Main Mrityu Sikhata Hun #8

He has asked the right thing. But even to think, “Why let the thought of death come in between?” is already to have let the thought of death in. And even to think, “Let me only live; let me not think about dying,” is already to have begun thinking. Death is such a vast fact that you cannot avert your eyes from it. All our lives we try not to think about death—not because it is something not worth thinking about, but because even thinking of it frightens us. The very idea that “I will die” makes one’s whole being tremble. When death actually comes, it will of course shake you. But even now—without dying—the very thought, if it seizes the mind, makes the life-energy quiver to its roots.

Man has been continually trying to forget death, not to think of it. We have arranged our lives so that death does not show. We have tried our best to deny it. And the arrangements man has made look as if they succeed—but they do not. Because death is, how will you run from it? How long will you run? Where will you run? And running and running, you arrive in it. Wherever you run, in any direction, there you will reach. And each day it comes closer, whether you think of it or not, whether you run or you hide. One cannot run away from any fact.

And death is not something that will happen someday in the future, so why think of it now—that too is a delusion. Death will not happen in the future; death is occurring every moment. It will be completed in the future, but it is happening moment to moment. That is to say, even at this very moment we are dying. If we sit here for an hour, we will die for an hour. It may take seventy years to die completely, but that hour will be included in it. In this hour too we will die. It is not that suddenly, one day in the seventieth year, a man dies. Death does not come abruptly; it is not an accident. It is a growth, a development that begins on the day of birth. In truth, birth is the first end of death, and death the last end. The journey begins that very day. What we call a birthday is the first day of dying. The journey will take time, but it has begun.

Suppose a man sets out from Dwarka for Calcutta. The first step he takes is also taken for Calcutta; the last step he takes is also for Calcutta. And the last step brings him to Calcutta no more than the first step does; if the first does not bring him there, the last never can. That is, when I took the first step from Dwarka toward Calcutta, I had already begun to arrive. Calcutta came one step nearer. And step by step it keeps coming nearer. It may be that six months later you say, “Now Calcutta has been reached.” But it began arriving six months earlier; only therefore could it be reached six months later.

So the second thing I want to say is: do not think of death as being in the future. Death is moment to moment. And what is the future? The sum total of all our present moments. We keep adding, adding, adding.

Someone is heating water. At the first degree the water has warmed, but it has not yet become steam. At the second degree it has warmed, but still no steam. Steam will form at one hundred degrees. But already at the first degree it has begun to approach steam; at the second, at the third—yet even at ninety-nine degrees the water has not become steam; only at one hundred will it become steam. But have you noticed that the hundredth degree is just one degree, and the first was also one degree? The journey from ninety-nine to one hundred had to be made—and the journey from one to two also had to be made; there is no difference in that. Therefore, one who knows will say at the very first degree, “Be alert—this water will turn into steam!” Even though you cannot yet see any steam. We may say, “It is only getting warm; where is the steam?” Up to ninety-nine degrees we can deceive ourselves that the water is not yet becoming steam. But at the hundredth it will. And every degree brings the hundredth degree closer.

Therefore, to say that death is in the future and to try to save oneself by postponing is useless. Death is moment to moment. We are dying every day. In truth, what we call living is no different from dying slowly. I am not saying: think for the future. But see what is already happening. And I am not even saying: think—just see.
A friend has asked: why should we think about death?
I am not saying: think. By thinking you will not come to know anything. Keep this in mind: no fact has ever been known through thinking. In truth, thinking is a device to falsify facts. If a flower has blossomed and you begin to think about it, you will not know the flower—because the more you go into thinking, the farther the flower slips away. You rush ahead into thought; the flower remains here. What is the point of thinking about a flower? A flower is a fact. If you want to know the flower, don’t think—look.

There is a difference between seeing and thinking, and it is crucial. The West lays great emphasis on thinking. That is why they named their discipline “philosophy”—love of ideas. We named our discipline “darshan”—which means seeing. Darshan does not mean thinking. Understand this small but vital point: we said darshan; they said philosophy. There is a fundamental difference. Those who call philosophy and darshan synonyms know nothing. They are not synonyms.

Therefore, there is no such thing as “Indian philosophy,” and no such thing as “Western darshan.” In the West there is a science of ideas, analysis, logic, argument. The East took a wholly different concern. The East realized there are facts that cannot be known by thinking. Facts must be seen, must be lived. And living and seeing are very different from thinking.

One person thinks about love. He may be able to write scriptures on love. But the lover lives love, sees love. He may not be able to write any scripture. If you ask a lover to say something about love, perhaps his eyes will close, tears will begin to flow. He might say, “Don’t ask—how can I tell?” The one who has thought about love can explain for hours—and yet not know a grain of it. Thinking and seeing are two different processes.

So I am not telling you to think about death. If you think, you will never know death. You will have to see. I am saying: death is right here, standing within you—you must look at it. This that I keep calling “I” is dying every moment. You will have to watch this event of dying, live it, accept it: I am dying, I am dying, I am dying. We make great efforts to deny it; we have invented a thousand devices for denial. Hair has turned white; you can dye it—but that does not falsify death. Under the dye the hair is still white. Death has already begun to arrive. It will come. How will you deny it? However much you deny, it changes nothing. Its movement goes on. Yes, only one thing changes: we remain deprived of knowing it.

