My beloved Atman! Like someone lighting a lamp all of a sudden in the dark, and where nothing could be seen, everything begins to be visible—such is the lamp of Samadhi in the darkness of life. Or like a desert where it has not rained for years, and the very life of the earth writhes with thirst for water—then suddenly clouds gather and raindrops begin to fall, and peace and rejoicing break into dance in the heart of that desert—such is the shower of Samadhi upon the desert of life. Or as if one who was dead suddenly becomes alive—where breath was not moving, breath begins; where eyes did not open, eyes open; where life had receded, there again the footsteps of life are heard—such is the coming of Samadhi into a lifeless life. Nothing in life is more important than Samadhi. Without Samadhi no bliss can be found, no peace can be found, no truth can be found. Therefore, to understand Samadhi is very useful. Not only to understand—for Samadhi is among those few things where mere understanding is not enough—only by passing through it does understanding happen at all. As if someone stands on the bank of a river and we say: come, we will teach you to swim! And he says: first let me learn to swim right here on the bank, only then will I step into the water. First let me understand, then I will enter the water. Logically he is not wrong. He speaks rightly. Without knowing how to swim, how would one agree to get into the water! But there is a greater difficulty: his difficulty, and the teacher’s as well—for how can one teach swimming without entering the water? So the teacher says: first come down! Without entering the water you will never learn to swim. He too is not wrong. And the learner says: I am afraid; without knowing to swim, I will not enter. First let me learn, then I may step in. The matter of Samadhi is something like that. Without going into Samadhi nothing can be known. But we would like to know while standing on the shore: what is Samadhi? I will try to say as much as words can say. For what words cannot say, there is no way to say it. I have heard: someone went to a fakir and asked him, what Samadhi is it you speak of? What meditation do you talk about? What is it? Say something! Explain! Tell me! The fakir had been sitting with eyes open; he immediately closed his eyes. The man said, this is delightful indeed! At least your eyes were open—open them! I have come to know what Samadhi is, what meditation is! You speak of it day and night—tell me something at least! The fakir had been sitting—suddenly he fell down flat! The man said, what are you doing? Don’t go and die on me! I only came to ask about Samadhi. The fakir opened his eyes and said, I am trying to tell you. The man said, not like this—tell me in words. The fakir said, whatever can be said in words will be nothing in relation to Samadhi. So I showed you by doing. But what would we know if someone closes his eyes, or falls down? No; only when our own eyes close, and we ourselves fall one day—not only outwardly but inwardly too—and scatter and dissolve like a drop lost in the ocean, like a seed breaks open in the soil—only if it happens within us will we recognize what Samadhi is. Yet some hints can be given. In the morning I will give a few hints, and in the evening I would like that we all enter Samadhi together. Those who are only curious to listen will come only in the morning. Those who are curious to swim as well, who truly want to know, will come in the evening. In the morning we will speak, and in the evening we will try to taste. But remember, it will not be understood by talk; it can be understood only by taste. I also think it will be good to try to explain by telling how I reached that door. Perhaps the path may become clear that way; perhaps you may also feel that this path can be walked. People keep asking me: how did you reach that Samadhi? Let me begin with a small incident. When I was little, those with whom I grew up—unfortunately or fortunately—left the world very early. I was only seven when death came to them. And I watched them dying slowly. They did not die all at once; first their speech was lost, then their eyes closed, then they became unconscious and remained unconscious for twenty-four hours. And then, in that very unconsciousness, slowly—like the oil of a lamp running out, the flame becoming dim—slowly they sank and were gone. It was they whom I loved, whom I cherished. I had grown up by their side. In that moment it felt so—utterly unfortunate. But who knows—misfortunes many times become fortunes. For me it was the first event of death. And it was also the first event of the departure of one whom I loved. The whole house began to weep, to be afflicted and pained. But in me one thought kept circling: if they are no more, what need is there for me to remain? The one I loved is no more; then I too should not remain. I could not even weep. Today I understand that weeping expresses our grief—perhaps tries to drain it. Now I see that through crying and wailing the pain that has descended upon us gets released, it flows out. I could not weep, because it seemed to me that if the one I loved is finished, then I too should be finished; there is no need for me to live. They took the body to the cremation ground; thinking I was a small child they locked me in the house—lest I go to the cremation ground, lest seeing it I be struck in the mind; and I loved them, how could I watch them burn. But when the family had gone, I too slipped out by the back path and reached the cremation ground. I did not quite know what would happen there. Afraid the family would be angry, I hid and watched them burn from up a tree. Then I returned. That night I went to sleep with a single prayer: that I too may die! God, let it be that I too may die! Until sleep came, only one refrain kept resounding in my mind: I too must die, I must be finished. When I fell asleep I do not know—but even in sleep the same voice kept running: let me die, let me die, let me die. Around two or three in the night, suddenly sleep broke—and I felt that the one I had been saying should die, had died. All had died. I could not move my hand, I could not open my eyes, there seemed to be no trace of breath, whether the body was there or not—I could not tell. All had died. And yet another wonder—that all had died, and still I am—for I knew that all had died. Both things together—everything died, and yet I am. It was also clear that I am—for if I were not, who would know that all had died? I was very young, but from that day death ended for me. After that, many dear ones died—but for me no one died again. Next morning I was filled with a peace and bliss I had never known before. I had passed through an experience. Looking back I can say—then I did not know, but now I can say—it was the first peep through the door of Samadhi. To peep through the door of Samadhi one must pass through the process of dying while living. But we are all terribly afraid of dying. Our whole life we strive not to die. Our entire effort is for one thing: not to die. Our philosophies, our religions, our gurus—all arrange for the same assurance: do not be afraid, do not be afraid. And even if we accept the immortality of the Atman, it is not because we know the Atman is immortal, but because it lessens the fear of death. Thus people who fear death inevitably believe in the immortality of the Atman. We are engaged in the effort to escape death. Our whole life is not a life of living, it is a life of avoiding death. Our wealth, our houses, our friends, our loved ones—these are walls of security against death. Therefore the one who has more wealth feels more secure. The one who has a house like a fortress feels more secure. The one guarded by soldiers feels more secure. The one who has power thinks: I am safe. If we wish to understand the secret of human life, there are only two kinds of people in the world: those who live, and those who keep arranging to avoid dying. But the one who keeps arranging to avoid death does not escape death—death comes. And the wonder is: the one who lives escapes death. For the deeper he descends into life, the more he discovers there is no death. Death is the greatest untruth—none greater than that. And yet it is this we fear and try to avoid. We keep running, running lest we die. That is why we cannot become religious. A religious man is one who is ready to die—who says: if I must die, then I want to die and see. Socrates was dying. Someone asked: are you not afraid—death is approaching! Socrates said, only two possibilities exist. Either I will simply die and nothing will remain. If I simply die and nothing remains—then what fear? For fear requires that I remain. What sorrow? Sorrow too requires my being. What dread? If I die and nothing remains, there is no fear. And if I do remain—and in dying I do not die—then again, what question of fear? If I remain, what fear? Then I will know that what died was not me, and what remained is what I am. Socrates said, there are only two possibilities. Either I will die—and then there is no room for fear. Or I will remain—and then there is nothing to fear. But we? We are very frightened, very afraid. Therefore we cannot reach Samadhi. Only one who is ready to die can reach Samadhi. That is why after someone’s death we build a platform and call it a samadhi—and the last state of meditation is also called samadhi. We call the tomb a samadhi—and the ultimate state of meditation is also Samadhi. There is a connection: the one who, while living, puts himself into the grave, becomes available to Samadhi. But to put oneself into the grave while living—to prepare to die while living—is arduous. I have heard: in Egypt there was an ashram. Beneath the ashram itself was the cremation ground—an underground necropolis carved out. It was thousands of years old. For miles they had dug and made burial chambers. When a monk died, a stone would be lifted, the body lowered below, and the rock sealed. Once a monk died—or so they thought. But some