels as if everything lies far away—like a corpse lying on the shore belonging to someone else—and I am. The body lies there, and still I am—separate, distinct, utterly other.
As soon as this is experienced, we have encountered death while alive. Thereafter we have no relation with death. Death will keep coming—yet it will be only a stopover, a changing of garments, where we take new horses, mount new bodies, and set off on a new journey, on new paths, in new realms. But death will not erase us.
This can be known only through direct seeing, by encounter. We must know, we must pass through. And because we fear dying so much, we are unable to meditate.
Many people come to me and say, We cannot meditate. What shall I tell them? Their real trouble is elsewhere. Their real trouble is the fear of dying. And meditation is a process of dying. In full meditation we reach exactly where a dying man reaches. The only difference is this: the dead arrive unconscious; we arrive conscious. That is all. The dead man does not know what happened—how the shell broke and the kernel remained. We know—the kernel separated, the shell separated.
So whoever is unable to go into meditation, the fundamental reason is the fear of death—no other. And whoever is afraid of death can never enter Samadhi. Samadhi is an invitation to death with one’s own hands. A call to death: Come, I am ready to die. I want to know whether, when death happens, I remain or not. And it is good that I know consciously, because if this event happens in unconsciousness, I will not know anything.
Therefore the first thing I say to you tonight: As long as you run from death, you will go on being defeated by it. The day you stand facing death, that very day death will depart—and you will remain.
In these three days, I shall speak only of the process by which you can stand face to face with death. In these three days I hope that many will learn how to die, will be able to die. And if you can die here—on this shore—and this shore is very wondrous, on this very shore the feet of that one stood who said in a battlefield to Arjuna: Do not worry and do not fear. Do not fear killing and dying, for I tell you, none kills and none is killed. No one has ever died, no one can ever die. And that which dies and can die, is already as-good-as dead. That which does not die and cannot die—there is no way to kill it—that alone is life.
Upon this shore Krishna’s feet fell; upon it we have gathered today. This sand saw Krishna come and go. People may have thought, Krishna has died—died indeed. For those who take dying to be the only truth, all die. But this ocean, this sand, did not know he died. This sky, the moon and stars, did not know he died. In life there is nowhere any wave of death. But we came to know he died—because we are obsessed with our own dying.
And why are we so obsessed with our own dying? We are alive now—yet why are we so frightened of death? Why do we tremble so much before death?
There is a secret behind it—a mathematics we must understand. We have never seen ourselves die, but we have seen others die. Seeing others die, the notion grows steadily stronger that we too will have to die.
A single drop lies among a thousand drops. The ray of the sun falls upon it with force and the drop evaporates into vapor. The nearby drops think it has died, it is finished. And they think rightly, for they saw that until now it was, and now it is not. But that drop is still in the clouds. How could those drops know—unless they too become clouds! Or the drop may have reached the ocean and become a drop again—how will those drops know unless they set out upon that journey!
When we see someone die nearby, we think—Gone, a man has died. We do not know he has evaporated—he became subtle, he moved into the unseen, and a new journey began. The drop became vapor to become a drop again. How can we see this? We only think—one more person is lost, one more has died. And so every day someone dies, every day some drop disappears, and slowly it becomes fixed in us: I too must die. I too shall die. Then a fear grabs hold: I am going to die. This fear we gather from seeing others. We live by looking at others—hence our great difficulty.
Last night I was telling some friends a story. There was a Jewish fakir. He was wearied by his sorrows—who is not? We are all harassed by our sorrows. And in our trouble with sorrow, the greatest trouble is other people’s happiness. Others appear happy, and we become more and more miserable. There is a mathematics to this—the same mathematics I spoke of in relation to death. We see our own sorrow, and we see other people’s faces. We do not see their inner sorrow; we see the smiles on their eyes and lips. And if we reflect about ourselves, we will understand: even when we are sad within, we keep smiling without.
