Vigyan Dharam Aur Kala #7

I was wondering what I should say to you. Seeing the way man lives, the condition man is in today, the shape the human being has taken on, the distortion that has arisen, the way man has fallen apart into fragments—it occurred to me to speak keeping all this in remembrance, to speak only in that context. I look at you, and I look at countless people across the land. I have had the chance to peer into millions of eyes. Shall I call it misfortune, or sorrow, that I do not find a single eye that is tranquil. I do not find an eye in which the depth of life and truth is revealed. I do not find a person whose life is filled with music and with joy.

There can be no greater misfortune than this. No greater calamity is possible than that within man’s life there remains no music, no peace, no joy. That we live only waiting for death. That we live merely in order to die, that we remain only to come to an end. And that all the sum of our efforts and pursuits culminates only in death. And that we do not come to know life. There can be no greater calamity than this.

Behind this calamity there is no one else’s hand. Behind it is our own hand. We are like those who hack at the very branch upon which they sit. We are like those who with our own hands raze to the ground the whole house of our life. This situation arises because hardly any one among us ever comes to the awareness that life, too, has to be created—by resolve and by sadhana. Life is not available readymade.

We learn every other thing; we do not learn how to live. There is education about everything else; there is no education of life. We all learn so much, and yet we remain deprived of the very thing worth learning. That alone does not come into our remembrance. We live so fragmented, in so many pieces, that we do not even know what an undivided life is. Nor do we know the way to live it.

Every evening someone asks me—someone asks every day. One practices music, one amasses wealth, one seeks fame, one hunts for property, another learns different arts. But I do not find those who learn life and who practice life. And the one who does not practice life—how will life be available to him? We practice everything else, and forget the central truth that is to be practiced.

Nanak was a guest in a village. A man said to him: I have much wealth, and I want to donate it. I want it to be used for dharma. I want you to make use of it; please give me your command. Nanak said: Truly, if you want my command, then as many wealthy people as I have met, I have given them all the same command—shall I give you the same? But remember, till now no one has fulfilled that command. Will you fulfill it? The man said: I will stake everything. What command could there be that I would stake everything and yet not fulfill it? And what is there that cannot be attained? I have great wealth; I am ready to put it all in. Nanak said: Try; perhaps it may be possible. And he gave the man a sewing needle and said: Keep it carefully. When we both die, return it to me then.

The man looked closely into Nanak’s eyes. Had he said it to me, I too would have looked; had he said it to you, you too would have looked. Perhaps he thought Nanak was mad or making a joke. How will it be possible to return a needle after death? Even with all wealth, how could it be possible? But there was a crowd there, many people, and the man did not think it proper to say anything to Nanak then. He went home and pondered much. He asked his friends whom he considered thoughtful; he went to them and said: Is there any way? I am ready to put in all my wealth. Will I be able to carry this tiny needle across death? They said: You are mad! Till today nothing has gone across death. That chasm is unbridgeable. Nothing whatsoever can be carried across. However much your wealth, however great your power, however abundant your prosperity—it will not suffice to carry even this needle to the other shore. Return the needle. This debt cannot be repaid after death.

Before dawn, the man went to Nanak and said: Take back your needle. Lest we die and this borrowing remain upon us—this debt remain hanging—we will not be able to repay it after death. Nanak said: What happened to your wealth? What happened to your power? And what of your pride and your ego? Such a small task—that a needle, than which nothing is smaller—this too you cannot carry beyond death? The man said: Forgive me. This needle has made me very poor. This needle has made me very poor. For the first time I have seen: we have no power, no wealth, no capacity. We cannot carry a needle across death.

Nanak said: Is there anything you have that you can carry across? He said: This needle has shown me everything—there is nothing I have. Then Nanak told him: That which you have been earning—how can that be wealth? That which does not go with you in death—how can it be wealth? That which does not stand by you in adversity—how can it be wealth? And what is adversity in the world if not death? Everything else is merely an intimation. Other adversities are not real; the rest pass. What does not pass is only death. Everything else we may wrestle with; what we cannot wrestle with is death. So do not call the rest adversity. Adversity is only death, and that which helps in death—that alone is wealth. But that which we earn does not help in death.

