As I open the Indian Week of Nehru School, I am deeply delighted. The future is in the hands of the young; the world to come must be created by the new generation. If the centers of learning can impart to the young, along with knowledge, the schooling of the heart and of love, perhaps a new human being can be born.
I will begin with a small tale.
It is very old. Three students had completed all their examinations in a gurukul and were returning home. But their guru had said to them again and again during the past year that one examination still remained. They had often asked, Which examination is that? The guru had replied: That test will be taken without prior notice; it cannot be announced. All other exams can be scheduled and explained in advance, but life holds one test that must be taken unannounced. When the time comes your test will happen—and remember, without passing that one, you cannot be considered to have passed at all.
At last all their exams were done, certificates were given, the convocation took place, the day of farewell arrived—yet they kept wondering, When will that final test be? Now even the last farewell has happened. The three who had passed through the entire curriculum of that university, that gurukul, took their leave that evening. Along the way they thought and asked one another, One test remains. The guru kept saying one more test would be given. But when will it be now? We have left the gurukul behind.
The sun was setting, the gurukul lay far back, and a dense forest stretched ahead. They quickened their pace to cross before nightfall and reach the village. As they passed a thicket, they saw that the path was strewn with thorns. The first youth leapt over them. The second stepped down off the path and skirted them. But the third set down his bundle and his books, and began to pick up the thorns. The other two said to him, Are you mad? This is no time to waste. Night is falling, the forest is thick, in the dark we may lose the way; we must reach the village quickly. This is no time to pick thorns.
That youth replied, Precisely because the sun is setting and night will soon be here, I am picking them up. Those who come behind us will not see the thorns in the dark. We, seeing them, could pass by without removing them because there is still a little light. But anyone following after us will not be able to see them. So let me pick them up. You go on—I'll run and catch up.
He was still gathering the thorns when the two set off. Just then all three were startled—their guru stepped out from the nearby bush. The guru said, Let the two who passed on ahead come back. They have failed the final examination. The one who gathered the thorns may go—he has passed even the last test. The guru said, The examinations of knowledge are not the ultimate ones; the final test is of love. And he who does not attain to love—his entire knowledge is futile.
At this inauguration of Nehru School's Indian Week, this is my prayer: may this school not become only a conduit for knowledge, but also a fountain of love. For one who fails the test of love, all knowledge is in vain; and one who passes the examination of love, who learns even the two-and-a-half letters of love, becomes available to all knowledge—because love is the door to the Prabhu.
Now I would like to begin my talk in connection with a thread of discourse already underway. I see man fast asleep in a deep slumber. Man is asleep. Watching people walk upon the road, it does not seem they walk awake. Someone goes on talking to himself alone, someone's lips tremble, someone gestures with his hands—yet no one is with them.
Whom are they talking to? Perhaps to a dream, perhaps they are asleep. Man does not sleep only at night; he sleeps by day as well. His whole life passes without ever truly waking. For if man awakens, he will see nothing anywhere except the Paramatma. The experience of the awakened is the experience of the Paramatma; the experience of the asleep is not the experience of the Paramatma.
When someone asks me, Is there a God? I ask in return: Your very question tells me you are not awake—you are asleep. And so long as you sleep, God is not. As if someone stands before the risen sun with closed eyes and asks, Is the sun there? What shall we say to him? Shall we speak of the sun, or shall we think instead that this man has closed his eyes—that is why the question about the sun arises. Even with the sun present, one who keeps his eyes shut remains in darkness. The sun cannot remove his darkness.
The Paramatma, like light, is ever-present. As fish are in the ocean, so we are in the Paramatma. Yet again and again the question arises, Is there a God? Surely this question informs us that our eyes are closed; we are asleep. To be asleep means to be surrounded by dreams—the mind besieged by dreams, by day as well as by night. At night yes, and by day too.
A young man was traveling toward New York. On the train, an elderly gentleman sat in the seat beside him. After a while the youth asked, Sir, what time is it? Could you tell me the time? The old man looked him over from head to toe; from his bag and papers it seemed he was an insurance agent. The old man said, Sir, I cannot tell you the time. The youth was puzzled. Do you not have a watch? The old man said, I do—but if I tell you the time, then conversation will begin. You will ask me, Where are you going? I will say, I am going to New York. You will ask, Do you live there? Then I will be compelled to tell you my address. And perhaps out of politeness I will say to you, You too must come to New York sometime—visit my home. My daughter is of marriageable age; it is necessary that you meet her, that acquaintance and friendship be formed. You will invite her for a stroll; perhaps she will agree. And in the end I know that today or tomorrow you will propose that you wish to marry my young daughter. And I must tell you, I do not like insurance agents at all; I cannot make one my son-in-law.
The youth was dumbfounded. He said, Sir, what dreams have you woven! I only asked the time—what time is it by your watch—and you have journeyed through what conclusions and conjectures!
We laugh at that old man—but we too travel continuously in such dreams, into the future. None of us lives in the present. Either we are lost in the memories of the past, or in the hopes and dreams of the not-yet. No one lives in the present. Either we are lost in what has passed, or in imaginations of what has not arrived. This is sleep; this is dreaming. One who is in the present is awake. One who is in the past or the future is asleep.
This is the spiritual meaning of sleep. For the past no longer has any reality—it has gone. Only memories remain upon the mind. They have no being. And the future has not yet come; it is to come. It too has no being. So let one whose mind moves in the past and future understand—he is wandering in dreams, not in truth. Truth is in the present, in that very moment which is. Not behind it, not before it. Other than the present, nothing has any being. Other than the present, all is untrue, all is non-existent. Yet we keep wandering and traveling in that non-existential—the not that is not. This is dreamland; in this we remain asleep. We do not dream only at night; throughout the day we dream. Only, we are so entangled in the day's work that the inner procession of dreams is not noticed. That is the only difference. Close your eyes just a little, and the inner dreams will be visible. Close your eyes and look within, and you will find a queue of dreams moving there.
At night stars are in the sky; by day they are not seen. Do not think they are not there. By day too they remain where they are, only we cannot see them. The sun's light erects so vast a curtain between that the distant stars are hidden—not by darkness, but by light. Yet if you go down into a deep well, even by day you may glimpse the stars—the screen of darkness between, and the stars appear.
So too at night dreams move in the mind; do not think that by the light of day dreams cease—therefore I am awake. By day they are merely not seen, as the stars are not seen. The dreams exist; within, their journey continues. Outwardly you work; inwardly the dreams flow. Stop work for a moment and look within—you will find some dream present there. Who knows what schemes are running, what imaginations, what pictures of the past are repeating, what hopes of the future are forming. Inside, a world of dreams exists. That inner dream-world is man's sleep. And so long as dreams exist within, truth cannot be directly known. For the vision of truth, nothing else is needed but to lose the dreams. For the experience of truth, nothing else must be renounced but dreams. Only sleep has to be put aside. One must awaken.
Therefore, first I would say this: let us experience, know, recognize that we are asleep. Although at once it is not easy to grasp what being asleep means.
