I wish to begin my final talk with a small story. On a full-moon night, a few friends in a village drank together in the tavern till midnight. When they were completely intoxicated, the thought arose—It is the night of the full moon; let us go boating on the river.
They went to the river. The fishermen had long since tied up their boats and gone home. These friends boarded a large boat, picked up the oars, and began to row. Drunk—and with great vigor—they rowed and rowed and rowed. By then it was nearing dawn; they had rowed through the night. The cool morning breeze brought a little sobriety back, and they thought—Who knows how far we must have come, how far from our village we now are, and in what direction? It is right that we turn back, for morning is near and we should return.
They decided one of them should get down and see where they had reached—north or south, how far, in which village—so they could find their way back. One friend stepped out, and as he did he began to laugh like a madman. The others asked, Why are you laughing? Tell us where we are. What place? How far?
He said, You too come down, then you also will laugh. One by one they all climbed out, and each went crazy with laughter. If you had been there, you too would have laughed like mad. Something very strange had happened. They had done no journey at all in the night; they were standing exactly where the boat had been moored at dusk. They had forgotten to untie the chain. The boat’s chain was still fastened to the shore. A whole night of rowing had gone in vain.
A boat moves only when its chain is freed from the bank. I begin with this story because, at the end of life, a man commonly finds that he is where he was at birth; the journey never happened—he has reached nowhere. All his life he labored, he rowed, he ran—but arrived nowhere. In the moment of death it is discovered: we remained bound to the old shore.
Why did they forget to unchain the boat? Because they were unconscious; they were not in awareness. A man filled with awareness would not row first; he would first loosen the chain, then take up the oars. But the unconscious man forgets the very idea of untying the chain.
We too do not arrive anywhere in life; one thing becomes certain—we too must have forgotten to unchain life. And we can forget the chain only when we are not aware, when we are unconscious, asleep. Each of us lives almost in sleep—and ends in sleep.
If we awaken, perhaps we become free of death. If we awaken, we become free of sorrow. If we awaken, we become available to the Lord—Paramatma.
But we are asleep—and dreaming. We dream twenty-four hours a day. You may think you dream only in the night; that is not so. Even in the day, while awake, dreams continue within. We sit here now, yet very few are truly here. Someone is elsewhere, someone somewhere else. Who knows where the mind is—the mind has no habit of being where the body sits. And if the mind is elsewhere, it is dreaming.
A man lay on his deathbed. Death was near. The physicians had declared there was no possibility of saving him. His wife sat by his side. His children, his sons, his friends, his relatives were seated all around. It was evening; the house was dark. And because the lamp of a man’s life was about to go out, no lamp was lit in the house that day. All were sad and sorrowful. Evening fell; darkness descended. The man opened his eyes and asked his wife—Where is my eldest son?
His wife felt immense joy hearing that he was asking for his eldest son. All his life he had never asked for anyone. He had been so mad after money that he had had no time to ask after love. Those who are mad after money, their lives become empty of love. Love and money cannot be journeyed together. For money a hard, cruel, violent mind is needed. For love, a humble, tender, compassion-filled heart. Those who set out to accumulate money can do so only at the cost of losing love. If love is not murdered, accumulating money is very difficult, almost impossible.
That husband had never asked—Where is my son? Whenever he asked anything it was—Where is the key to the safe?—or such things. Today, at the moment of death, he asked—Where is my son? The wife was very happy. She said, No harm; even if love is remembered at the time of death, it is good. Thanks to the Lord! She said to her husband, Be at peace; your eldest son sits by your feet.
The husband raised himself on his elbow and asked, And the next son? He too was there. And the next? He too was there. He had five sons. He asked, And the youngest? He too was present. The wife said, Be completely carefree! Tears of joy rose in her eyes. In his last moments, her husband’s heart had filled with love. But the dying man sat up and said, If the youngest is also here, what does this mean? Then who is sitting at the shop?
The wife was mistaken. It was not remembrance of love. Even in the moment of death he was thinking—The shop… is it running? Has it not been closed? Is someone sitting there or not? This man, lying on the deathbed, was seeing the dream of the shop. He was not where his body was; his mind was elsewhere.
Dream means: where I am, my mind is not—then I live in dream, then I live in sleep, then I am unconscious. Awareness means: where I am, there too my consciousness is. Unconsciousness means: where I am, there my consciousness is not.
Each person must ask himself—Am I living in awareness or in sleep?
A friend of mine has returned from Switzerland. He is a great poet. When he came to stay with me as a guest—such a beautiful night, full moon—I said, You have traveled the world, returned from Switzerland. Let me take you to a unique place. I will take you to the Narmada, to the marble rocks and the waterfall. He said, I have seen many waterfalls, many rivers, many lakes, many beautiful nights. I have no special need.
Still I did not agree and took him. I said to him, Every night has its own personality, every moon its own story, and every mountain its own song. Whatever you may have seen, what I am taking you to, that you have not seen; it is unique in its own way.
I took him. In that moonlit night, in solitude, seating him in a boat, I rowed into the hills—the mountains stood washed in milk under the pouring moonlight. One felt one had reached heaven. But for two hours among those hills he did not look even for a moment at the mountains present, nor at the moon smiling in the sky, nor did he hear the silence that was singing on all sides. He kept telling me tales of his Switzerland—that there are such lakes, such mountains; I saw this, I saw that.
When we began to return, as we sat in the car he said, The place you took me to was very beautiful. I said, Forgive me! We went as two, but I arrived there alone; you could not reach. He said, I was with you the whole time—what are you saying? I sat beside you for two hours in the boat. I said, You sat, yes—but you were not with me. You were in Switzerland; near me was only your dead body, a lifeless shell. Not for one moment were you where I took you. And I told him, I confess now I have no faith even in what you claim to have seen in Switzerland, because I have recognized your mind. When you sat here on the Narmada and were in Switzerland, I know, sitting by Switzerland’s lakes you must have been in Kashmir, or somewhere else—you could not have been in Switzerland either!
This I call unconsciousness, sleep, dream. Like a darkness it surrounds us all. And in this very state we try to seek Paramatma; in this state we try to seek bliss; in this state we attempt to decide the truth. All such attempts go in vain—just as the efforts of those drunk villagers went in vain that night.
How can one decide truth in sleep? How can the sleeping know the Lord? How can one, in unconsciousness, attain bliss? How can there be any journey in a dream? And even if there is a journey in a dream, it will be false—you wake in the morning to find you are where you were; in the night you went nowhere. Tonight you may sleep in Bhavnagar; in a dream you may be in Delhi, in Calcutta. Mostly people dream of Delhi, because everyone dreams of being in the capital. You may reach Delhi in the dream—but in the morning you will find you were nowhere; you were in Bhavnagar all along.
Dreams take you nowhere. Yet it is in dreams that we do everything. Therefore all we do becomes futile. In a dream we ask—What is Paramatma? In a dream we ask! In the dream one is a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian, another a Jain. In a dream! In a dream we have decided which book is true; in a dream we have decided which God is true; in a dream we have decided which temple is true, which mosque is true. And we have forgotten one thing—that all decisions made in a dream are worth not even two pennies. The conclusions of a sleeping man have no value. None whatsoever—that you are a Hindu in sleep, or a Muslim, or a Jain; all equal nonsense. And the great wonder is that an awakened man is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Jain. The awakened man is simply a man. The awakened is simply human.
We are all asleep. Sleeping people have created some three hundred religions. And in that very sleep we fight, we kill, we set mosques on fire, we break the idols of temples, we burn books—who knows what all we do. And this disturbance keeps going. In sleep we raise great metaphysical questions and want to decide them—What is heaven like? What is hell like? Those who do not even know the geography of Bhavnagar properly will draw maps of heaven and hell and explain them. They have hung maps in temples—where heaven is, where hell is; how many hells, how many heavens. A man in sleep—who knows what he is doing! Great questions are being asked—and one small question is not being asked by anyone—Am I awake or asleep?
In my vision, the single most important question before man, the supreme enquiry of religion, is just this: Am I awake, or am I asleep? And if I am asleep, how can this sleep break? How can this stupor dissolve? How can I rise beyond dreams? How can these closed eyes open? Then one question alone remains vital. But hardly anyone asks it—because we are unwilling to accept that we are asleep. It hurts the ego deeply if someone says—You are a sleeping man.