Therefore those who take it to be wealth are unwise. Yet it is possible to earn something that does serve in death. There is such a treasure as crosses beyond death. There is such a power as the flames of death cannot burn. Dharma is related to that power, that treasure. And that treasure becomes available to the one who practices life. It is not available to the one who practices money, who practices fame.

The capacity to cross beyond death is available to the one who practices life. For by the accomplishment of life, the nectar—amrit—is attained. Whoever practices life, to him amrit becomes available. Because the ultimate culmination of life is amrit. And the one who does not practice life—what else can be available to him but death? What other outcome is there of not practicing life?

If rightly understood, not practicing life means practicing death. The one who does not practice dharma is only practicing death. Let this be seated in remembrance; it should be seen very clearly—that the one who does not practice dharma is practicing death. Whether he practices or not, in the end nothing other than death will come into his hands.

Before life there is only one question: death. There is no other question. Before life the only burning question is death. That is the question. The questions we take to be questions and keep trying to solve throughout life—these are not real questions. They are not problems without solutions; we can find solutions for them. But there is one question for which no solution is found. The one who dares for its solution, only he, in the true sense, is a man. The one who labors to resolve that ultimate problem—only he declares manliness, declares courage, declares his humanity. All else is not manliness.

What is the value of anything done by those encircled by death? What is the value of their collections? What is the value of their accumulated thoughts? What is the value of their fame and honors? Death will render futile all their efforts. And they will find that nothing was in their hands. As when one sleeps at night and dreams—and in the dream experiences the satisfaction of many desires, sees many fulfillments—and on waking in the morning finds that nothing is in hand.

Just so, one day death’s awakening shatters the whole dream and awakens each person. And he comes to know that what he had thought was in his fist, was not in his fist. And what he had thought was his, was not his. And those with whom he was together, the property over which he had ownership—none of it is in his hands. Again we stand naked and poor.

What poverty death will uncover, the discerning uncovers before death. What untruth death will expose, the discerning exposes before death. And the dreams that death will break, the discerning breaks beforehand.

There is no greater meaning of sadhana and of dharma than this: that we break with our own hands those dreams which death will break. And that we recognize with our own hands that those possessions which death will snatch are not with us. He who can awake thus before death—who can do upon himself what death will do—he is the sadhak. He is eager for dharma. He is the one who has become eager to practice life.

And we are, and it appears to us that we live—and we are all in this delusion that we are living. If I can break this delusion of yours, no greater companionship can I offer you: let this delusion be shattered. Let this notion fall that what we take as life is life. This would be the greatest gift anyone could offer. Mahavira, or Buddha, or Krishna did nothing else: they broke people’s delusion. They broke the delusion that what people took to be life was life. They broke the delusion that what people considered to be everything was nothing. They broke the delusion that what people took to be truth had no more substance than a dream.

Sometimes think a little—at some moment of discrimination and thought, turn back and look. Reflect a little: the days that have passed—do they feel today to be more than a dream? Are you very certain today that those days ever were? Sit today and look back; take a survey, turn your head and see: the days that have gone—how do they differ from the events that passed in dreams? On looking back, what difference is there between the past and a dream? That which was truly known, and that which was seen in dream—where is the line of difference?

Has the memory of the past not become something that occurred in a dream? Does not the whole past become a dream? Does not what we live through turn into a dream? And if the past has turned into dream, then how long will what we call the present remain true? It too will turn into a dream. And how long will the future we imagine remain true? That too will turn into a dream. Since all becomes past—present also, future also—therefore all becomes dream.

At the hour of death, when one looks back, what will be seen? Some substance? Some truth? Life will appear like a tale. Who knows whether it was lived or not. Do you think that at the hour of death this will not appear—that what we had taken as life, whether it was lived or not lived, what difference does it make? It may be it was all seen in a dream.

Tolstoy wrote in his diary at the time of death: Now I look back and I suspect—either my memory has gone bad or my intellect—but I suspect whether the life I lived was truly lived or merely seen in a dream.

