““Isn’t philosophy the study of death? True philosophers are always occupied in the practice of dying.”—Plato”
Death is certain. We all know that. What we do not know is when we will die and how our end is to come. That is one big source of anxiety in our lives. It may not be always apparent on the surface, but deep down in the unplumbed depths of our mind this anxiety is ever-present and is very strong. It shoots up occasionally when someone close to us dies, or when we are in a profoundly despondent mood, or when we begin to question the meaning of life and human existence.
We generally try to keep away from the thought of death (or, more accurately, we try to prevent it from sticking around too long in the mind) by busying ourselves with life and its concerns. We spend hours planning how to do this and that, or deciding what unfinished job is to be completed over the weekend, or wondering where we should go during vacations, or figuring on meeting someone for something, and so on. Not every plan works out the way we want it to. Some of our plans misfire miserably, some go awry midway, some need to be drastically modified, some require last-minute alterations and, if we are lucky, a few of our plans are accomplished perfectly.
Life is full of inconsistencies. It is not surprising that most of our plans fail, what is amazing is that a few do manage to succeed. The greatest mystery concerns our paradoxical behavior. We are eager to plan our life which is only a crazy bundle of uncertainties, but we do not even feel the necessity to plan our death, although it is the only event we can be absolutely certain about. Moreover, plans about life depend on many variables over which we have no control, but a plan about death is entirely a personal affair involving only the individual, and hence far easier to carry out successfully. Who is more intelligent and practical—one who plans to pluck the stars from the sky or one who plans to pick apples from a tree in the backyard?
The logic behind this thinking can be questioned, of course. We can point out, for instance, that if life has its uncertainties, so has death. Just as we cannot be too sure about the how and when of anything in life, we are also not sure about the how and when of death. So in what way is death less uncertain than other events in life? This is a valid question. And the answer is that, in this respect, the event of death is indeed similar to other events.
One big difference however is that, while some anticipated events may never take place, or if they do, not in the way we thought they would, death always takes place and every time in the same way, namely, by the stopping of the breath. Everything in life is continuously changing; only the fact of death has remained unchanged. We can be absolutely certain about nothing except our eventual death. In Swami Vivekananda’s words:
“The whole world is going towards death, everything dies. All our progress, our vanities, our reforms, our luxuries, our wealth, our knowledge, have that one end—death. That is all that is certain. Cities come and go, empires rise and fall, planets break into pieces and crumble into dust, to be blown about by the atmospheres of other planets. Thus it has been going on from time without beginning. Death is the end of everything. Death is the end of life, of beauty, of wealth, of power, of virtue too. Saints die and sinners die, kings die and beggars die. They are all going to death.” (CW, 2. 92-93)
We do not know in advance the exact time of our death or under what garb our death is to come. But this depends on circumstances beyond our control anyway, and knowing or not knowing about it cannot alter what is to take place. What is within our control is how we encounter death whenever it chooses to come. Our mental preparation and attitude are the key factors that decide how we’ll face our death. While we cannot choose the external manner of our death, we can definitely choose how we are going to face this great event. We do therefore have some choice in the matter.
Sometimes we can exercise our choice even in the external circumstances leading to our death. The great Greek philosopher Socrates (470-399 BCE) did it—and in what a dignified manner! His friends had come to the prison and offered him an easy escape, they had bribed all the officials who stood between him and liberty. Had Socrates accepted the offer, he would have been less great than he was. But he gave them the brushoff without even a moment’s hesitation. At the trial the judges had wished to let Socrates go, but the angry crowd had voted for his death—this was indeed a singular confirmation of Socrates’s conviction that the state be administered by its wisest men and not guided by the mob.
Socrates also strongly believed and taught that death was not the end of everything. “When you lay me down in my grave, say that you are burying my body only, and not my soul,” he told his disciples. Socrates was no armchair philosopher. He lived what he taught. He was quick to realize that the time had now come to die for what he taught. “Let us face death as we have faced life—courageously,” he said. The wisest man in Greece knew his death was essential for the survival of his philosophy. If he compromised his values in order to save his life, his philosophy would lack credibility. He might live but his philosophy would die. Plato’s description of the event not only brings tears to our eyes but also fills our heart with profound admiration for this brave, wise man. In choosing the right time and manner of his death, Socrates made himself and his teachings immortal.
Another example comes to mind. Sambhāji (1657-89), Hindu king Shivāji’s eldest son, was imprisoned by Aurangzeb after Shivāji’s death. The emperor offered Sambhāji a choice: “Convert to Islam and you’ll be set free, or else get ready for torture and death.” The brave son of the brave father chose the latter. Limb by limb his body was mutilated and at every stage he was offered the alternative. Sambhāji’s resolve was unflinching. He stuck to his guns till the last. He died a hero’s death, because he had made a hero’s choice.