I have heard: a fakir came to a village. People gathered to hear him. The village’s biggest wealthy man also came. The fakir began to speak. The wealthy man, seated right in front, fell asleep! People often complete their sleep in temples. Some doctors even say to those who cannot sleep—Go to the temple, listen to a religious discourse! All medicines may fail, but the medicine of a religious talk surely works—sleep comes! The poor rich man, tired after a day of earning, closed his eyes and nodded. Other monks had come earlier—he would sleep the same way. But no monk had ever said—Sir, you are sleeping. His name was Asoji. This happened in a village of Rajasthan. Monks had never said he slept; rather they would say—Sethji, you listen with such deep absorption.
Between monks and wealthy men there is some inner conspiracy, collusion, and compromise. Monks praise the rich; the rich touch the feet of monks. Always this conspiracy has continued. So the monk cannot speak against the rich—because if the wealthy turn against him, who will build temples, who will establish pilgrim places, who will build dharamshalas, who will give donations? The whole religion is run by the wealthy. So those monks would say—Asoji, none listen with such attention as you; you are so absorbed! Asoji knew he slept, but would smile and say—It is my habit always to listen with attention.
False words are very pleasing to man—if only they gratify his ego! A true word appears bad if it goes against the ego; a false word appears good if it satisfies the ego.
But this fakir was unusual. When he saw the wealthy man sleeping, he stopped speaking and said loudly—Asoji, are you asleep? Startled, Asoji opened his eyes—No, no, I am not sleeping. Perhaps you do not know, you are new—I am listening in deep meditation!
The fakir began again. The words of a sleeping man cannot be trusted. In ten minutes Asoji slept again. The fakir stopped and said—Asoji, are you sleeping?
Now Asoji became angry. The whole village is listening—they will say, Asoji sleeps during discourse! And if the village and God both hear that he slept during discourse, even entry to heaven might be hampered. And the fakir speaks so loudly. Asoji said—You did not understand. I told you I am awake! I am listening with attention. Do continue.
The fakir began again. Asoji slept again. The sleeping man cannot be relied upon; what he says has no firmness. But the fakir too was one of a kind—he again stopped. And this time what he said, listen carefully. Perhaps some here too have dozed and may not hear. Earlier he had said—Asoji, are you sleeping? And Asoji would promptly say—No, no. This time he said—Asoji, are you living? And in sleep, Asoji thought it was the same old question and replied—No, no, who says so?
The fakir had asked—Asoji, are you living? Asoji, in sleep, thought it was the old question and said—No, no, who says so?
The fakir said—It is now certain you were sleeping. Yet your answer is also right—for one who sleeps cannot live; to live, awakening is necessary. So you say rightly—No. You are not living. How can a sleeping man live? A sleeping man is almost a dead man. The one who truly lives is the one who is awake.
So in this last talk, I wish to say this to you—that ordinarily we are sleeping people. And the process of awakening, the science of awakening, the art by which one awakens—that is religion.
Earlier I told you: religion is the art of living. And the art of living is attained through the art of awakening. When awakening—awareness—happens, when prana are fully alert and begin to experience life, then each moment the vision of the Lord begins; each instant his music is heard; in every particle his form becomes available; all life is transmuted into waves of nectar.
But for that, awakening is essential. How can one awaken—I will speak of that later. First, you must understand clearly that if you would awaken, a decision is necessary within—Let me admit: I am asleep. One who is not ready to accept—I am asleep—will never take a single step toward awakening. The first key in the direction of awakening is to feel—Yes, I am a sleeping man. And for this, the whole of your life is the evidence, the proof.
Today you must have become angry—and after anger you must have repented and decided—Now I shall never be angry again. An hour later you find you are angry again. Where did the decision of an hour ago go? It was made in sleep—therefore, it became useless. There was no remembrance of it.
A man decides—Tomorrow I will rise at four in the morning. Every morning at four I must rise. Enough of negligence; now I shall get up at four. He goes to sleep after swearing—Whatever happens, I must rise at four. When the alarm rings at four, he says in his mind—Today… let it be, tomorrow we will see! He sleeps again. In the morning he repents—Very bad. How did I sleep? I had decided to rise—surely I had to—how did I fall asleep?
The one who decided was also a sleeping man. Hence the decision did not become life; it went waste. We all make auspicious resolves; but they do not become reality. A resolve made in sleep has no value. All day long our lives testify—we walk in unconsciousness.
A man works in an office. His boss becomes angry and insults him. That man too feels rage rise—to answer back, to catch the boss by the collar. What servant is there who does not want to seize his master by the throat! But in front of the boss, he folds his hands—Sir, you are absolutely right; I am completely wrong. Inside, anger boils—but life is at stake; to express such anger is dangerous. As a river flows downward, so does anger—toward the weaker. Toward the powerful, anger never flows.
The boss is above; to get angry at him is risky. That direction is closed. The man swallows his anger and smiles with folded hands. But the anger keeps circling within. Returning home, he seeks some pretext to pour it on the wife—The bread is burnt, the vegetable is not right, the clothes are not properly washed today.
Yesterday also the clothes were not properly washed; yesterday also the bread was burnt; yesterday also the vegetable was like this—but yesterday there was no boiling anger within. Today it is boiling; he finds any excuse and falls upon the wife. This anger was meant for the boss; it lands on the wife. Evidence of a sleeping man.
What can the wife do against the husband? The husband has been telling her for thousands of years—I am your God. A great joke! The husband himself teaches—Your God I am. Women have not written scriptures; otherwise they would also have taught—The wife is God; bow at her feet! But women have written no scriptures—the husbands wrote them all; so they wrote—The husband is God. Now you cannot be angry at God. Yet anger arises; the wife too burns. And anger arises all the more because she sees—There is no fault of mine, yet anger is being thrown upon me! But in front of the husband she somehow swallows it. She waits for the son to return from school. Soon the boy will come home—You tore your book; your bag is spoiled; your clothes are dirty. And the beating begins. Without any awareness that in the boy’s face she is beating the husband—the child has nothing to do with it. Yesterday too the child tore his book; yesterday too the bag was torn; yesterday too the same—but yesterday there was no anger; so the child was safe.
That is why women with children seem happier; those without children seem less so. Women with children find easy outlets for their anger in the shape of their children. On a thousand pretexts, children are suppressed and harassed.
The child can do nothing. What can he do to his mother? He will do something when the mother becomes old and the child becomes young. But that day is far away. Now he can do nothing. Still, he will do something—he will go into a corner and break the leg of his doll. What else can he do? This is a society moving in sleep. These are people running in unconsciousness. All our conduct is as if one were intoxicated.
Search in your own life—Am I a sleeping man, or an awakened one?
Remember: How can an awakened man be angry? Remember: How can an awakened man have enemies? Remember: How can an awakened man be filled with hatred, insult, contempt? These are signs of a sleeping man.
Buddha was passing by a village. Some people surrounded him and blocked his path, abused him with many insulting words. Buddha listened in silence. When they had finished, he said—If you are done, may I go? I need to reach the next village, friends, quickly. They said—This was not a conversation we spoke—these were clear abuses; did you not understand? Buddha said—I understood the abuses. But I must reach the next village quickly—may I go? If your abuses are finished, give me leave. They said—The abuses are finished, but an answer is needed! Abuses must be answered at once. Will you not reply?
Buddha said—If you wanted an answer to abuses, you should have come ten years ago, when I was a sleeping man. Then, even before you could abuse, a double weight of abuse would have arisen within me. But since I awoke, a great difficulty has arisen. Today you will have to return empty-handed; I have nothing to give. In the last village some people had brought sweets and asked me to accept them. I said—My belly is full. They took the sweets back. What would they have done with those sweets? A man in the crowd said—They must have distributed them to the children, in the village.
Buddha said—You are in trouble. Sweets would have been fine—but you have brought abuses! And I say—I refuse to accept them. Now what will you do? Will you distribute them to children, as prasad in the village? What will you do? My friends, you will have to take the abuses back—because I refuse to receive them.
Only a sleeping man is ready to accept abuses. Why would an awakened man accept them? Why would an awakened man fall into ditches? He will walk the right path. Why choose thorns when the path of flowers exists? A sleeping man chooses thorns. A man walking in sleep falls into pits. For the one filled with awareness there is no need to fall in any ditch.