Chuang Tzu, in China, was an extraordinary sage. He wrote: One night I saw in a dream that I had become a butterfly. In the morning when I awoke, I was afraid—perhaps it is now the butterfly that is dreaming it has become a man. He wrote: After that I have lived thirty years, but the suspicion has remained—perhaps it is the butterfly that dreams it is a man. Just as a man can dream he has become a butterfly, a butterfly can dream it has become a man.

Chuang Tzu’s words may seem laughable. But truly they are cause for tears. If we look deeply: is there any fundamental difference between what we see in a dream and what we see around us? When we are in a dream, what appears in the dream seems completely real. Not a single person has ever come to know within the dream that it is a dream. Has it ever happened to you? On this whole earth, billions have seen billions of dreams; but within the dream no one has known that what he is seeing is a dream.

In a dream, the dream is true. Upon waking we find it was false. So what we are seeing now, asleep, appears true to us. But there are some who have awakened from even this dream. And they have said: This too is a dream. Mahavira and Buddha are among such awakened ones who declared: This too is a dream.

And this awakening happens to each life at death. Then it seems that all one had known has become a tale, a false thing. Who knows whether it happened or did not happen. And whether it happened or not—either way it is the same. That which, in the end, after living, becomes futile—this cannot be called life. That which is, will remain is forever; it cannot become is-not. And that which is not is the only thing that one day becomes is-not. Only that which is dream can someday appear as dream; that which is truth is always truth.

In the night, when I dream, however true it may seem, it is still a dream. When I wake in the morning, I shall see it was a dream. So did it become a dream upon waking? No—it was a dream even while I slept and took it to be true. That which one day appears as a dream was always a dream; that which at no time appears as a dream—that alone is truth. That which at any moment can appear dream was always dream. That which at no moment appears dream—that which at all moments appears truth—that alone is truth.

The life we live becomes a dream after being lived. It cannot be called life. It is a dream. And the one who will practice real life will have to abandon this dream; only then can the real be practiced. One who wants to awaken must break his sleep and let his dreams be lost. It may be someone is seeing very pleasant dreams, another very painful dreams; someone dreams of great honor, another of great dishonor. But dreams are all alike. In dreams there is no difference between poor and rich; dream is dream—whether of poverty or of wealth. All dreams are equal—of honor and of dishonor, of poverty and of wealth, of fame and of defame.

Without leaving these dreams, no one can awaken into truth. Without breaking this slumber, no one attains the supreme life. What can be done to break this sleep? How can this sleep be broken? How can these dreams be shattered? How can we awaken outside the dream?

The one who wants to know the Lord, the Atman, the Truth—he has only one thing to do, one condition to fulfill. A single condition, a single bargain to complete. And the bargain is both inexpensive and strange: dreams must be lost for the one eager to attain truth. And to lose dreams—what kind of loss is that? One loses what never was, so that one may experience what is. Truth is attained at the price of dream. If we will not agree even to this—then what will we agree to?

People think Mahavira left property, family, wealth, kingdom. I do not think so. He left only dreams. Whoever thinks he left wealth, property, fame—he does not understand. In truth, that which is wealth cannot be left; only dreams can be left and broken. What was left was dream; what was attained was treasure. What was left was dream; what was attained was treasure. And we think he left riches, we think he left a kingdom. I tell you: what he attained was the kingdom; what he left was a dream. And we think he left power. I tell you: what he attained was power; what he left was no power at all. Until now, in this world, no one can leave anything but dream. Truth cannot be left; only dreams can be left. And apart from sleep, no renunciation is possible. And there is nothing else to renounce. One has to drop the dream and prepare the ground for the descent of truth.

Therefore the matter is not costly; the bargain is very cheap. Those are wise who strike this bargain. And those are foolish who cannot. They are sensible in this sense who make this bargain: because they give up nothing and gain all. And fools are those who clutch dreams and lose truth. If it must be called renunciation, then what we are doing is renunciation. If renunciation it must be, then what we are doing is renunciation—we are renouncing truth and grasping dreams.