A friend of mine had returned from traveling the whole world. He was a poet and a painter too; he had gone to see the most beautiful things on earth. When he left I had said to him, Do not go in vain—for one who goes out to see beauty has not yet known what beauty is. But he did not agree. Years later he returned and stayed with me. That night was a full-moon night. I took him to the marble cliffs on the banks of the Narmada. At midnight, alone in that stillness, I was with him for two hours in a boat. In those two hours he kept speaking of the lakes of Switzerland, of the lakes of Kashmir—but the rocks of Narmada he neither saw nor looked at. Neither did he see the full moon, nor feel the raining moonlight. He remained in Switzerland; I remained by the Narmada. Between us was a vast distance. When we returned he said, Thank you—you took me to a very beautiful place! I said, Forgive me, I took you, but you could not arrive. And I repented deeply there—for two came, but only I could arrive. You were not with me there. Do not say, in vain, that it was beautiful. What you did not see, what you did not come near—how could you know its beauty? In those two hours, not even once did you touch what was present. But what was not present—Switzerland and Kashmir—the memories of the past—you remained lost in them. You were dreaming. You were not with me. And if you do not mind, let me say: as I have known you in these two hours, I can assume that even when you were in Switzerland, you were somewhere else. You did not see those lakes either.
We live in dreams. Where we are, there we do not live. Where we are not, there we live. Sitting down at home to eat, you may not know—you are at the office. In the office, you may be in the dining room. Sitting in the temple, it is not necessary that you are in the temple—you may be in a cinema hall. Sitting in the cinema, perhaps you are listening to the Gita in a temple. Nothing can be said. Man is not where he is. Because if man were to be where he is, then all that is hidden in life would be revealed.
The key to knowing life is to live in the present. The key is to gather the whole consciousness into that which is present, which is here. We are absent—absent each moment—and so we go on living asleep. Then we ask why the ecstasy of life is not felt. How can a sleeping man know life?
In a village of Rajasthan, a fakir stopped for the night. As always happens, the villagers gathered to hear the renunciate. The wealthiest man of the village, Aso ji, was seated in the assembly. The fakir had barely begun when Aso ji began to doze. All day he labored at his shop and was tired. Also, those who cannot sleep at night certainly go to religious talks—many doctors advise that the best medicine for sleep is to listen to a sermon. Aso ji believed in this device too. He would go listen; some sleep would descend there. That day also he slept. And no one in the village objected. Why? Who ever listens to a sermon awake?
Nor did the sannyasis who came to speak ever say to Aso ji that he slept. For to say to someone that he is asleep wounds his pride; he will be offended. And the truth is, to this day sannyasis have not been able to offend the wealthy—therefore religion has died. Religious leaders keep the rich pleased, not angry. There is a pact, a compromise: the wealthy remain safe through the words of the religious, and the religious remain safe through the wealth of the wealthy. But this sannyasi must have been unusual—perhaps a true sannyasi. He stopped speaking in the middle and shouted, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Other sannyasis would say, Aso ji listens absorbed in meditation. And Aso ji would be very pleased to hear this. This man said, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Aso ji awoke, glanced around, and said, No, no—who says so? I was listening attentively. Please continue. The fakir began again. But a sleeping man never agrees that he is asleep. Because if he accepts it, awakening begins.
Soon Aso ji slept again. What is the worth of a sleeping man's assurances? The fakir stopped again, and again cried out, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Now Aso ji became angry. This man shouts so loudly that the whole village will hear—and if the whole village knows, it is not proper. He shouts so loudly that perhaps even God will hear—and later there may be trouble: You slept in the sermon! Aso ji shouted, Forgive me; continue your talk. I am not sleeping—who says so? There is no need to stop repeatedly. I am listening in deep attention.
The fakir resumed. Soon Aso ji slept again. But the fakir was one of a kind; he did not agree to let it be. This time he said it a third time, changing the words, and that is why Aso ji was trapped. Twice he had said, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Twice Aso ji had denied. The third time he said, Aso ji, are you living? In sleep, Aso ji took it to be the same question and said, No, no—who says so? The fakir said, Now there is no need for anyone to say anything more. This time you are caught. I did not ask, Are you sleeping? I asked, Are you living? And the proof is here—you denied living. And rightly so. One who sleeps does not live. What relation can sleep have with living? Living relates with awakening. Sleep relates with dying.
This is why we cannot know what life is. We cannot experience truth. We cannot know this energy pervading everywhere—the Paramatma, the Prabhu—this existence. Surrounded by sleep, shut in by its doors and walls, we cannot come into relationship with life. Therefore if religion is anything, in my vision it is the process of awakening. Religion is neither worship nor prayer—for the worship or prayer of a sleeping man has no meaning. Religion is not about memorizing scriptures or learning doctrines—for what value is the rote of a sleeper? Religion is the process of awakening. Religion is a sutra of awakening—an inner method to awaken that which sleeps. In that regard, it is essential to understand how the inner sleeper may be awakened; how the inner dreams may dissolve; how the inner surge toward past and future may subside; how I may stand in the very moment in which I am—for only that moment is, and only through it is entry into existence; other than that, there is no door. How can I be present in the moment? And the methods we adopt in the name of religion often do not awaken us into the present—they are ways of putting ourselves to sleep even more.
One person sits and repeats, Ram Ram; another, Om Om; someone else, Allah Allah, or Namo-kar, or some other mantra. Do you know? Through constant repetition, a word becomes a technique for inducing sleep. Repetition is self-hypnosis—a method of putting oneself to sleep. Perhaps you do not know; even if you do, perhaps you have not pondered it. A mother wants to put her child to sleep—she croons, Raja beta so ja, Raja beta so ja, Raja beta so ja. She repeats one line of the lullaby again and again. In a little while the child sleeps. The mother may think he slept because of my sweet voice—she is mistaken. He sleeps because of boredom, because of the monotony of one word over and over. The same method will put even the child's noble father to sleep—it makes no difference. The repetition of a single word fills the mind with boredom. The mind's juice is toward the new; it awakens with the novel. Whatever is familiar, repeated again and again, loses taste and interest. To escape that boredom there remains only one way—sleep. The child cannot run away while you go on saying, Raja beta so ja; so, to escape, he goes into sleep.
You may sit and chant Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, endlessly—the oft-repeated word creates weariness and disturbance; as self-defense, to save itself, the mind slips into sleep. A light trance is produced. You may take that trance to be peace. You may think the mind has become quiet. After that sleep there will be a faint relief—just as after a nap—and you think you have become religious.
Religion is not so cheap. Religion is not a device for sleeping. A man can arrange his sleep through hymn and kirtan too. Music is one of the most potent methods for sleep.
Once in Lucknow a great musician came—an unusual one. Wajid Ali was Nawab in those days. Wajid Ali was clearly mad—as indeed few nawabs have been who were not mad. For one not mad, to want to be a nawab is itself madness. The news came: a great musician has arrived, but he has a strange condition. He will play the vina, he will sing—but on one condition: while he plays the vina, no head must move. If any head nods, he says in advance, heads must not move.
Wajid Ali said, No worry. Go tell him, What need is there for heads to move? If a head moves, we will have it cut off.
The town was informed: there will be a great concert at night; a master of the vina has come—but those who come must keep one thing in mind: be prepared to lose your head. The head must not move; if it does, it will be separated. Come if you wish; if not, do not come. Many would have come, but now the matter changed. Only the very disciplined came—some hundred or a hundred and fifty. They sat as if in yogasana, like stone. If some head moved by mistake—not by music but by a fly—it would be trouble. Around the hall the Nawab posted men with naked swords to watch whose head moved.