Do you fall into pits? Do you get entangled in thorns? Does anger, hatred, enmity seize you? Then know—you are a sleeping man, not awakened. The sleeping man is irreligious. The first key to awakening is to accept—Yes, I am asleep; then we can awaken.
I think that if you think, reflect, search, it is impossible for you to find that you are not asleep. You are asleep—if this acceptance becomes clear—then how to awaken? How can we awaken? The process can be understood. How can my chitta awaken, how can my consciousness be filled with awareness? How can unconsciousness disappear within, how can all sleep be broken, so that I become capable of seeing life through and through? How can this be?
I have said I consider only one sign of sleep: wherever you are, if your mind is not there, you are asleep. The sign of awakening will be: where you are, your mind is there. If you are eating, then let the whole world fade, and let your consciousness only eat; let there remain but one consciousness—That I am eating; and between consciousness and eating let no thought, no imagination, no philosophy, no image remain—then you are eating in awareness. If you are walking on the road, then before your consciousness let no other act remain except walking; let only walking remain—then you are walking in awareness. If you are listening to me here, then let listening alone remain while you listen—let no feeling, no thought arise in the mind—then you are listening in awareness. Whatever I am doing, let only that remain; let the mind not wander here and there—then awareness begins to arise.
But ordinarily our mind is either in the past, which is gone; or in the future, which has not yet come. We are never in the present. To be in the present is to awaken. But we are either in the past—gone days grip our mind—or in the future—what will be? The old live in the past; children live in the future. No one lives in the present! Either we think of the moment to come—what will happen?—or of the moment gone—what has happened.
What has happened has happened; what has not yet happened has not happened. What is happening now, what is present this very moment—that alone is truth. When consciousness unites with that truth, one awakens. And through that awakening alone are truth, Paramatma, bliss and beauty attained. The moment one awakens to the present, death disappears—because in that moment you discover: within me is that which can never end. Awakening in the present is awakening into oneself. To be in the past is to be in memory. To be in the future is to be in imagination. One who wishes to be in truth must awaken in the present moment.
Let me try to explain with a small story.
In Japan about two hundred years ago there was a very wondrous sannyasin. His one teaching was—Awaken! Drop sleep! News of him reached the emperor. The emperor was young, newly upon the throne. He summoned the fakir and requested—I too wish to awaken. Can you teach me to awaken?
The fakir said—I can teach you, but not in the palace. You must come to my hut. And how many days it will take, none can say. It depends on the intensity of each person; it depends on one’s thirst, one’s discontent, how hungry one is to learn. How strong is your thirst, your dissatisfaction—your discontent. According to that, you can learn—perhaps in a year, perhaps two, perhaps ten. And my condition is—once you come, I will not allow you to come and go in between. If you would learn, come prepared. And let me add—my ways are my own. Do not say—What are you making me do? What are you teaching me? I have my own methods.
The prince agreed and reached the fakir’s ashram. The next morning, as he awoke, the fakir said—Today your first lesson begins. The first lesson is this: At any time during the day I will attack you with a wooden, imitation sword. You may be reading a book—I will come from behind and strike. You may be sweeping—I will come from behind and strike. You may be eating—I will strike. All day remain aware! At any moment there may be an attack. Be cautious! Be alert! At any time my wooden sword can hurt you.
The prince said—I came for the teaching of awakening, and this is what you are making me do? I did not come to learn swordsmanship.
But the master had already said—In this matter you cannot question. He was helpless. The lesson began. Within eight days the prince’s bones and ribs ached, hands and feet throbbed; wounds all over! Reading—attack. Walking—attack. Ten or twenty times a day—attack from anywhere.
But within eight days he came to know that slowly a new kind of awareness, a wakefulness, was arising within. He began to remain alert all the time—an attack can happen anytime! While reading, even then a corner of his consciousness remained awake—lest there be a strike! In three months, whatever the attack, he could defend. The shield would rise. Even if the master came from behind, the shield would rise behind and the blow would be deflected. After three months it became difficult to hurt him. However unaware the attack, he defended. The mind agreed, the mind became vigilant.
The master said—The first lesson is complete. From tomorrow the second lesson begins. Until now I attacked during your waking, from tomorrow I will strike in your sleep also—sleep carefully.
The prince said—You are incredible! While awake it was still manageable—I could defend somehow. But in sleep I shall be unconscious!
The master said—Do not worry. Even in sleep, danger gives birth to awareness. Crisis gives birth to caution even in sleep.
A mother sleeps; her child sleeps beside her—sick. However deep the sleep—clouds may thunder in the sky, lightning flash, tanks roll down the street—her sleep will not break. But let the child moan slightly—and the mother will wake. Even the moan can be heard.
Here we are many. Let us all sleep tonight. Someone comes to the door and shouts—Ram! Where is Ram? No one will hear—but the one whose name is Ram will open his eyes—Who is it? Who disturbs my sleep? Who calls me? Even in sleep, you know you are Ram. Even in sleep, the sound touches your consciousness and reminds you.
The old master said—Do not worry. Leave that to me. You try to remain aware even in sleep. And the attacks with the wooden sword began in the night. Eight or ten times each night, blows would fall. A day, two days, ten days—again the bones began to ache.
But as three months completed, the prince found—the old man was right. Even in sleep, awareness began to arise. He slept, and within someone also remained awake, remembering that an attack could come. In the night, even in sleep, his hand held the shield. By the end of three months, the footfall of the master’s approach, the faintest sound, would startle him, and he would defend with the shield. After three months, to strike even in sleep became difficult. He was very happy. A new freshness he experienced. There was awareness even in sleep. And some new experiences came—In the first three months, as he tried to awaken in the day, the more awakening grew, the fewer became the thoughts. Thought is part of sleep. The more asleep a man, the more thoughts whirl in him. The more awake, the more silence and stillness begin to arise; thoughts cease.
In those first three months he saw clearly—thoughts grew thinner and thinner, and then slowly stopped. Only caution remained, awareness remained. These two cannot coexist—either there is thought, or there is awareness. If thought comes, awareness goes. As clouds gather in the sky, the sun is veiled; as clouds disperse, the sun appears. Thoughts surround the human mind like clouds. When thoughts encircle, awareness is suppressed. When thoughts are gone, awareness appears—like the sun breaking through the clouds.
In the second three months, another experience appeared—As awareness in the night increased, dreams decreased. By the end of the three months, as awakening remained even in sleep, dreams vanished; sleep became dreamless. If the day becomes thoughtless and the night becomes dreamless, then consciousness is awake.
At the end of three months the old master said—The second lesson is complete. From tomorrow the third begins. The prince asked—What can the third lesson be? The waking lesson is done, the sleeping lesson is done. The master said—Now the real lesson will begin. From tomorrow I shall attack with a real sword. Until now it was wood. The prince said—What are you saying? Wood was tolerable—even if I missed, there was no danger. But a real sword!
The master said—The greater the challenge posed to awareness, the more awareness awakens. The greater the challenge, the more vigilant the consciousness. Do not fear. The real sword will awaken you to deeper depths.
From the next morning, the real sword. You can imagine—the very thought of a real sword would break all the sleep of his consciousness. To the very depths, the remembrance of that sword pervaded. For three months the master could not land a single blow with the real sword. With wood he had managed at times, because wood does not present such a challenge. The challenge of the real sword is final—miss once and life is finished.
In three months, not a single strike landed. And in these three months he experienced such peace, such bliss, such light, that his life entered a new dance, a new realm. The last day of the third lesson came, and the master said—Tomorrow you shall be bid farewell. You have passed. Are you not awakened? The young man placed his head at the master’s feet—Yes, I have awakened. And now I know how asleep I was.
One who has been ill all his life slowly forgets that he is ill. Only when he becomes healthy does he know how ill he was. We have slept our whole lives—and we do not even know how asleep we are. When we awaken, only then do we know—Oh! This whole life was a sleep.
Sri Aurobindo has said—When I was asleep, what I thought was love, awakening I found it false; it was not love. When I was asleep, what I thought was light, awakening I found it darker than darkness; it was not light. When I was asleep, what I thought was life, awakening I found it was death—this is life.
The prince placed his head at the feet and said—Now I know what life is. Is my education complete tomorrow?