And I say: one who has not known death—how will he know life? Death is the circumference; life is the center. If the circumference is unknown, how will you know the center? If you run from the very boundary wall of the house, how will you ever enter the inner dwelling? Death is the outer ring; at the center of death stands the temple of life. If we keep fleeing from that outer ring, we flee from life as well. Whoever comes to know death—again and again, deeper and deeper—will start removing death’s garments and come to know life too. Death is the doorway to the knowing of life. If you avoid death, you avoid life.

So when I say “know death, recognize the fact,” I am not asking you to think.

And understand one more delightful point: thinking means repeating what you already know. Thought is never original. We say, “So-and-so’s ideas are very original.” No thought is ever original; thought cannot be original. Seeing can be original. Thoughts are always stale.

If I tell you, “Think about this rose,” what will you think? You will only repeat what you have already learned and heard. What else can you do in thought? Can a single unknown, original perception about the rose arise out of thinking? How would it? Thought is repetition of memory. You will say, “How beautiful it is”—how many times have you read and heard that! “It is like a beloved’s face”—again borrowed. “So fresh, so delightful”—again borrowed. Through thought you never enter this rose; you only circle within the storehouse of your own memory, unwrapping your stale bundle.

Therefore thought is never original; there is no such thing as an “original thought.” Seers are original. The one who sees is original.

If someone looks at a rose, the first condition for seeing is: no thinking. Put thought aside, put memory aside, be empty—and live with the rose. Let the rose be there, and you be here, with nothing in between. Nothing read, heard, known—no past experience in the middle. No known, no “already.” Here I am, there is the rose. Then the unknown at the heart of the rose will begin to enter my being. Finding no barrier, it will enter. And you will not conclude, “A rose is this.” Rather, you will discover: where are the two—me and the rose? Then we know the rose from within. The seer goes inside; the thinker keeps circling outside. That is why the thinker attains nothing. What is attained belongs to the seer. The seer enters within because no wall remains between the one who sees and that which is seen. The wall dissolves.

Kabir once told his son Kamal to go to the forest and cut some grass for the cows and buffaloes. Kamal went in the morning. Noon came—he did not return. Kabir became anxious. Afternoon passed—still no sign. By evening Kabir and a few disciples went looking. They found Kamal standing among tall grass, eyes closed, swaying. In the breeze the grass was swaying, and Kamal swayed just the same. They shook him: “What are you doing?” He opened his eyes and said, “Ah! I made a great mistake.” “A mistake? You took so long—what were you doing?” He said, “When I came here, I made a mistake. I stopped cutting and started looking. Looking, looking—I don’t know when I became the grass. Evening fell and I did not even remember that I am Kamal who had come to cut. I became the grass. There was such a joy in becoming grass as I have never found in being Kamal. It’s good you came—otherwise who knows, I might not have returned at all. The winds were not moving the grass alone—they were moving me. The cutter and the cut were both gone.” Kamal said, “I made a great mistake—I began to look.”

It was no mistake; it was something wondrous. Whenever someone begins to look, everything changes. We see nothing. Have you ever looked at your wife? Ever truly looked at your son? With those you have lived for years—have you ever seen them? You have always thought: what she did yesterday, how she argued this morning—that stands in between. Because we think, we do not see. Therefore there is no real relationship between husband and wife, father and son, mother and child. Relationship happens where thought dissolves and seeing begins. Then there is relationship—because nothing remains in between to break it.

Remember, relationship does not mean a link that joins two. As long as there is something in the middle “joining,” there is also something that can break. The day even the joiner is absent—only two, with nothing in between—then in truth only one remains; not two. Relationship is not “what we are connected by.” Relationship means there is nothing at all between us—not even a joiner. The streams merge into each other. This is love. Seeing leads to love. The key to love is seeing. And the one who has not loved has never known anything; whatever he seeks to know, it will be known only through love.

So when I say “Know death,” you will have to love death too; you will have to look at death. The frightened one is always running away. How will he love? How will he see? If death stands before him, he turns his back, closes his eyes. He never lets death come face to face. Frightened, he can neither see nor love death. And one who has not been able to love even death—how will he love life? Death is the outer event; life is the innermost. The one who turns back from the first step of the well—how will he reach the water?

Therefore death must be lived, known, seen, loved. You must look it in the eye. And the moment someone meets death’s gaze, stands and looks, enters into it, he is astonished: what a vast mystery is hidden in death! The very thing we fled from as death contains the source of supreme life. That is why I say: die voluntarily—so that you may reach life.

Jesus has a wondrous saying: Whoever saves himself will be lost; whoever loses himself—no one can destroy him. Whoever loses himself will find; whoever tries to save himself will lose.

If a seed sets about saving itself, it will only rot—what else can happen? But if a seed dissolves in the soil and is lost, it becomes a tree. The death of the seed becomes the life of the tree. If the seed tries to protect itself—“I am afraid; I will not die, I will not be lost”—then it rots. It remains not even a seed; becoming a tree is far away. Out of fear we shrink.