Smiling is a trick to hide sorrow. No one wishes to show himself unhappy. If one cannot be happy, at least one wishes to appear so. To show oneself unhappy seems a great poverty, a defeat, a downfall. So we put on a smiling face—a drama, an acting. Inside we remain what we are. Inside, tears pile up; outside, we practice smiles. Then when someone looks at us from outside, he sees our smile; when he looks within himself, he sees sorrow—then he is in trouble. He thinks, The whole world is happy; only I am unhappy.
The fakir felt the same. One night he said to God, I will not ask You not to give me sorrow—for if I am worthy of sorrow, I will receive it—but I can pray this much: do not give me so much. The whole world appears to be laughing, and I alone am a weeping man. All seem happy; I am unhappy. All seem joyful; I alone am lost in darkness. What harm have I done You? Do me one kindness—give me somebody else’s sorrow, and give my sorrow to him. Exchange mine with anyone’s; I will agree.
He slept that night and had a dream. He saw a vast hall, and upon its walls were a million pegs. Millions were coming in. Each person had a bundle of sorrows strapped upon his back. Seeing all those bundles he was terrified, amazed—because he noticed that the size of everyone’s bundle was the same as his own. He too had his bundle of sorrows on his back—and the shape, the size of every bundle was exactly the same.
He was astonished. This neighbor—he always appeared to be smiling! In the morning when he asked him, How are things? he would say, All is bliss, OK! He would say, Everything is fine. And this man too is carrying just as heavy a load! Leaders too carry the same burden; followers as well. Teachers as much; disciples as much. The wise and the ignorant, the rich and the poor, the sick and the healthy—all are carrying equal bundles. He was amazed. For the first time he saw the bundles of sorrow. Until now he had only seen faces.
Then a loud voice resounded in the hall: Everyone hang your own sorrows upon a peg. He quickly hung his bundle on a peg. Everyone rushed to hang their sorrows. No one wants to carry his sorrow even for a moment—if given a chance to hang it up, we will hurry to do so.
Then another voice resounded: Now choose whichever bundle you wish.
We might think the fakir would quickly choose someone else’s. No—he did not make that mistake. He panicked and ran to grab his own bundle lest someone else pick it up first—in that case he would be in trouble, because all bundles were equal. He thought, Better to take my own—at least I am familiar with its contents. Who knows what unknown sorrows lie inside someone else’s! Known sorrow is at least less sorrow—familiar, recognized. In fear he ran and took hold of his own bundle, lest anyone else take it.
When he picked it up and looked around, he saw that everyone had rushed to take his own—no one had taken another’s. He asked, Why are you in such a hurry to pick up your own? They said, We were frightened. Until now we thought everyone else was happy and we alone were unhappy. Everyone in the hall said the same: We thought everyone else was happy—we even thought you were happy, you would pass on the road smiling. We never imagined you too had such a bundle of sorrow.
The fakir asked, Why pick up your own, why not exchange? They said, We had prayed to God tonight to exchange our bundles of sorrow. But we were afraid. We had never imagined that everyone’s sorrows could be equal. Then we thought, Better to take our own. At least it is known, familiar. Why get into new sorrows? Old sorrows—slowly we have become accustomed to them.
That night no one chose anyone else’s bundle. The fakir awoke. He thanked God: Your grace is great—you returned my own sorrow to me. I will never make such a prayer again.
There is a mathematics here: we see others’ faces and our own reality. Then a great mistake is made. The same mistaken arithmetic is at work regarding life and death. We see others die; we have never known ourselves dying. We see others’ death—but what remains within them, we do not know. And when we die, we become unconscious—thus death remains unfamiliar.
Therefore it is necessary that we descend into death by our own consent. Once one has seen death, he is freed from death; he becomes, so to say, a victor over death. To say “victor” is unnecessary—because nothing remains to be conquered. Death becomes untrue; it is no more.