The stories of Socrates and Sambhāji are parts of known history. There have been countless others all over the world who chose their deaths intelligently and became heroes in their own little way, but we know almost nothing about them. There is no record available of their bravery, wisdom and achievements. The recorded history of the world is too fragmentary, too sketchy, and not even balanced and representative, because it’s not entirely free from the personal prejudices and predilections of those who recorded it.
Nevertheless, we do know of the martyrdom of the early Christians; the valiant Rajput warriors’ fight-to-death with the Muslim invaders even when defeat was imminent; the mass self-immolation (jauhar) of the Rajput women when the city fell and the aggressors marched in; and the joy with which the young, firebrand Indians went to the gallows during the struggle for freedom from the British rule in India.
There are innumerable similar examples of nameless individuals from different parts of the world. In every case, the persons involved could have lived, had they chosen to compromise their principles or dilute their ideals or to slacken their self-discipline. But they chose death over compromise, bondage and moral depravity. They didn’t court death. They didn’t go out of their way to seek it. But when it came on its own, they encountered it with courage and wisdom, and embraced it joyfully.
Joy and wisdom mark the deaths of these heroes, while suffering and surrender mark the deaths by suicide. Don’t the suicides choose their deaths? Apparently yes, but really no. Suicides don’t actually “choose” death. They turn to death only when they feel they have no choices left. To them, death appears as the only exit-route to escape from the burdens they can no longer bear. Unfortunately, death is no escape at all, it’s only an additional burden if it comes about through suicide. Suicide is an admission of defeat. Suicides don’t choose their deaths. It is death that chooses them when they are worn-out and defeated. Suicide is no act of bravery. It’s not a death by choice. It’s a death by a vague and self-induced sense of compulsion.
We may not be cowards, but we may not also get the opportunity to choose the external circumstances leading to death. Such opportunities come to very few. But that shouldn’t matter really. Our choices in the external world are limited. In the internal world, however, we have all the possible choices. Inside, we are our own masters. Our word reigns supreme within. It is in the inner world, therefore, that we must choose our death before death chooses us in the external world.
The only way to neutralize the terror of death is to “die” before dying. This was the teaching of Prophet Mohammed. He said, “Be in the world like a traveller, or like a passer on, and reckon yourself as of the dead.” German mystic and poet Abraham von Franckenberg (1593–1652) warned: “Who dies not before dying, perishes when he dies.” His Lutheran disciple Daniel von Czepko (1605–60) expressed the same idea in a different way: “She cannot die, for she died before her death, in order to be living when she died.” Yekiwo, the sixteenth century Japanese Zen Master, taught: “If you are really desirous of mastering Zen, it is necessary for you to once give up your life and to plunge right into the pit of death.” In our own times, Sri Ramakrishna (1836–86) made the idea clear through his life. His disciples found him one day in a high state of samādhi, addressing the Divine Mother about his own approaching illness: “O Mother, what will you accomplish by killing one who is already dead?”
A story from the Bhāgavata, which Sri Ramakrishna narrated often, helps us understand what it is that prevents us from “dying” before our death:
“In a certain place the fishermen were catching fish. A kite swooped down and snatched a fish. At the sight of the fish, about a thousand crows chased the kite and made a great noise with their cawing. Whichever way the kite flew with the fish, the crows followed it.
“The kite flew to the south and the crows followed it there. The kite flew to the north and still the crows followed after it. The kite went east and west, but with the same result. As the kite began to fly about in confusion, lo, the fish dropped from its mouth. The crows at once left the kite alone and flew after the fish. Thus relieved of its worries, the kite sat on the branch of a tree and thought: ‘That wretched fish was at the root of all my troubles. I have now got rid of it and therefore I am at peace.’” (The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, p. 314)
Sri Ramakrishna then explained the moral of the story:
“The Avadhuta learnt this lesson from the kite, that as long as a man has the fish, that is, worldly desires, he must perform actions and consequently suffer from worry, anxiety, and restlessness. No sooner does he renounce these desires than his activities fall away and he enjoys peace of soul.”
In the above story, the fish fell from the kite’s mouth accidentally and the bird was at peace, finding to its relief and joy that the root cause of its trouble had disappeared.