mistake occurred. He had not died; he had only fainted. They lowered him into the necropolis and sealed the rock. Five or six hours later, in that world of death, his eyes opened, he came to. One can imagine his plight! Consider yourself in his place. Bodies upon bodies, rotting; stench; bones; worms; darkness! And he knew that unless someone above dies, the stone door will not open. He also knew that however much he might shout—he still shouted, knowing the voice would not reach above—the ashram was a mile away. People only came to the necropolis when someone died. The door was sealed with a great slab. Still, knowing all this… We too often shout, knowing the voice will not reach. People shout in temples—knowing their voice will not reach anywhere. We are all shouting—knowing it will not reach. Even where there is no hope, man goes on hoping. That man shouted and shouted until his throat gave way and his voice failed. You might think he would have killed himself. But no—he did not. He did not live a few days—he lived seven years in that tomb. How did he live? He began to eat the decaying corpses. He began to eat the maggots that lived in them. From the walls of the necropolis, the trickling water from the drains—he licked and drank it. In the hope that someday someone would die. The door would open—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. He knew not when the sun rose, when night came. After seven years someone died; the slab was lifted, and the man came out. And he did not come out empty-handed. In Egypt it is the custom to dress the dead in new clothes and to place a few precious garments and some money with them. He had collected all the clothes and money of the corpses, thinking he would take them when he emerged. So with a big bundle of clothes and a large bag of money he came out. No one could recognize him; those who had come to the necropolis ran in fright—who is this! His hair reached the ground; his eyelashes had grown so long his eyes would not open. He said, why run? Do you not recognize me? I am the one you lowered seven years ago. They said, but how did you remain alive? Even if you regained consciousness six hours later—how did you survive? Why did you not kill yourself? How did you live seven years in that necropolis? He said, dying is not so easy! I too would have thought so. I too—had someone else fallen into that tomb—would have said the same: madman! Instead of living, better to die! But now I can say: dying is not that easy. I tried my utmost to live. And what I did to live is enough to make one shudder. If I think of it even today, perhaps I could not do it again. We too will think, what kind of man he must have been! But he was just like us. Had we been in his place, we would have done the same. And what we call life—is it very different from that necropolis? And what we call our food—is it so different from the food he took there? And the gathering of clothes and money—is it not also money and garments snatched from the dead? When the father grows old—whether children say it or not—they think: let him depart. They are eager to snatch the dead man’s clothes and coins. People offer congratulations to the President—on the Vice President’s birthday they lay garlands too—and knowingly or unknowingly pray to God: how long will you hold on? If only he departs, his dead chair may be mounted by someone—let someone sit upon it. Thus in Delhi when someone dies, those who appear with tears on their faces, carrying the body to the cremation ground, are already preparing at that very moment for who will sit upon his dead chair—lest someone else occupy it. Even on the way to the cremation ground there is a race as to who will touch the corpse first—because he may claim the chair. I have heard that when Gandhi died, even on the tank on which he was carried there was competition among leaders to stand upon it—so that the world might see who the heirs were! What we call life is also a great cremation ground, with a queue of the dying. Someone will die now, someone a little later, someone after that—someone today, someone tomorrow—but all will die. And the houses we live in are snatched from the dead; the clothes too, and the wealth as well. And here also we live without ever knowing any joy, without finding any peace—only with a hope that perhaps tomorrow peace will come, tomorrow bliss will come, tomorrow something will be had. So somehow live till tomorrow. Live by any means till tomorrow—perhaps something will be found tomorrow. But I want to tell you: one who is not ready to die will never find anything. And we have died many times. But we are so afraid of dying that long before death we fall unconscious. Therefore no memory of death remains. We have died many times and been born many times—but each time the processes of dying and birth frighten us so much that we are born in unconsciousness and we die in unconsciousness. So no memory forms; a gap happens. Thus we retain no memory of past births. There is no other reason for the loss of past-life memory except that in between came death, and in death we became so frightened that we fell unconscious. The interval of unconsciousness broke memory into two parts—the previous memory fell away, this memory is separate. The gap became so large that joining the two is difficult. Yes, if one learns the art of dying, one can remember past lives. For then one can bridge that interval. We are also born unconscious. We have been born countless times—but born in unconsciousness. For birth too—it will surprise you—feels like death to the child. When a child is born from the mother’s womb, it appears to him like death. Why? Because what he had taken as life for nine months is coming to an end. What he had known as life is finishing now. Of the life ahead he knows nothing. Ahead lies fear. All the comfort of the womb, all convenience, all pleasure—everything is being taken away. The future he knows not. He is being uprooted from his world—his roots are being torn. So what we call birth appears to the child like death. That is why the child is born unconscious, not in awareness. And what we call death is also a birth in another sense. But we too die in unconsciousness. For it seems that what was is slipping away, and what will come is unfamiliar—whether it will come at all, who knows? What will happen? Every death is a birth and every birth a death. In this cosmos nothing ever ends completely and nothing ever begins absolutely. What we call beginning is the ending of something; what we call ending is the beginning of something else. What we call evening is the end of the day and the beginning of the night; what we call morning is the end of the night and the beginning of the day. In this world, nothing reaches a total end, and nothing is a first beginning. There is ending and beginning; beginning and ending—start, end, start, end. Nothing ends anywhere and nothing starts anywhere. Therefore life is infinite. But fear of dying renders us unconscious. And it is because of this fear that we never enter Samadhi. Many say to me—only yesterday a friend said: you speak of meditation, but we cannot yet understand it, we cannot descend into it. You will not descend—until, in the very depths of the mind, the readiness to die has arisen. Only then can one enter Samadhi. But people come to meditate hoping that perhaps meditation too may become a device to avoid death. They think that through meditation they may come to know: the Atman is immortal. It will be known. But it will be known only to one who is ready to die. Through meditation it will be known that the Atman is immortal—but not to one who has come merely to find out the immortality of the Atman; only to one who is ready to die. That very readiness takes him to the place where the deathless is revealed. Therefore, for anyone who has ever attained Samadhi, the awareness of death is the first threshold at its door. But we keep pushing away the awareness of death. We have built cremation grounds outside our villages so that death is not seen every day. It should be in the middle of the village—so that every child, every person passes by it, and two or three times each day the thought of death arises. We built it outside the village, far away, safely out of sight. I went to a village recently—very clever people. They had built such a fine cremation ground that even there you would not know it was one. They planted gardens, built a library there—so those who go can read newspapers there as well. They read newspapers here, they read newspapers there. Even now, when we go to the cremation ground, we talk of everything in the world except death—we leave death out. And we maintain a constant fiction: always others die; I never die! So we send others off—this one died, that one died. I never die. I never die—others die. And when a man has carried five or ten bodies to the cremation ground, he becomes even more assured: how can I die! I am the one who takes others; how can anyone take me! Those who have looked deeply into the psyche of people like Hitler say: such people are terrified of death, and by killing others they feel reassured—having killed so many, who can kill me! Genghis, Tamerlane, Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Mao—all are people frightened by death. And in the process of avoiding death they kill others. When a man kills a million people—we estimate Hitler killed seventy to eighty lakhs; Stalin killed perhaps a crore—when one man kills a crore, in one sense he becomes godlike. He feels: I erased a crore—who can erase me! Deep inside he gains the assurance: I am the eraser, not the erased. There are only two ways to feel godlike: either compete with him in creating, or compete with him in destroying. We cannot compete in creating—so it becomes easier to compete in destroying. By destroying, we become like God. Yet there is fear of death! Therefore even a man like Hitler, who kills so many, is very frightened. He would not allow anyone to enter his room at night. He did not