It is like someone writing that two and two make five. If tomorrow he understands that two and two are four, will he say, I have conquered five and made it four? He will say, There was no question of victory at all—five never was. Five was my mistake, my illusion. My arithmetic was wrong. The account was four; I was thinking five—my mistake. The mistake is seen, the matter ends. Will he then ask, How shall I be free of five? Now that two and two are four, how shall I be freed of the five I added? He will not come asking for liberation; the moment it is seen that two and two are four, the matter is finished. The five has vanished—what is there to be freed from?
We have neither to be freed from death nor to conquer it. Death has to be known. Knowing itself becomes liberation; knowing itself becomes victory. Therefore I said at the beginning: knowledge is power, knowledge is liberation, knowledge is victory. Knowing death dissolves death—then, effortlessly, for the first time, we can be related to life.
Therefore, about meditation I said one thing: meditation is a voluntary entrance into death. And second I wish to say: one who enters death voluntarily, effortlessly enters life. He goes seeking death—but finds not death; he finds there the Supreme Life. He goes to search in the house of death—but reaches the temple of life. And one who runs from the house of death does not reach the temple of life.
Shall I tell you? The temple of life has pictures of death’s shadows carved upon its walls. The temple of life bears on its walls the designs of death. And because we run away from death, we keep running away from the temple of life as well. For had we agreed to the presence of death, we would have agreed to the walls and, entering within, reached the temple of life. Life is the deity, and death are the walls. Life is the temple, and upon the doors and thresholds death’s images are carved. Seeing them, we kept running away.
If you have ever been to Khajuraho, you will have seen something most wondrous. You will see that upon the walls of those temples are carved all around images of sex, of union—naked and to some, obscene. If a man, seeing them, runs away, he will never reach the deity of the temple within. Inside is the idol of God; outside are the carvings of sex, of desire, of coupling.
Great were those who built Khajuraho. They chiseled a deep truth of life. They said: upon the outer walls there is sex—if you run from the walls, you will never attain to Brahmacharya; but Brahmacharya is within. If you enter within past the walls, you will attain to Brahmacharya. Upon the outer walls is the world; if you keep fleeing the world, you will never reach Paramatma—because within the walls of the world sits Paramatma.
Exactly this I say to you. Somewhere we must build a temple whose outer walls bear death, and within sits the deity of life. This is the truth. But because we run from death, we remain deprived of the deity of life.
So I say both things together: voluntary entrance into death is meditation; and he who enters death voluntarily attains life. That is, one who goes to have the direct seeing of death, finally finds that death has dissolved, and that he is embraced by life. It seems upside-down—go seeking death, and life is found! But it is not upside-down.
I wear clothes. If you come seeking me, first you will encounter my garments. Yet my garments are not me. If you become afraid of my garments and run away, you will never find me. If you are unafraid of my garments and come closer and closer, within the garments is my body—you will meet it. But even the body, in a deeper sense, is a garment. If you flee the body itself, you will not find the one who sits within. If you are not afraid even of the body, and regard the body as a garment and journey within, then you will find within the one whom all long to meet.
What a wonder! The wall is the body and the deity of the soul is enthroned within. The wall is matter, and within sits Paramatma, consciousness. These are seemingly opposite things—the wall of matter and the deity of life! If this is rightly understood, then death is the wall and life is the deity.
Painters often do this: to bring out white, they give a black background all around. Against the black, the white lines stand forth. If someone is afraid of the black, he will never reach the white. He does not know that black brings out the white.
As with a rose—thorns grow, and the flower blossoms. If someone is afraid of the thorns, he will never reach the flower. If he keeps running from the thorns, he will be deprived of the flower. But one who agrees to the thorns, draws near and drops fear—he is amazed: the thorns are only the flower’s protection, its outer wall of defense. Between them the flower blooms. And there is no enmity between thorns and flower. The flower too is a limb of the thorns. The thorns too are a limb of the flower. Both flow from the same sap of the same plant.