The master said—Tomorrow morning I will bid you farewell. In the evening, the master sat reading under a tree; some three hundred feet away the young man sat. In the morning he would depart. In this small hut, with this old man, he had attained the treasure of life. Suddenly a thought arose—This old man has been behind me for nine months—Awake! Be alert! Is this old man himself so alert? Today, why not get up and attack him from behind and see? Tomorrow I will be gone. Let me lift the sword and try—Is he himself cautious?
No sooner had he thought it than the old man shouted from afar—No, no, do not do that! I am an old man—do not even by mistake. The young man was astonished—He had only thought. He said—I have not done anything; I only thought. The old man said—Stay a few more days. When the mind becomes utterly quiet, even the footfall of another’s thought can be heard. When the mind becomes truly silent, the thoughts moving in another’s mind begin to be seen. When one becomes completely still, the vibrations moving through all life begin to be experienced.
In such stillness, the voice of the Lord is heard. In such stillness, the experience of God-consciousness descends.
The prince must have departed the next day—he returned to the capital with a unique experience. As he entered the city, he was astonished—Every person he saw appeared fast asleep. Each one walking in sleep. The shopkeeper at his shop—sleeping, doing business. Those on the road—walking in sleep. He was so startled—because the whole world was asleep!
If even a small ray of awakening dawns, you will see sleeping people everywhere. And then toward them you will feel not anger, but compassion—love, kindness. If a sleeping man jostles you, you will not be ready to fight; you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep. If someone abuses you, you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep. If someone attacks you, you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep.
When the awakened sees the whole world asleep, he becomes filled with great compassion. A sign of awakening is to be filled with love and compassion toward all life. A sign of the sleeping man is to be filled with anger, hatred, violence toward all. Violence is the shadow of sleep; love is the shadow of awakening. Hence by love it is known whether someone has reached near the Lord or not. By love we receive the news that someone has received the message of God. Flowing love carries the sound that someone is approaching the temple of the Lord.
But those whom we call religious are so filled with hatred toward each other that they can have no relationship with the Lord. The Hindu carries hatred toward the Muslim. The Christian carries hatred toward the Hindu. The Jain toward the Buddhist. They are filled with hatred, with enmity, with competition—how can they be religious?
For the religious man nothing remains but love. But that love becomes available only when awakening becomes available. It is necessary to break sleep into awakening—to transform sleep into awareness.
How will you transform? Who will chase you with a sword?
No one will chase you with a sword. But death chases you every day with a sword. If remembrance of death arises, you too can awaken. Every moment death chases you; each instant a sword hangs over each one. If its remembrance arises, you can be filled with awareness. If remembrance arises…
I have heard—In Maharashtra there was a saint. A young man would sometimes visit him. One morning the youth came early and said—Whenever I see you a question arises in me, but because other people are present I do not ask. The question is this: You seem so full of love—does the thought of hatred never arise within you? You seem so quiet—does the worm of restlessness never crawl within? You seem so washed, so pure—have the stains of impurity completely vanished within? Is your inside exactly as your outside? This is what I want to ask.
The sannyasin said—My friend, I will answer your question in two moments. There is something more urgent I must tell you. For two days I have been thinking to tell you, but I forget. And if I forget for a few more days, telling will not be needed. First hear that. The youth asked—What is it? The sannyasin said—Two days ago my eyes suddenly fell upon your hand, and I saw—the line of your life ends. Seven days more—and you are finished. This was two days ago; now only five days remain. On the fifth day the sun will set—and you too will go. I tell you now; else if I forget, there will be no need to tell. Now ask—What did you want to ask?
The youth stood up. When he came he was young. Hearing this—that death is in five days—suddenly he became old. His hands and feet trembled. The sannyasin said—Sit. You were about to ask something beautiful—ask! I will answer.
The man said—I remember nothing now of what I wished to ask. If it comes to me again, I will come and ask. Forgive me—I go now.
He went down the steps leaning on the wall. He had come strong; hands had strength. Now returning, all dissolved; the eyes lost their light; the feet lost their power; the vital energy drained—death stood before him. He could not even reach home; he fell in the street, unconscious. They brought him home in that state. He somehow told them—Only five days, then I will be gone. When he felt a little better, he said to his family—Go, to all the neighbors with whom I have quarrels—ask their forgiveness on my behalf.
Till yesterday morning he had thought of filing lawsuits; till yesterday—In whose chest shall I have a dagger thrust? Today he said—Go, ask their forgiveness. All quarrels were of life; when death arrives, what quarrel? What question of quarrel?
Neighbors were asked forgiveness. Friends and dear ones gathered. Five days remain. On the fifth day he was almost drowned in death. A little before sunset the sannyasin arrived. Darkness was there; people wept; the wife sobbed; the children cried. The sannyasin entered and shook the man—his eyes were closed, sunk into hollows—and asked—My friend, there is still some time before the sun sets. I have come to ask a question—will you answer? Did any sin arise in your mind in these five days? Did hatred arise? Violence? Enmity? Anger? This one question I have come to ask.
The man began to laugh—You too joke with a dying man! Death was so near; what space was there between me and death that anger should arise, or hatred, or violence? Where was the gap between death and me? It was I and death—nothing else for five days. Neither hatred nor violence nor anger—who knows where they all went! There was only death—and I.
The fakir said—Get up. Your death has not yet come. Your line is very long. I only answered your question. You are not going to die now.
Whether death will appear in five days or fifty years—what difference does it make? To one who begins to see death, a radical transformation begins. Death is the greatest teacher. Death is the greatest guru. And one who seeks initiation into religious life needs no other guru but death. Remember death. For twenty-four hours it is with you, sword in hand. Remember death—and try to live in that remembrance. You will find you have begun to awaken; sleep has begun to break. Sleep will end.
One last small incident—and I will complete my talk.
On a mountain where trees rose four hundred feet high, an old man taught people the art of climbing. Straight trees touching the sky—he taught people to climb them. A young man came to learn. The old man sat below and told him—Climb. He showed him how. The youth climbed the tall tree. Slowly, slowly he reached the topmost peak, where a light gust of wind brought thoughts of death. Where the least slip—and life was over. The old man sat silently below, silent, silent.
Then the youth began to descend. When he was about twenty feet from the ground, the old man suddenly leapt up and shouted—Careful! Come down with awareness!
The youth laughed—You seem crazy. When I was at four hundred feet, with death near, then you should have shouted—Careful! What is the use of shouting now? I am close to the ground.
The old man said—My life’s experience says—Where death is near, a man is himself careful; there is no need to warn. When you were at four hundred feet, I had no need to shout—Careful! You were careful yourself. Were you not careful? When you were at that height, did any thought come to you?
The youth reflected—it was true. At that height, where the wind’s quiver became death, there was neither thought nor memory, neither past nor future. There was only the present moment—the gusts of wind, the tree, the sunlight, the height, and himself. But there was no past, no future, no imagination, no memory, no thought. He was utterly thoughtless. He said—Perhaps you are right. I was very careful there.
The old man said—And my experience also says—As soon as a man approaches the ground, and feels he has crossed danger, sleep begins to descend, unconsciousness starts to grip, caution ends. When you were coming near, I saw sleep beginning; then I shouted—Careful!
The old man said—People sink their boat near the shore, thinking the bank is close—and they become careless. Rarely does someone drown in midstream; most drown near the shore. And I have never seen anyone fall from the top of the tree; whenever I saw someone fall, it was near the ground.
When death is behind and around, a lamp of caution is lit within, an awareness arises, a flame of prajna, of knowing; that flame shatters the darkness of your whole life. In that light the Lord is seen. In that light the rain of bliss descends. In that light the gates of nectar open. That very light is called truth. That very light is called Brahman. That very light is called Moksha.
If you would make this journey, if the longing to reach the temple of the Lord stirs within you, if there is an aching thirst—then break sleep and awaken. The day you awaken, life is attained that very day.
What I have said is not philosophy; it is no doctrine. What I have said is not enough to only hear. If you experiment even a little with it, results can come. May the Divine grant you the courage and the thirst to experiment with life! May the Divine grant that you not halt at birth alone, but become available to life! In the end I pray—that the Lord become available to all. It is everyone’s right to attain the Lord—the birthright of each person to become available to Paramatma. May the Divine grant that each becomes that which he was born to be.