Two hours passed, three hours—the people sat like statues; no head moved. But as night deepened and the music sank deep, a few heads began to nod. The Nawab's men were ready; they marked those whose heads moved. When the recital ended, twenty were seized. The Nawab said, Fools, did you not know that heads would be cut? Did you not get the news? They said, We knew fully—but as long as we were awake, the warning could be remembered. So long as we were conscious, we restrained ourselves. But when consciousness itself was gone, who was left to restrain? We did not nod—if heads nodded, they nodded. It is not our fault. Still, if you must cut, cut. The condition was that we should not nod; we did not nod. But when sleep came, we do not know what happened.
So, through music you may lull yourself—through wine, through sex. These are all methods of sleep.
Man fears awakening; sleep seems pleasant. Why? Because in sleep neither the sense of oneself remains, nor of another. No awareness of sorrow, of worry, of pain, of problem. This is why wine has such appeal across the world—and its appeal keeps growing. Man wants to forget sorrow, anxiety, problem—he wants to forget life. He does not want to be reminded. Hence he wants to make himself unconscious. And whatever helps to drown consciousness he likes very much. There is a deep love for unconsciousness. Religion is exactly the opposite. Religion is not unconsciousness; it is awareness. Therefore, in the name of religion, the thousands of sleep-techniques that are running—I do not call them religion. They are all intoxicants—transmutations of wine. They are narcotics, opiates. Wherever man tries to diminish his consciousness, to drown it, to lose it—he is trying to enter sleep, stupor. In truth he is saying, I do not wish to live—I wish to die. It is a kind of slow suicide, a gradual suicide.
Religion is a completely different matter—the opposite. Religion is the effort to awaken. Religion is the expansion of consciousness. It is the aspiration to destroy all inner unconsciousness—so that the entire mind becomes conscious, no dark, sleeping corner remains, and within all becomes illumined. How can this be? Let me explain with a small incident.
An emperor wished to initiate his prince into Dharma. He announced throughout the land, Who can initiate my young son into Dharma? News came of an old man—an eighty-year-old living in some forest. He claimed he could initiate the prince—but with stern conditions. First: in the initiation of Dharma he would not teach Dharma directly. He would teach something else. The prince would have to follow only his indications. And no time-limit could be set—however long it took. And until the training was complete the prince could not return. The emperor accepted all conditions and sent the prince to the old master.
The old guru said to the prince, From tomorrow morning your first lesson begins. And the first lesson is this: at any time tomorrow I will attack you with a wooden sword. From tomorrow onward, at any hour, known or unknown, I will strike. You must remain alert and protect yourself with this shield. The prince said, I have come to learn Dharma, not swordsmanship. The guru said, You need not know what you have come to learn; it is I who must know what to teach. This is the teaching of Dharma—but my path is such that only later will it be clear whether you have reached Dharma or not. I will indeed teach you the sword. For in my life-experience, man awakens only in danger. Without danger, no one wakes. So I will create danger so that you may awaken.
The old guru said, My own guru taught me many things. Once he was teaching me to climb trees. He made me climb a tree a hundred feet high. The first time my hands and feet trembled. When I stood on the top branch, my guru sat below, eyes closed, silent. When I began to descend and was only eight or ten feet from the ground, he suddenly rose and shouted, Son, be careful as you come down! I was astonished—Is this man mad? When I was a hundred feet up, where a misstep would end life, he sat with eyes closed. And now, when I am near the ground, where even a fall would not injure me, he shouts, Careful—come down alertly, with awareness! When I reached the ground, I asked, Are you insane? When I was a hundred feet up you were quiet, and when I was ten feet away you warned me. The old guru said, My son, up there you were in such danger that no warning was needed—you were alert of yourself. Where there is danger, consciousness is naturally alert. There is no leisure for sleep; sleep cannot be afforded—we are not given the convenience of it. When you were a hundred feet up—tell me, what thoughts moved in your mind? I said, There were no thoughts. Carefulness was so total that to lose oneself in thought would be to fall into sleep. There was no thought—the mind was utterly silent—only awareness. I knew each breath; if a leaf moved, I knew it. There was not a trace of past or future. I was only in the present. Had the mind wandered even a little beyond that, there could have been danger.
Therefore, the old guru said, I sat with eyes closed. There was no danger then—because there was danger, you were careful. But as you came down I saw your carefulness dissolve. At ten feet I felt sleep had taken you. The youth said, You are right. As I came near the ground, I thought, Now there is no risk—and I relaxed; my carefulness vanished.
The old guru said, I have taught thousands to climb trees. No one falls from the topmost branches—those who fall, fall from the lower ones. No one falls from the peaks. People fall and are lost in ditches and pits. On level ground people stumble. In difficulties no one falls. In comfort people fall asleep. In insecurity, discomfort, danger—they remain awake.
So the old man said to the prince, Now that you have come to me, I will create all discomfort, all dangers, all challenges—so that you cannot sleep. Once you have known awakening, then no matter how the world tries, you yourself will not wish to sleep again.
The next day the lesson began—a strange lesson. The prince would be reading a book, and an attack would come from behind. He would be eating, and the wooden sword would strike his bone. Within seven days his every bone ached. But each day he felt within that his alertness was growing—for twenty-four hours he had to remain vigilant. The attack could come at any time. There was no notice. He was sweeping the hut and an attack would come. He reached for a book—an attack. Anything could happen at any time.
Within three months it became difficult to strike him. As the blow came, his hands, his mind, so alert—immediately he defended. He experienced that a strange thing was growing within him: thoughts were decreasing, awareness increasing. And remember: the more thoughts, the less awareness; the more awareness, the fewer thoughts. Thoughts and awareness are opposites; they do not coexist.
His mind grew thin of thought, full of carefulness. The entire time he was awake, unclouded. At three months the guru said, Your first lesson is complete. Tomorrow the second begins. The youth asked, What is the second? The guru said, From tomorrow I will attack you even in sleep. You will be asleep—and a blow will fall. The youth said, In waking there was still some chance—but in sleep? If I am asleep and you strike, how will I know? How will I be careful in sleep? The old man said, Do not fear—do not hurry. The greater the challenge, the more awareness awakens. Sleep too can awaken.
A mother’s child is ill. Above, thunder rolls, and she does not stir; chariots rumble on the road, she does not know. But if her child gives the slightest cry, turns a little, her hand rises—she knows. Even in sleep, some corner of her consciousness remembers: the child is unwell. Some part remains awake. If we all sleep here and someone shouts, Ram! no one will hear—but the one whose name is Ram will say, Who is it—who calls me? Even in sleep a part of the mind knows, My name is Ram. Some corner remains alert; the rest sleep.
So the old man said, Do not worry. I will pose the challenge so that your awareness may be stirred to the last degree. From tomorrow the attacks will come in your sleep. The rest is for you to manage. He could not run away; he was bound by the pledge. And in three months he had known a wondrous experience—the mind had tasted a silence never known, the inner seeing had deepened, anxieties had dissolved, problems had ended. Only a fragrance of awareness remained.