What Mahavira and Buddha do is not renunciation. How can it be called renunciation? They drop dreams and attain truth. If dropping mud and receiving gold is renunciation, then would you call such a man a renunciate? We can be renunciates; they are not. We are renunciates because we are ignorant. The knower does not leave; he attains. The ignorant remains busy leaving and remains deprived of attainment. Ignorance is renunciation—knowledge is attainment. But to our eyes it looks like renunciation. As when many are sleeping and one awakes, people say he has renounced sleep. As when many are in delusion and one person’s delusion breaks, people say he has renounced.

I read a story. A magician came to a village, blew a mantra into a well and put something in it, and said: Now whoever drinks this well’s water will go mad. There were only two wells in that village. One belonged to the village, and one was in the king’s palace. The village well became poisoned. The fakir said that now whoever drinks this water will become mad. But necessity was there; the villagers had to drink from that well. By evening the whole village went mad. Without water how could they live? All had to drink. By dusk the entire village was mad. But the king had his own well. The king, his queens, his ministers drank from it, and they were saved from madness. By evening, however, news spread in the village that the king had gone insane. The talk spread: the king’s mind is spoiled. He speaks strangely; his ways are incomprehensible. The whole village gathered before the palace and shouted: The king has lost his mind. Abdicate the throne; we will enthrone some sane person.

The king was frightened. Standing on the roof, he asked his ministers: What should we do now? This is a great difficulty. The village has gone mad. But in a mad village, if only we are not mad, naturally we will appear mad. What to do now? The ministers said: There is only one way. Let us quickly drink from that well. The king and his ministers drank that water in the night. Then late into the night there was festivity in the village: The king’s mind has become right again.

In a world where the crowd of ignorance is dense and darkness is thick, those who leave darkness and attain light appear to be renunciates. In this crowd of madmen, those who drop the futile and attain the essential appear to be renunciates. Whereas the truth is that we are the renunciates. And those whom we call renunciates are the ones who obtain the very meaning of life. Renunciation does not leave anything; renunciation, in truth, attains. As if my hands were filled with clay and someone gave me diamonds and jewels, and I opened my fist and dropped the clay to empty the hand so I could receive the jewels. Those standing below would say I opened my fist and renounced the clay that was in my hands. Such is their foolishness; such is our foolishness when we think Mahavira renounced. What is coming to Mahavira does not appear to us; we are blind to it. What Mahavira leaves is all we see; to that alone our eyes are open.

We see Mahavira dropping dreams because we only know dreams. We do not see the truth he attains because we have no eyes for truth. That is why Mahavira appears a renunciate. Buddha appears a renunciate. The sannyasi appears to be leaving. Whereas in truth the sannyasi leaves nothing but dreams and attains all.

So let me tell you: it is a cheap, very cheap bargain. I do not ask you to renounce anything; I ask you to attain. The language of renunciation itself is wrong. Those who have set up dharma in the language of renunciation, of negation, have harmed dharma. Because we all do not have the courage to leave. I say to you: we can have the courage to attain. Drop the courage to leave. Do not understand dharma as renunciation. It is not renunciation. Dharma is attainment. Dharma is positive achievement. Dharma is a creative attainment. There one has only to gain; there is nothing to lose.

Those who have shaped dharma in the form of denial, of losing, of leaving—they have damaged it. What harm has come to dharma on this earth has not come from atheists, not from those who say there is no God, no Atman. Not from those who say Moksha, heaven, hell—this is all nonsense. Nor from those who have wrought great marvels of science and invented great powers. Not by science, not by atheism. The harm has come from those who proposed dharma in the language of negation, in the tongue of leaving and renouncing. And when talk is of leaving, our mind does not agree; we do not understand—leave everything! We see no vision of attaining, we see only leaving. Everything appears like leaving. And because of this talk of leaving we are deprived. We stop.

I want to speak of dharma from the other end: dharma is absolutely not leaving. Therefore the weakest of the weak can agree to attainment; while even the strongest hesitate to leave. And in this world we are all weak people. When dharma is presented in the language of leaving, everything goes wrong; it becomes too heavy and burdensome.

I ask you only to leave dreams. The weakest of the weak will agree to leave dreams. Even the most feeble will agree to leave dreams. No one on this earth is so weak that he cannot leave a dream. And if someone be that weak, then there is no way for him. But no one is that weak; hence the way is for all. And no one is so void of longing that he will not be eager to gain. None is so empty of aspiration that he is not eager to gain. Those who are so eager to gain wealth, those so eager to gain fame—can they not be eager to gain Paramatman or Atman?