For three days you have listened to my words with such love and peace, such thirst, such urgency—for that, whatever thanks I offer is little. I am deeply, deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Kindly accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I wish to begin my final talk with a small story. On a full-moon night, a few friends in a village drank together in the tavern till midnight. When they were completely intoxicated, the thought arose—It is the night of the full moon; let us go boating on the river.
They went to the river. The fishermen had long since tied up their boats and gone home. These friends boarded a large boat, picked up the oars, and began to row. Drunk—and with great vigor—they rowed and rowed and rowed. By then it was nearing dawn; they had rowed through the night. The cool morning breeze brought a little sobriety back, and they thought—Who knows how far we must have come, how far from our village we now are, and in what direction? It is right that we turn back, for morning is near and we should return.
They decided one of them should get down and see where they had reached—north or south, how far, in which village—so they could find their way back. One friend stepped out, and as he did he began to laugh like a madman. The others asked, Why are you laughing? Tell us where we are. What place? How far?
He said, You too come down, then you also will laugh. One by one they all climbed out, and each went crazy with laughter. If you had been there, you too would have laughed like mad. Something very strange had happened. They had done no journey at all in the night; they were standing exactly where the boat had been moored at dusk. They had forgotten to untie the chain. The boat’s chain was still fastened to the shore. A whole night of rowing had gone in vain.
A boat moves only when its chain is freed from the bank. I begin with this story because, at the end of life, a man commonly finds that he is where he was at birth; the journey never happened—he has reached nowhere. All his life he labored, he rowed, he ran—but arrived nowhere. In the moment of death it is discovered: we remained bound to the old shore.
Why did they forget to unchain the boat? Because they were unconscious; they were not in awareness. A man filled with awareness would not row first; he would first loosen the chain, then take up the oars. But the unconscious man forgets the very idea of untying the chain.
We too do not arrive anywhere in life; one thing becomes certain—we too must have forgotten to unchain life. And we can forget the chain only when we are not aware, when we are unconscious, asleep. Each of us lives almost in sleep—and ends in sleep.
If we awaken, perhaps we become free of death. If we awaken, we become free of sorrow. If we awaken, we become available to the Lord—Paramatma.
But we are asleep—and dreaming. We dream twenty-four hours a day. You may think you dream only in the night; that is not so. Even in the day, while awake, dreams continue within. We sit here now, yet very few are truly here. Someone is elsewhere, someone somewhere else. Who knows where the mind is—the mind has no habit of being where the body sits. And if the mind is elsewhere, it is dreaming.
A man lay on his deathbed. Death was near. The physicians had declared there was no possibility of saving him. His wife sat by his side. His children, his sons, his friends, his relatives were seated all around. It was evening; the house was dark. And because the lamp of a man’s life was about to go out, no lamp was lit in the house that day. All were sad and sorrowful. Evening fell; darkness descended. The man opened his eyes and asked his wife—Where is my eldest son?
His wife felt immense joy hearing that he was asking for his eldest son. All his life he had never asked for anyone. He had been so mad after money that he had had no time to ask after love. Those who are mad after money, their lives become empty of love. Love and money cannot be journeyed together. For money a hard, cruel, violent mind is needed. For love, a humble, tender, compassion-filled heart. Those who set out to accumulate money can do so only at the cost of losing love. If love is not murdered, accumulating money is very difficult, almost impossible.
That husband had never asked—Where is my son? Whenever he asked anything it was—Where is the key to the safe?—or such things. Today, at the moment of death, he asked—Where is my son? The wife was very happy. She said, No harm; even if love is remembered at the time of death, it is good. Thanks to the Lord! She said to her husband, Be at peace; your eldest son sits by your feet.
The husband raised himself on his elbow and asked, And the next son? He too was there. And the next? He too was there. He had five sons. He asked, And the youngest? He too was present. The wife said, Be completely carefree! Tears of joy rose in her eyes. In his last moments, her husband’s heart had filled with love. But the dying man sat up and said, If the youngest is also here, what does this mean? Then who is sitting at the shop?
The wife was mistaken. It was not remembrance of love. Even in the moment of death he was thinking—The shop… is it running? Has it not been closed? Is someone sitting there or not? This man, lying on the deathbed, was seeing the dream of the shop. He was not where his body was; his mind was elsewhere.
Dream means: where I am, my mind is not—then I live in dream, then I live in sleep, then I am unconscious. Awareness means: where I am, there too my consciousness is. Unconsciousness means: where I am, there my consciousness is not.
Each person must ask himself—Am I living in awareness or in sleep?
A friend of mine has returned from Switzerland. He is a great poet. When he came to stay with me as a guest—such a beautiful night, full moon—I said, You have traveled the world, returned from Switzerland. Let me take you to a unique place. I will take you to the Narmada, to the marble rocks and the waterfall. He said, I have seen many waterfalls, many rivers, many lakes, many beautiful nights. I have no special need.
Still I did not agree and took him. I said to him, Every night has its own personality, every moon its own story, and every mountain its own song. Whatever you may have seen, what I am taking you to, that you have not seen; it is unique in its own way.
I took him. In that moonlit night, in solitude, seating him in a boat, I rowed into the hills—the mountains stood washed in milk under the pouring moonlight. One felt one had reached heaven. But for two hours among those hills he did not look even for a moment at the mountains present, nor at the moon smiling in the sky, nor did he hear the silence that was singing on all sides. He kept telling me tales of his Switzerland—that there are such lakes, such mountains; I saw this, I saw that.
When we began to return, as we sat in the car he said, The place you took me to was very beautiful. I said, Forgive me! We went as two, but I arrived there alone; you could not reach. He said, I was with you the whole time—what are you saying? I sat beside you for two hours in the boat. I said, You sat, yes—but you were not with me. You were in Switzerland; near me was only your dead body, a lifeless shell. Not for one moment were you where I took you. And I told him, I confess now I have no faith even in what you claim to have seen in Switzerland, because I have recognized your mind. When you sat here on the Narmada and were in Switzerland, I know, sitting by Switzerland’s lakes you must have been in Kashmir, or somewhere else—you could not have been in Switzerland either!
This I call unconsciousness, sleep, dream. Like a darkness it surrounds us all. And in this very state we try to seek Paramatma; in this state we try to seek bliss; in this state we attempt to decide the truth. All such attempts go in vain—just as the efforts of those drunk villagers went in vain that night.
How can one decide truth in sleep? How can the sleeping know the Lord? How can one, in unconsciousness, attain bliss? How can there be any journey in a dream? And even if there is a journey in a dream, it will be false—you wake in the morning to find you are where you were; in the night you went nowhere. Tonight you may sleep in Bhavnagar; in a dream you may be in Delhi, in Calcutta. Mostly people dream of Delhi, because everyone dreams of being in the capital. You may reach Delhi in the dream—but in the morning you will find you were nowhere; you were in Bhavnagar all along.
Dreams take you nowhere. Yet it is in dreams that we do everything. Therefore all we do becomes futile. In a dream we ask—What is Paramatma? In a dream we ask! In the dream one is a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian, another a Jain. In a dream! In a dream we have decided which book is true; in a dream we have decided which God is true; in a dream we have decided which temple is true, which mosque is true. And we have forgotten one thing—that all decisions made in a dream are worth not even two pennies. The conclusions of a sleeping man have no value. None whatsoever—that you are a Hindu in sleep, or a Muslim, or a Jain; all equal nonsense. And the great wonder is that an awakened man is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Jain. The awakened man is simply a man. The awakened is simply human.
We are all asleep. Sleeping people have created some three hundred religions. And in that very sleep we fight, we kill, we set mosques on fire, we break the idols of temples, we burn books—who knows what all we do. And this disturbance keeps going. In sleep we raise great metaphysical questions and want to decide them—What is heaven like? What is hell like? Those who do not even know the geography of Bhavnagar properly will draw maps of heaven and hell and explain them. They have hung maps in temples—where heaven is, where hell is; how many hells, how many heavens. A man in sleep—who knows what he is doing! Great questions are being asked—and one small question is not being asked by anyone—Am I awake or asleep?
In my vision, the single most important question before man, the supreme enquiry of religion, is just this: Am I awake, or am I asleep? And if I am asleep, how can this sleep break? How can this stupor dissolve? How can I rise beyond dreams? How can these closed eyes open? Then one question alone remains vital. But hardly anyone asks it—because we are unwilling to accept that we are asleep. It hurts the ego deeply if someone says—You are a sleeping man.