Night assaults began. He slept—and the wooden sword would strike. In seven or eight days his bones ached again. But day by day, even in sleep, he felt that some attention was keeping watch lest an attack come. Even in sleep, some corner of the mind was aware that a blow could fall. A part remained awake. At three months, the second lesson too was done. In sleep his hands began to defend. The guru said, The second lesson is complete—you have passed it. Tomorrow begins the third. The youth said, What now? Awake and asleep—both have seen attacks. The guru said, Tomorrow the attack will be with a real sword. Until now it was wood. Now the true challenge begins. Till now it was a game of pain; now life can be taken. Now the sword may pierce life. One lapse—and life is lost. From tomorrow, the real sword.
The youth said, Good—I am ready. It makes no difference whether the sword is real or wooden. If I can be careful toward the wooden, I can be careful toward the real. I am at ease now; I am not frightened.
From the next day the real sword flashed. The youth stood as a wager of life. Any moment death could stand before him. In such a state, can anyone sleep? Can anyone dream? Can one go into past or future? Even a moment’s wandering—and life ends.
Three months passed; the real sword awakened a real awareness. Three months were complete; perhaps one day remained. The guru said, One day more—and your examination will be complete. Then the final, fourth lesson remains, and I will teach it quickly; whoever learns the first three does not take long to learn the fourth.
On the last day, the youth sat beneath a tree, his guru a hundred feet away beneath another, reading a book—an eighty-year-old, his back turned. A thought arose in the youth’s mind: This old man keeps me under warning, challenge, alertness—Is he himself so careful? Why not test him with an attack from behind and see? He had barely thought it when the old man shouted from there, Son, do not do that! The youth was stunned. He said, I have done nothing—only thought. How do you say this? The old man said, I am old—do not do it. The youth asked, But how did you know? I only thought. The old man said, Wait a little longer—let the fourth lesson be done. When awareness becomes total, the footfalls of another’s thoughts can be heard. And the day another’s thought-footfalls are heard, that day the mind becomes available to that sensitivity in which the footfalls of the Paramatma are also heard.
Only such a wakeful mind can know the Paramatma—not the sleepers, but the awakened. For each, the question is only of awakening. It is arduous, tapascharya. Tapascharya does not mean fasting. It does not mean standing on one’s head. Those things are for a circus. To know the Paramatma, one need not be an acrobat. But arduous—yes—the effort to awaken is. How can the mind remain awake for twenty-four hours—from rising to sleeping, from sleeping to waking? Who will wield the sword behind you? You yourself must. And the truth is, if we but knew it, death stands behind us twenty-four hours, sword drawn.
In very ancient days, death itself was called the guru and acharya. Do not take as mere story that Nachiketa reached the house of Yama. Whenever any Nachiketa wishes to know the truth of life, one must go to death. Near death—in its danger, its insecurity, the awareness of its sword—carefulness and awakening arise within.
Let me say, finally, this morning: whoever wishes to be religious must be alert to death. He must know that each moment death encircles us, catches hold—any instant, her sword may carry us off. Therefore there is no convenience for sleep. If death begins to be felt near each moment—which is the truth we keep deliberately veiled—then everything changes. We build cremation grounds outside the village. If the world were wise, it would build the cremation ground at the crossroads in the village—so that every child would learn daily that death is, constantly death is. We hide death. A bier passes the house; we pull the children inside and shut the door—Come in, someone has died.
Thus all life we hide from death. It is false. Death must be known, recognized.
Let me end with a small story.
One morning a youth came to a sannyasi, touched his feet, and said, Often a thought arises in me: you seem so pure—pure as a flower; you seem so fragrant—fragrant as incense; you seem so illumined—bright as a lamp. I always wonder whether this is only on the surface. Perhaps within sin arises; perhaps within there is a stench. There is always a crowd here, I cannot ask; today I found you alone. Tell me, this fragrance and bliss I see outwardly—is it also within, or not?
The sannyasi said, You ask a beautiful question, and I will answer. But first I must tell you something more urgent—lest I forget. Yesterday I forgot. If I forget for two or four days, it may no longer be necessary to tell. So first let me say: yesterday, my glance fell upon your hand—your life-line ends. Seven days, and when the seventh day’s sun sets, you too will set. Let me tell you this; yesterday I meant to, but other talk carried me away. Now ask—what do you ask?
The youth said, I do not recall having asked you anything. I will go home now. If I have the chance, I will come again. The sannyasi said, Wait—what hurry? You have seven days—a lot of time. The youth said, Forgive me. His hands trembled. When he had arrived, he had Alexander’s strength in his feet; as he returned, he was a dead man walking. He could barely descend the steps—he needed support. He had grown old. He staggered home, not even reaching the door; he fell near the steps. People lifted him and laid him on the bed. Seven days—only seven days—and death felt so close that moving a hand, it seemed to touch death; near on every side.
Neighbors with whom he had quarrels—cases planned up to the supreme court—everything changed. He called them and sought forgiveness, touched their feet—Forgive me. The quarrels were for life; with death, what quarrel remains? The mischiefs were with life; with death, what mischief remains? Enmities were because of thoughts of living; for one who sees death, what enemy remains? He asked forgiveness; they forgave. The seven days passed. Each day death came nearer and nearer. The house became sad, drowned in darkness; friends and relatives assembled. On the seventh day, an hour before sunset, the sannyasi arrived. The house wept—silence—like a cremation ground. He went inside and touched the youth. He had withered to bone—hard to recognize as the same man from seven days before. All his dreams had sunk; his paper boats had melted; his palaces had turned to ash. He lay empty—as if already dead. And yet, strangely, a radiance was on his face; his eyes were very quiet, very deep. The sannyasi shook him; he opened his eyes, as if returning from another realm. The sannyasi asked, I have one question—these seven days, did any sin arise in your mind?
The youth said, What are you saying? When death stands so near, where is the space for sin? Where the distance? It was only I here, and death—between, nothing arose; there was neither time nor interval in which anything could rise.
What did you think for seven days?
He said, Do you think when death is in front that anything can be thought? Thinking disappeared.
Then what did you do?
He said, For the first time in life, I did nothing. For seven days, nothing. And when there was nothing—no thought, no sin, no planning, no imagining, no dream—then I found that which I am. Your great compassion—your great compassion—that you brought me to death. Near death I have known that which has no death—which is amrit.
The sannyasi laughed and said, Do not fear—your death has not come. I have only answered your question. Whether death appears seven days later or seventy years later, one who truly sees it is transformed within. I have answered your question. There is no question now of dying. Your life-line is long—get up.
But the youth said, Now you need not tell me that death will not happen. Now I know for myself. There is no possibility of death. Surrounded by death, I have known that which is deathless.
In school, for small children, we paint a black slate and write on it with white chalk—then it is visible. Write on a white wall and it will not be seen. Upon the black background of the slate, the white lines stand out. One who truly experiences death—upon the black cloth of death, the white lines of amrit begin to appear. Amrit is hidden within—but until we give it the background of death, it cannot be seen. Amid the dark shadow of death, the lightning of amrit flashes, becomes visible.
Thus a religious person is one who begins to live with death. Within him, danger stands; he has found the sword; he has found the guru. Other than death, there is no guru. And in that danger, within, carefulness begins to arise. With its continuous growth, someday, in some moment, in a fortunate instant, the clouds of life part and one beholds the sun—that is the Paramatma.
