Part Three. Writings from the Arya (1914 – 1921
Section I: Rebirth and Karma
The Reincarnating Soul
Human thought in the generality of men is no more than
a rough and crude acceptance of unexamined ideas. Our mind is a sleepy or
careless sentry and allows anything to pass the gates which seems to it decently
garbed or wears a plausible appearance or can mumble anything that resembles
some familiar password. Especially is this so in subtle matters, those remote
from the concrete facts of our physical life and environment. Even men who will
reason carefully and acutely in ordinary matters and there consider vigilance
against error an intellectual or a practical duty, are yet content with the most
careless stumbling when they get upon higher and more difficult ground. Where
precision and subtle thinking are most needed, there they are most impatient of
it and averse to the labour demanded of them. Men can manage fine thought about
palpable things, but to think subtly about the subtle is too great a strain on
the grossness of our intellects; so we are content with making a dab at the
truth, like the painter who threw his brush at his picture when he could not get
the effect that he desired. We mistake the smudge that results for the perfect
form of a verity.
It is not surprising then that men should be content to
think crudely about such a matter as rebirth. Those who accept it, take it
usually ready-made, either as a cut-and-dried theory or a crude dogma. The soul
is reborn in a new body,– that vague and almost meaningless assertion is for
them sufficient. But what is the soul and what can possibly be meant by the
rebirth of a soul? Well, it means reincarnation; the soul, whatever that may be,
had got out of one case of flesh and is now getting into another case of flesh.
It sounds simple,– let us say, like the Djinn of the Arabian tale expanding out
of and again compressing himself into his bottle or perhaps as a pillow is
lugged out of one pillowcase and thrust into another. Or the soul fashions for
itself a body in the mother’s womb and then
occupies it, or else, let us say, puts off one robe of flesh and then puts on
another. But what is it that thus “leaves” one body and “enters” into another?
Is it another, a psychic body and subtle form, that enters into the gross
corporeal form,– the Purusha perhaps of the ancient image, no bigger than a
man’s thumb, or is it something in itself formless and impalpable that
incarnates in the sense of becoming or assuming to the senses a palpable shape
of bone and flesh?
In the ordinary, the vulgar conception there is no
birth of a soul at all, but only the birth of a new body into the world occupied
by an old personality unchanged from that which once left some now discarded
physical frame. It is John Robinson who has gone out of the form of flesh he
once occupied; it is John Robinson who tomorrow or some centuries hence will
reincarnate in another form of flesh and resume the course of his terrestrial
experiences with another name and in another environment. Achilles, let us say,
is reborn as Alexander, the son of Philip, a Macedonian, conqueror not of Hector
but of Darius, with a wider scope, with larger destinies; but it is still
Achilles, it is the same personality that is reborn, only the bodily
circumstances are different. It is this survival of the identical personality
that attracts the European mind today in the theory of reincarnation. For it is
the extinction or dissolution of the personality, of this mental, nervous and
physical composite which I call myself that is hard to bear for the man
enamoured of life, and it is the promise of its survival and physical
reappearance that is the great lure. The one objection that really stands in the
way of its acceptance is the obvious non-survival of memory. Memory is the man,
says the modern psychologist, and what is the use of the survival of my
personality, if I do not remember my past, if I am not aware of being the same
person still and always? What is the utility? Where is the enjoyment?