Let me say something you may never have considered: only a man afraid of death has ego. Ego is a contracted personality—a hard knot. The one who fears death contracts; the one who contracts becomes a knot, a complex. The feeling of “I” is the feeling of one afraid of death. One who descends into death, who does not fear or flee, who begins to live it—his “I” dissolves, his ego disappears. And when ego dissolves, only life remains.

We can say it this way: only the ego dies; the soul does not die. Our trouble is that we remain identified with ego. Ego alone can die, because it is false. It must die—and we keep clinging to it.

Consider the ocean and a wave arising upon it. If the wave wants to survive as a wave, it cannot—it will die. A wave cannot survive as a wave. One way to “survive” is to freeze, to become ice—a hard lump. Then it may seem to survive—but as ice, cut off and closed.

Remember, a wave is not separate from the ocean; but ice breaks off from the ocean and becomes separate, rigid, frozen. As a wave, it was one with the ocean. As a lump of ice, it may survive a little—but only by breaking away. And for how long? What is frozen will melt. A “poor” little lump will melt quickly; a “rich,” big one may take longer. The difference is only of time. It will melt. And it will cry and scream, because melting appears like dying.

But if the wave surrenders being “a wave,” and realizes the ocean, then the question of dying vanishes. Whether the wave subsides or rises, it is. When it does not know itself as wave, it knows itself as ocean. When all wave-ness is gone, it still is—now in rest. When the wave rises, there is effort; when it subsides, there is repose. Repose is more blissful.

Worldliness is the state of effort; liberation is the state of utter rest. The wave fights the winds, is troubled; then it falls asleep—what was remains, now as ocean at rest. If any wave takes itself to be a separate wave, ego arises; it tries to break from the ocean. When “I am” arises, how can it remain merged with all? If it stays merged, there is no sense of “I.” So the ego says, “Break away.” But breaking brings great sorrow. Then the ego says, “Join again.” Such is the roundabout of ego. First it says, “Isolate—because you are separate.” Then, isolated, suffering begins; with separation, death begins. The moment a wave knows itself apart from the ocean, its death begins. While it was one with the ocean, there was no death—for the ocean does not die.

Remember, the ocean can be without waves; a wave cannot be without the ocean. You cannot have a wave without the ocean; the ocean is implicit in the wave. But the ocean needs no wave. All waves can be at rest. The moment a wave wants to save itself as separate, difficulty starts; it breaks from the ocean—and death begins.

This is why the one who is dying wants to love. We are all so eager for love because love becomes a way to join again. None of us can live without love; without it there is deep misery. We need to love and be loved. But have we ever looked into the meaning of love? We broke our connection with the Vast; now we try to patch together little links—that patchwork we call love. There is one kind of love that keeps trying to join piece by piece; and there is another, where we cease trying to divide—that we call prayer.

Prayer is the name of complete love. It means something very different. It is not trying to link up piece by piece; it is the cessation of division. The wave says, “I am the ocean,” and stops trying to link with every other wave. Remember, this wave is dying, and the neighboring wave is dying too. If one wave tries to relate to another, trouble will come.

That is why what we ordinarily call love is often so full of sorrow: a dying wave is trying to relate to a dying wave. Both are melting, both are disappearing. Each hopes that by joining the other, it may be saved. We make love into a security. We fear being alone—so we want wife, husband, children, mother, friends, society, organization, nation. These are attempts of the ego. Having broken connection, it tries to reconnect.

But all these links still bring death—because whatever we link with is equally mortal, equally ego-bound. The irony is that each hopes to gain immortality through the other. How can two mortals create immortality? At most, death is doubled, never undone. Lovers keep hoping love will be immortal, and poems to that effect have been written for millennia. How can two subjects to death create the immortal? Both are melting. Hence both are anxious, afraid. Waves form organizations—nations, sects: Hindu, Muslim. Waves band together, saying, “We must survive.” But all such structures will pass, because underneath there is only one organization—the ocean. The ocean’s “organization” is entirely different: it is not that the wave links itself to the ocean; it knows it was never separate.

Hence I say: a religious person has no organization, no family, no friend, no father, no brother.

Jesus spoke some very hard words—only those who have known love can speak so hard. One day he was in the marketplace, surrounded by a crowd. His mother Mary came to see him. The people made way: “Make way for Jesus’s mother!” From inside Jesus called out, “Do not make way—Jesus has no mother.” Mary stood startled. Jesus said to the crowd, “As long as you cannot dissolve father and mother, you cannot come to me. As long as you have a mother, a father, brothers, a wife—you cannot come to me.”

Hard indeed. We cannot imagine that someone so full of love would say, “Who is my mother?” But he said it. If you still have a mother and father in that binding sense, you cannot come to me.

What is the matter? Waves organizing with waves cannot approach the ocean. In fact, waves organize to avoid the ocean. A solitary wave feels more fear of being lost. It is indeed being lost. Ten, twenty waves assemble—courage rises: we have a crowd.

