Book Excerpt - Dialogue With Death

One of my earliest postings, from nearly 3-years ago had to do with Eknath Easwaran and his book Dialogue With Death. I opened the book up again recently, and was once again struck by how fluent and contemporary his language is, and given the timelessness of the subject, spirituality, how it seemed to be written for the youth of today.

In a perhaps lopsided method of a tribute, I’m going to post excerpts from this book, portions that were interesting to me. Happy reading.

In schools in village India, the first day of classes is different from all the rest. The headmaster gives a speech about the glory of the school, the glory of the teachers, the glory of the students; it is a very festive occasion. Only on the second day does the real work begin.

“Nachiketa,” says Yama, “the first day is over. We’ve had our speeches; now let’s get down to business – who you really are.

“Five layers of consciousness cover the Self, Nachiketa. Each must be reached through meditation, but meditation by itself is not enough. Each level brings new insights, which must be translated into daily behavior before you can progress to a deeper level. Merely to make this journey through consciousness means that personality is transformed.

“The outermost layer is the physical, the level of body-consciousness. Below this lie three layers which make up a kind of mental body – senses, emotions, and intellect. And nearest to the Self is the ego, the individual sense of ‘I’. Few can penetrate to this level, let alone go beyond it. yet in every age, a handful do manage to discover they are neither body, mind, nor ego, but the Self, who lives in the body and mind as their real operator.

“You will have to make this discovery yourself, Nachiketa; I cannot do it for you. But I will give you full instructions, and I will always be with you as your guide. With my blessings, you shall reach your goal.”

Nachiketa is ready. “There is nothing else that I want, O Death, and I can have no better teacher than you. I am your devoted disciple; give me instruction.”

Pleased, the King of Death begins. “Nachiketa,” he says, “as a human being, you have been born with the capacity to make choices. No other creature has this capacity, and no human being can avoid this responsibility. Every moment, whether you see it or not, you have a choice of two alternatives in what you do, say, and think.”

These alternatives have precise Sanskrit names that have no English equivalent: preya and shreya. Preya is what is pleasant; shreya, what is beneficial. Preya is that which pleases us, that which tickles the ego. Shreya, on the other hand, has no reference to pleasing or displeasing. It simply means what benefits us – that which improves our health or contributes to our peace of mind.

Preya, says the King of Death, pleases us now. It promises immediate gratification, and usually it delivers what it promises. The problem is that pleasure cannot last. All too soon it is past, and dissatisfaction sets in again. Preya just shrugs. “I’m a now man,” he says. “I’m not responsible for the future; I live for today.”

Shreya, on the other hand, is often unpleasant at the beginning, as anyone who has begun a physical fitness program knows. When you do your first sit-up after a decade of indolence, every muscle in the body goes out on strike. Only after a few weeks, if you stay with the exercises, do you begin to appreciate how much better you feel.

Most of us are used to door-to-door salesmen, trying to interest us in brushes or encyclopedias or biodegradable soaps. Preya and Shreya are no less dedicated salespeople. If you hide in the house and put up a sign ‘No Solicitors’, they will barge right in. if you leave town and retire to a cave in the Adirondacks, they will come and seek you out. Sometimes – all too rarely – both are selling the same wares. Sometimes what is of lasting benefit is also very pleasant. But for the most part, Preya and Shreya are in direct competition.

Preya is a sharp dresser. You could drop him into a singles bar and he would fit right in. With his bright-colored pants and plunging collar, a big Turkish moustache, and an outsized piece of exotic jewelry around his neck, Mr. Preya is an advertiser’s dream. The moment you catch sight of him, you can’t take your eyes away.

Shreya, on the other hand, looks a little mousy. Her features may be attractive, even pretty, but she is so unassuming that if she is standing right in front of us we usually do not notice. Two minutes after we are introduced to her we forget we have even met. When she tries to persuade us, she uses words we don’t understand. In a word, as soon as we see Shreya, our attention wanders away.

But there is no doubt about Preya. He is an excellent salesman and he knows exactly what he has to offer and who wants it. he makes his appeal directly to the senses or the ego. “Here’s a good, dry beer,” he tells the palate. In the background his competitor is objecting, “Ask him what a ‘dry’ beer is, for heaven’s sake.” But the palate is not interested in semantics. It only knows what it likes.

In a sense, both Preya and Shreya are promising the same thing: satisfaction. One you get immediately, but it comes and goes; the other requires effort, but its benefits stay with you.
Shreya, for example, does not tell us not to enjoy eating. She only points out that to make eating the purpose of life is contrary to good health. No one would deny that sugar tastes good. Everybody likes the taste of it, even a little microbe. If it was good for us too, as a four-year-old friend of mine says, we could eat it every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner. “Why not?” says Preya. “If it feels good, do it.”

[Contd. in next posting]

From the book Dialogue with Death, by Eknath Easwaran; reproduced without permission.