They certainly can be eager. Because Paramatman is far greater than wealth. And the Atman is far greater than fame. Those eager to gain fame—shall they not be eager to gain the vast Self? It is beyond my understanding that they would not. In fact, whenever we want to gain anything, at the root our thirst is to gain Paramatman.

A man wants to gain fame. Ask him: How much fame will satisfy you? Tell him to state exactly the limit at which he will be content. Will he agree to set a limit? And if he sets one, ask again: Think a little more—will you be content with this much? He will push the limit further.

Do you think anyone has ever been satisfied by fame at any limit? Why not? How much wealth can satisfy a man? However much—he is not satisfied. How much power and prosperity can satisfy? However much—he is not satisfied. Why?

Because within us the longing is to gain the infinite treasure. It is not satisfied with small treasure. Within us the longing is to gain an infinite kingdom; it is not satisfied with small kingdoms. Within us the longing is essentially to gain Paramatman; before that it cannot be content. So let me tell you: behind your small desires the desire for the Infinite is hidden. Behind your small ambitions, the same ultimate aspiration, the same last ambition sits.

I want to say two things to you. First: dharma is not leaving; dharma is gaining. Think in the language of attainment. Second: hidden in every desire and longing, in its ultimate form, is the longing for Paramatman, for Atman, for Truth. If you dig and uncover your desires, you will experience within them the longing for God. And if you grasp the living heart of dharma, you will find that there is nothing to leave; everything is to be gained.

Very long ago—fourteen, fifteen hundred years ago—an Indian monk went to China. He was a guest in an ashram. There were many monks there. Their master welcomed the Indian monk, and a gathering was held. In introducing his ashram he said: Our monks do not drink wine, do not eat meat, do not steal, do not cheat, do not keep possessions. They don’t do this, they don’t do that. He spoke many such things. The Indian monk listened, then stood and said: Forgive me if I ask one thing. I have understood well what your monks do not do; may I ask what they do? He said: I have understood what they renounce; may I ask what they attain?

Do you think a life can stand only upon leaving? Leaving is negation; leaving is emptiness. Life cannot be built upon leaving. Leaving is death. Where everything is left, that is death. Leaving can erect death, not life. Life stands upon gaining. Life stands upon attainment, upon the attainment of the vastest Vast.

The supreme sannyasi is not the one who has left the world; the supreme sannyasi is the one who has attained Brahman, who has realized Paramatman. Leaving the world has no meaning in itself for that attainment. It is like lighting a lamp in a room and darkness disappears. Someone might say: We have renounced darkness. Darkness is not renounced; we brought light. We attained light; we did not leave darkness. Darkness cannot be left. Even if one tries, it cannot be left. Have you ever seen someone renouncing darkness? Have you ever seen someone bidding farewell to darkness? Darkness can neither be sent off nor renounced; darkness cannot be destroyed. You have never seen anyone destroying darkness.

Yes—light arrives, light is welcomed, light is attained; and darkness is not found. Darkness was never a thing; it was only the name of the absence of light. Our grip on the world is the absence of the attainment of Brahman. Our clinging and attachment to the world—to dreams—is only the absence of awakening. Otherwise, no one would agree to clutch dreams.

If darkness were to fill this hall and we tried to push it out, what would happen? Would we succeed? We would be broken, and darkness would remain. If someone said, “Drive out the darkness,” and we became discouraged that it would not go, and we thought darkness very powerful and ourselves very weak—that would be foolish.

Darkness is not powerful at all. But the way to remove darkness is not by renouncing darkness; the way is to attain light.

Attainment comes first. Attainment is primary. Renunciation follows it like a shadow. Leaving comes after it; like a shadow it follows attainment. But we see only shadows; hence we see renunciation.

This is what I want to say tonight: dharma is not renunciation; dharma is attainment. If this is seen, then dharma ceases to be negative and becomes a positive science. It is no longer a negation; it becomes a creative science.