Let us now try making a slight variation in the story. Let us suppose that our kite is intelligent and has somehow developed the capacity to think deeply. Chased by the battalion of crows and flying helter-skelter, it begins to think:
“There is no way I can eat this fish until these crows leave me, and these louts are not going to leave me in peace so long as the fish is with me. It is impossible for me to outfly such an overwhelming number of them. The only way I can free myself is by letting go of the fish. After all, the fish isn’t everything. I can easily do without this one. It cannot be the end of the world for me. Why, I can even get a bigger fish later on if I try hard enough.”
Thinking thus, our intelligent kite drops the fish consciously and voluntarily. The crows give up the chase and swoop on the falling fish. From the height above, the wise kite looks down and smiles peacefully.
What do we learn? The chasing crows symbolize death, the fish is the attachment to the world, and the kite is you and me. Just as the kite is never sure when and how the crows will catch up with it, we too are never sure when and how death will catch up with us. So long as the fish remained with the kite, the crows did not give up the chase; so long as the attachment to the world remains in us, death is not going to stop chasing us. Once the kite detached itself consciously from the fish, the crows ceased to torment the kite. When we detach ourselves consciously from the world, death will cease to torment us. The presence of the crows became irrelevant to the kite when it gave up its claim on the fish; the presence of death will become irrelevant to us when we give up our claim on this world.
Something must be said about the word “world,” to clarify what is intended in the use of phrases such as “attachment to the world” and “detachment from the world.” What is this world? Normally we would at once point our finger to everything around us and say, well, this is the world. That wouldn’t be an accurate answer, however. A student of Vedanta learns to look at everything from the subjective standpoint. The world is not out there, it is right here. In the words of Swami Vivekananda, “It is here, I am carrying it all with me. My own body” (CW 4. 244).
To go back to the story of the kite. There were any number of fish in rivers, lakes, and oceans, and there were thousands in the nets of fishermen. But they were not the cause of the kite’s problem. The problem-generator was the one fish the kite had fiercely held in its beak. Similarly, our so-called world is not at all the cause of our problem. The real problem-generator is this little bit of the world called “my body” to which I am desperately clinging. I need everything in the world only if it is relevant to my own body and mind. Vivekananda’s words convey the idea most powerfully:
“The circle of vision has become so narrow, so degraded, so beastly, so animal! No one desires anything beyond this body. Oh, the terrible degradation, the terrible misery of it! What little flesh, the five senses, the stomach! What is the world but a combination of stomach and sex? Look at millions of men and women—that is what they are living for. Take these away from them and they will find their life empty, meaningless, and intolerable. Such are we. And such is our mind, it is continually hankering for ways and means to satisfy the hunger of the stomach and sex. All the time this is going on.” (CW, 8. 118)
The crows, which symbolize death, or the destruction of my own little world, are going to haunt me so long as I hold on to the fish, the attachment to my body which produces unending worldly desires. So I begin to reflect, as the kite did in our story:
“There is no way I can enjoy perfect peace and fulfillment until the fear of death is going to haunt me. I cannot prevent the destruction of my body, which is what death really is. This destruction, even the thought of which gives me the jitters, appears terrible because somehow I have begun to feel myself one with the body—and that is responsible for all the mess I find myself in. Like the kite let go of the fish, I shall let go of the assumption that the body is “me”—and, like the kite became free from the chasing crows, I shall be freed from death.”
Letting go of the body-consciousness is, of course, not as easy as letting go of the fish. But for the kite in the original story, letting go of the fish was not easy either. It shielded the fish from the marauding crows as if its very life depended on it. It was only through accident that the fish fell down. But in the modified version of our story, the kite let go of the fish consciously and voluntarily.
The parallel can be drawn to our human situation. Most of us are like the kite in the original story. Just as the fish was all-important to it, the body—our “little world”—is all important to us. Big and small problems torment us from all sides all the time, but we dare not think of anything beyond this little body and its needs. Whether we admit it or not, whether we are conscious of it or not, the simple truth is that for most of us the whole world revolves round our own body-mind axis. We are afraid to let it go. Who knows, this may hurtle us headlong into the vast, unknown emptiness where we may have nothing to hold on for support. That’s the unspoken thought and the unexpressed fear.
But the world is never without at least a few brave explorers who dare to let go their hold on the body-mind axis and jump into the transcendent vastness that lies beyond. They are like the kite in the modified story. They have learnt to think deeply. Floating on the surface of life satisfies them no more. They want to plunge deep within.
In the innermost and deepest recesses of their heart they discover the way to overcome death. They realize that they cannot—indeed, no one can—dissociate the body from death; so they do the next best thing. They dissociate themselves from the body, and smile—like our kite did—when death comes to claim the unclaimed lump of flesh and bones. That’s it! The body—not the Ātman—is dust and unto dust it has to eventually return.
