““Comfort” is no test of truth. On the contrary, truth is often far from being comfortable. If one intends to really find truth, one must not cling to comfort.”
A group of college students went to Belur Math to meet Swami Vivekananda sometime in the 1890s. In the course of their conversation, Swamiji said to them:
London (December 1896)
“You are all studying different schools of European philosophy and metaphysics and learning new facts about nationalities and countries. Can you tell me what is the grandest of all the truths in life?” (CW 5. 329)
If Swamiji were to ask the same question to you and me, what would be our answer? How would we even begin to think of an answer?
Here is one way: Every truth is valuable. Every truth therefore can be thought of as “grand.” Perhaps all truths are not equally grand. Some are probably grander than others, and there is very likely one truth which is the grandest among them all.
But how can we compare one truth with another? One way to do it is by determining the proximity of a truth to the absolute Truth. Which truth would qualify as the “absolute Truth” (with a capitalized “T,” no less)? A truth that is independent of time (kāla), space (deśa) and causality (nimitta)—a truth that stands on its own, a truth that is completely independent—deserves to be the absolute Truth. Vedanta identifies it with what is real (satya), conscious (jñāna), and infinite (ananta) (Taittirīya Upaniṣad, 2.1.1). All other “truths” besides this are relative in nature.
Let us assume that the nearer a truth is to the absolute Truth, the grander it is. By this yardstick, the grandest of all truths would obviously be one which is the nearest to the absolute Truth; it would be the truth which is, so to say, a doorway to the absolute Truth. Which means, if we hold on to the grandest of all truths long enough, we shall eventually come face to face with the absolute Truth.
The absolute Truth itself cannot be the grandest of all truths for the simple reason that it is the absolute. It transcends all relative truths. It is incomparable. The grandest of all truths is a relative truth all right, but one which is almost on the borderline that separates the relative from the absolute.
Which truth, specifically, would qualify as the grandest of all the truths in life? There is a lot of subjectivity involved here, so we’ll most likely have different answers. What was Swami Vivekananda’s answer? It was simple and direct:
“We shall all die!”
That’s it? Every one of us is going to die one day—as if we didn’t know that already! The inevitability of death is a truth all right. But far from being “the grandest of all truths,” it is on the contrary the most unpleasant of all truths. It’s a truth we’d rather not think about.
Instead of thinking about life and living it to the full, why should we fritter away our time and energy brooding over the gloomy, dark thought of death? Death is going to come anyway, whether we think about it or not. Why should we idolize this hideous truth and call it “the grandest of all truths”? Swamiji’s answer, therefore, seems at first sight to be either plainly absurd or meant as a joke.
In reality it is neither. When a Vivekananda speaks, thoughtful men and women do not dismiss his statements so easily. To hear the words of a prophet we need something more than merely a pair of good ears. To read a prophet’s words in print we need something more than merely a pair of good eyes. That something more is humility, reverence, and a sensitive, truth-seeking heart. When the words of a prophet reverberate in the heart of such a person, their inner meaning is revealed. Let us open our hearts to Swamiji’s luminous words:
“Look here—we shall all die! Bear this in mind always, and then the spirit within will wake up. Then only meanness will vanish from you, practicality in work will come, you will get new vigor in body and mind, and those who come in contact with you will also feel that they have really got something uplifting from you.” (CW 5. 329)
The prime condition Swamiji puts is that “the grandest of all truths”—the truth of our eventual death—must be kept in mind always. A small part of the mind must always remain soaked in the thought of death. What shall we gain from this ceaseless contemplation on death? Awakening of the spirit, disappearance of all meanness, practicality in work, a new vigor in body and mind, and the power to uplift others.
But all of these will come only if we face the thought of death courageously. This is important. Even cowards brood over the thought of death. But they don’t choose to do it, they are forced to do it. Their inner weakness and fear compel them to agonize endlessly about death. Swamiji could tolerate and forgive everything but cowardice. When a disciple timidly suggested that serving others in this evanescent world was of no use because death is always stalking behind every one of us, Swamiji flared up.
“Fie upon you! If you die, you will die but once. Why will you die every minute of your life by constantly harping on death like a coward?” (CW 7. 176)
Swamiji wanted the contemplation on death to be a healthy exercise of the brave, not a death-phobia of the weak.