The old Indian thinkers,– I am not speaking of the
popular belief which was crude enough and thought not at all about the matter,–
the old Buddhistic and Vedantist thinkers surveyed the whole field from a very
different standpoint. They were not attached to the survival of the personality;
they did not give to that survival the high
name of immortality; they saw that personality being what it is, a constantly
changing composite, the survival of an identical personality was a non-sense, a
contradiction in terms. They perceived indeed that there is a continuity and
they sought to discover what determines this continuity and whether the sense of
identity which enters into it is an illusion or the representation of a fact, of
a real truth, and, if the latter, then what that truth may be. The Buddhist
denied any real identity. There is, he said, no self, no person; there is simply
a continuous stream of energy in action like the continuous flowing of a river
or the continuous burning of a flame. It is this continuity which creates in the
mind the false sense of identity. I am not now the same person that I was a year
ago, not even the same person that I was a moment ago, any more than the water
flowing past yonder ghaut is the same water that flowed past it a few seconds
ago; it is the persistence of the flow in the same channel that preserves the
false appearance of identity. Obviously, then, there is no soul that
reincarnates, but only Karma that persists in flowing continuously down an
apparently uninterrupted channel. It is Karma that incarnates; Karma creates the
form of a constantly changing mentality and physical bodies that are, we may
presume, the result of that changing composite of ideas and sensations which I
call myself. The identical “I” is not, never was, never will be. Practically, so
long as the error of personality persists, this does not make much difference
and I can say in the language of ignorance that I am reborn in a new body;
practically, I have to proceed on the basis of that error. But there is this
important point gained that it is all an error and an error which can cease; the
composite can be broken up for good without any fresh formation, the flame can
be extinguished, the channel which called itself a river destroyed. And then
there is non-being, there is cessation, there is the release of the error from
itself.
The Vedantist comes to a different conclusion; he
admits an identical, a self, a persistent immutable reality,– but other than my
personality, other than this composite which I call myself. In the Katha
Upanishad the question is raised in a very instructive
fashion quite apposite to the subject we have in hand. Nachiketas, sent by his
father to the world of Death, thus questions Yama, the lord of that world: Of
the man who has gone forward, who has passed away from us, some say that he is
and others “this he is not”; which then is right? what is the truth of the great
passage? Such is the form of the question and at first sight it seems simply to
raise the problem of immortality in the European sense of the word, the survival
of the identical personality. But that is not what Nachiketas asks. He has
already taken as the second of three boons offered to him by Yama the knowledge
of the sacred Flame by which man crosses over hunger and thirst, leaves sorrow
and fear far behind him and dwells in heaven securely rejoicing. Immortality in
that sense he takes for granted as, already standing in that farther world, he
must surely do. The knowledge he asks for involves the deeper, finer problem, of
which Yama affirms that even the gods debated this of old and it is not easy to
know, for subtle is the law of it; something survives that appears to be the
same person, that descends into hell, that ascends into heaven, that returns
upon the earth with a new body, but is it really the same person that thus
survives? Can we really say of the man “He still is,” or must we not
rather say “This he no longer is”? Yama too in his answer speaks not at
all of the survival of death, and he only gives a verse or two to a bare
description of that constant rebirth which all serious thinkers admitted as a
universally acknowledged truth. What he speaks of is the Self, the real Man, the
Lord of all these changing appearances; without the knowledge of that Self the
survival of the personality is not immortal life but a constant passing from
death to death; he only who goes beyond personality to the real Person becomes
the Immortal. Till then a man seems indeed to be born again and again by the
force of his knowledge and works, name succeeds to name, form gives place to
form, but there is no immortality.
Such then is the real question put and answered so
divergently by the Buddhist and the Vedantin. There is a constant reforming of
personality in new bodies, but this personality is a mutable creation of force
at its work streaming forward in Time and never
for a moment the same, and the ego-sense that makes us cling to the life of the
body and believe readily that it is the same idea and form, that it is John
Robinson who is reborn as Sidi Hossain, is a creation of the mentality. Achilles
was not reborn as Alexander, but the stream of force in its works which created
the momentarily changing mind and body of Achilles flowed on and created the
momentarily changing mind and body of Alexander. Still, said the ancient
Vedanta, there is yet something beyond this force in action, Master of it, one
who makes it create for him new names and forms, and that is the Self, the
Purusha, the Man, the Real Person. The ego-sense is only its distorted image
reflected in the flowing stream of embodied mentality.
Is it then the Self that incarnates and reincarnates?
But the Self is imperishable, immutable, unborn, undying. The Self is not born
and does not exist in the body; rather the body is born and exists in the Self.
For the Self is one everywhere,– in all bodies, we say, but really it is
not confined and parcelled out in different bodies except as the
all-constituting ether seems to be formed into different objects and is in a
sense in them. Rather all these bodies are in the Self; but that also is a
figment of space-conception, and rather these bodies are only symbols and
figures of itself created by it in its own consciousness. Even what we call the
individual soul is greater than its body and not less, more subtle than it and
therefore not confined by its grossness. At death it does not leave its form,
but casts it off, so that a great departing Soul can say of this death in
vigorous phrase, “I have spat out the body.”
