The secret of Death

Today, the inner state of my being suffocates. Within my being, in my deep interior being, there is nocturnal Silence, just like the Silence of the graveyard. I feel as though I have fallen into a deep ravine. Today, this Silence looks most dreadful; it makes me feel as if Life carries no weight at all nor that this being has any significance. The disappearance of Life into this utter Silence looks very terrifying. What characteristic of Silence is this, that obtains fears and seems to have ruined my whole Life? I am conscious of this Silence, which with happy breezes, lends charms to breath just like the freshness of the early dawn. The Silence of the daybreak stirs and stimulates every pore of one’s being.
The two shapes of this solitary Silence today seem to make some other novel experience as part of this being.

The experience of this Silence, wrapped in unaccountability, can only say: 
“Ears can listen to the melody and rhythm but can’t suggest the sense nor sound.”
Though a new Sun of Life seems to be rising above the land of this being, the cloudlets of staggering questions appear and hide it. Several parts of this being are already vanishing but still layers lie buried and they are now coming into relief, in the Sunlight.
These accidents of speedy moments are suggesting some uncommon expansion of the two shapes of Silence.
Does the unknown appear like the fresh early dawn?
Or, is it pitch darkness like the night?
Or, is it like the harmonious combination of these two shapes of Silence?
Ever since this morsel of Silence had visited every part of this being, this crazy being has become enamored of Death, as though this Silence has some link with Death.
How will you account for this mood of the mind, that though besieged by death-consciousness on all sides, it is still craving for Death and takes this whole hustle and bustle for Life. It finds in every eye the glimpse of Death.
The external time that is passing bears the stamp of august; the inner Time bears the stamp of Death.
Both these times are taking their respective Suns to the Zenith. Today, the intense heat besieges my being.
Awaiting rain, Ludhiana’s season is very dry. For the first time this being is not feeling any strain from the intense heat and my mind is still enamored of its own wish. The sounds of the generators coming from all directions have not allowed me to enjoy the comforts of morning, which I experienced thirty years ago.
Let there be the attack of heat or of water,
the attack of hunger, of happiness or of comfort.
Let there be a human, a bird or a beast,
the shape of dust and soil or of a tree or shrub.

Today, every one of them seems to be having the same state of mind, the same situation.
At 2 p.m, proceeding from Ludhiana towards Mullanpur (Town), on the G.T. Road, I find weakly animals sitting under a dry, sear tree.
I get out of my car and see their miserable faces, lusterless eyes, and bony frames. I turn to the trees, whose green vestures has become dull and clumsy-looking. A few leaves and dry twigs indicate their sad plight.
At once the depths of my breaths, with eyes closed, stir the chords of my heart’s musical instrument and give my frame a quiver.

After twenty minutes when I reach home, I see my mother, grandmother, senior and junior aunts making their breaths easy and comfortable with a working cooler. However, their mode of laying is the same old: the same bodies, the same colorless faces, and the same helpless physiques. Not only that, but they are conveying the same old language of their eyes, which I had seen on the road twenty minutes earlier.
This strange encounter touches the chords of the musical instrument of my heart and elicits a symphony, as tears begin to wash my cheeks settling on the border of my lips.
Today, the fact of seeing humans, birds, and beasts in the same shape and state transports me into the lap of beautiful and delightful consciousness.
Same physique, only construction differs.
It makes no difference, whether you wear silken clothes or polyester clothes—the consciousness of their presence is the same.
Is a person human because it has the body of a person?
Is a human free because it has Freedom?
When days are passing in worry and anxiety, nights in grief and pain, will you call thus ‘life’, a Life worth living?
Today, on all sides, prevails the consciousness of Death. I have not found Life anywhere. The breaths being taken, amidst the hearts fast beat, along with the echoing shriek, I can hear the sweet symphony of bravado.
Is our Life the reflection of our own desires?
This being is in search of Life, while everyone else is leading his or her lives. It is a surprising whirlwind.
Has everybody received what they aimed for, so that there is no need of quest?
Is my being lagging behind all other beings because my being has nothing? Everyone else looks peaceful and sedate; have I then gone mad? Why are my desires different? Why are they contented? Why is my being not content with itself?
The morsel of Quietude Silence vanishes these questions. When I try to unravel some more complicated skein of the secret of this Quietude the haze spread by such questions begins to vanish. I am in a position to explain the distinctions of darkness and light, human and beast.
Why is the beginning of everything muddle and obscure?
This journey started from stillness and later became attracted by the atmosphere of Death. Why?
Perhaps I am getting another gift in the form of some Beautiful ‘awareness’.
Does obsession work with equal efficacy on other destination?
We adapt to our path in accordance with our desires, for today, on the drum-skin of this being, only an explosion seems to reverberate:
Is there a traveler, is there an infatuated, from who I can have a taste of this flowing delight.

I see:
There is an assurance which is filling this being with vitality, and this manifestation suggests that:
The tune of my Life is going to play in the real sense.
Then I also begin to feel that:
In the eyes of my Life, the kohl of sagacity is placed.
My breath grows more enthusiastic to find out the secret of Life during the span of this very existence.
Perhaps it also accounts for the fact that:
Whenever someone is at the verge of knowing the secrets of Life, they must also become eager to find out the secret of Death.
Or, perhaps:
Death is the real secret of Life.