You have listened to these words with so much love and quietude—I am deeply obliged. And at the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within. Kindly accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
As I open the Indian Week of Nehru School, I am deeply delighted. The future is in the hands of the young; the world to come must be created by the new generation. If the centers of learning can impart to the young, along with knowledge, the schooling of the heart and of love, perhaps a new human being can be born.
I will begin with a small tale.
It is very old. Three students had completed all their examinations in a gurukul and were returning home. But their guru had said to them again and again during the past year that one examination still remained. They had often asked, Which examination is that? The guru had replied: That test will be taken without prior notice; it cannot be announced. All other exams can be scheduled and explained in advance, but life holds one test that must be taken unannounced. When the time comes your test will happen—and remember, without passing that one, you cannot be considered to have passed at all.
At last all their exams were done, certificates were given, the convocation took place, the day of farewell arrived—yet they kept wondering, When will that final test be? Now even the last farewell has happened. The three who had passed through the entire curriculum of that university, that gurukul, took their leave that evening. Along the way they thought and asked one another, One test remains. The guru kept saying one more test would be given. But when will it be now? We have left the gurukul behind.
The sun was setting, the gurukul lay far back, and a dense forest stretched ahead. They quickened their pace to cross before nightfall and reach the village. As they passed a thicket, they saw that the path was strewn with thorns. The first youth leapt over them. The second stepped down off the path and skirted them. But the third set down his bundle and his books, and began to pick up the thorns. The other two said to him, Are you mad? This is no time to waste. Night is falling, the forest is thick, in the dark we may lose the way; we must reach the village quickly. This is no time to pick thorns.
That youth replied, Precisely because the sun is setting and night will soon be here, I am picking them up. Those who come behind us will not see the thorns in the dark. We, seeing them, could pass by without removing them because there is still a little light. But anyone following after us will not be able to see them. So let me pick them up. You go on—I'll run and catch up.
He was still gathering the thorns when the two set off. Just then all three were startled—their guru stepped out from the nearby bush. The guru said, Let the two who passed on ahead come back. They have failed the final examination. The one who gathered the thorns may go—he has passed even the last test. The guru said, The examinations of knowledge are not the ultimate ones; the final test is of love. And he who does not attain to love—his entire knowledge is futile.
At this inauguration of Nehru School's Indian Week, this is my prayer: may this school not become only a conduit for knowledge, but also a fountain of love. For one who fails the test of love, all knowledge is in vain; and one who passes the examination of love, who learns even the two-and-a-half letters of love, becomes available to all knowledge—because love is the door to the Prabhu.
Now I would like to begin my talk in connection with a thread of discourse already underway. I see man fast asleep in a deep slumber. Man is asleep. Watching people walk upon the road, it does not seem they walk awake. Someone goes on talking to himself alone, someone's lips tremble, someone gestures with his hands—yet no one is with them.
Whom are they talking to? Perhaps to a dream, perhaps they are asleep. Man does not sleep only at night; he sleeps by day as well. His whole life passes without ever truly waking. For if man awakens, he will see nothing anywhere except the Paramatma. The experience of the awakened is the experience of the Paramatma; the experience of the asleep is not the experience of the Paramatma.
When someone asks me, Is there a God? I ask in return: Your very question tells me you are not awake—you are asleep. And so long as you sleep, God is not. As if someone stands before the risen sun with closed eyes and asks, Is the sun there? What shall we say to him? Shall we speak of the sun, or shall we think instead that this man has closed his eyes—that is why the question about the sun arises. Even with the sun present, one who keeps his eyes shut remains in darkness. The sun cannot remove his darkness.
The Paramatma, like light, is ever-present. As fish are in the ocean, so we are in the Paramatma. Yet again and again the question arises, Is there a God? Surely this question informs us that our eyes are closed; we are asleep. To be asleep means to be surrounded by dreams—the mind besieged by dreams, by day as well as by night. At night yes, and by day too.
A young man was traveling toward New York. On the train, an elderly gentleman sat in the seat beside him. After a while the youth asked, Sir, what time is it? Could you tell me the time? The old man looked him over from head to toe; from his bag and papers it seemed he was an insurance agent. The old man said, Sir, I cannot tell you the time. The youth was puzzled. Do you not have a watch? The old man said, I do—but if I tell you the time, then conversation will begin. You will ask me, Where are you going? I will say, I am going to New York. You will ask, Do you live there? Then I will be compelled to tell you my address. And perhaps out of politeness I will say to you, You too must come to New York sometime—visit my home. My daughter is of marriageable age; it is necessary that you meet her, that acquaintance and friendship be formed. You will invite her for a stroll; perhaps she will agree. And in the end I know that today or tomorrow you will propose that you wish to marry my young daughter. And I must tell you, I do not like insurance agents at all; I cannot make one my son-in-law.
The youth was dumbfounded. He said, Sir, what dreams have you woven! I only asked the time—what time is it by your watch—and you have journeyed through what conclusions and conjectures!
We laugh at that old man—but we too travel continuously in such dreams, into the future. None of us lives in the present. Either we are lost in the memories of the past, or in the hopes and dreams of the not-yet. No one lives in the present. Either we are lost in what has passed, or in imaginations of what has not arrived. This is sleep; this is dreaming. One who is in the present is awake. One who is in the past or the future is asleep.
This is the spiritual meaning of sleep. For the past no longer has any reality—it has gone. Only memories remain upon the mind. They have no being. And the future has not yet come; it is to come. It too has no being. So let one whose mind moves in the past and future understand—he is wandering in dreams, not in truth. Truth is in the present, in that very moment which is. Not behind it, not before it. Other than the present, nothing has any being. Other than the present, all is untrue, all is non-existent. Yet we keep wandering and traveling in that non-existential—the not that is not. This is dreamland; in this we remain asleep. We do not dream only at night; throughout the day we dream. Only, we are so entangled in the day's work that the inner procession of dreams is not noticed. That is the only difference. Close your eyes just a little, and the inner dreams will be visible. Close your eyes and look within, and you will find a queue of dreams moving there.
At night stars are in the sky; by day they are not seen. Do not think they are not there. By day too they remain where they are, only we cannot see them. The sun's light erects so vast a curtain between that the distant stars are hidden—not by darkness, but by light. Yet if you go down into a deep well, even by day you may glimpse the stars—the screen of darkness between, and the stars appear.
So too at night dreams move in the mind; do not think that by the light of day dreams cease—therefore I am awake. By day they are merely not seen, as the stars are not seen. The dreams exist; within, their journey continues. Outwardly you work; inwardly the dreams flow. Stop work for a moment and look within—you will find some dream present there. Who knows what schemes are running, what imaginations, what pictures of the past are repeating, what hopes of the future are forming. Inside, a world of dreams exists. That inner dream-world is man's sleep. And so long as dreams exist within, truth cannot be directly known. For the vision of truth, nothing else is needed but to lose the dreams. For the experience of truth, nothing else must be renounced but dreams. Only sleep has to be put aside. One must awaken.
Therefore, first I would say this: let us experience, know, recognize that we are asleep. Although at once it is not easy to grasp what being asleep means.