So I do not say to you: leave stealing. I do not say: leave dishonesty. I do not say: give up lying. I do not say: abandon violence. I say: realize the Atman. I say: make a creative resolve in the direction of realizing the Self. Do not think of leaving; think of attaining. And you will find that as the movement toward attainment accelerates, leaving happens by itself. Move toward light, and make a creative resolve within that light is to be attained. Do not think about darkness; there is no need to think about it.

I see that as soon as a thought of dharma arises in a person, immediately the thought of leaving arises—what should I leave? Everywhere people ask me: What should we leave? What should we renounce? I tell them: If you had anything, I would say, “Renounce it.” I tell them: If you had anything, I would say, “Renounce it.” You have nothing but dreams. And if you were rich, perhaps you could renounce; but there is no sign of riches—there is only poverty. The poor dream of renunciation. Those who have nothing fancy themselves renunciates. How strange! I do not ask you to leave anything. For the present you have nothing to leave.

I ask you to attain. And for attaining there is a very different effort than for leaving. Remember this—leaving demands one kind of effort; attainment asks for another. With a negative hold on dharma, all efforts are of one kind. With a positive, creative grasp, all efforts are of another kind. It makes a great difference. In one, we remain occupied with leaving, trying to drop a little here and there. In the other, there is no thought of leaving; we care for gaining.

So with remembrance I want to give you this insight: think of dharma in the spirit of gaining. Think what is to be gained. Think what I want to gain. And when you ask dharma, “What should I do?” then ask, “What shall I gain?” Do not ask, “What should I leave?” Ask, “What shall I gain? What shall I realize?”

When you ask, “What shall I realize?” a very different direction, a very different dimension, a new path opens. The one who asks dharma, “What should I leave?”—for him dharma appears as morality. The one who asks, “What shall I gain?”—for him dharma appears as yoga. The one who asks, “What should I leave?”—for him dharma presents itself as ethics: don’t steal, don’t cheat, don’t do this, don’t do that. The one who asks, “What should I do? What shall I gain?”—for him dharma presents itself as yoga.

Dharma has two faces—one ethical, one yogic. When dharma is alive, it is yoga. When dharma is dead, it is morality. The dharma that dies becomes merely ethical. The dharma that is alive is yogic. It does not practice ahimsa directly; ahimsa arises. It does not practice aparigraha directly; aparigraha arises. It practices something else. It practices yoga—Samadhi, dhyana—something entirely other. The vision becomes utterly different. When grasped through negation, only morality remains in the hand.

To be a moral man is not bad—but merely being moral does not bring one to truth. Morality is not bad, but by morality alone one does not become religious. It may be that a man does not steal, does not cheat, does not lie. But that alone is not sufficient to know truth. It does not suffice to experience the Atman. An atheist may be thoroughly moral—but he cannot be religious. He can be perfectly moral; morality is no barrier. Morality is not a revolution. Morality does not relate you to the realm of new truth. Yoga does.

And the great wonder is this: however moral one may become, yoga does not come by itself. But if one practices yoga, morality comes by itself. It is impossible that a yogi be immoral. It is quite possible that a moral man is not a yogi. Yoga has nothing to do with morality in the sense that morality does not bring yoga; but practicing yoga, morality follows on its own.

Grasp dharma as yoga, with the vision of yoga. And when you ask what is to be gained, the very first thing that will arise is this: before striving to gain anything else, life must be gained. If life itself is not realized, what else will you realize? Those to whom life is not available—what else will they attain? First, life must be attained. That which we now know, as I said, is not life.

There was a sage. A man used to come to him for many years. One day he said to the sage: For years I have come near you and watched you closely—with a most penetrating eye. In every way I tried to find some flaw, some sin, but I do not see any. From my side I have looked in every way; no darkness appears in you. Now I ask you: outwardly nothing appears, but is there no darkness within either? Outwardly no fault is seen—but within have the seeds of fault been utterly destroyed? Outside there seems light upon light—but is there no darkness under the lamp? He asked the sage: I can look from outside; only you can look from within. So I ask you.