Thus man prefers to live in crowds, fears being alone. Alone, he is just a single wave slipping away on both sides, melting. So he builds chains, organizations. A father says, “Never mind if I die; I leave a son.” A wave says, “I will pass, but I raise a little wave; my line will continue, my name will remain.”

Therefore, when a father has no son, he is deeply pained—he failed to arrange any “immortality.” He will die, but could not produce another wave to go on—at least a trace that “This one came from that.” That wave perished, but left behind another.

Notice: people with creative work—painters, musicians, poets, writers—are much less anxious about having sons. The reason is simple: they get a substitute for a son. Their painting will survive, their poem will live, their statue will remain—they worry less about offspring. Scientists, artists, writers do not obsess over sons. Not that they are carefree; they have found a longer-lasting wave. Their book will remain even after your sons have vanished.

So the litterateur is not much worried about children. It does not mean he is beyond anxiety; he has just found a longer-lasting surrogate. In the world of waves, however long a wave runs, it must disappear. To be a wave is to be fleeting; length doesn’t change that.

If I know myself as a wave, I will want to escape death; fear and panic will persist. I say: look at death. Do not dodge, do not run. Look—and in the very seeing you will sense that what is death on the surface is life a little deeper in. The wave becomes the ocean. The fear of ending ends. Then the wave does not want to harden into ice. However long she dances in the sun, she is happy; when she rests, she is happy. She knows that what is, neither is born nor dies; what is, is. Forms change and keep changing.

We all are waves arising on the ocean of consciousness. Some of us have frozen more—become ice. Ego is ice, hard as stone. What a wonder that something as fluid as water becomes hard as stone! Consciousness, simple and fluid, congeals into ego when the urge to freeze arises. We are full of this urge—hence we try in many ways to harden.

Water has laws for becoming ice; man has laws for becoming ego. Water must get cold, lose warmth. The colder it gets, the harder it becomes. One who wants to be ego must also grow cold, lose warmth. That is why we say “a warm welcome”—never “a cold welcome.” Love is warmth; a “cold love” is meaningless. Life is warmth; death is cold. Death is below zero—everything frozen. Life is always warm. Hence the sun is a symbol of life, of warmth. When it rises, death departs; flowers bloom, birds sing. Warmth is life; cold is death.

So if you want to be ego, you must grow cold. You must drop whatever brings warmth to your being. Love gives energy; hatred brings cold. So love must be dropped; hatred embraced. Compassion and sympathy bring warmth; hardness and cruelty bring cold—so coldness is chosen.

As water has rules to freeze, the human mind has rules to freeze: keep becoming colder. We even say of someone, “He is a very cold man.” The warmer one is, the more fluid—there is flow. Then others can enter him, and he can enter others. The cold one becomes hard, closed on all sides; no entry in or out. Ego is frozen ice; love is melted, flowing water. The one who fears and flees death—curiously—keeps growing colder. Fear contracts, hardens, strengthens the walls.

I stayed with a wealthy friend for some days, and I was surprised: he would never speak to anyone directly, and yet he himself was inwardly very soft. In his presence the servants would tremble; his son would shake; his wife would fear. Visitors hesitated even to ring the bell. I asked him, “What is this?” He said, “I am very afraid. Any relationship is dangerous. If you are gentle with your wife, expenses increase. If you are not stern with your son, his pocket money grows. If you speak kindly to a servant, he starts acting like the master. So one must erect a solid wall of coldness on all sides—so that wife, son, everyone is afraid.”

How many fathers have done just this! In how many homes do father and son ever sit in love? Rarely. The son goes to the father only when he needs money; the father calls the son when he wants to deliver a sermon. Otherwise there is no meeting. There is no meeting because the father, afraid, has raised hard walls; the son, also afraid, keeps his distance. The more one fears, the more solid he becomes—for security. Whoever is worried about security becomes solid. Fluidity feels insecure.

We even fear to love. We investigate thoroughly before loving—meaning, we love only where there is no risk. That is why we invented marriage: arrange everything first, then love. Love is dangerous; it is fluid—anyone can enter. To love a passerby is risky—he may run off with the belongings at night! So first make sure: who is this person, what is his family, character, qualities? Secure everything socially—then bring him home. We are frightened; we set up security. And the more security we set up, the thicker a wall of ice forms around us, shrinking the whole being. Our separation from the divine is only this: we are not fluid. We have become solid. We are not water; we have become ice. If we become fluid, the separation dissolves.

But we become fluid only when we are willing to see and live death—when we accept that death is. See it, recognize it. Then what fear remains? If death is—and a wave knows it must vanish; if it sees that in its very arising its ending was concealed—then the matter is finished. What need to freeze into ice? For as long as I am a wave, I am a wave; as the ocean, I am the ocean. Then everything is accepted. And out of that acceptance the wave becomes the ocean. All anxiety about ending falls away—because then the wave knows: before dissolving I was, and after dissolving I am—not as the “I,” but as the boundless ocean.