marry for this very reason—for at least a wife would have to be allowed in. He did not marry from fear that a woman might have to be let in, and who knows—women are untrustworthy—she might poison him, shoot him, conspire with the enemy. So he did not marry. Hitler married at the hour of his death—an hour before. When Berlin had fallen, when bombs were dropping near the basement where he was hiding, and enemy planes circled over Berlin, he told a friend: bring the woman who has been waiting twelve years to marry me. His friends said: what meaning is there now? He said: now I am unafraid—death is certain. Bring her. A sleeping priest was dragged from bed. In that basement, before four or six people, Hitler was married. And the first act of their wedding night—they both drank poison and died. Now he was at ease—someone could be taken so close; there was no fear now. All the great killers of history are people afraid of death. We kill others to reassure ourselves that we will not die, no one can kill us. The system we have invented for life—if we look closely, we will find we devised it out of fear of death…we do not speak of death. I remember from childhood—because after that incident, death was no question for me. A sannyasin had come to the village; there was great talk. I went to hear him. He spoke of the immortality of the Atman. And what else is there to say? The dead and the death-fearing find most delightful the repetition and explanation that the Atman is immortal. They become very cheerful—not because the Atman is immortal, but because once again someone has reassured them there is no need to fear. He was explaining the Atman is immortal. I saw all the frightened people of the village sitting, listening with great joy. I stood and asked him: Swamiji, when do you intend to die? He said, what kind of vulgar question is this! Is this something to ask? The villagers too said: is this something to ask? It is rude to ask a man when he intends to die. The swami was very angry. I said, I had thought—since he says the Atman is immortal—he would not be upset at the mention of death. But at the thought of death he became angry. I asked, when do you intend to die? When will you die? He said: one must not ask such things—such crude talk should not be uttered. If the Atman is immortal, how does death remain crude? Then death no longer remains. Then to ask about death is not improper. We do not speak of death. We keep it pushed aside. Even when it intrudes, we talk of other things. If a neighbor dies we talk of a thousand things—except the one thing. We pity him—without caring that the event we pity in him will befall us today or tomorrow. We talk of his children—what will happen to them? Of his wife—what will happen to her? Of his job, his money, his business—what will happen to all that? We talk of everything, but we leave out the circle in the middle—the death that happened. We do not speak of what death is. We leave that out, always off to the side. If there is one thing absolutely certain in our lives, it is death. Everything else is uncertain. Nothing else is fixed. One thing is fixed: what we call death will happen. Of the most certain thing we speak the least. You will not have seen a book on death. There are books on the immortality of the Atman. There is no book on death. No one speaks of death; we keep it out of the conversation—because it is a dangerous fact; lest it become visible. But however much we keep it out, death does not stay outside. One day it comes inside. It breaks all our arrangements and enters. Our doors and locks are useless—it enters within. Our guards are useless—it enters within. Our friends, companions, relations—worthless. Those we gathered to erase our loneliness—to save us from feeling alone—my wife I brought so I not be alone; a son I sired so I not be alone; friends I made so I not be alone. But when death comes I find I am utterly alone. Those I thought would be with me—weeping for me, yes—but none is ready to go with me. They weep: poor fellow! They feel sad. But perhaps their grief is not for me either; they are sad because they are left alone. And soon they will arrange to erase their loneliness—and be filled again. To avoid loneliness we have made society, parties, institutions, organizations, nations; to avoid loneliness we have made castes—Hindu and Muslim, Jain and Christian, Buddhist and Parsi. So that I not be alone, we have gathered crowds. But what difference does it make? We are alone. Our whole arrangement is false. It is deceptive—not true. And death in a single instant renders every arrangement futile. All is left alone. We need to recognize this truth of death—and there is no need to be frightened of it. Then there is no use for fear. For as Socrates said, he said rightly: if I die absolutely, I simply die—then what is there to talk about? And if I do not die, then again what is there to talk about? Our arrangements to avoid death do not let us come close to meditation or to Samadhi. Therefore, to avoid meditation and Samadhi we have invented other religious activities. Whereas Samadhi is the very foundation of religion—everything else is deception. To avoid Samadhi we invented prayer. To avoid Samadhi we invented rosaries and austerities. To avoid Samadhi we invented mantra and tantra—who knows what all—yet all to avoid Samadhi. The web of religion spread around us is ritual, mere ceremony. It does not move us in the direction of dying; it gives us a prop to live. It says to us: do not be afraid! It gives reassurance. Religion has no reassurance. Religion says: come—be effaced and die! Yet as soon as someone goes ready to die completely, he finds there is something that does not die. To know this something, to recognize it in awareness, is necessary. Then there is no death ever again. Then we will die in awareness. And when a man has died once in awareness, the meaning of his whole life, the arrangement of his births, the entire journey changes. But to die in awareness, before that—conscious death—we must, while living, taste some experience of dying; we must descend in some direction of dying while alive. We must die while living. Jesus has a very precious saying: he who saves himself will be lost; and he who is willing to be lost will be saved. He spoke truly—absolutely truly. Perhaps the hanging of Jesus on the cross is a symbol of that—of dying, wholly dying. But Jesus was crucified; his followers found a neat trick—they hang a little cross upon their necks. It makes sense when the neck hangs upon the cross; but a cross hanging upon the neck—this makes no sense at all. Everywhere, those we call religious followers create deceptions of this kind. It looks the same—Jesus on the cross; the priest of Jesus with a cross hanging around his neck. A small cross of gold, hanging upon the neck. Where are crosses ever made of gold? And what meaning has it to hang a cross on one’s neck? The cross is a symbol of something else—the readiness to die. Jesus too, in the last moment, was very frightened. In my view that very moment was the most precious of his life. When he was nailed to the cross, spikes driven into his hands, from his mouth came the cry: O God, what are you doing? What is this you are doing? What is happening to me? From his very soul, filled with extreme anxiety and strain, the cry arose: O God, what is it that you are showing me? There was complaint! Complaint reveals that he had not yet seen. But in a single instant he understood—and he began to laugh. He said: Thy will—whatsoever You do, I consent. This one instant is the moment of revolution in Jesus’ life. The moment he said, O God, what are you showing me?—there is complaint about death. Until then he was Jesus, the son of a carpenter. One instant later, when he said, Thy will be done—he was no longer Jesus, he became the Christ. No longer the son of a common man—he became the son of God. He had become willing to die. In one instant this happened—and that instant became the moment of Samadhi—as soon as he said, I consent. The man who within can say: I am willing to die—Samadhi comes into his life. And the one who says: dying? I cannot die. I seek meditation precisely so I need not die. Let me know that the Atman is immortal; let union with God happen; let there be a sure guarantee that I shall never die. If this body dies, the Atman will not die. Whatever happens, I must not die—that I want to make certain. If such a man goes in search of meditation, he cannot enter meditation. One who is willing to die—I call him a sannyasin. Whether he changes his clothes or not is meaningless. That is why we change a sannyasin’s name. But nothing happens by changing the name, because the man remains the same. We change the name because we assume the old man has died, this is another. But without Samadhi the old man cannot die. It is the same man. A young man came to me just now and said: I want to take sannyas—what is your advice? I said, has anyone ever taken sannyas? If taken, it must be false. Sannyas cannot be taken—for the one who would take it must die; only then does sannyas happen. The one who says, I am taking sannyas—his death is what becomes sannyas. So I told him: as long as it feels like something to be taken, do not take it. But the day you find that the one who went about taking sannyas has died, that day you will have become a sannyasin. And I said: as long as you have to ask someone, to seek advice—do not take it. For whatever is taken on another’s advice is always false. The day you find that even if the whole world says, do not take sannyas—but for you there is no question of taking—you have already become a sannyasin—only then… In olden days they gave initiation…as I spoke of Jesus, so it happened all over the world…when they initiated a sannyasin, they would take him to the cremation ground. They would lay him upon the pyre and set it alight. It was a symbol. Then they would lift him from the burning pyre and say: the man you were has died; now another has been born. We shave a