It is true, however, that even in the case of the brave and the earnest, the immediate effect of meditation on death would certainly be drooping of the spirit. The benefits would surface only later. Swamiji agrees:
“Quite so. At first, the heart will break down, and despondency and gloomy thoughts will occupy your mind. But persist, let days pass like that—and then? Then you will see that new strength has come into the heart, that the constant thought of death is giving you a new life, and is making you more and more thoughtful by bringing every moment before your mind’s eye the truth of the saying, ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’ Wait! Let days, months and years pass, and you will feel that the spirit within is waking up with the strength of a lion, that the little power within has transformed itself into a mighty power! Think of death always and realize the truth of every word I say.” (CW 5. 329–30)
As always, Swamiji was only echoing the instruction of his guru, Sri Ramakrishna, who taught: “The world is impermanent. One should constantly remember death” (Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, 589). On another occasion Sri Ramakrishna said: “Do your duty in the world but remember that the ‘pestle of death’ will sometime smash your hand. Be alert about it” (Gospel, 428).
The importance of keeping the thought of death always before our mind’s eye has been emphasized in many religious traditions. Ansari (d. 1088), a Persian Sufi master and poet, said, “O man, remember death at all times.” In Ecclestasticus (7. 40) we find this instruction: “In all thy works remember thy last end, and thou shalt never sin.” Daidōji Yūzan (17th cent), a samurai and author, wrote: “The idea most vital and essential to the samurai is that of death, which he ought to have before his mind day and night, night and day, from the dawn of the first day of the year till the last minute of the last day of it.” Takeda Shingen (1521–73), a great Japanese general and student of Zen, remarked: “Zen has no secrets other than seriously thinking about birth and death.” The Imitation of Christ expresses the idea this way: “Thou oughtest so to order thyself in all thy thoughts and actions, as if today thou wert to die.”
It is important to remember that not only must there be the effort to keep in mind the thought of our eventual death, but we must persist with this practice even through the dark, depressing days of despondency. The important thing is to remain resolutely positive. We don’t have to be obsessed with death. Nor do we want to live with a constant death-related anxiety which makes us avoid the topic. Wherever perseverance, grit and a strong will to succeed are present, light has got to come sooner or later. That is what happens in the case of meditation on death too.
If Nachiketa could remain doggedly determined in his quest to know the secret of death, brushing aside all of Yama’s alternative, tempting offers (Kaṭhopaniṣad, 1.1.23–27), it was because Nachiketa had for long contemplated on his own death. At the end of Yama’s teaching, Nachiketa was an altogether transformed person. The form of a child remained, but his awareness had smashed all barriers and become one with the universal consciousness.
The thought of death was the turning point in Siddhartha’s life too. On his first ever chariot drive outside the palace, the young prince encountered disease, old age, and death. He might as well have driven on, dismissing those things as inevitable, so why bother? That is what most of us do. If Siddhartha too had done that, he wouldn’t have become the Buddha (563–480 BCE) and we wouldn’t be remembering him today twenty-five centuries after he passed on. But the thought of human suffering, culminating in that climactic, mysterious event called death, never left Siddhartha’s mind after what he saw outside the palace. When he solved the mystery years later under the bodhi tree, Siddhartha was a transformed figure. Gone was the prince of Kapilavastu and in his place stood the Enlightened One, the prince of renunciation and compassion.
The passing away of his father, Shivaguru, brought about a profound change in the mind of young Shankara (788–820 CE). Encountering the reality of death so early in life, the young boy began to view the world in an entirely new light. Life was never the same for him again. He never looked back until he had solved the mystery of death. Indeed, a Sanskrit movie on Shankara’s life showed him always flanked by two companions, Knowledge and Death: Shankara had acquired the first and conquered the second. Visible only to Shankara, these two followed him everywhere. Towards the end of the movie, we see Death bidding farewell to Shankara—and the great monk intuitively realizing that the time had come for him to lay down the body and enter the infinite, indescribable realm of immortality.
A similar thing happened in the life of a boy named Ramakrishna (1836–86), who lived in Kamarpukur, an out-of-the-way village in Bengal. He was only seven when his father Kshudiram died. The whole family was plunged into sorrow. But the death of Kshudiram affected Ramakrishna more fundamentally than it did others. To all appearances, there was little change in the merry, lively child. But inwardly a tremendous transformation had taken place. Not many knew that the young boy had begun to quietly slip away and wander alone in the Bhutir Khāl cremation ground or in other solitary spots in the village. This inner change, sparked off by the event of his father’s death, reached its logical culmination at Dakshineswar when Ramakrishna experienced the Truth that transcends death.
These are only a few examples to show how the persistent thought of death, instead of demoralizing and weakening a person, can bring about a qualitative improvement in life. It not only uplifts and strengthens people but also wafts them into the arms of the Immortal Being where death has no access.