Lao Tzu was asked near his death, “Tell us some secrets of your life.” He said, “First, no one ever defeated me.” The disciples became eager: “You never told us this! We too want to win. Tell us your method.” Lao Tzu said, “You misunderstand. I only said: no one could defeat me. You ask how to win—that is the opposite. In the dictionary they seem the same—‘not defeated’ equals ‘victorious.’ But you are wrong. I said only this: no one could defeat me. You want a technique to win—you will not understand me.” They pleaded. Lao Tzu said, “No one could defeat me because I was always already defeated. There was no way to defeat me. I never wanted to win—so the fight never even arose. If someone came to fight me, I was already lying down. He had no fun defeating me, because victory is tasty only against someone who wants to win. If one does not want to win, what joy is there in defeating him?

“We enjoy crushing another’s ego—because it strengthens our own. But if the other is already crushed, what fun is there? Our ego gets no nourishment. The more we break the other’s ego, the stronger ours feels. But if someone is already prostrate—suppose I go to push him down and he lies down before I touch him; before I can sit on his chest, he invites me to sit—then what happens? One wants to run away. And if he laughs and says, ‘Sit comfortably—why run?’ who becomes the fool? The one seated on the chest. His laughter will echo all my life.”

Lao Tzu said, “Whenever someone came to defeat me, I fell at once and said, ‘Come, sit on me. That’s what you came for, isn’t it? Don’t trouble yourself—sit.’ But you ask something else: a trick to win. If you think of winning, you will lose. In the very desire to win, defeat begins.” He also said, “No one could ever insult me.” A disciple asked, “Tell us the secret—we suffer so from insult.” Lao Tzu said, “Again you err. No one could insult me because I had no desire for honor. You will be insulted because you crave respect.”

He said, “No one could ever throw me out—because I always sat at the door where people take off their shoes. No one ever pushed me further away—because I already stood at the last place; there was nowhere further to go. We lived in great joy—because we stood last. No one shoved or told us to move; no one wanted that place. There we were masters.” Jesus too said, “Blessed are those who can stand last.” What does it mean? Jesus says: if someone slaps your one cheek, offer the other. Meaning: don’t even make him work to reach your second cheek—offer it yourself. If he comes to defeat you, lose quickly. If he wins one round, you lose the next two. If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too—lest he feel shy to ask. If someone compels you to carry a load for a mile, after a mile ask if you should go farther.

What does this mean? It means: the facts of life—of insecurity, of loss, of defeat, and in the end death—these all move toward death. Ultimately death is total defeat. In any other defeat, at least I survive—defeated, but present. In death, even “I” does not remain. That is why we want to kill our enemy—because death is the ultimate defeat. After that, there is no chance for him to win. The urge to kill is the urge to impose ultimate defeat.

Death is the ultimate defeat—and we all want to flee it. Remember also: whoever flees his own death keeps striving for others’ death. The more he can kill, the more alive he will feel.

Hence the violence in the world has a deeper cause than people assume. It is not that someone drinks at night or eats this or that. The fundamental cause of violence is that man wants to forget his own death by killing the other. In killing another he feels, “No one can kill me; I can kill.”

Hitlers and Genghis Khans slaughter millions to reassure themselves that no one can kill them—since they can kill so many. By killing others we try to escape our own death. The violent man is one escaping death. One who accepts death can be nonviolent. Only he can be nonviolent who says, “Death is acceptable. It is a fact of life.” Where will you run? Where will you go?

The sun rises—and sunset begins at once. Sunset is as true as sunrise, only the direction differs. At sunset the sun reaches the very place from which it rose. East and west—birth and death. In rising, setting is hidden. In birth, death is concealed.

One who knows this has no way to reject. He accepts. He lives, sees, knows—and accepts. In acceptance, revolution happens. What I call victory over death means this: the moment one accepts, he begins to laugh—because then it is seen: death is not. Only the outer sheath is born and dies; the inner stream always is. The ocean always is; waves arise and fall. Beauty always is; flowers blossom and scatter. Light always is; the sun rises and sets. But that which rises and sets was before rising and remains after setting. This is seen only on the day you look—darshan—when you witness death. Before that, it cannot be seen.
Therefore, to the friend who has asked, “Why should we even think about death? Why reflect on it at all? Why not just leave death aside? Why not simply live?” I say to him: No one has ever lived, nor can live, by leaving death aside. And whoever leaves death aside leaves life as well.
It is like this: a one-rupee coin is in my hand and I say, “Why should I bother about the reverse side of the coin? Why not just discard it?” If I throw away the reverse, the obverse will also leave my hand, because they are two sides of the same coin. It cannot happen that I keep one face and toss the other onto the road. How could that be! The other face will remain only together with the first. If I throw one side, both will be thrown; if I keep one, both will be kept. In truth, they are two aspects of one and the same thing, two arms of the same whole. Birth and death are two aspects, two arms, of the same life. And the day this becomes visible, the sting of death disappears—along with the very thought that “one should not die.” Then we know that both birth and death are a joy.