The sage said: Before I answer, I must tell you something else, lest I forget. Yesterday, suddenly my eyes fell upon your palm; I saw that your span is over—seven days from now, exactly at sunset, you too will set. I tell you this so I do not forget; yesterday I forgot in talk. Now that you have begun again, lest I forget, I tell you. Now ask what you will.

The man who had been sitting rose to his feet. The sage said: Sit down; were you not asking something? He said: I do not remember what I asked. Please give me leave; if there is time, I shall come again. The sage said: There will be no time now. If you want to ask, ask now. I know: you will not come again. He said: No—if I get time, I will come. The sage said: I see your hands and feet trembling; I fear whether you will even reach home. He descended the steps and fell upon them. He was carried home and took to his bed.

Seven days later the sun was about to set. The house was full of gloom, full of weeping. Death was near. The sage came to his house. He lay with eyes closed, almost dead. The sage called to him; with difficulty he opened his eyes, folded his hands, and saluted. The sage asked: I have come to ask one thing: In these seven days did you commit any sin? Did any inner sin arise? The man said: You mock a dying man. Death was so near that between me and death there was no space for sin to arise. Death was so close there was no interval, no emptiness in which sin could come. Not for a moment in seven days did such a thought arise. I even forgot whether I was living or already dead. Again and again it seemed I had died, that the seven days were over. These seven days I only awaited death and did nothing else.

The sage said: Death has not yet come; I have only answered your question. The one you had asked—whether any darkness remains within—I have only answered that. Your death has not come.

The man sat up, startled: Only an answer! He said: My life has been transformed; I cannot be the same man again.

Awareness of death gives entry into dharma. Do not think that because his was seven days, a change came. Even if it be seventy years, the distance is not much. Between seven days and seventy years the difference is in arithmetic, not in life. In life, seven days, seventy years, seven moments—are equal. In arithmetic the distances are different; in life they are not.

What difference does it make whether death is seven days away or seventy years? Death is—that should make the difference. It does not matter when death is; that it is, should matter. And why does the fact of death frighten us? Because we do not know life. The fact of death frightens because life is unknown. Otherwise why would death frighten?

The one who knows life is not frightened by death.

Here is the test: the one whom death does not frighten has known life. There is no other test for knowing life. The one whom death becomes meaningless to—he has recognized life. The one in whom death dissolves—he is related to life; he is alive. The one whose death is not—that one is alive. The one who has known that “I have no death”—he has related to life.

From this creative science of dharma, the first thing to ask is: What is life? And how shall we relate to that life?

That to which we are related now is related to death, not to life. All the things we are tied to—death will snatch them all. That which death will snatch from us—that itself is death. We take this body to be our being; death will take it away. This body is itself mortal; death will snatch it. Only that which is mortal can death snatch. That which within me is eternal, that which is conscious, that which is living—death cannot snatch. That alone will remain.

So within, I must seek: what is dead and what is alive. Within, I must make a discrimination, a distance, a discernment between what is dead and what is alive. All that is dead has to be denied within. Ultimately one has to hold only that flame which is life. This is yoga. This is the creative science of dharma: an inner observation, an inner discrimination, an inner discernment of what within is dead.

Do it—this doing is what sadhana is. Do it for twenty-four hours, unbroken—let it become a part of life that I know, that I reflect and discriminate: what within me is dead? This becomes very clearly experienced.

Do you not see—sit sometimes with eyes closed—and see: I cannot be the body. In dream, in the night’s sleep, does any awareness of the body remain? In sleep does awareness remain that the body is yours?

In dream and in sleep, awareness of the body disappears. But the sense of being remains. When you wake, you find the body also is. But when you sleep, you are, but the body is not. You have a sense of being, but not of the body. Perhaps you have no awareness even of your face. Perhaps you have no awareness of your name. In dreaming you forget your boundaries. In deep sleep you forget completely. When even dreams are not, then you forget utterly.

If you sit with eyes closed for a few moments and only see within, enquire: Am I the body? Only see and search: Am I the body? Let your awareness roam from the feet to the head and search. You will clearly experience that you cannot be the body, you are not the body.