corpse’s head; that is why a sannyasin’s head was shaved—that man is dead. Then his name is changed, because that man has died—the one who was someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s brother—he has died. So they give another name. Even now the same things happen. But now all this is false. If we lay someone upon a wooden pyre and lift him up, will the inner man die? How will he die? If we change his clothes and name, will the inner man die? No. The pyre means—Samadhi. The one who enters Samadhi does not return the one who went in; another returns. He is altogether another. Readiness to die is sannyas. And sannyas flowers from Samadhi. I hold that if someone attains Samadhi anywhere, he will become sannyas. Sannyas does not mean he will run away from home. Those who run from home are precisely the ones for whom the home is immensely valuable; those who abandon wives are those greedy for women; those who leave wealth are the ones who are covetous. But for whom all is accepted as it is—he does not run anywhere; he remains where he is. I have heard: in a village there was a fakir. The king of that place would sometimes go out at night—and would again and again see that fakir shivering under a neem tree in the cold nights. He inquired. His ministers said: he is no ordinary man—an extraordinary being; he has reached somewhere, attained something, something has happened in his life. So the king one night went and said: do not lie here—great reverence has arisen in my heart—come, live in my palace. Perhaps the king thought—maybe he did not think, but somewhere in the unconscious the shadow must have been—that a sannyasin will immediately say: the palace? I cannot go. I am a fakir. We lie by the roadside in our huts. Palaces are not for us. But even as the king was speaking, the fakir sprang up and mounted the king’s horse. He said: come—shall we go then? Which way? The king was in difficulty. His reverence vanished at once. He thought: I have not even finished speaking and this man has agreed! What sort of sannyasin is this! But it is hard to withdraw one’s own words. How to take them back! His heart had already turned sour. For the indulgent can only worship the renunciate. The worship by the worldly has produced the renouncers. Therefore whoever is most greedy for wealth will go and touch the feet of one who has kicked wealth away. He will touch his feet to say: this is a man. He has reached where I too should reach. The man mad after women will go touch the feet of a celibate—he will say: this is a man. We worship our opposite. And if one wants to be worshipped, one must become the opposite of the common folk. If they stand on their feet, you do a headstand—and worship begins to flow. Worship goes only to the opposite. But the opposite is not the transformed. Stand on your head or on your feet—you are the same man. A man does not change by standing on his head. The king was in a bind, but having invited him, he took the fakir home. He housed him in the finest palace. But his reverence was gone. For the indulgent can revere only the renunciate. Slowly his reverence withered. Whatever he offered to eat, the fakir ate; wherever asked to sleep, he slept—on velvet mattresses he lay. Then the king said: all is ruined—I have made a great mistake. What kind of man have I brought! Six months later the king went one day and said to the fakir: a question has arisen in my mind—may I ask? The question is: now what difference remains between you and me? The sannyasin said: you ask after six months; the question arose that very night. The king said: what do you mean? The sannyasin said: when I mounted your horse that very instant the question arose. But you are a weak man—even to ask took you six months! The king said: perhaps you are right—the question did arise then. Then you should have asked at once, said the fakir—how weak you are! The king said: whatever it is—tell me today—what difference remains between us? The fakir said: if you truly want to know the difference, let us go to the place where the question arose. I will answer there. They went outside the village, beneath that tree. Then they went on walking. The king said: we have passed the tree too—now please answer. The fakir said: a little further…a little further… They reached the boundary of the kingdom—where the king’s realm ended. There was a river. The fakir said: let us cross the river too. The king said: what is the point? Now answer—the sun is at the zenith; it is noon. The fakir said: my answer is this—now I go ahead; do you come with me? The king said: how can I go? My wife, my children, my kingdom! The fakir said: then I am going. If the difference becomes visible—see it. I lived in your palace—but your palace did not live in me. You are not merely in the palace—the palace is in you. Where now is your palace? Where your wife? Where your children? And yet you say: I must return—my wife, my children, my palace! Nothing is mine. I was a guest in your palace; I was not its owner. I was inside the palace, but the palace was not inside me. Shall I go? Reverence arose again in the king’s heart. Reverence rises quickly, and vanishes quickly. He at once grasped the sannyasin’s feet and said: Master, where are you going leaving me! Return with me. The fakir said: I can again mount your horse—but your reverence will end. Now let me go. I have no difficulty—I can return. But you will be in great trouble. For six months I slept in joy—you were in distress. The question will rise again if I return. So do not take me back. I can return, for for me this direction or that makes no difference—whether I go here, or there, or nowhere—it makes no difference. But you will be in difficulty. This is the man I call a sannyasin. The one who is frightened of the world is not a sannyasin. But the one who begins to live in the world as a guest, as a visitor—the one for whom the world is all around, but not within—he is sannyas. But no one can be sannyas without passing through Samadhi. To be sannyas means: without dying, no one can be a sannyasin. He who dies while living—he who learns the art of dying while alive—and once someone has passed through Samadhi, then each moment he dies and each moment the new is born. It is not that once I died and another was formed—no. Moment to moment the old dies and the new arises. Each moment is death, each moment is life, each moment is resurrection. Moment to moment the past dies and the new is born. And when one becomes such that there is no burden of the past upon him—the past all dies; and there is no anxiety for the future—why be anxious for what has not come; upon whom remains only the thrill of the life of the present—such a person becomes capable of attaining the supreme bliss of Paramatma. And he comes to know what is freedom, what is moksha, what the meaning of life is, what the fragrance of life is, what the light of life is. But to learn to swim one must enter the water. And if one would know nectar, one must go into death. As we write with white chalk upon a black board—one can write upon a white wall too, but it will not be seen; it will be seen only when written with white chalk upon black—the letters stand out. The stars are in the sky even by day; they are not seen. They do not vanish—they are there even by day—but not visible. At night they become visible—for the black sheet spreads and the stars shine out. On the night of the new moon, the stars appear as never otherwise. The darker the night, the brighter the stars. The deeper a man passes through death, the more the star of nectar shines for him. The dark shroud of death envelops on all sides—and in the midst only that lamp remains visible which is deathless, which does not go out, cannot go out. There is no way for it to go out, no path, no door. If one would know amrit, one must know death. This will seem reversed. It will seem reversed, but if we say to a seed: if you would become a tree, then you must perish—the seed dies and the tree is born. So too, if we die, the plant of nectar begins to blossom within. Its fragrance is unique, its music unique. But we unfortunate ones remain deprived—because we fear precisely that which is the door, and thus we never enter the mansion. If one would enter the temple of God, the name of its door is death. Therefore we abandon that temple and build our own little temple in the neighborhood. And we install a home-made God there. We make our own door, our own temple, our own key, our own everything. We even enter that temple—and return exactly as we had gone in. No—the temple of the Divine is elsewhere; it is not made by our making. Its door is something else. That very thing we fear is its door. So in the mornings I will speak each day of that door and its steps. Whatever questions you have, write them down and give them to me—I will keep speaking on them. And the night is an invitation only to those who can gather courage to enter that door. Think about it through the day. If you feel yes, there is courage to die a little—then come; otherwise do not come. That path is not for the weak. Though no one is so weak. But we can make ourselves weak if we choose—become very frightened—and be lost. I am obliged by the peace and love with which you have listened. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Like someone lighting a lamp all of a sudden in the dark, and where nothing could be seen, everything begins to be visible—such is the lamp of Samadhi in the darkness of life. Or like a desert where it has not rained for years, and the very life of the earth writhes with thirst for water—then suddenly clouds gather and raindrops begin to fall, and peace and rejoicing break into dance in the heart of that desert—such is the shower of Samadhi upon the desert of life. Or as if one who was dead suddenly becomes alive—where breath was not moving, breath begins; where eyes did not open, eyes open; where life had receded, there again the footsteps of life are heard—such is the coming of Samadhi into a lifeless life.