What we call life, and what we call death—both are limbs of the one Great Life. Both are limbs of the one Great Life. I breathe in. One breath goes out, one breath comes in. The breath that goes out soon returns within; the breath that comes in soon goes out. The coming of breath is life; the going of breath is death. But both are steps of the one Great Life—right and left—moving together. Birth is one step; death is the other. But if we can see, if we can descend within, the vision of the Great Life dawns.
In these three days, the meditation we will experiment with is an experiment in entering death. I will speak to you about many of its aspects. For now, tonight, let me explain a little about the first experiment we will sit in.
You have understood my approach—that we are to go to that place where no way remains to die—deeper, deeper within. And we must leave behind all the outer circumference that falls away at death.
At death the body is left; emotions are left; thoughts are left; friendships are left; enmities are left. All is left. All of the outer world is left. What remains is only we alone—only I remain—only consciousness remains within.
So in meditation too we must let all go and die. And let only this remain—that I, the knower, the mere witness, remain within—then death will have happened. And if through continuous experiment over these three days you can let go of yourself and show the courage to die, the event will happen which is called Samadhi.
Remember, Samadhi is a wondrous word. The perfection of meditation is called Samadhi—and when someone dies, his tomb is also called a samadhi. Have you ever thought? Both are called samadhi! In truth there is a secret—an affinity of meaning between them.
He who attains Samadhi—his body remains only as a tomb, and nothing else. Then he knows there is someone else within; outside is only a ring. When someone dies, we make his tomb and call it samadhi. But that samadhi others will make. Before others build our samadhi, if we can build our own while alive, the very event for which we thirst happens in life. Others will have the chance to build a samadhi anyway; but it may be that we fail to build our own.
If we build our own samadhi, then only the body will die—there is no question of my dying. I never have died, nor can I die. No one has ever died, nor can anyone die. But to know this, we must descend all the steps of death. So I want to tell you three steps. Now we will experiment as well. Who knows—upon this shore the event may happen that your samadhi is made! Not the samadhi others build—the samadhi you fashion by your own choice.
There are three stages. First is bodily looseness—relaxation of the body. Leave the body so relaxed that it begins to feel as if it lies far away, we have nothing to do with it. Draw all force out of the body and back within. We have poured our force into the body. As much as we put in, so much is there; as much as we draw back, so much withdraws.
Have you ever noticed? If you get into a quarrel, from where comes so much strength into your body? In anger you can lift and throw a stone so heavy you could not even have budged it in a peaceful state. Where did that strength come from? The body is yours—where did it come from? You are pouring it in. A need has arisen, there is danger, trouble, an enemy stands before you. The stone must be moved or life is in danger. So you pour all your force into the body.
Once it happened: a man had been paralyzed for two years—he lay on his cot, could not rise, could not move. Doctors tried and tired—at last they said he would remain paralyzed for life. Then suddenly one night his house caught fire. Everyone ran out. Only outside did they remember they had left the head of the family inside—the old man. He cannot run—what will happen to him? But then they saw—in the dark, with some holding torches—that the old man had come out before them. They asked, Did you walk out? He said, Ah! and he fell again into paralysis. He said, How could I walk? How did this happen?
But he had walked—there was no question of “how.” The house caught fire, and the whole house was running. For a moment he forgot he was paralyzed. All his energy returned to the body. But outside, when the torches lit and people saw—You! how did you come out?—he said, I am a paralytic. He fell again; his energy returned within.
Even he cannot understand how this happened. Now everyone tells him, You are not paralyzed, for you walked at least this much. You can walk all your life. But he says, My hand will not lift, my foot will not lift. How it happened, I cannot say. Who knows who brought me out!