In the morning we rise and set out to work. Someone digs a ditch, someone does another task, and all day long we sweat. Waking in the morning is a joy—but who has said that going to sleep in the evening is not a joy? If a few crazies were born into the world and started telling people, “Don’t sleep,” then the joy of the morning’s awakening would also come to an end. Because one who does not sleep cannot awaken. Life itself would stop. If someone began to frighten you about sleep, saying, “Look, waking in the morning is so delightful; sleep will spoil everything!”

But we know sleep is the other half of waking. One who sleeps well will wake well. One who wakes well will sleep well. One who lives rightly will die rightly. One who dies rightly will take the next steps of life rightly. One who does not die rightly will not live rightly; one who does not live rightly will not die rightly. Everything becomes disordered, distorted, and ugly. And in all this distortion and ugliness, the fear of death is at work. If the fear of sleep were to grip someone—what a difficulty that would be!

I know a woman. Her son brought this old woman to me and said, “My mother has developed a fear of sleep.” I asked, “What happened?” He said, “She has been ill for some days, and she feels, ‘If I sleep, I might die in my sleep!’ So she has begun to fear sleeping—that if I go to sleep, I may not wake up again. She tries to stay awake all night.” And her son said, “We are in great difficulty. Her illness won’t improve because she stays awake all night. When we tell her, she says, ‘I’m afraid that if I sleep, then I will have no control. If I fall asleep and death comes—then I’m gone.’ So they have brought her to me to somehow save her from the fear of sleep; otherwise we are in great trouble. Her illness cannot heal, because if she does not sleep, how can it heal!”

Just as there can be fear of sleep. Sleep is, in a way, a daily death. The day is life; the night is death. It is a piecemeal death. Every day we die a little, we sink within; in the morning we return fresh again. Then after seventy or eighty years the whole body gets tired—work, work, work—the body wears out. Then full death takes hold; the entire body changes. But we are very afraid of that. It is a deep sleep. Yet we are very afraid of it.

Have you noticed that the body changes every morning too? It changes a little, which is why you don’t notice. It does not change completely; there is a partial transformation. When you go to sleep in the evening, your body is in one condition; when you wake in the morning, your body is in another. By morning the body has become fresh, renewed. Energy has returned; the world of work begins again. Now you can sing again. In the evening you could not sing—you were tired, worn out.

But have you ever noticed—what is there to fear in this? In fact, you are pleased, because only a part changes, a fraction changes. Death changes the whole. It is a total transformation. The entire body has become useless; now there is a need to provide another body—and it provides another body. But we are frightened of death. And because of that fear, life has become completely crippled, paralyzed from every side. At every moment that fear holds us, grips us. Because of that fear we have arranged our life, our families, our society in such a way that we live less and fear death more. And one who fears death cannot live. These two things are not possible together. Only one who is utterly at ease and ready for death is ready for life too—because they are two aspects of the same thing.

Therefore I say: look at death. I am not telling you to think about it, because if you think, you will be deceived. What will you accomplish by thinking?

A very unhappy and tormented man may think that in death everything ends. That thought will appeal to him—not because it is true. And remember, never assume that what is pleasing to you is therefore true. What is pleasing does not depend on truth; it depends on your convenience. A man who is unhappy, troubled, afflicted, ill, will think that in death everything should die completely, nothing should remain. Because if anything remains, it will be me who remains—the same unhappy, ill...

No, they too are afraid of death. But they have become more afraid of life than of death. Life starts to seem more painful to them than death. Then they just want to end it. In that ending it is not that there is any joy in life for them; life has come to feel worse than death, so choosing death seems fitting.

A person who is unhappy, afflicted, distressed, will adopt the doctrine that the soul dies completely, that nothing remains—because he doesn’t want any part of himself to be saved; if it were saved, it would remain miserable. The person who is frightened of death and wants to preserve himself will accept the doctrine that the soul is immortal. These are all our conveniences. There is no real knowing in this; it is a matter of our comfort, of what feels convenient to us.

That’s why, many times in life, doctrines change. In youth a person is an atheist; in old age he becomes a theist. Often they change. In fact, the truth is, if you get a headache, your doctrines change. When the head is fine, the doctrines are one thing; when the head aches, the doctrines become something else. There is no sure way to tell how much your scriptures influence your doctrines and how much your liver does. The liver has a greater effect. Who knows how much influence the gurus have? But what is going on inside the body has a greater effect. When the stomach is upset, one feels like being an atheist; when the belly is perfectly fine and at ease, one feels like being a theist. When there is a headache, how can one believe that God is? How can one believe that God is? If God is, where does a headache fit with the existence of God? How do you reconcile God’s being and the being of a headache?

Experiments could be done on this. Take fifty people and give them chronic illnesses, and keep another fifty perfectly healthy so that life is a joy for them, while for the first fifty life is a suffering. You will see atheism will keep increasing in those fifty, and theism will keep increasing in the other fifty. It is not that bliss comes because of theism; if someone is blissful, he becomes a theist. The whole thing is the other way around. It is not that suffering comes because of atheism; in fact, a suffering person becomes an atheist. The suffering person says, “It’s not possible that God exists. If God exists, what is the explanation for this suffering? If God exists, why am I suffering? I should be happy. And how am I to pray in a temple when I have a stomachache?” A suffering mind becomes atheistic. Therefore remember: if atheism is increasing in the world, understand that suffering is increasing; if theism is increasing, understand that happiness is increasing.