Nothing in life is more important than Samadhi. Without Samadhi no bliss can be found, no peace can be found, no truth can be found.
Therefore, to understand Samadhi is very useful. Not only to understand—for Samadhi is among those few things where mere understanding is not enough—only by passing through it does understanding happen at all.
As if someone stands on the bank of a river and we say: come, we will teach you to swim! And he says: first let me learn to swim right here on the bank, only then will I step into the water. First let me understand, then I will enter the water. Logically he is not wrong. He speaks rightly. Without knowing how to swim, how would one agree to get into the water! But there is a greater difficulty: his difficulty, and the teacher’s as well—for how can one teach swimming without entering the water? So the teacher says: first come down! Without entering the water you will never learn to swim. He too is not wrong. And the learner says: I am afraid; without knowing to swim, I will not enter. First let me learn, then I may step in.
The matter of Samadhi is something like that. Without going into Samadhi nothing can be known. But we would like to know while standing on the shore: what is Samadhi?
I will try to say as much as words can say. For what words cannot say, there is no way to say it.
I have heard: someone went to a fakir and asked him, what Samadhi is it you speak of? What meditation do you talk about? What is it? Say something! Explain! Tell me!
The fakir had been sitting with eyes open; he immediately closed his eyes.
The man said, this is delightful indeed! At least your eyes were open—open them! I have come to know what Samadhi is, what meditation is! You speak of it day and night—tell me something at least!
The fakir had been sitting—suddenly he fell down flat!
The man said, what are you doing? Don’t go and die on me! I only came to ask about Samadhi.
The fakir opened his eyes and said, I am trying to tell you.
The man said, not like this—tell me in words.
The fakir said, whatever can be said in words will be nothing in relation to Samadhi. So I showed you by doing.
But what would we know if someone closes his eyes, or falls down?
No; only when our own eyes close, and we ourselves fall one day—not only outwardly but inwardly too—and scatter and dissolve like a drop lost in the ocean, like a seed breaks open in the soil—only if it happens within us will we recognize what Samadhi is.
Yet some hints can be given. In the morning I will give a few hints, and in the evening I would like that we all enter Samadhi together. Those who are only curious to listen will come only in the morning. Those who are curious to swim as well, who truly want to know, will come in the evening. In the morning we will speak, and in the evening we will try to taste. But remember, it will not be understood by talk; it can be understood only by taste.
I also think it will be good to try to explain by telling how I reached that door. Perhaps the path may become clear that way; perhaps you may also feel that this path can be walked.
People keep asking me: how did you reach that Samadhi?
Let me begin with a small incident.
When I was little, those with whom I grew up—unfortunately or fortunately—left the world very early. I was only seven when death came to them. And I watched them dying slowly. They did not die all at once; first their speech was lost, then their eyes closed, then they became unconscious and remained unconscious for twenty-four hours. And then, in that very unconsciousness, slowly—like the oil of a lamp running out, the flame becoming dim—slowly they sank and were gone. It was they whom I loved, whom I cherished. I had grown up by their side. In that moment it felt so—utterly unfortunate.
But who knows—misfortunes many times become fortunes. For me it was the first event of death. And it was also the first event of the departure of one whom I loved. The whole house began to weep, to be afflicted and pained. But in me one thought kept circling: if they are no more, what need is there for me to remain? The one I loved is no more; then I too should not remain. I could not even weep. Today I understand that weeping expresses our grief—perhaps tries to drain it. Now I see that through crying and wailing the pain that has descended upon us gets released, it flows out.
I could not weep, because it seemed to me that if the one I loved is finished, then I too should be finished; there is no need for me to live. They took the body to the cremation ground; thinking I was a small child they locked me in the house—lest I go to the cremation ground, lest seeing it I be struck in the mind; and I loved them, how could I watch them burn. But when the family had gone, I too slipped out by the back path and reached the cremation ground. I did not quite know what would happen there. Afraid the family would be angry, I hid and watched them burn from up a tree. Then I returned.
That night I went to sleep with a single prayer: that I too may die! God, let it be that I too may die! Until sleep came, only one refrain kept resounding in my mind: I too must die, I must be finished. When I fell asleep I do not know—but even in sleep the same voice kept running: let me die, let me die, let me die.
Around two or three in the night, suddenly sleep broke—and I felt that the one I had been saying should die, had died. All had died. I could not move my hand, I could not open my eyes, there seemed to be no trace of breath, whether the body was there or not—I could not tell. All had died. And yet another wonder—that all had died, and still I am—for I knew that all had died. Both things together—everything died, and yet I am. It was also clear that I am—for if I were not, who would know that all had died?
I was very young, but from that day death ended for me. After that, many dear ones died—but for me no one died again. Next morning I was filled with a peace and bliss I had never known before. I had passed through an experience. Looking back I can say—then I did not know, but now I can say—it was the first peep through the door of Samadhi. To peep through the door of Samadhi one must pass through the process of dying while living.
But we are all terribly afraid of dying. Our whole life we strive not to die. Our entire effort is for one thing: not to die. Our philosophies, our religions, our gurus—all arrange for the same assurance: do not be afraid, do not be afraid. And even if we accept the immortality of the Atman, it is not because we know the Atman is immortal, but because it lessens the fear of death.
Thus people who fear death inevitably believe in the immortality of the Atman. We are engaged in the effort to escape death. Our whole life is not a life of living, it is a life of avoiding death. Our wealth, our houses, our friends, our loved ones—these are walls of security against death. Therefore the one who has more wealth feels more secure. The one who has a house like a fortress feels more secure. The one guarded by soldiers feels more secure. The one who has power thinks: I am safe.
If we wish to understand the secret of human life, there are only two kinds of people in the world: those who live, and those who keep arranging to avoid dying. But the one who keeps arranging to avoid death does not escape death—death comes. And the wonder is: the one who lives escapes death. For the deeper he descends into life, the more he discovers there is no death. Death is the greatest untruth—none greater than that. And yet it is this we fear and try to avoid. We keep running, running lest we die. That is why we cannot become religious. A religious man is one who is ready to die—who says: if I must die, then I want to die and see.
Socrates was dying. Someone asked: are you not afraid—death is approaching! Socrates said, only two possibilities exist. Either I will simply die and nothing will remain. If I simply die and nothing remains—then what fear? For fear requires that I remain. What sorrow? Sorrow too requires my being. What dread? If I die and nothing remains, there is no fear. And if I do remain—and in dying I do not die—then again, what question of fear? If I remain, what fear? Then I will know that what died was not me, and what remained is what I am.
Socrates said, there are only two possibilities. Either I will die—and then there is no room for fear. Or I will remain—and then there is nothing to fear.
But we? We are very frightened, very afraid. Therefore we cannot reach Samadhi. Only one who is ready to die can reach Samadhi. That is why after someone’s death we build a platform and call it a samadhi—and the last state of meditation is also called samadhi. We call the tomb a samadhi—and the ultimate state of meditation is also Samadhi. There is a connection: the one who, while living, puts himself into the grave, becomes available to Samadhi. But to put oneself into the grave while living—to prepare to die while living—is arduous.
I have heard: in Egypt there was an ashram. Beneath the ashram itself was the cremation ground—an underground necropolis carved out. It was thousands of years old. For miles they had dug and made burial chambers. When a monk died, a stone would be lifted, the body lowered below, and the rock sealed.