No one brought him out—he came himself. But he does not know that in danger, his Atman poured all energy into the body. And it is also his feeling that he drew the energy back and again fell into paralysis. And this has not happened to only one paralytic—hundreds of such incidents have occurred on earth. In danger from fire or some crisis, the paralytic comes out—having forgotten, in danger, what condition he is in.
So I say to you: the energy in the body is our own poured energy—but we do not know how to take it back. At night we get rest because energy returns within on its own, and the body relaxes. In the morning we are fresh again. But some cannot draw their energy back even at night—energy remains in the body; then sleep becomes difficult. Insomnia is only one symptom: the force poured into the body does not know the way to return.
So the first stage of meditation, the first step into death, is to draw all energy out of the body. Now the delightful fact is: merely by suggestion the energy returns within. If for a little while one goes on creating an inner feeling—my energy is returning within; my body is relaxing—he will find the body relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. The body will reach a point where even if you wish to lift your hand yourself, you will not be able; all will be relaxed. It is by our feeling that we can draw back from the body.
So the first thing is that the whole vitality returns within. Then the body will lie like a shell—and it will be clearly felt that a gap like in a coconut has arisen—we are separate and the outer shell lies like clothing.
The second thing: leave the breath relaxed. Breath holds our life-force more deeply to the body. That is why when breath breaks, a man dies. Breath binds us more deeply to the body. Breath is the bridge between body and soul—there we are tied. Therefore we call breath prana. When it goes, prana is gone. Many experiments are possible here. If someone leaves his breath totally relaxed, entirely at ease, gradually the breath comes to such a point that within one cannot tell whether it is moving or not. Sometimes a suspicion arises—Perhaps I have died? The breath is not moving—what has happened! Breath becomes so peaceful that it cannot be detected at all.
And if even for a moment the breath pauses… Do not stop it; the one who stops cannot have it stop. If you stop it outside, it will try to go in; if you stop it inside, it will try to go out.
Therefore I say: do nothing from your side—only leave it relaxed, quiet, quiet, quiet. Slowly the breath will come to the midpoint and pause. If even for a single instant it pauses, in that very instant an infinite distance between soul and body is revealed. In that moment the lightning flashes through the whole personality—and it is seen: the body is separate, I am separate. Death has happened.
So on the second plane, leave the breath relaxed. And on the third, leave the mind relaxed. Because even if breath relaxes and mind does not, lightning will flash—but you will not notice what happened. The mind will remain entangled in its thoughts.
If lightning flashes here and I am lost in my ideas, it will flash, and I will say, Oh, something happened—but by then it has gone, and I remain lost. Lightning will flash when the breath pauses—but attention will go there only when thoughts have stilled. Otherwise the chance will be missed. Therefore the third thing is to leave thought relaxed.
We will practice these three stages. In the fourth stage, we will remain silent for ten minutes—simply sitting. You may lie down if you wish, or remain seated. Lying down will be simpler. And what a fine shore this is—its opportunity can be used well.
So everyone make space to lie down. If anyone wishes to sit, he may. But if a sitting person begins to fall later, he should not restrain himself. When the body becomes totally relaxed, you may fall; if you try to prevent it, the body will not relax completely. We will meditate in three stages, and then for ten minutes remain in silence. In that silence, in these three days, we will seek to bring death to descend—bring about the direct seeing of death.
So I suggest you create the feeling: the body is relaxing; the breath is relaxing; the mind is relaxing. Then I will be silent; it will be made dark here; then you will remain quietly where you are for ten minutes. Whatever is happening within, simply watch it—in silence.
Make enough space that if anyone falls, he does not fall upon another. Those who wish to lie down, find your space and lie down. Put out the lights.
Do not talk. Do not disturb the silence. Move quietly aside. Sit anywhere that feels right. Better to spread out across the shore—very good. Do not talk at all. There is no need for conversation. Sit in your own place or move away, lie down if you wish. In a moment it will be dark; then lie at ease. If someone remains seated and begins to fall back, he must let go—fall.