That’s why I say to you: Russia has the possibility of becoming theistic in fifty years; you have the possibility of becoming more atheistic in fifty years. It is not a matter of doctrines—that Marx’s book is current in Russia and Mahavira’s book is current here. That makes not a two-penny difference. If happiness keeps increasing in Russia, then in fifty years theism will return. Temple bells will begin to ring—the joyful mind rings them. Lamps will begin to be lit—the joyful mind lights them. Prayers will begin—the joyful mind prays. Thanks will be offered to God—a joyful mind wants to thank someone. And whom to thank? Because for the inner joy no cause is visible, then it thanks the Unknown: “It must be because of That.” A suffering mind wants to express anger. And when no cause is visible, to whom can it express anger? Then it fills with resentment toward the Unknown. It says, that which is unknown, the divine—it is because of That that everything is messed up. Either He does not exist, or He has gone mad.

I am saying to you that our theism, our atheism, our doctrines are all the fruits of the conveniences of our situations. The one who runs from death will grab at some doctrine; the one who wants to die will grab at some doctrine. But neither of them is eager or intent on knowing death. There is a great difference between convenience and truth. Do not give too much thought to your convenience. Thought is always of convenience; philosophy is of truth.

Right now someone is a communist, raising a great clamor that there must be revolution, that the poor must get property, that property must be redistributed. Try this: give him a car, a big bungalow, a good wife. Fifteen days later you will see he has changed completely. He says, “Communism and all that are useless ideas.” What happened to this man? Convenience was his thought. That day it was convenient that property be divided; now it is inconvenient that property be divided. Because now, if property is divided, this car will be divided, this bungalow will be divided. The person who has not got a beautiful woman can say that there should be communism of women too. Why should a few people monopolize beautiful women? Women should belong to all. People even have this notion. Those who propose this exist on the earth; they say, “Today property, tomorrow woman.” And it is not even wrong, because you have all along regarded woman as property. If today we say it is wrong that one man lives in a big house and another in a hut, then what difficulty is there in saying tomorrow that one man gets a beautiful woman and another does not—how is that acceptable? Distribution should be equal. There are dangers in this. If not today, then tomorrow such questions will arise. The day property is distributed, the question of distributing women will arise. But the one who has a beautiful woman will say, “How can that be! What nonsense! Absolutely wrong.”

Convenience becomes our thought. We all make our thoughts out of convenience. Our thoughts either support our convenience or remove our inconvenience. Philosophy is another matter altogether. Philosophy has nothing to do with convenience. Therefore remember, philosophy is a tapascharya, an austerity. Austerity means that there one does not keep convenience in view; there one has to know what is—just as it is.

So the fact of death has to be seen, not thought about. You will always think according to your convenience. You will do what seems convenient. Convenience is not the question. What is death has to be known—as it is. My convenience or inconvenience makes no difference. What is, has to be known as it is. And the very knowing of it brings about a revolution in one’s life—because there is no death. The moment it is known, it is seen that it is not. As long as it is not known, it appears to be. Death is the experience of ignorance; immortality is the experience of knowing.

There are a few more questions; we will be able to talk about them tonight. Now we will sit for meditation. Meditation means death. Meditation means going into that which is—where we are. Therefore, only if there is a readiness to die does one go into meditation; otherwise no one goes into meditation.

Sit a little apart from one another. Sit a little apart… Those who wish to lie down, lie down from the start. And even in the middle, if someone feels like lying down, he should lie down. And sit a little apart so that if someone lies down or falls, he does not fall onto you.

Close your eyes… let the eyes be loose and close the lids… let the eyes be loose and close the lids. Let the body be relaxed… let the body be loose… let the body be loose… leave the body completely loose, as if there is no life in it. One day it will be left; try leaving it even now. One day it will be left completely; even if you want to retain the life-breath, it will not remain. So draw it inward… say to the life-force, “Return within!” Leave the body loose. Keep letting the body become completely loose.

Now I suggest: experience along with me.

The body is becoming relaxed… feel it: the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed. Keep letting go; feel: the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed. The body is becoming relaxed… it is going toward death… going toward death. We are slipping inward… to where life is. Let go… let go… leave the wave; become the ocean. Leave the body completely… if it falls, let it fall; do not worry about it. Do not hold it back… do not cling… let go.

The body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed. The body is becoming completely relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed… the body is becoming relaxed. Let go… as if it has died… the body has become utterly lifeless. We have slipped within… consciousness has slipped within… the body remains just like a shell. If it falls, let it fall. The body has become relaxed… the body has become relaxed… the body has become completely relaxed.

The breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet. Let the breath be loose as well. The breath is becoming quieter and quieter… the breath is becoming quiet. Withdraw even from the breath; call the energy inward from that too. The breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet… becoming quiet. Leave it relaxed… leave the breath as well… the breath is becoming quiet… the breath is becoming quiet… the breath has become quiet.