I have heard: a fakir came to a village. People gathered to hear him. The village’s biggest wealthy man also came. The fakir began to speak. The wealthy man, seated right in front, fell asleep! People often complete their sleep in temples. Some doctors even say to those who cannot sleep—Go to the temple, listen to a religious discourse! All medicines may fail, but the medicine of a religious talk surely works—sleep comes! The poor rich man, tired after a day of earning, closed his eyes and nodded. Other monks had come earlier—he would sleep the same way. But no monk had ever said—Sir, you are sleeping. His name was Asoji. This happened in a village of Rajasthan. Monks had never said he slept; rather they would say—Sethji, you listen with such deep absorption.
Between monks and wealthy men there is some inner conspiracy, collusion, and compromise. Monks praise the rich; the rich touch the feet of monks. Always this conspiracy has continued. So the monk cannot speak against the rich—because if the wealthy turn against him, who will build temples, who will establish pilgrim places, who will build dharamshalas, who will give donations? The whole religion is run by the wealthy. So those monks would say—Asoji, none listen with such attention as you; you are so absorbed! Asoji knew he slept, but would smile and say—It is my habit always to listen with attention.
False words are very pleasing to man—if only they gratify his ego! A true word appears bad if it goes against the ego; a false word appears good if it satisfies the ego.
But this fakir was unusual. When he saw the wealthy man sleeping, he stopped speaking and said loudly—Asoji, are you asleep? Startled, Asoji opened his eyes—No, no, I am not sleeping. Perhaps you do not know, you are new—I am listening in deep meditation!
The fakir began again. The words of a sleeping man cannot be trusted. In ten minutes Asoji slept again. The fakir stopped and said—Asoji, are you sleeping?
Now Asoji became angry. The whole village is listening—they will say, Asoji sleeps during discourse! And if the village and God both hear that he slept during discourse, even entry to heaven might be hampered. And the fakir speaks so loudly. Asoji said—You did not understand. I told you I am awake! I am listening with attention. Do continue.
The fakir began again. Asoji slept again. The sleeping man cannot be relied upon; what he says has no firmness. But the fakir too was one of a kind—he again stopped. And this time what he said, listen carefully. Perhaps some here too have dozed and may not hear. Earlier he had said—Asoji, are you sleeping? And Asoji would promptly say—No, no. This time he said—Asoji, are you living? And in sleep, Asoji thought it was the same old question and replied—No, no, who says so?
The fakir had asked—Asoji, are you living? Asoji, in sleep, thought it was the old question and said—No, no, who says so?
The fakir said—It is now certain you were sleeping. Yet your answer is also right—for one who sleeps cannot live; to live, awakening is necessary. So you say rightly—No. You are not living. How can a sleeping man live? A sleeping man is almost a dead man. The one who truly lives is the one who is awake.
So in this last talk, I wish to say this to you—that ordinarily we are sleeping people. And the process of awakening, the science of awakening, the art by which one awakens—that is religion.
Earlier I told you: religion is the art of living. And the art of living is attained through the art of awakening. When awakening—awareness—happens, when prana are fully alert and begin to experience life, then each moment the vision of the Lord begins; each instant his music is heard; in every particle his form becomes available; all life is transmuted into waves of nectar.
But for that, awakening is essential. How can one awaken—I will speak of that later. First, you must understand clearly that if you would awaken, a decision is necessary within—Let me admit: I am asleep. One who is not ready to accept—I am asleep—will never take a single step toward awakening. The first key in the direction of awakening is to feel—Yes, I am a sleeping man. And for this, the whole of your life is the evidence, the proof.
Today you must have become angry—and after anger you must have repented and decided—Now I shall never be angry again. An hour later you find you are angry again. Where did the decision of an hour ago go? It was made in sleep—therefore, it became useless. There was no remembrance of it.
A man decides—Tomorrow I will rise at four in the morning. Every morning at four I must rise. Enough of negligence; now I shall get up at four. He goes to sleep after swearing—Whatever happens, I must rise at four. When the alarm rings at four, he says in his mind—Today… let it be, tomorrow we will see! He sleeps again. In the morning he repents—Very bad. How did I sleep? I had decided to rise—surely I had to—how did I fall asleep?
The one who decided was also a sleeping man. Hence the decision did not become life; it went waste. We all make auspicious resolves; but they do not become reality. A resolve made in sleep has no value. All day long our lives testify—we walk in unconsciousness.
A man works in an office. His boss becomes angry and insults him. That man too feels rage rise—to answer back, to catch the boss by the collar. What servant is there who does not want to seize his master by the throat! But in front of the boss, he folds his hands—Sir, you are absolutely right; I am completely wrong. Inside, anger boils—but life is at stake; to express such anger is dangerous. As a river flows downward, so does anger—toward the weaker. Toward the powerful, anger never flows.
The boss is above; to get angry at him is risky. That direction is closed. The man swallows his anger and smiles with folded hands. But the anger keeps circling within. Returning home, he seeks some pretext to pour it on the wife—The bread is burnt, the vegetable is not right, the clothes are not properly washed today.
Yesterday also the clothes were not properly washed; yesterday also the bread was burnt; yesterday also the vegetable was like this—but yesterday there was no boiling anger within. Today it is boiling; he finds any excuse and falls upon the wife. This anger was meant for the boss; it lands on the wife. Evidence of a sleeping man.
What can the wife do against the husband? The husband has been telling her for thousands of years—I am your God. A great joke! The husband himself teaches—Your God I am. Women have not written scriptures; otherwise they would also have taught—The wife is God; bow at her feet! But women have written no scriptures—the husbands wrote them all; so they wrote—The husband is God. Now you cannot be angry at God. Yet anger arises; the wife too burns. And anger arises all the more because she sees—There is no fault of mine, yet anger is being thrown upon me! But in front of the husband she somehow swallows it. She waits for the son to return from school. Soon the boy will come home—You tore your book; your bag is spoiled; your clothes are dirty. And the beating begins. Without any awareness that in the boy’s face she is beating the husband—the child has nothing to do with it. Yesterday too the child tore his book; yesterday too the bag was torn; yesterday too the same—but yesterday there was no anger; so the child was safe.
That is why women with children seem happier; those without children seem less so. Women with children find easy outlets for their anger in the shape of their children. On a thousand pretexts, children are suppressed and harassed.
The child can do nothing. What can he do to his mother? He will do something when the mother becomes old and the child becomes young. But that day is far away. Now he can do nothing. Still, he will do something—he will go into a corner and break the leg of his doll. What else can he do? This is a society moving in sleep. These are people running in unconsciousness. All our conduct is as if one were intoxicated.
Search in your own life—Am I a sleeping man, or an awakened one?
Remember: How can an awakened man be angry? Remember: How can an awakened man have enemies? Remember: How can an awakened man be filled with hatred, insult, contempt? These are signs of a sleeping man.
Buddha was passing by a village. Some people surrounded him and blocked his path, abused him with many insulting words. Buddha listened in silence. When they had finished, he said—If you are done, may I go? I need to reach the next village, friends, quickly. They said—This was not a conversation we spoke—these were clear abuses; did you not understand? Buddha said—I understood the abuses. But I must reach the next village quickly—may I go? If your abuses are finished, give me leave. They said—The abuses are finished, but an answer is needed! Abuses must be answered at once. Will you not reply?
Buddha said—If you wanted an answer to abuses, you should have come ten years ago, when I was a sleeping man. Then, even before you could abuse, a double weight of abuse would have arisen within me. But since I awoke, a great difficulty has arisen. Today you will have to return empty-handed; I have nothing to give. In the last village some people had brought sweets and asked me to accept them. I said—My belly is full. They took the sweets back. What would they have done with those sweets? A man in the crowd said—They must have distributed them to the children, in the village.
Buddha said—You are in trouble. Sweets would have been fine—but you have brought abuses! And I say—I refuse to accept them. Now what will you do? Will you distribute them to children, as prasad in the village? What will you do? My friends, you will have to take the abuses back—because I refuse to receive them.
Only a sleeping man is ready to accept abuses. Why would an awakened man accept them? Why would an awakened man fall into ditches? He will walk the right path. Why choose thorns when the path of flowers exists? A sleeping man chooses thorns. A man walking in sleep falls into pits. For the one filled with awareness there is no need to fall in any ditch.