A friend of mine had returned from traveling the whole world. He was a poet and a painter too; he had gone to see the most beautiful things on earth. When he left I had said to him, Do not go in vain—for one who goes out to see beauty has not yet known what beauty is. But he did not agree. Years later he returned and stayed with me. That night was a full-moon night. I took him to the marble cliffs on the banks of the Narmada. At midnight, alone in that stillness, I was with him for two hours in a boat. In those two hours he kept speaking of the lakes of Switzerland, of the lakes of Kashmir—but the rocks of Narmada he neither saw nor looked at. Neither did he see the full moon, nor feel the raining moonlight. He remained in Switzerland; I remained by the Narmada. Between us was a vast distance. When we returned he said, Thank you—you took me to a very beautiful place! I said, Forgive me, I took you, but you could not arrive. And I repented deeply there—for two came, but only I could arrive. You were not with me there. Do not say, in vain, that it was beautiful. What you did not see, what you did not come near—how could you know its beauty? In those two hours, not even once did you touch what was present. But what was not present—Switzerland and Kashmir—the memories of the past—you remained lost in them. You were dreaming. You were not with me. And if you do not mind, let me say: as I have known you in these two hours, I can assume that even when you were in Switzerland, you were somewhere else. You did not see those lakes either.
We live in dreams. Where we are, there we do not live. Where we are not, there we live. Sitting down at home to eat, you may not know—you are at the office. In the office, you may be in the dining room. Sitting in the temple, it is not necessary that you are in the temple—you may be in a cinema hall. Sitting in the cinema, perhaps you are listening to the Gita in a temple. Nothing can be said. Man is not where he is. Because if man were to be where he is, then all that is hidden in life would be revealed.
The key to knowing life is to live in the present. The key is to gather the whole consciousness into that which is present, which is here. We are absent—absent each moment—and so we go on living asleep. Then we ask why the ecstasy of life is not felt. How can a sleeping man know life?
In a village of Rajasthan, a fakir stopped for the night. As always happens, the villagers gathered to hear the renunciate. The wealthiest man of the village, Aso ji, was seated in the assembly. The fakir had barely begun when Aso ji began to doze. All day he labored at his shop and was tired. Also, those who cannot sleep at night certainly go to religious talks—many doctors advise that the best medicine for sleep is to listen to a sermon. Aso ji believed in this device too. He would go listen; some sleep would descend there. That day also he slept. And no one in the village objected. Why? Who ever listens to a sermon awake?
Nor did the sannyasis who came to speak ever say to Aso ji that he slept. For to say to someone that he is asleep wounds his pride; he will be offended. And the truth is, to this day sannyasis have not been able to offend the wealthy—therefore religion has died. Religious leaders keep the rich pleased, not angry. There is a pact, a compromise: the wealthy remain safe through the words of the religious, and the religious remain safe through the wealth of the wealthy. But this sannyasi must have been unusual—perhaps a true sannyasi. He stopped speaking in the middle and shouted, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Other sannyasis would say, Aso ji listens absorbed in meditation. And Aso ji would be very pleased to hear this. This man said, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Aso ji awoke, glanced around, and said, No, no—who says so? I was listening attentively. Please continue. The fakir began again. But a sleeping man never agrees that he is asleep. Because if he accepts it, awakening begins.
Soon Aso ji slept again. What is the worth of a sleeping man's assurances? The fakir stopped again, and again cried out, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Now Aso ji became angry. This man shouts so loudly that the whole village will hear—and if the whole village knows, it is not proper. He shouts so loudly that perhaps even God will hear—and later there may be trouble: You slept in the sermon! Aso ji shouted, Forgive me; continue your talk. I am not sleeping—who says so? There is no need to stop repeatedly. I am listening in deep attention.
The fakir resumed. Soon Aso ji slept again. But the fakir was one of a kind; he did not agree to let it be. This time he said it a third time, changing the words, and that is why Aso ji was trapped. Twice he had said, Aso ji, are you sleeping? Twice Aso ji had denied. The third time he said, Aso ji, are you living? In sleep, Aso ji took it to be the same question and said, No, no—who says so? The fakir said, Now there is no need for anyone to say anything more. This time you are caught. I did not ask, Are you sleeping? I asked, Are you living? And the proof is here—you denied living. And rightly so. One who sleeps does not live. What relation can sleep have with living? Living relates with awakening. Sleep relates with dying.
This is why we cannot know what life is. We cannot experience truth. We cannot know this energy pervading everywhere—the Paramatma, the Prabhu—this existence. Surrounded by sleep, shut in by its doors and walls, we cannot come into relationship with life. Therefore if religion is anything, in my vision it is the process of awakening. Religion is neither worship nor prayer—for the worship or prayer of a sleeping man has no meaning. Religion is not about memorizing scriptures or learning doctrines—for what value is the rote of a sleeper? Religion is the process of awakening. Religion is a sutra of awakening—an inner method to awaken that which sleeps. In that regard, it is essential to understand how the inner sleeper may be awakened; how the inner dreams may dissolve; how the inner surge toward past and future may subside; how I may stand in the very moment in which I am—for only that moment is, and only through it is entry into existence; other than that, there is no door. How can I be present in the moment? And the methods we adopt in the name of religion often do not awaken us into the present—they are ways of putting ourselves to sleep even more.
One person sits and repeats, Ram Ram; another, Om Om; someone else, Allah Allah, or Namo-kar, or some other mantra. Do you know? Through constant repetition, a word becomes a technique for inducing sleep. Repetition is self-hypnosis—a method of putting oneself to sleep. Perhaps you do not know; even if you do, perhaps you have not pondered it. A mother wants to put her child to sleep—she croons, Raja beta so ja, Raja beta so ja, Raja beta so ja. She repeats one line of the lullaby again and again. In a little while the child sleeps. The mother may think he slept because of my sweet voice—she is mistaken. He sleeps because of boredom, because of the monotony of one word over and over. The same method will put even the child's noble father to sleep—it makes no difference. The repetition of a single word fills the mind with boredom. The mind's juice is toward the new; it awakens with the novel. Whatever is familiar, repeated again and again, loses taste and interest. To escape that boredom there remains only one way—sleep. The child cannot run away while you go on saying, Raja beta so ja; so, to escape, he goes into sleep.
You may sit and chant Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, endlessly—the oft-repeated word creates weariness and disturbance; as self-defense, to save itself, the mind slips into sleep. A light trance is produced. You may take that trance to be peace. You may think the mind has become quiet. After that sleep there will be a faint relief—just as after a nap—and you think you have become religious.
Religion is not so cheap. Religion is not a device for sleeping. A man can arrange his sleep through hymn and kirtan too. Music is one of the most potent methods for sleep.
Once in Lucknow a great musician came—an unusual one. Wajid Ali was Nawab in those days. Wajid Ali was clearly mad—as indeed few nawabs have been who were not mad. For one not mad, to want to be a nawab is itself madness. The news came: a great musician has arrived, but he has a strange condition. He will play the vina, he will sing—but on one condition: while he plays the vina, no head must move. If any head nods, he says in advance, heads must not move.
Wajid Ali said, No worry. Go tell him, What need is there for heads to move? If a head moves, we will have it cut off.
The town was informed: there will be a great concert at night; a master of the vina has come—but those who come must keep one thing in mind: be prepared to lose your head. The head must not move; if it does, it will be separated. Come if you wish; if not, do not come. Many would have come, but now the matter changed. Only the very disciplined came—some hundred or a hundred and fifty. They sat as if in yogasana, like stone. If some head moved by mistake—not by music but by a fly—it would be trouble. Around the hall the Nawab posted men with naked swords to watch whose head moved.