What is the body-consciousness of these brave souls replaced by? By the Ātman-consciousness or God-consciousness. Their attachment to the body is replaced by the attachment to God. Their attachment to material life is replaced by the attachment to spiritual life. Dying to the world, they begin living in God—this sums up best the lives of all true spiritual seekers. Byzantine Christian monk and poet St. Symeon the New Theologian (949–1022), whose copious writings are included in the Philokalia, says:
“A man who has attained the final perfection is dead and yet not dead, but infinitely more alive in God, with whom he lives, for he no longer lives by himself.”
‘Abd al-Qādir al-Jilāni (1078-1166), the great Persian Sufi of Baghdad, explains how to die to the world in order to begin living in God:
“Die, then, to the creatures, by God’s leave, and to your passions by His command, and you will then be worthy to be the dwelling-place of the knowledge of God. The sign of your death to the creatures is that you detach yourself from them and do not look for anything from them. The sign that you have died to your passions is that you no longer seek benefit for yourself, or to ward off injury and you are not concerned about yourself, for you have committed all things unto God. The sign that your will has been merged in the Divine Will is that you seek nothing of yourself or for yourself—God’s Will is working in you. Give yourself up into the hands of God like the ball of the polo-player who sends it to and fro with his mallet, or like the dead body in the hands of the one who washes it, or like the child in its mother’s bosom.”
As regards Meister Eckhart (1260-1327), the German Dominican theologian, it can virtually be said that every page of his works proclaims death. “The soul must put itself to death,” he says. “The kingdom of God is for none but the thoroughly dead.” And, again, “One must be dead to see God.” We find this in Theologia Germanica, a fourteenth century text said to have been written by a priest of the Teutonic Order: “If the Creator shall enter in, the creature must depart. Of this be assured.”
Again and again, through different imageries and words, the same message comes across. So long as we don’t become blind to the world, we cannot open our eyes to behold God. So long as we don’t die to the world, we cannot begin to live in God. We cannot live in reality until we have died to illusion.
The world—or the “illusion”—is first and foremost my own body and mind, their needs and desires, and my identification with them all. How do I die to the world? By refusing to identify with my body as “me.” I then become, in the words of Rumi, “a dead man walking.” “The dead body resents nothing,” said Swami Vivekananda. “Let us make our bodies dead and cease to identify ourselves with them” (CW, 7. 89). By dying to the profane world, the seeker gets a mystical birth in the spiritual world.
Those who take to monastic life are expected to renounce everything internally as well as externally. The “everything” includes the attachment to the body, that is, to our “little world” that connects us to the larger world outside. The monastic has to become “dead” to the world, both inwardly and outwardly. The internal death occurs when the body-consciousness is replaced with God-consciousness. In India, this death is symbolized externally by the funeral rites (śrāddha) which the monastic performs a day prior to receiving the sannyāsa vows. The monastic is thenceforth dead to the world. Just as nothing in the world can attract, repel, frighten, lure, agitate, and excite a dead body, so it cannot a true monastic.
The monastics are expected to remain supremely detached, in peace with themselves and in peace with the world. Their detachment does not mean non-participation in the activities of the world. They participate wholeheartedly, with total dedication, but without any self-interest and emotional entanglement. They continue to work—usually more than even the so-called workaholics—but they have no ax to grind, no score to settle, no ambition to prod them on, no duty or obligation to anybody anywhere anytime. They work for the good of others as naturally and freely as the sun gives light. The true monastics are free because they are dead to the world and have now begun to live in God.
To be able to live in God, the non-monastic spiritual seeker must also “die,” but only internally. They may also, at some stage, want to perform the śrāddha ritual and sever the ties with the world—but this also must be done only mentally. Outwardly, the non-monastic seeker continues to live like all others, interacting with the world to the extent it is unavoidable, carrying out all the duties and shouldering all the responsibilities without any self-interest, and inwardly remaining totally focused on God. This applies also to monastics who are members of a spiritual community. Catholic mystic and nun of the Franciscan Capuchine order, Sister Consolata (1903-46) related her own experience: “As regards the community, I try to consider myself as already dead. In this way, everything becomes indifferent to me and I remain in peace.”
Peace is, of course, one of the first things we experience when we die to the world. This is only the start of richer treasures that come as we begin to learn the art of living in God. Total fulfillment, freedom, and perfection are attained when our body-consciousness is fully and irrevocably replaced with God-consciousness.
Death by choice cannot be separated from life by choice. At present most of us are dead to God because we have chosen to be alive to the world. If we want to be true seekers of God, our choice must now be reversed. We must now choose to die to the world in order to begin living in God, and we must choose to live in God in order to die to the world. We cannot have the one without the other.