Once a monk died—or so they thought. But some mistake occurred. He had not died; he had only fainted. They lowered him into the necropolis and sealed the rock. Five or six hours later, in that world of death, his eyes opened, he came to. One can imagine his plight! Consider yourself in his place. Bodies upon bodies, rotting; stench; bones; worms; darkness! And he knew that unless someone above dies, the stone door will not open. He also knew that however much he might shout—he still shouted, knowing the voice would not reach above—the ashram was a mile away. People only came to the necropolis when someone died. The door was sealed with a great slab. Still, knowing all this…
We too often shout, knowing the voice will not reach. People shout in temples—knowing their voice will not reach anywhere. We are all shouting—knowing it will not reach. Even where there is no hope, man goes on hoping.
That man shouted and shouted until his throat gave way and his voice failed. You might think he would have killed himself. But no—he did not. He did not live a few days—he lived seven years in that tomb. How did he live? He began to eat the decaying corpses. He began to eat the maggots that lived in them. From the walls of the necropolis, the trickling water from the drains—he licked and drank it. In the hope that someday someone would die. The door would open—if not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, then the day after. He knew not when the sun rose, when night came.
After seven years someone died; the slab was lifted, and the man came out. And he did not come out empty-handed. In Egypt it is the custom to dress the dead in new clothes and to place a few precious garments and some money with them. He had collected all the clothes and money of the corpses, thinking he would take them when he emerged. So with a big bundle of clothes and a large bag of money he came out. No one could recognize him; those who had come to the necropolis ran in fright—who is this! His hair reached the ground; his eyelashes had grown so long his eyes would not open. He said, why run? Do you not recognize me? I am the one you lowered seven years ago.
They said, but how did you remain alive? Even if you regained consciousness six hours later—how did you survive? Why did you not kill yourself? How did you live seven years in that necropolis?
He said, dying is not so easy! I too would have thought so. I too—had someone else fallen into that tomb—would have said the same: madman! Instead of living, better to die! But now I can say: dying is not that easy. I tried my utmost to live. And what I did to live is enough to make one shudder. If I think of it even today, perhaps I could not do it again.
We too will think, what kind of man he must have been! But he was just like us. Had we been in his place, we would have done the same. And what we call life—is it very different from that necropolis? And what we call our food—is it so different from the food he took there? And the gathering of clothes and money—is it not also money and garments snatched from the dead?
When the father grows old—whether children say it or not—they think: let him depart. They are eager to snatch the dead man’s clothes and coins. People offer congratulations to the President—on the Vice President’s birthday they lay garlands too—and knowingly or unknowingly pray to God: how long will you hold on? If only he departs, his dead chair may be mounted by someone—let someone sit upon it.
Thus in Delhi when someone dies, those who appear with tears on their faces, carrying the body to the cremation ground, are already preparing at that very moment for who will sit upon his dead chair—lest someone else occupy it. Even on the way to the cremation ground there is a race as to who will touch the corpse first—because he may claim the chair. I have heard that when Gandhi died, even on the tank on which he was carried there was competition among leaders to stand upon it—so that the world might see who the heirs were!
What we call life is also a great cremation ground, with a queue of the dying. Someone will die now, someone a little later, someone after that—someone today, someone tomorrow—but all will die. And the houses we live in are snatched from the dead; the clothes too, and the wealth as well. And here also we live without ever knowing any joy, without finding any peace—only with a hope that perhaps tomorrow peace will come, tomorrow bliss will come, tomorrow something will be had. So somehow live till tomorrow. Live by any means till tomorrow—perhaps something will be found tomorrow.
But I want to tell you: one who is not ready to die will never find anything. And we have died many times. But we are so afraid of dying that long before death we fall unconscious. Therefore no memory of death remains. We have died many times and been born many times—but each time the processes of dying and birth frighten us so much that we are born in unconsciousness and we die in unconsciousness. So no memory forms; a gap happens. Thus we retain no memory of past births. There is no other reason for the loss of past-life memory except that in between came death, and in death we became so frightened that we fell unconscious. The interval of unconsciousness broke memory into two parts—the previous memory fell away, this memory is separate. The gap became so large that joining the two is difficult.
Yes, if one learns the art of dying, one can remember past lives. For then one can bridge that interval. We are also born unconscious. We have been born countless times—but born in unconsciousness. For birth too—it will surprise you—feels like death to the child. When a child is born from the mother’s womb, it appears to him like death. Why? Because what he had taken as life for nine months is coming to an end. What he had known as life is finishing now. Of the life ahead he knows nothing. Ahead lies fear. All the comfort of the womb, all convenience, all pleasure—everything is being taken away. The future he knows not. He is being uprooted from his world—his roots are being torn. So what we call birth appears to the child like death. That is why the child is born unconscious, not in awareness. And what we call death is also a birth in another sense. But we too die in unconsciousness. For it seems that what was is slipping away, and what will come is unfamiliar—whether it will come at all, who knows? What will happen?
Every death is a birth and every birth a death. In this cosmos nothing ever ends completely and nothing ever begins absolutely. What we call beginning is the ending of something; what we call ending is the beginning of something else. What we call evening is the end of the day and the beginning of the night; what we call morning is the end of the night and the beginning of the day. In this world, nothing reaches a total end, and nothing is a first beginning. There is ending and beginning; beginning and ending—start, end, start, end. Nothing ends anywhere and nothing starts anywhere. Therefore life is infinite. But fear of dying renders us unconscious. And it is because of this fear that we never enter Samadhi.
Many say to me—only yesterday a friend said: you speak of meditation, but we cannot yet understand it, we cannot descend into it.
You will not descend—until, in the very depths of the mind, the readiness to die has arisen. Only then can one enter Samadhi. But people come to meditate hoping that perhaps meditation too may become a device to avoid death. They think that through meditation they may come to know: the Atman is immortal.
It will be known. But it will be known only to one who is ready to die. Through meditation it will be known that the Atman is immortal—but not to one who has come merely to find out the immortality of the Atman; only to one who is ready to die. That very readiness takes him to the place where the deathless is revealed. Therefore, for anyone who has ever attained Samadhi, the awareness of death is the first threshold at its door. But we keep pushing away the awareness of death. We have built cremation grounds outside our villages so that death is not seen every day. It should be in the middle of the village—so that every child, every person passes by it, and two or three times each day the thought of death arises. We built it outside the village, far away, safely out of sight.
I went to a village recently—very clever people. They had built such a fine cremation ground that even there you would not know it was one. They planted gardens, built a library there—so those who go can read newspapers there as well. They read newspapers here, they read newspapers there. Even now, when we go to the cremation ground, we talk of everything in the world except death—we leave death out. And we maintain a constant fiction: always others die; I never die! So we send others off—this one died, that one died. I never die. I never die—others die. And when a man has carried five or ten bodies to the cremation ground, he becomes even more assured: how can I die! I am the one who takes others; how can anyone take me!
Those who have looked deeply into the psyche of people like Hitler say: such people are terrified of death, and by killing others they feel reassured—having killed so many, who can kill me! Genghis, Tamerlane, Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Mao—all are people frightened by death. And in the process of avoiding death they kill others. When a man kills a million people—we estimate Hitler killed seventy to eighty lakhs; Stalin killed perhaps a crore—when one man kills a crore, in one sense he becomes godlike. He feels: I erased a crore—who can erase me! Deep inside he gains the assurance: I am the eraser, not the erased.
There are only two ways to feel godlike: either compete with him in creating, or compete with him in destroying. We cannot compete in creating—so it becomes easier to compete in destroying. By destroying, we become like God.