The usual question arises: The examples given are all of extraordinary people, all geniuses. How can what applies to them apply to us ordinary people? Vivekananda answers:
“The science of yoga tells us that we are all geniuses if we try hard to be. Some will come into this life better fitted and will do it quicker perhaps. We can all do the same. The same power is in everyone.” (CW 4. 219)
There is no species called “ordinary people.” Every one of us is extraordinary. No exception there. Each soul is not only potentially divine (CW 1. 257) but also equally divine. The degree of manifestation of divinity may vary, but the quality of divinity does not. The same power, said Swamiji, is in everyone. It’s up to us to decide with what intensity and towards which goal that power is to be directed. If it is directed towards “the grandest of all truths”—towards the thought of death—a wonderful thing happens. Certain subtle changes take place within and our personality undergoes a radical transformation.
How would this change my life? I will be a different person in several significant ways—and the change will become obvious when I compare what I once was with what I have the power to be.
Attachment (rāga)
I was perhaps strongly attached to the world—to my family, my possessions, my career and social status, to my likes, hobbies and ideas. The intensity of my attachments may have resulted from the unacknowledged conviction that the world was all that mattered. I had neither the time nor the inclination to think of anything beyond. “Who knows what’s beyond, and who’s beyond anyway?” I may have said in the past.
Or perhaps: “Let me make the most of what’s right before my eyes. Let me now eat, drink and have fun. There’ll be plenty of time to think about death when I grow old.” Or putting on the cloak of a pragmatist I may have said: “Wisdom lies in making hay while the sun shines. Here’s life and let me enjoy it while it lasts. As to death, there’s probably nothing beyond, just zilch.” I may have even thought that I was a devotee and given my attachments a religious color.
But reflecting deeply on the reality of death can change me. I may continue to have a semblance of attachment to the world, but it won’t be strong. My meditation on death will reveal to me that nothing lasts. Everything perishes sooner or later. Even my own body will one day either provide food to the worms underground or become a pile of ashes and merge into the soil. No sensible person gets attached to shadows. I will begin to see a shadowy world and keep myself free and unattached.
Desire (vāsanā)
Attachment breeds desire. My past attachments filled me with unending desires, big and small, gross and subtle, noble and ignoble. A mind full of desires is like a sheet of water full of ripples, eddies and whirlpools. Now I know why I was always restless and anxious. I had no peace. No sooner was one desire fulfilled than another popped up. It was an endless chain and I found myself bound hand and foot.
After beginning my earnest reflection on the reality of death, I will be freed from my worldly desires, because my mind’s constant dwelling on death will convince me that pursuit of desires is really the pursuit of death. It’s a way of hastening the process of death. For, the needless struggle to fulfill one’s desires destroys the body and weakens the mind. I will learn to say no to all desires except one—the desire to know the mystery of death and to explore the realm that transcends death, or in popular terms, the desire to know God. This is a higher desire, which subsumes and overcomes all other desires. This is a special kind of desire because, unlike other desires, this will take me on the road to freedom, not to bondage.
Anger (krodha) and Fear (bhaya)
Anger and fear arise in every desire-filled mind. Whenever obstacles came, I used to get angry. The anger did not manifest externally when I was strong enough to overcome the obstacle. If the obstacle was too formidable, I seethed. Whether I felt strong or weak, I could not avoid being filled with anxiety about the unknown hurdles that lay ahead and with fear that somehow or other the object of my desire and attachment might never be mine or that it might desert me or be snatched away. My past feels like a wretched existence.
But now I can be free from both anger and fear. Having the truth of my own death firmly impressed on my mind, I will find it pointless and foolish to be angry with anybody for any reason. We don’t generally get to see a man on his deathbed blowing his top. That’s the time to forgive and forget. And that is what I’ll do. I don’t have to be on my deathbed to do that. The mistakes that the dying man seeks to rectify during the final moments can now be rectified by me even when I am in the best of health. Not only will I not get angry, I won’t also fear anything. Having encountered the truth about death day after day, month after month, I’ll be free from fear.
Delusion (moha)
A life without a worthy ideal is a life of delusion. The only ideal that I had in the past was to satisfy the desire that was uppermost in my mind at any given time. This pursuit was not only worthless but also unattainable. It defied all logic. One would think that satisfying a desire would get rid of that desire, but it doesn’t, it only strengthens the desire by producing another desire to repeat the experience. Now I know why I led an unfulfilled life.
But after I begin reflecting on death, my life can attain a measure of stability, because my ideal now is to know the truth that transcends death. The uncertainties, the incongruencies, and the hollow values of material life can no longer throw me off my balance. The persistent thought of death will invariably produce in my mind the thought of what transcends death. It is this constant plumbing of the depths of my mind by the thought of the transcendent that will lift me from the morass of delusion. It will gradually transform me into a new person.