Leave the thought as well… move back from that too… move further back. Thought is becoming relaxed… thought is becoming relaxed. Keep feeling: thought is becoming relaxed… thought is becoming relaxed… thought is becoming relaxed. Thought too is being left behind… we have moved further back… and further back. Thought is becoming quiet… thought is becoming quiet… thought is becoming quiet… thought has become quiet.

Now for ten minutes remain awake within; be filled with alertness. Awake within, see: outside, death has happened. The body is lying there, almost dead, far away… we have moved back… consciousness remains only like a flame. There is only knowing… only seeing… remain the witness… abide in pure seeing. For ten minutes, only keep seeing within… do nothing else… only keep seeing. Within… and within… keep seeing within… slowly, slowly the descent into the depths will happen—like someone falling into a deep well… falling… falling. See… for ten minutes, just keep watching.

Let go completely... and go within... and go within. Just remain awake, watching... slowly, slowly everything will become empty... only a flame of knowing will go on burning in the emptiness... that I am knowing... knowing... seeing... seeing. Let go completely... drop every hold... sink deep and keep watching... the mind will go on becoming silent.
(Silence, solitude, stillness...)
The mind is becoming empty... the mind is becoming empty... let go completely... disappear... as if die. On the outside, vanish completely... let go totally from the outside... as a wave dissolves and becomes the ocean. Let go utterly... do not hold even a trace. The mind is becoming empty... the mind is becoming empty... the mind is becoming empty.
The mind has become completely empty... the mind has become empty... the mind has become empty. Only a single flame remains burning—of knowing... of seeing... of witnessing. As if death has happened to everything else... the body will appear to be lying far away... your own body will seem very far away... your own breaths will seem very distant. Go within... and sink even deeper... let go completely... do not keep even the slightest hold... let go... let go... let go completely.
(Silence, solitude, stillness...)
Let go completely... if the body feels as if it is falling, let it fall... let go completely... become empty... become completely empty. The mind has become empty... the mind has become empty... only a small flame of knowing remains within... and everything else has become empty... everything has dissolved.
(Silence, solitude, stillness...)
Let go... let go completely... show the readiness to die... outwardly, as if die completely. The body has become as if lifeless... we have slipped completely inside... slipped completely inside... only a flame near the heart remains burning. Seeing... knowing... and all else has dissolved... only the witness remains... the mind has become utterly empty.
In this emptiness, look closely... look closely into this inner emptiness... in that very emptiness, rays of great bliss will spread... that very emptiness will fill with the light of great bliss. As if a spring bursts forth and only bliss flows... spreading into every vein, every fiber, every particle. Look into that emptiness, look closely... just as flowers blossom when the sun rises, in the same way, when you look into the inner emptiness, a fountain of bliss bursts forth... everywhere, only bliss spreads. Look... look within... let that spring break open... look within... as a fountain breaks and fills every particle with bliss.
(Silence, solitude, stillness...)
Now, slowly take a few deep breaths. The breath will seem very distant... slowly take deep breaths... keep watching the breath... the mind will become even more silent. Slowly take a few deep breaths... slowly take a few deep breaths... slowly take a few deep breaths. The mind will become even more silent... the mind will become even more silent. Then slowly open your eyes... slowly open your eyes... return from meditation attentively. Those who are lying down or have fallen, slowly take deep breaths... open your eyes... and rise very gently.
Understand one small point. In the afternoon we will sit for one hour, from three to four, in complete silence. We will sit in the hall upstairs. Understand two or three guidelines for that; come accordingly. Everyone should arrive before three; after three, no one will be able to come in—the door will be closed at three. If anyone arrives after three, then do not try to enter; quietly turn back.
Exactly at three, silence will begin there. But to be in silence at three, from two o’clock reduce your talking; as far as possible, do not talk at all. And be mindful—neither make others talk, nor talk yourself. If you can bathe again and come, very good; otherwise, wipe your whole body with a wet cloth. Change your clothes as well; come fresh and clean. And from two o’clock start the effort to be silent; the earlier you begin, the better.
When you come here at three, do not come talking. Upon reaching the hall, no one should speak even a single word. Do not gesture, because a gesture too is a word. Do not even look toward another, because looking toward another is also a kind of speaking. Come and sit silently. If you need to lie down, lie down; if you need to lean, lean. However you wish to sit, come and sit silently. I will be present for the hour; if during that time anyone feels as if there is a pull to come to me, come, sit silently by me for two minutes, and leave. Do not remain there for more than two minutes, so that if someone else needs to come, they can. But do not come of your own decision, not deliberately thinking “I should go.” If it begins to feel that you must go—that the going has happened—then come. At exactly four o’clock we will rise from there. Even while getting up, there will be no talking there. Inside the hall, do not make words at all; return silently. And if afterwards you can remain silent for an hour or half an hour, it is good.
Everyone should arrive before three itself. And no one should come there as a spectator. No one should come there to look at anyone else. Because when you look at another, unknowingly you also create the desire in the other to look. Therefore, no one will come there as a spectator. Only those who wish to enter silence for an hour should come. And if I have something to say in silence, I will say it then. If you remain silent, you will be able to hear.
The morning sitting is over.