Do it quickly, do not waste time. Sit down or lie down now. Best would be to lie quietly upon the sand. No one will speak; no one will get up in between. Sit where you are or lie down. Close your eyes. Close your eyes… close your eyes and leave the body relaxed, loose. Now I suggest: experience along with me. As you experience, the body will relax more and more. Then the body will become utterly relaxed—as if no life remains within it.
Experience: the body is relaxing… leave it looser and looser… let it go loose and feel within: the body is relaxing… the body is relaxing… Experience: let every limb become loose, and feel within: the body is relaxing. My energy is returning within… from the body the energy is returning within… the energy is returning. The body is becoming relaxed… the body is relaxing… relaxing… relaxing… leaving completely, as if no life remains. If it falls, let it fall. Leave it utterly loose… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed… the body has relaxed. Leave it… leave it. The body has relaxed. The body has become utterly relaxed, as if there were no prana within it. All the body’s force has reached within… the body has relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… relaxed… Leave it, leave it completely, as if the body is no more—we have slipped within. The body has relaxed… relaxed… relaxed…
The breath is becoming quiet… leave the breath loose too… utterly loose… let it come and go by itself… leave it loose. Do not hold it, do not slow it—only leave it relaxed. However it comes, let it come; however it goes, let it go. The breath is relaxing… feel that the breath is becoming quiet… quieter and more relaxed… quieter and more relaxed… the breath is relaxing… relaxing… becoming quiet… becoming quiet. The breath has become quiet… the breath has become quiet… the breath has become quiet…
Now leave the mind relaxed too, and feel: thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting… thoughts are quieting…
The body is lying far away… we have slipped within. The breath too has remained far… we have slipped further within. Thoughts too have been left… we have moved even further within.
For ten minutes, remain in this silence as a witness… only watch what is happening… what is happening… what is happening. You will hear the sound of the ocean’s waves—keep listening. Remain a silent witness—just listening… watching within… watching. Gradually it will feel that death has occurred—something has died, and yet I am… something outside has died, and yet I am.
For ten minutes I will be silent. For ten minutes, sink deeper and deeper. Look within… look within… continue looking within… slowly it will seem: something has died; something lies outside. And I have become separate.
(The meditators lie without moving—some seated, some leaning against trees… the deep stillness of night… the roar of the waves striking the shore… all of nature is silent and still… as if no creature or human is nearby… the meditators lie as if dead… their breath has become utterly gentle… peace has deepened upon their faces… and their life-force seems to have gathered within for some profound inner journey… For ten minutes the meditators remained absorbed in this state… then they were gently suggested to return from meditation.)
Remain a witness, watching within—only keep watching within: what is happening… If a sound comes from outside, let it be heard… remain only a witness… silently watch within what is happening. A distance from the body will become visible. The body will begin to appear separate—as if some shell lies outside… far, very far… and we have become separate. See—look within—the body will begin to appear separate. As one standing inside his house sees the walls as separate, so look from within and the body will appear separate. Do not be frightened—if it feels as if something within is sinking… sinking… let it sink. Do not fear—let yourself go, utterly let go.
Remain quietly watching—gradually the distance from the body will go on increasing. It will be clear: the body separate, I separate. See this distinction clearly within. The mind will go on becoming still… still… still… gradually the mind will become utterly void…
The mind has become still… the mind has become silent. Now slowly take two or four deep breaths, and keep looking within—the breath will be felt as separate. Slowly take two or four deep breaths. With each breath the mind will become stiller. Take two or four deep breaths. Then slowly open the eyes… gently open the eyes… open the eyes slowly.
We have done this experiment here to understand. Those who have come to the camp, I request you: at night, in this moonlit night, go anywhere along the shore and do this experiment in solitude for half an hour. In the morning session there will be questions and answers. Those who wish to ask anything may submit questions in writing in the morning. And the morning session will not be open to all; it will be only for the camp participants.