Do you fall into pits? Do you get entangled in thorns? Does anger, hatred, enmity seize you? Then know—you are a sleeping man, not awakened. The sleeping man is irreligious. The first key to awakening is to accept—Yes, I am asleep; then we can awaken.
I think that if you think, reflect, search, it is impossible for you to find that you are not asleep. You are asleep—if this acceptance becomes clear—then how to awaken? How can we awaken? The process can be understood. How can my chitta awaken, how can my consciousness be filled with awareness? How can unconsciousness disappear within, how can all sleep be broken, so that I become capable of seeing life through and through? How can this be?
I have said I consider only one sign of sleep: wherever you are, if your mind is not there, you are asleep. The sign of awakening will be: where you are, your mind is there. If you are eating, then let the whole world fade, and let your consciousness only eat; let there remain but one consciousness—That I am eating; and between consciousness and eating let no thought, no imagination, no philosophy, no image remain—then you are eating in awareness. If you are walking on the road, then before your consciousness let no other act remain except walking; let only walking remain—then you are walking in awareness. If you are listening to me here, then let listening alone remain while you listen—let no feeling, no thought arise in the mind—then you are listening in awareness. Whatever I am doing, let only that remain; let the mind not wander here and there—then awareness begins to arise.
But ordinarily our mind is either in the past, which is gone; or in the future, which has not yet come. We are never in the present. To be in the present is to awaken. But we are either in the past—gone days grip our mind—or in the future—what will be? The old live in the past; children live in the future. No one lives in the present! Either we think of the moment to come—what will happen?—or of the moment gone—what has happened.
What has happened has happened; what has not yet happened has not happened. What is happening now, what is present this very moment—that alone is truth. When consciousness unites with that truth, one awakens. And through that awakening alone are truth, Paramatma, bliss and beauty attained. The moment one awakens to the present, death disappears—because in that moment you discover: within me is that which can never end. Awakening in the present is awakening into oneself. To be in the past is to be in memory. To be in the future is to be in imagination. One who wishes to be in truth must awaken in the present moment.
Let me try to explain with a small story.
In Japan about two hundred years ago there was a very wondrous sannyasin. His one teaching was—Awaken! Drop sleep! News of him reached the emperor. The emperor was young, newly upon the throne. He summoned the fakir and requested—I too wish to awaken. Can you teach me to awaken?
The fakir said—I can teach you, but not in the palace. You must come to my hut. And how many days it will take, none can say. It depends on the intensity of each person; it depends on one’s thirst, one’s discontent, how hungry one is to learn. How strong is your thirst, your dissatisfaction—your discontent. According to that, you can learn—perhaps in a year, perhaps two, perhaps ten. And my condition is—once you come, I will not allow you to come and go in between. If you would learn, come prepared. And let me add—my ways are my own. Do not say—What are you making me do? What are you teaching me? I have my own methods.
The prince agreed and reached the fakir’s ashram. The next morning, as he awoke, the fakir said—Today your first lesson begins. The first lesson is this: At any time during the day I will attack you with a wooden, imitation sword. You may be reading a book—I will come from behind and strike. You may be sweeping—I will come from behind and strike. You may be eating—I will strike. All day remain aware! At any moment there may be an attack. Be cautious! Be alert! At any time my wooden sword can hurt you.
The prince said—I came for the teaching of awakening, and this is what you are making me do? I did not come to learn swordsmanship.
But the master had already said—In this matter you cannot question. He was helpless. The lesson began. Within eight days the prince’s bones and ribs ached, hands and feet throbbed; wounds all over! Reading—attack. Walking—attack. Ten or twenty times a day—attack from anywhere.
But within eight days he came to know that slowly a new kind of awareness, a wakefulness, was arising within. He began to remain alert all the time—an attack can happen anytime! While reading, even then a corner of his consciousness remained awake—lest there be a strike! In three months, whatever the attack, he could defend. The shield would rise. Even if the master came from behind, the shield would rise behind and the blow would be deflected. After three months it became difficult to hurt him. However unaware the attack, he defended. The mind agreed, the mind became vigilant.
The master said—The first lesson is complete. From tomorrow the second lesson begins. Until now I attacked during your waking, from tomorrow I will strike in your sleep also—sleep carefully.
The prince said—You are incredible! While awake it was still manageable—I could defend somehow. But in sleep I shall be unconscious!
The master said—Do not worry. Even in sleep, danger gives birth to awareness. Crisis gives birth to caution even in sleep.
A mother sleeps; her child sleeps beside her—sick. However deep the sleep—clouds may thunder in the sky, lightning flash, tanks roll down the street—her sleep will not break. But let the child moan slightly—and the mother will wake. Even the moan can be heard.
Here we are many. Let us all sleep tonight. Someone comes to the door and shouts—Ram! Where is Ram? No one will hear—but the one whose name is Ram will open his eyes—Who is it? Who disturbs my sleep? Who calls me? Even in sleep, you know you are Ram. Even in sleep, the sound touches your consciousness and reminds you.
The old master said—Do not worry. Leave that to me. You try to remain aware even in sleep. And the attacks with the wooden sword began in the night. Eight or ten times each night, blows would fall. A day, two days, ten days—again the bones began to ache.
But as three months completed, the prince found—the old man was right. Even in sleep, awareness began to arise. He slept, and within someone also remained awake, remembering that an attack could come. In the night, even in sleep, his hand held the shield. By the end of three months, the footfall of the master’s approach, the faintest sound, would startle him, and he would defend with the shield. After three months, to strike even in sleep became difficult. He was very happy. A new freshness he experienced. There was awareness even in sleep. And some new experiences came—In the first three months, as he tried to awaken in the day, the more awakening grew, the fewer became the thoughts. Thought is part of sleep. The more asleep a man, the more thoughts whirl in him. The more awake, the more silence and stillness begin to arise; thoughts cease.
In those first three months he saw clearly—thoughts grew thinner and thinner, and then slowly stopped. Only caution remained, awareness remained. These two cannot coexist—either there is thought, or there is awareness. If thought comes, awareness goes. As clouds gather in the sky, the sun is veiled; as clouds disperse, the sun appears. Thoughts surround the human mind like clouds. When thoughts encircle, awareness is suppressed. When thoughts are gone, awareness appears—like the sun breaking through the clouds.
In the second three months, another experience appeared—As awareness in the night increased, dreams decreased. By the end of the three months, as awakening remained even in sleep, dreams vanished; sleep became dreamless. If the day becomes thoughtless and the night becomes dreamless, then consciousness is awake.
At the end of three months the old master said—The second lesson is complete. From tomorrow the third begins. The prince asked—What can the third lesson be? The waking lesson is done, the sleeping lesson is done. The master said—Now the real lesson will begin. From tomorrow I shall attack with a real sword. Until now it was wood. The prince said—What are you saying? Wood was tolerable—even if I missed, there was no danger. But a real sword!
The master said—The greater the challenge posed to awareness, the more awareness awakens. The greater the challenge, the more vigilant the consciousness. Do not fear. The real sword will awaken you to deeper depths.
From the next morning, the real sword. You can imagine—the very thought of a real sword would break all the sleep of his consciousness. To the very depths, the remembrance of that sword pervaded. For three months the master could not land a single blow with the real sword. With wood he had managed at times, because wood does not present such a challenge. The challenge of the real sword is final—miss once and life is finished.
In three months, not a single strike landed. And in these three months he experienced such peace, such bliss, such light, that his life entered a new dance, a new realm. The last day of the third lesson came, and the master said—Tomorrow you shall be bid farewell. You have passed. Are you not awakened? The young man placed his head at the master’s feet—Yes, I have awakened. And now I know how asleep I was.
One who has been ill all his life slowly forgets that he is ill. Only when he becomes healthy does he know how ill he was. We have slept our whole lives—and we do not even know how asleep we are. When we awaken, only then do we know—Oh! This whole life was a sleep.
Sri Aurobindo has said—When I was asleep, what I thought was love, awakening I found it false; it was not love. When I was asleep, what I thought was light, awakening I found it darker than darkness; it was not light. When I was asleep, what I thought was life, awakening I found it was death—this is life.
The prince placed his head at the feet and said—Now I know what life is. Is my education complete tomorrow?