Two hours passed, three hours—the people sat like statues; no head moved. But as night deepened and the music sank deep, a few heads began to nod. The Nawab's men were ready; they marked those whose heads moved. When the recital ended, twenty were seized. The Nawab said, Fools, did you not know that heads would be cut? Did you not get the news? They said, We knew fully—but as long as we were awake, the warning could be remembered. So long as we were conscious, we restrained ourselves. But when consciousness itself was gone, who was left to restrain? We did not nod—if heads nodded, they nodded. It is not our fault. Still, if you must cut, cut. The condition was that we should not nod; we did not nod. But when sleep came, we do not know what happened.
So, through music you may lull yourself—through wine, through sex. These are all methods of sleep.
Man fears awakening; sleep seems pleasant. Why? Because in sleep neither the sense of oneself remains, nor of another. No awareness of sorrow, of worry, of pain, of problem. This is why wine has such appeal across the world—and its appeal keeps growing. Man wants to forget sorrow, anxiety, problem—he wants to forget life. He does not want to be reminded. Hence he wants to make himself unconscious. And whatever helps to drown consciousness he likes very much. There is a deep love for unconsciousness. Religion is exactly the opposite. Religion is not unconsciousness; it is awareness. Therefore, in the name of religion, the thousands of sleep-techniques that are running—I do not call them religion. They are all intoxicants—transmutations of wine. They are narcotics, opiates. Wherever man tries to diminish his consciousness, to drown it, to lose it—he is trying to enter sleep, stupor. In truth he is saying, I do not wish to live—I wish to die. It is a kind of slow suicide, a gradual suicide.
Religion is a completely different matter—the opposite. Religion is the effort to awaken. Religion is the expansion of consciousness. It is the aspiration to destroy all inner unconsciousness—so that the entire mind becomes conscious, no dark, sleeping corner remains, and within all becomes illumined. How can this be? Let me explain with a small incident.
An emperor wished to initiate his prince into Dharma. He announced throughout the land, Who can initiate my young son into Dharma? News came of an old man—an eighty-year-old living in some forest. He claimed he could initiate the prince—but with stern conditions. First: in the initiation of Dharma he would not teach Dharma directly. He would teach something else. The prince would have to follow only his indications. And no time-limit could be set—however long it took. And until the training was complete the prince could not return. The emperor accepted all conditions and sent the prince to the old master.
The old guru said to the prince, From tomorrow morning your first lesson begins. And the first lesson is this: at any time tomorrow I will attack you with a wooden sword. From tomorrow onward, at any hour, known or unknown, I will strike. You must remain alert and protect yourself with this shield. The prince said, I have come to learn Dharma, not swordsmanship. The guru said, You need not know what you have come to learn; it is I who must know what to teach. This is the teaching of Dharma—but my path is such that only later will it be clear whether you have reached Dharma or not. I will indeed teach you the sword. For in my life-experience, man awakens only in danger. Without danger, no one wakes. So I will create danger so that you may awaken.
The old guru said, My own guru taught me many things. Once he was teaching me to climb trees. He made me climb a tree a hundred feet high. The first time my hands and feet trembled. When I stood on the top branch, my guru sat below, eyes closed, silent. When I began to descend and was only eight or ten feet from the ground, he suddenly rose and shouted, Son, be careful as you come down! I was astonished—Is this man mad? When I was a hundred feet up, where a misstep would end life, he sat with eyes closed. And now, when I am near the ground, where even a fall would not injure me, he shouts, Careful—come down alertly, with awareness! When I reached the ground, I asked, Are you insane? When I was a hundred feet up you were quiet, and when I was ten feet away you warned me. The old guru said, My son, up there you were in such danger that no warning was needed—you were alert of yourself. Where there is danger, consciousness is naturally alert. There is no leisure for sleep; sleep cannot be afforded—we are not given the convenience of it. When you were a hundred feet up—tell me, what thoughts moved in your mind? I said, There were no thoughts. Carefulness was so total that to lose oneself in thought would be to fall into sleep. There was no thought—the mind was utterly silent—only awareness. I knew each breath; if a leaf moved, I knew it. There was not a trace of past or future. I was only in the present. Had the mind wandered even a little beyond that, there could have been danger.
Therefore, the old guru said, I sat with eyes closed. There was no danger then—because there was danger, you were careful. But as you came down I saw your carefulness dissolve. At ten feet I felt sleep had taken you. The youth said, You are right. As I came near the ground, I thought, Now there is no risk—and I relaxed; my carefulness vanished.
The old guru said, I have taught thousands to climb trees. No one falls from the topmost branches—those who fall, fall from the lower ones. No one falls from the peaks. People fall and are lost in ditches and pits. On level ground people stumble. In difficulties no one falls. In comfort people fall asleep. In insecurity, discomfort, danger—they remain awake.
So the old man said to the prince, Now that you have come to me, I will create all discomfort, all dangers, all challenges—so that you cannot sleep. Once you have known awakening, then no matter how the world tries, you yourself will not wish to sleep again.
The next day the lesson began—a strange lesson. The prince would be reading a book, and an attack would come from behind. He would be eating, and the wooden sword would strike his bone. Within seven days his every bone ached. But each day he felt within that his alertness was growing—for twenty-four hours he had to remain vigilant. The attack could come at any time. There was no notice. He was sweeping the hut and an attack would come. He reached for a book—an attack. Anything could happen at any time.
Within three months it became difficult to strike him. As the blow came, his hands, his mind, so alert—immediately he defended. He experienced that a strange thing was growing within him: thoughts were decreasing, awareness increasing. And remember: the more thoughts, the less awareness; the more awareness, the fewer thoughts. Thoughts and awareness are opposites; they do not coexist.
His mind grew thin of thought, full of carefulness. The entire time he was awake, unclouded. At three months the guru said, Your first lesson is complete. Tomorrow the second begins. The youth asked, What is the second? The guru said, From tomorrow I will attack you even in sleep. You will be asleep—and a blow will fall. The youth said, In waking there was still some chance—but in sleep? If I am asleep and you strike, how will I know? How will I be careful in sleep? The old man said, Do not fear—do not hurry. The greater the challenge, the more awareness awakens. Sleep too can awaken.
A mother’s child is ill. Above, thunder rolls, and she does not stir; chariots rumble on the road, she does not know. But if her child gives the slightest cry, turns a little, her hand rises—she knows. Even in sleep, some corner of her consciousness remembers: the child is unwell. Some part remains awake. If we all sleep here and someone shouts, Ram! no one will hear—but the one whose name is Ram will say, Who is it—who calls me? Even in sleep a part of the mind knows, My name is Ram. Some corner remains alert; the rest sleep.
So the old man said, Do not worry. I will pose the challenge so that your awareness may be stirred to the last degree. From tomorrow the attacks will come in your sleep. The rest is for you to manage. He could not run away; he was bound by the pledge. And in three months he had known a wondrous experience—the mind had tasted a silence never known, the inner seeing had deepened, anxieties had dissolved, problems had ended. Only a fragrance of awareness remained.