Yet there is fear of death! Therefore even a man like Hitler, who kills so many, is very frightened. He would not allow anyone to enter his room at night. He did not marry for this very reason—for at least a wife would have to be allowed in. He did not marry from fear that a woman might have to be let in, and who knows—women are untrustworthy—she might poison him, shoot him, conspire with the enemy. So he did not marry.
Hitler married at the hour of his death—an hour before. When Berlin had fallen, when bombs were dropping near the basement where he was hiding, and enemy planes circled over Berlin, he told a friend: bring the woman who has been waiting twelve years to marry me. His friends said: what meaning is there now? He said: now I am unafraid—death is certain. Bring her.
A sleeping priest was dragged from bed. In that basement, before four or six people, Hitler was married. And the first act of their wedding night—they both drank poison and died. Now he was at ease—someone could be taken so close; there was no fear now.
All the great killers of history are people afraid of death. We kill others to reassure ourselves that we will not die, no one can kill us. The system we have invented for life—if we look closely, we will find we devised it out of fear of death…we do not speak of death.
I remember from childhood—because after that incident, death was no question for me.
A sannyasin had come to the village; there was great talk. I went to hear him. He spoke of the immortality of the Atman. And what else is there to say? The dead and the death-fearing find most delightful the repetition and explanation that the Atman is immortal. They become very cheerful—not because the Atman is immortal, but because once again someone has reassured them there is no need to fear.
He was explaining the Atman is immortal. I saw all the frightened people of the village sitting, listening with great joy. I stood and asked him: Swamiji, when do you intend to die? He said, what kind of vulgar question is this! Is this something to ask? The villagers too said: is this something to ask? It is rude to ask a man when he intends to die. The swami was very angry.
I said, I had thought—since he says the Atman is immortal—he would not be upset at the mention of death. But at the thought of death he became angry.
I asked, when do you intend to die? When will you die? He said: one must not ask such things—such crude talk should not be uttered.
If the Atman is immortal, how does death remain crude? Then death no longer remains. Then to ask about death is not improper.
We do not speak of death. We keep it pushed aside. Even when it intrudes, we talk of other things. If a neighbor dies we talk of a thousand things—except the one thing. We pity him—without caring that the event we pity in him will befall us today or tomorrow. We talk of his children—what will happen to them? Of his wife—what will happen to her? Of his job, his money, his business—what will happen to all that? We talk of everything, but we leave out the circle in the middle—the death that happened. We do not speak of what death is. We leave that out, always off to the side.
If there is one thing absolutely certain in our lives, it is death. Everything else is uncertain. Nothing else is fixed. One thing is fixed: what we call death will happen. Of the most certain thing we speak the least. You will not have seen a book on death. There are books on the immortality of the Atman. There is no book on death. No one speaks of death; we keep it out of the conversation—because it is a dangerous fact; lest it become visible.
But however much we keep it out, death does not stay outside. One day it comes inside. It breaks all our arrangements and enters. Our doors and locks are useless—it enters within. Our guards are useless—it enters within. Our friends, companions, relations—worthless. Those we gathered to erase our loneliness—to save us from feeling alone—my wife I brought so I not be alone; a son I sired so I not be alone; friends I made so I not be alone. But when death comes I find I am utterly alone. Those I thought would be with me—weeping for me, yes—but none is ready to go with me. They weep: poor fellow! They feel sad. But perhaps their grief is not for me either; they are sad because they are left alone. And soon they will arrange to erase their loneliness—and be filled again.
To avoid loneliness we have made society, parties, institutions, organizations, nations; to avoid loneliness we have made castes—Hindu and Muslim, Jain and Christian, Buddhist and Parsi. So that I not be alone, we have gathered crowds.
But what difference does it make? We are alone. Our whole arrangement is false. It is deceptive—not true. And death in a single instant renders every arrangement futile. All is left alone. We need to recognize this truth of death—and there is no need to be frightened of it.
Then there is no use for fear. For as Socrates said, he said rightly: if I die absolutely, I simply die—then what is there to talk about? And if I do not die, then again what is there to talk about?
Our arrangements to avoid death do not let us come close to meditation or to Samadhi. Therefore, to avoid meditation and Samadhi we have invented other religious activities. Whereas Samadhi is the very foundation of religion—everything else is deception.
To avoid Samadhi we invented prayer. To avoid Samadhi we invented rosaries and austerities. To avoid Samadhi we invented mantra and tantra—who knows what all—yet all to avoid Samadhi.
The web of religion spread around us is ritual, mere ceremony. It does not move us in the direction of dying; it gives us a prop to live. It says to us: do not be afraid! It gives reassurance.
Religion has no reassurance. Religion says: come—be effaced and die! Yet as soon as someone goes ready to die completely, he finds there is something that does not die. To know this something, to recognize it in awareness, is necessary. Then there is no death ever again. Then we will die in awareness. And when a man has died once in awareness, the meaning of his whole life, the arrangement of his births, the entire journey changes.
But to die in awareness, before that—conscious death—we must, while living, taste some experience of dying; we must descend in some direction of dying while alive. We must die while living.
Jesus has a very precious saying: he who saves himself will be lost; and he who is willing to be lost will be saved.
He spoke truly—absolutely truly. Perhaps the hanging of Jesus on the cross is a symbol of that—of dying, wholly dying.
But Jesus was crucified; his followers found a neat trick—they hang a little cross upon their necks. It makes sense when the neck hangs upon the cross; but a cross hanging upon the neck—this makes no sense at all. Everywhere, those we call religious followers create deceptions of this kind. It looks the same—Jesus on the cross; the priest of Jesus with a cross hanging around his neck. A small cross of gold, hanging upon the neck.
Where are crosses ever made of gold? And what meaning has it to hang a cross on one’s neck?
The cross is a symbol of something else—the readiness to die. Jesus too, in the last moment, was very frightened. In my view that very moment was the most precious of his life. When he was nailed to the cross, spikes driven into his hands, from his mouth came the cry: O God, what are you doing? What is this you are doing? What is happening to me? From his very soul, filled with extreme anxiety and strain, the cry arose: O God, what is it that you are showing me?
There was complaint! Complaint reveals that he had not yet seen. But in a single instant he understood—and he began to laugh. He said: Thy will—whatsoever You do, I consent.
This one instant is the moment of revolution in Jesus’ life. The moment he said, O God, what are you showing me?—there is complaint about death. Until then he was Jesus, the son of a carpenter. One instant later, when he said, Thy will be done—he was no longer Jesus, he became the Christ. No longer the son of a common man—he became the son of God. He had become willing to die. In one instant this happened—and that instant became the moment of Samadhi—as soon as he said, I consent.
The man who within can say: I am willing to die—Samadhi comes into his life. And the one who says: dying? I cannot die. I seek meditation precisely so I need not die. Let me know that the Atman is immortal; let union with God happen; let there be a sure guarantee that I shall never die. If this body dies, the Atman will not die. Whatever happens, I must not die—that I want to make certain. If such a man goes in search of meditation, he cannot enter meditation.
One who is willing to die—I call him a sannyasin. Whether he changes his clothes or not is meaningless. That is why we change a sannyasin’s name. But nothing happens by changing the name, because the man remains the same. We change the name because we assume the old man has died, this is another. But without Samadhi the old man cannot die. It is the same man.
A young man came to me just now and said: I want to take sannyas—what is your advice?
I said, has anyone ever taken sannyas? If taken, it must be false. Sannyas cannot be taken—for the one who would take it must die; only then does sannyas happen. The one who says, I am taking sannyas—his death is what becomes sannyas. So I told him: as long as it feels like something to be taken, do not take it. But the day you find that the one who went about taking sannyas has died, that day you will have become a sannyasin. And I said: as long as you have to ask someone, to seek advice—do not take it. For whatever is taken on another’s advice is always false. The day you find that even if the whole world says, do not take sannyas—but for you there is no question of taking—you have already become a sannyasin—only then…
In olden days they gave initiation…as I spoke of Jesus, so it happened all over the world…when they initiated a sannyasin, they would take him to the cremation ground. They would lay him upon the pyre and set it alight. It was a symbol. Then they would lift him from the burning pyre and say: the man you were has died; now another has been born.