I will see that the old-me was bogged down by attachment, desire, anger, fear, and delusion. But the new-me, who has begun to reflect on death, will be free from them. This freedom leads to, as Vivekananda said, awakening of the inner spirit, disappearance of meanness, practicality in work, new vigor in body and mind, and power to uplift others.
These are great assets, no doubt, but they are not the goal. The goal is to know the mystery of death. With these newly acquired characteristics, which transform the old-me into a new-me, I will continue my quest for that which lies beyond death. Not for nothing did Swamiji call sannyasa “love of death” (CW 3. 446). Every genuine spiritual seeker is a monastic at heart. Not everyone can or need to take formal monastic vows. While the monastic renounces both externally and internally, the lay seeker practices renunciation only internally. That is all the difference there is between a monastic spiritual seeker and a lay spiritual seeker. What is required of both is to be a true seeker of God. And that is easy enough to verify. Every true seeker loves death.
Swamiji explains:
“Worldly people love life. The sannyasin is to love death. Are we to commit suicide then? Far from it. For suicides are not lovers of death, as it is often seen that when a man trying to commit suicide fails, he never attempts it for a second time. What is the love of death then? We must die, that is certain, let us die then for a good cause.” (CW 3. 446)
Swamiji then goes on to show how the little individuality of ours, which is centered round the body and mind, must be replaced with a universal individuality that is capable of embracing everyone and everything.
The constant thought of death gives us that tremendous impetus to break away from the hold our narrow self has over us. It widens our vision and this finds expression as selfless, unalienated love towards all. The spirit of service thus naturally fills the heart of an awakened soul. The body-centered and mind-centered personality begins to fade away and is replaced by a God-centered personality.
When this process is complete, an amazing change takes place. The thought “I will die one day” throws aside the veil and brings me face-to-face with the truth which proclaims that “I will never die.” The grandest of all truths, which reminded me every moment of my death, now takes me by the hand and leads me through the doorway to the absolute truth of my immortal nature.
Earlier I felt that “I will die one day” because my “I” was mixed up with my body and mind. Now I realize that “I will die one day” really means “I will be separated one day from my body.” The death that terrified me in the past is discovered to be nothing but the separation of the body from me and my mind. It is really the death of the body, not my death, because I and my mind continue to live.
Moreover, I don’t have to remain bodiless for ever. Soon enough I can get another body. In the words of the Gītā (2.22), it is just like changing the old dress for a new one. The body-dress changes in every life. Since every one of us has had millions of past lives, we have changed our dresses millions of times. It appears quite silly now to make a big deal about a simple matter like changing a dress. When we think about it calmly, death loses its sting.
What worries the new-me is not the death of the body but the survival of the mind. The new-me will recognize that the real problem-generator is not the body but the mind. So long as the mind lives, it is going to latch on to some body or other. It cannot live on its own for long, because all its desires need a body for expression and satisfaction. So I will long for the death of the mind itself. I will be fed up with my mind-dress and the numberless body-dresses I have worn and discarded. I won’t want a dress anymore.
In the Bible, the fall from grace is symbolized by the desire to cover the body. Adam and Eve were born pure and naked. The first stain of impurity produced in them the desire to cover themselves. The new-me will have changed the direction of my journey. I will be then swimming upstream towards God, having purified myself of all worldly desires. So clothes—the body-dress and the mind-dress—will become superfluous. The new-me will want to wander freely in God’s Garden, pure and naked, like Adam and Eve before the fall. My expanding consciousness will no longer be able to remain confined within the body-dress and the mind-dress.
I won’t however go out of my way to seek the falling of the body-dress. I will know that the body is going to fall sooner or later anyway once it’s karma-texture withers away. What I will strive to throw away with all my might is the mind-dress. The power to fling it away—or, more accurately, to burn it away—comes through the grace of God, which is ceaselessly blowing like a breeze. I have only to unfurl the sails of the yacht of my life. Meditating on “the grandest of all truths” is the first step in the process of unfurling of the sails to catch the breeze of divine grace.
The burning-away of the mind-dress is another kind of death. It separates me not only from my body but also from my mind. This happens only once, and when it does, I will be free for ever. No more deaths for me, because there will be no more births for me. I then will have no body and no mind—and so no limitations and bondages of any kind. No more will anyone refer to me as he or she or they. Gender belongs to the body, not to the ātman. I will then be the unfettered ātman—free, perfect, and immersed eternally in supreme bliss.
It is easy to understand now why Swamiji called the certainty of death as the grandest of all truths—for, a brave and positive reflection on it can take me swiftly, as no other truth can, to the absolute truth of my immortal, divine, and blissful nature.