Night assaults began. He slept—and the wooden sword would strike. In seven or eight days his bones ached again. But day by day, even in sleep, he felt that some attention was keeping watch lest an attack come. Even in sleep, some corner of the mind was aware that a blow could fall. A part remained awake. At three months, the second lesson too was done. In sleep his hands began to defend. The guru said, The second lesson is complete—you have passed it. Tomorrow begins the third. The youth said, What now? Awake and asleep—both have seen attacks. The guru said, Tomorrow the attack will be with a real sword. Until now it was wood. Now the true challenge begins. Till now it was a game of pain; now life can be taken. Now the sword may pierce life. One lapse—and life is lost. From tomorrow, the real sword.
The youth said, Good—I am ready. It makes no difference whether the sword is real or wooden. If I can be careful toward the wooden, I can be careful toward the real. I am at ease now; I am not frightened.
From the next day the real sword flashed. The youth stood as a wager of life. Any moment death could stand before him. In such a state, can anyone sleep? Can anyone dream? Can one go into past or future? Even a moment’s wandering—and life ends.
Three months passed; the real sword awakened a real awareness. Three months were complete; perhaps one day remained. The guru said, One day more—and your examination will be complete. Then the final, fourth lesson remains, and I will teach it quickly; whoever learns the first three does not take long to learn the fourth.
On the last day, the youth sat beneath a tree, his guru a hundred feet away beneath another, reading a book—an eighty-year-old, his back turned. A thought arose in the youth’s mind: This old man keeps me under warning, challenge, alertness—Is he himself so careful? Why not test him with an attack from behind and see? He had barely thought it when the old man shouted from there, Son, do not do that! The youth was stunned. He said, I have done nothing—only thought. How do you say this? The old man said, I am old—do not do it. The youth asked, But how did you know? I only thought. The old man said, Wait a little longer—let the fourth lesson be done. When awareness becomes total, the footfalls of another’s thoughts can be heard. And the day another’s thought-footfalls are heard, that day the mind becomes available to that sensitivity in which the footfalls of the Paramatma are also heard.
Only such a wakeful mind can know the Paramatma—not the sleepers, but the awakened. For each, the question is only of awakening. It is arduous, tapascharya. Tapascharya does not mean fasting. It does not mean standing on one’s head. Those things are for a circus. To know the Paramatma, one need not be an acrobat. But arduous—yes—the effort to awaken is. How can the mind remain awake for twenty-four hours—from rising to sleeping, from sleeping to waking? Who will wield the sword behind you? You yourself must. And the truth is, if we but knew it, death stands behind us twenty-four hours, sword drawn.
In very ancient days, death itself was called the guru and acharya. Do not take as mere story that Nachiketa reached the house of Yama. Whenever any Nachiketa wishes to know the truth of life, one must go to death. Near death—in its danger, its insecurity, the awareness of its sword—carefulness and awakening arise within.
Let me say, finally, this morning: whoever wishes to be religious must be alert to death. He must know that each moment death encircles us, catches hold—any instant, her sword may carry us off. Therefore there is no convenience for sleep. If death begins to be felt near each moment—which is the truth we keep deliberately veiled—then everything changes. We build cremation grounds outside the village. If the world were wise, it would build the cremation ground at the crossroads in the village—so that every child would learn daily that death is, constantly death is. We hide death. A bier passes the house; we pull the children inside and shut the door—Come in, someone has died.
Thus all life we hide from death. It is false. Death must be known, recognized.
Let me end with a small story.
One morning a youth came to a sannyasi, touched his feet, and said, Often a thought arises in me: you seem so pure—pure as a flower; you seem so fragrant—fragrant as incense; you seem so illumined—bright as a lamp. I always wonder whether this is only on the surface. Perhaps within sin arises; perhaps within there is a stench. There is always a crowd here, I cannot ask; today I found you alone. Tell me, this fragrance and bliss I see outwardly—is it also within, or not?
The sannyasi said, You ask a beautiful question, and I will answer. But first I must tell you something more urgent—lest I forget. Yesterday I forgot. If I forget for two or four days, it may no longer be necessary to tell. So first let me say: yesterday, my glance fell upon your hand—your life-line ends. Seven days, and when the seventh day’s sun sets, you too will set. Let me tell you this; yesterday I meant to, but other talk carried me away. Now ask—what do you ask?
The youth said, I do not recall having asked you anything. I will go home now. If I have the chance, I will come again. The sannyasi said, Wait—what hurry? You have seven days—a lot of time. The youth said, Forgive me. His hands trembled. When he had arrived, he had Alexander’s strength in his feet; as he returned, he was a dead man walking. He could barely descend the steps—he needed support. He had grown old. He staggered home, not even reaching the door; he fell near the steps. People lifted him and laid him on the bed. Seven days—only seven days—and death felt so close that moving a hand, it seemed to touch death; near on every side.
Neighbors with whom he had quarrels—cases planned up to the supreme court—everything changed. He called them and sought forgiveness, touched their feet—Forgive me. The quarrels were for life; with death, what quarrel remains? The mischiefs were with life; with death, what mischief remains? Enmities were because of thoughts of living; for one who sees death, what enemy remains? He asked forgiveness; they forgave. The seven days passed. Each day death came nearer and nearer. The house became sad, drowned in darkness; friends and relatives assembled. On the seventh day, an hour before sunset, the sannyasi arrived. The house wept—silence—like a cremation ground. He went inside and touched the youth. He had withered to bone—hard to recognize as the same man from seven days before. All his dreams had sunk; his paper boats had melted; his palaces had turned to ash. He lay empty—as if already dead. And yet, strangely, a radiance was on his face; his eyes were very quiet, very deep. The sannyasi shook him; he opened his eyes, as if returning from another realm. The sannyasi asked, I have one question—these seven days, did any sin arise in your mind?
The youth said, What are you saying? When death stands so near, where is the space for sin? Where the distance? It was only I here, and death—between, nothing arose; there was neither time nor interval in which anything could rise.
What did you think for seven days?
He said, Do you think when death is in front that anything can be thought? Thinking disappeared.
Then what did you do?
He said, For the first time in life, I did nothing. For seven days, nothing. And when there was nothing—no thought, no sin, no planning, no imagining, no dream—then I found that which I am. Your great compassion—your great compassion—that you brought me to death. Near death I have known that which has no death—which is amrit.
The sannyasi laughed and said, Do not fear—your death has not come. I have only answered your question. Whether death appears seven days later or seventy years later, one who truly sees it is transformed within. I have answered your question. There is no question now of dying. Your life-line is long—get up.
But the youth said, Now you need not tell me that death will not happen. Now I know for myself. There is no possibility of death. Surrounded by death, I have known that which is deathless.
In school, for small children, we paint a black slate and write on it with white chalk—then it is visible. Write on a white wall and it will not be seen. Upon the black background of the slate, the white lines stand out. One who truly experiences death—upon the black cloth of death, the white lines of amrit begin to appear. Amrit is hidden within—but until we give it the background of death, it cannot be seen. Amid the dark shadow of death, the lightning of amrit flashes, becomes visible.
Thus a religious person is one who begins to live with death. Within him, danger stands; he has found the sword; he has found the guru. Other than death, there is no guru. And in that danger, within, carefulness begins to arise. With its continuous growth, someday, in some moment, in a fortunate instant, the clouds of life part and one beholds the sun—that is the Paramatma.
You have listened to these words with so much love and quietude—I am deeply obliged. And at the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within. Kindly accept my pranam.