The master said—Tomorrow morning I will bid you farewell. In the evening, the master sat reading under a tree; some three hundred feet away the young man sat. In the morning he would depart. In this small hut, with this old man, he had attained the treasure of life. Suddenly a thought arose—This old man has been behind me for nine months—Awake! Be alert! Is this old man himself so alert? Today, why not get up and attack him from behind and see? Tomorrow I will be gone. Let me lift the sword and try—Is he himself cautious?
No sooner had he thought it than the old man shouted from afar—No, no, do not do that! I am an old man—do not even by mistake. The young man was astonished—He had only thought. He said—I have not done anything; I only thought. The old man said—Stay a few more days. When the mind becomes utterly quiet, even the footfall of another’s thought can be heard. When the mind becomes truly silent, the thoughts moving in another’s mind begin to be seen. When one becomes completely still, the vibrations moving through all life begin to be experienced.
In such stillness, the voice of the Lord is heard. In such stillness, the experience of God-consciousness descends.
The prince must have departed the next day—he returned to the capital with a unique experience. As he entered the city, he was astonished—Every person he saw appeared fast asleep. Each one walking in sleep. The shopkeeper at his shop—sleeping, doing business. Those on the road—walking in sleep. He was so startled—because the whole world was asleep!
If even a small ray of awakening dawns, you will see sleeping people everywhere. And then toward them you will feel not anger, but compassion—love, kindness. If a sleeping man jostles you, you will not be ready to fight; you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep. If someone abuses you, you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep. If someone attacks you, you will understand—The poor fellow is asleep.
When the awakened sees the whole world asleep, he becomes filled with great compassion. A sign of awakening is to be filled with love and compassion toward all life. A sign of the sleeping man is to be filled with anger, hatred, violence toward all. Violence is the shadow of sleep; love is the shadow of awakening. Hence by love it is known whether someone has reached near the Lord or not. By love we receive the news that someone has received the message of God. Flowing love carries the sound that someone is approaching the temple of the Lord.
But those whom we call religious are so filled with hatred toward each other that they can have no relationship with the Lord. The Hindu carries hatred toward the Muslim. The Christian carries hatred toward the Hindu. The Jain toward the Buddhist. They are filled with hatred, with enmity, with competition—how can they be religious?
For the religious man nothing remains but love. But that love becomes available only when awakening becomes available. It is necessary to break sleep into awakening—to transform sleep into awareness.
How will you transform? Who will chase you with a sword?
No one will chase you with a sword. But death chases you every day with a sword. If remembrance of death arises, you too can awaken. Every moment death chases you; each instant a sword hangs over each one. If its remembrance arises, you can be filled with awareness. If remembrance arises…
I have heard—In Maharashtra there was a saint. A young man would sometimes visit him. One morning the youth came early and said—Whenever I see you a question arises in me, but because other people are present I do not ask. The question is this: You seem so full of love—does the thought of hatred never arise within you? You seem so quiet—does the worm of restlessness never crawl within? You seem so washed, so pure—have the stains of impurity completely vanished within? Is your inside exactly as your outside? This is what I want to ask.
The sannyasin said—My friend, I will answer your question in two moments. There is something more urgent I must tell you. For two days I have been thinking to tell you, but I forget. And if I forget for a few more days, telling will not be needed. First hear that. The youth asked—What is it? The sannyasin said—Two days ago my eyes suddenly fell upon your hand, and I saw—the line of your life ends. Seven days more—and you are finished. This was two days ago; now only five days remain. On the fifth day the sun will set—and you too will go. I tell you now; else if I forget, there will be no need to tell. Now ask—What did you want to ask?
The youth stood up. When he came he was young. Hearing this—that death is in five days—suddenly he became old. His hands and feet trembled. The sannyasin said—Sit. You were about to ask something beautiful—ask! I will answer.
The man said—I remember nothing now of what I wished to ask. If it comes to me again, I will come and ask. Forgive me—I go now.
He went down the steps leaning on the wall. He had come strong; hands had strength. Now returning, all dissolved; the eyes lost their light; the feet lost their power; the vital energy drained—death stood before him. He could not even reach home; he fell in the street, unconscious. They brought him home in that state. He somehow told them—Only five days, then I will be gone. When he felt a little better, he said to his family—Go, to all the neighbors with whom I have quarrels—ask their forgiveness on my behalf.
Till yesterday morning he had thought of filing lawsuits; till yesterday—In whose chest shall I have a dagger thrust? Today he said—Go, ask their forgiveness. All quarrels were of life; when death arrives, what quarrel? What question of quarrel?
Neighbors were asked forgiveness. Friends and dear ones gathered. Five days remain. On the fifth day he was almost drowned in death. A little before sunset the sannyasin arrived. Darkness was there; people wept; the wife sobbed; the children cried. The sannyasin entered and shook the man—his eyes were closed, sunk into hollows—and asked—My friend, there is still some time before the sun sets. I have come to ask a question—will you answer? Did any sin arise in your mind in these five days? Did hatred arise? Violence? Enmity? Anger? This one question I have come to ask.
The man began to laugh—You too joke with a dying man! Death was so near; what space was there between me and death that anger should arise, or hatred, or violence? Where was the gap between death and me? It was I and death—nothing else for five days. Neither hatred nor violence nor anger—who knows where they all went! There was only death—and I.
The fakir said—Get up. Your death has not yet come. Your line is very long. I only answered your question. You are not going to die now.
Whether death will appear in five days or fifty years—what difference does it make? To one who begins to see death, a radical transformation begins. Death is the greatest teacher. Death is the greatest guru. And one who seeks initiation into religious life needs no other guru but death. Remember death. For twenty-four hours it is with you, sword in hand. Remember death—and try to live in that remembrance. You will find you have begun to awaken; sleep has begun to break. Sleep will end.
One last small incident—and I will complete my talk.
On a mountain where trees rose four hundred feet high, an old man taught people the art of climbing. Straight trees touching the sky—he taught people to climb them. A young man came to learn. The old man sat below and told him—Climb. He showed him how. The youth climbed the tall tree. Slowly, slowly he reached the topmost peak, where a light gust of wind brought thoughts of death. Where the least slip—and life was over. The old man sat silently below, silent, silent.
Then the youth began to descend. When he was about twenty feet from the ground, the old man suddenly leapt up and shouted—Careful! Come down with awareness!
The youth laughed—You seem crazy. When I was at four hundred feet, with death near, then you should have shouted—Careful! What is the use of shouting now? I am close to the ground.
The old man said—My life’s experience says—Where death is near, a man is himself careful; there is no need to warn. When you were at four hundred feet, I had no need to shout—Careful! You were careful yourself. Were you not careful? When you were at that height, did any thought come to you?
The youth reflected—it was true. At that height, where the wind’s quiver became death, there was neither thought nor memory, neither past nor future. There was only the present moment—the gusts of wind, the tree, the sunlight, the height, and himself. But there was no past, no future, no imagination, no memory, no thought. He was utterly thoughtless. He said—Perhaps you are right. I was very careful there.
The old man said—And my experience also says—As soon as a man approaches the ground, and feels he has crossed danger, sleep begins to descend, unconsciousness starts to grip, caution ends. When you were coming near, I saw sleep beginning; then I shouted—Careful!
The old man said—People sink their boat near the shore, thinking the bank is close—and they become careless. Rarely does someone drown in midstream; most drown near the shore. And I have never seen anyone fall from the top of the tree; whenever I saw someone fall, it was near the ground.
When death is behind and around, a lamp of caution is lit within, an awareness arises, a flame of prajna, of knowing; that flame shatters the darkness of your whole life. In that light the Lord is seen. In that light the rain of bliss descends. In that light the gates of nectar open. That very light is called truth. That very light is called Brahman. That very light is called Moksha.
If you would make this journey, if the longing to reach the temple of the Lord stirs within you, if there is an aching thirst—then break sleep and awaken. The day you awaken, life is attained that very day.
What I have said is not philosophy; it is no doctrine. What I have said is not enough to only hear. If you experiment even a little with it, results can come. May the Divine grant you the courage and the thirst to experiment with life! May the Divine grant that you not halt at birth alone, but become available to life! In the end I pray—that the Lord become available to all. It is everyone’s right to attain the Lord—the birthright of each person to become available to Paramatma. May the Divine grant that each becomes that which he was born to be.
For three days you have listened to my words with such love and peace, such thirst, such urgency—for that, whatever thanks I offer is little. I am deeply, deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Kindly accept my pranam.