We shave a corpse’s head; that is why a sannyasin’s head was shaved—that man is dead. Then his name is changed, because that man has died—the one who was someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s brother—he has died. So they give another name.
Even now the same things happen. But now all this is false. If we lay someone upon a wooden pyre and lift him up, will the inner man die? How will he die? If we change his clothes and name, will the inner man die?
No. The pyre means—Samadhi. The one who enters Samadhi does not return the one who went in; another returns. He is altogether another. Readiness to die is sannyas. And sannyas flowers from Samadhi. I hold that if someone attains Samadhi anywhere, he will become sannyas. Sannyas does not mean he will run away from home. Those who run from home are precisely the ones for whom the home is immensely valuable; those who abandon wives are those greedy for women; those who leave wealth are the ones who are covetous. But for whom all is accepted as it is—he does not run anywhere; he remains where he is.
I have heard: in a village there was a fakir. The king of that place would sometimes go out at night—and would again and again see that fakir shivering under a neem tree in the cold nights. He inquired. His ministers said: he is no ordinary man—an extraordinary being; he has reached somewhere, attained something, something has happened in his life. So the king one night went and said: do not lie here—great reverence has arisen in my heart—come, live in my palace.
Perhaps the king thought—maybe he did not think, but somewhere in the unconscious the shadow must have been—that a sannyasin will immediately say: the palace? I cannot go. I am a fakir. We lie by the roadside in our huts. Palaces are not for us.
But even as the king was speaking, the fakir sprang up and mounted the king’s horse. He said: come—shall we go then? Which way?
The king was in difficulty. His reverence vanished at once. He thought: I have not even finished speaking and this man has agreed! What sort of sannyasin is this! But it is hard to withdraw one’s own words. How to take them back! His heart had already turned sour. For the indulgent can only worship the renunciate. The worship by the worldly has produced the renouncers.
Therefore whoever is most greedy for wealth will go and touch the feet of one who has kicked wealth away. He will touch his feet to say: this is a man. He has reached where I too should reach. The man mad after women will go touch the feet of a celibate—he will say: this is a man. We worship our opposite. And if one wants to be worshipped, one must become the opposite of the common folk. If they stand on their feet, you do a headstand—and worship begins to flow. Worship goes only to the opposite. But the opposite is not the transformed. Stand on your head or on your feet—you are the same man. A man does not change by standing on his head.
The king was in a bind, but having invited him, he took the fakir home. He housed him in the finest palace. But his reverence was gone. For the indulgent can revere only the renunciate. Slowly his reverence withered. Whatever he offered to eat, the fakir ate; wherever asked to sleep, he slept—on velvet mattresses he lay. Then the king said: all is ruined—I have made a great mistake. What kind of man have I brought!
Six months later the king went one day and said to the fakir: a question has arisen in my mind—may I ask? The question is: now what difference remains between you and me?
The sannyasin said: you ask after six months; the question arose that very night.
The king said: what do you mean?
The sannyasin said: when I mounted your horse that very instant the question arose. But you are a weak man—even to ask took you six months!
The king said: perhaps you are right—the question did arise then.
Then you should have asked at once, said the fakir—how weak you are!
The king said: whatever it is—tell me today—what difference remains between us?
The fakir said: if you truly want to know the difference, let us go to the place where the question arose. I will answer there.
They went outside the village, beneath that tree. Then they went on walking. The king said: we have passed the tree too—now please answer.
The fakir said: a little further…a little further…
They reached the boundary of the kingdom—where the king’s realm ended. There was a river. The fakir said: let us cross the river too.
The king said: what is the point? Now answer—the sun is at the zenith; it is noon.
The fakir said: my answer is this—now I go ahead; do you come with me?
The king said: how can I go? My wife, my children, my kingdom!
The fakir said: then I am going. If the difference becomes visible—see it. I lived in your palace—but your palace did not live in me. You are not merely in the palace—the palace is in you. Where now is your palace? Where your wife? Where your children? And yet you say: I must return—my wife, my children, my palace! Nothing is mine. I was a guest in your palace; I was not its owner. I was inside the palace, but the palace was not inside me. Shall I go?
Reverence arose again in the king’s heart. Reverence rises quickly, and vanishes quickly. He at once grasped the sannyasin’s feet and said: Master, where are you going leaving me! Return with me.
The fakir said: I can again mount your horse—but your reverence will end. Now let me go. I have no difficulty—I can return. But you will be in great trouble. For six months I slept in joy—you were in distress. The question will rise again if I return. So do not take me back. I can return, for for me this direction or that makes no difference—whether I go here, or there, or nowhere—it makes no difference. But you will be in difficulty.
This is the man I call a sannyasin. The one who is frightened of the world is not a sannyasin. But the one who begins to live in the world as a guest, as a visitor—the one for whom the world is all around, but not within—he is sannyas.
But no one can be sannyas without passing through Samadhi. To be sannyas means: without dying, no one can be a sannyasin. He who dies while living—he who learns the art of dying while alive—and once someone has passed through Samadhi, then each moment he dies and each moment the new is born. It is not that once I died and another was formed—no. Moment to moment the old dies and the new arises. Each moment is death, each moment is life, each moment is resurrection. Moment to moment the past dies and the new is born. And when one becomes such that there is no burden of the past upon him—the past all dies; and there is no anxiety for the future—why be anxious for what has not come; upon whom remains only the thrill of the life of the present—such a person becomes capable of attaining the supreme bliss of Paramatma. And he comes to know what is freedom, what is moksha, what the meaning of life is, what the fragrance of life is, what the light of life is.
But to learn to swim one must enter the water. And if one would know nectar, one must go into death. As we write with white chalk upon a black board—one can write upon a white wall too, but it will not be seen; it will be seen only when written with white chalk upon black—the letters stand out. The stars are in the sky even by day; they are not seen. They do not vanish—they are there even by day—but not visible. At night they become visible—for the black sheet spreads and the stars shine out. On the night of the new moon, the stars appear as never otherwise. The darker the night, the brighter the stars.
The deeper a man passes through death, the more the star of nectar shines for him. The dark shroud of death envelops on all sides—and in the midst only that lamp remains visible which is deathless, which does not go out, cannot go out. There is no way for it to go out, no path, no door. If one would know amrit, one must know death.
This will seem reversed. It will seem reversed, but if we say to a seed: if you would become a tree, then you must perish—the seed dies and the tree is born. So too, if we die, the plant of nectar begins to blossom within. Its fragrance is unique, its music unique. But we unfortunate ones remain deprived—because we fear precisely that which is the door, and thus we never enter the mansion.
If one would enter the temple of God, the name of its door is death. Therefore we abandon that temple and build our own little temple in the neighborhood. And we install a home-made God there. We make our own door, our own temple, our own key, our own everything. We even enter that temple—and return exactly as we had gone in.
No—the temple of the Divine is elsewhere; it is not made by our making. Its door is something else. That very thing we fear is its door.
So in the mornings I will speak each day of that door and its steps. Whatever questions you have, write them down and give them to me—I will keep speaking on them. And the night is an invitation only to those who can gather courage to enter that door.
Think about it through the day. If you feel yes, there is courage to die a little—then come; otherwise do not come. That path is not for the weak. Though no one is so weak. But we can make ourselves weak if we choose—become very frightened—and be lost.
I am obliged by the peace and love with which you have listened. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.