Because the awareness that is arising toward the body, that is seeing the body—how can that awareness itself be body? Whatever can be seen—by the very seeing we are separate from it. Toward whatever one can be aware, by being aware one becomes other than it. I am seeing you—that suffices to establish I am not you. I see these walls—that settles I am not these walls. The awareness within me that sees these walls—how could it be the walls? If I wakefully see my body, you will find the body is like a shell. It will be clearly seen that the body is a shell, and your consciousness is very deep within.

Waking from the body is the first step toward entry into life. To be asleep in the body is to enter dream. To wake from the body is the first door to enter truth—to be filled with awareness toward the body.

In that concentrated moment, when you search within and your awareness is roaming, and it touches the walls of the body and returns, you will very clearly experience that the body is a shell and you are separate. Within you a new center—which is not body—will begin to be felt.

The first step is the realization: I am not the body. Then a deeper step will have to be taken: Am I thought? Am I mind? In dreams the body is forgotten, but the mind functions. But when even dreams stop, and one goes into deep sleep, there too mind does not function—there the mind is not. But we are. In sleep, the body is forgotten. In deep sleep, the mind also is forgotten. But we are; our being is, our prana vibrates.

One door is to recognize that we are not the body. Then, by the same observation, recognize thought—the mind. The body is a gross enclosure, surrounding from outside. Then there is a subtle enclosure, of mind, desires, thoughts—surrounding from within. The one who awakens toward the body must undertake the second experiment—awakening toward the mind. He must look at thoughts, at mind, and discern: Am I the mind? Wander within the mind. In that concentrated moment, when someone awake within looks in the mind, he will clearly see: the body is one enclosure, outside me; the mind is another enclosure, still outside me.

One door is of the body; the second, of the mind. He who crosses these two enters consciousness. Entry into consciousness is entry into life. For only consciousness does not die; all else dies. Only consciousness is amrit; all else is mortal. To experience that consciousness is like lighting a lamp in a dark house. In the total darkness of life, a lamp of awareness is lit.

And when that consciousness becomes your identity, your whole life changes. Then renunciation comes by itself of all that you had wanted to leave but could not leave; of all that you knew to be evil yet did despite knowing; of all that you called perversions that still held you and gripped you. All faults and all sins that you longed to be rid of—these fall away, like ripe leaves fall from the tree. Just as darkness dissolves, so the darkness of life dissolves.

The creative method to dissolve life’s darkness is yoga. The simplest, straight meaning of yoga is: to drop identity with that which is dead, and to find identity with that which is alive within. To go away from the dead and come near to consciousness. To be separate from the dead and be established in consciousness. This is meditation. This is prayer. This is dharma. And this takes a person into life. And the one who goes into life, who knows life—his joy, his peace, his music—the gates to these become infinite.

For the first time he comes to know how filled with joy this life, this existence is. For the first time he knows how much peace there is, how much music, how much beauty. Then a sense of fulfillment and blessedness is felt. Then even living, breathing, is a joy. Then there is no sorrow in this world. The one who has known there is no death has known there is no sorrow here. And the one who has known there is no death has known all. He has known amrit.

Dharma is related to this creative science. Dharma is not related to the language of leaving, leaving, and leaving; dharma is related to gaining. The one who gains—things fall away from him. The one who has not gained—if he, a madman, leaves—he will get into even greater difficulty. If one who has not gained starts leaving, he gets into more trouble. The boat of dream—he has lost that too. And the real boat has not yet been attained. He is caught in midstream.

I do not tell you to leave; I tell you to gain. And if you grasp the perspective of gaining, dharma can be revived. Dharma died through a negative outlook. Dharma can be reborn through a creative outlook.

These few things I have said to you—in the hope that perhaps something, perhaps something may strike true. Perhaps something may be of use to you. The farming of people like me is very strange. One does not know where the seeds are thrown—for whom they go, whether they go or not. One does not know whether any sprout will ever arise in them—or whether flowers will ever come. This farming is strange. But if a hundred thousand seeds are thrown and flowers blossom even in a single seed—the labor is worthwhile.

So I hope that your heart will become the place for that one seed in which flowers blossom. May the Divine fill your life with flowers. May light and radiance come into your life—that is my wish and my prayer.

You have listened to my words with such love; for that I am very, very obliged.