What then is it that we feel to inhabit the physical
frame? What is it that the Soul draws out from the body when it casts off this
partial physical robe which enveloped not it, but part of its members? What is
it whose issuing out gives this wrench, this swift struggle and pain of parting,
creates this sense of violent divorce? The answer does not help us much. It is
the subtle or psychical frame which is tied to the physical by the
heart-strings, by the cords of life-force, of nervous energy which have been
woven into every physical fibre. This the Lord of
the body draws out and the violent snapping or the rapid or tardy loosening of
the life-cords, the exit of the connecting force constitutes the pain of death
and its difficulty.
Let us then change the form of the question and ask
rather what it is that reflects and accepts the mutable personality, since the
Self is immutable? We have in fact an immutable Self, a real Person, lord of
this ever-changing personality which, again, assumes ever-changing bodies, but
the real Self knows itself always as above the mutation, watches and enjoys it,
but is not involved in it. Through what does it enjoy the changes and feel them
to be its own, even while knowing itself to be unaffected by them? The mind and
ego-sense are only inferior instruments; there must be some more essential form
of itself which the Real Man puts forth, puts in front of itself, as it were,
and at the back of the changings to support and mirror them without being
actually changed by them. This more essential form is or seems to be in man the
mental being or mental person which the Upanishads speak of as the mental leader
of the life and body, manomayaḥ prāṇa-śarīra-netā. It
is that which maintains the ego-sense as a function in the mind and enables us
to have the firm conception of continuous identity in Time as opposed to the
timeless identity of the Self.
The changing personality is not this mental person; it
is a composite of various stuff of Nature, a formation of Prakriti and is not at
all the Purusha. And it is a very complex composite with many layers; there is a
layer of physical, a layer of nervous, a layer of mental, even a final stratum
of supramental personality; and within these layers themselves there are strata
within each stratum. The analysis of the successive couches of the earth is a
simple matter compared with the analysis of this wonderful creation we call the
personality. The mental being in resuming bodily life forms a new personality
for its new terrestrial existence; it takes material from the common
matter-stuff, life-stuff, mind-stuff of the physical world and during earthly
life it is constantly absorbing fresh material, throwing out what is used up,
changing its bodily, nervous and mental tissues. But this is all surface work;
behind is the foundation of past experience
held back from the physical memory so that the superficial consciousness may not
be troubled or interfered with by the conscious burden of the past but may
concentrate on the work immediately in hand. Still that foundation of past
experience is the bedrock of personality; and it is more than that. It is our
real fund on which we can always draw even apart from our present superficial
commerce with our surroundings. That commerce adds to our gains, modifies the
foundation for a subsequent existence.
Moreover, all this is, again, on the surface. It is
only a small part of ourselves which lives and acts in the energies of our
earthly existence. As behind the physical universe there are worlds of which
ours is only a last result, so also within us there are worlds of our
self-existence which throw out this external form of our being. The
subconscient, the superconscient are oceans from which and to which this river
flows. Therefore to speak of ourselves as a soul reincarnating is to give
altogether too simple an appearance to the miracle of our existence; it puts
into too ready and too gross a formula the magic of the supreme Magician. There
is not a definite psychic entity getting into a new case of flesh; there is a
metempsychosis, a reinsouling, a rebirth of new psychic personality as well as a
birth of a new body. And behind is the Person, the unchanging entity, the Master
who manipulates this complex material, the Artificer of this wondrous artifice.
This is the starting-point from which we have to
proceed in considering the problem of rebirth. To view ourselves as such and
such a personality getting into a new case of flesh is to stumble about in the
ignorance, to confirm the error of the material mind and the senses. The body is
a convenience, the personality is a constant formation for whose development
action and experience are the instruments; but the Self by whose will and for
whose delight all this is, is other than the body, other than the action and
experience, other than the personality which they develop. To ignore it is to
ignore the whole secret of our being.
in the mother’s womb and then
occupies it, or else, let us say, puts off one robe of flesh and then puts on
another. But what is it that thus “leaves” one body and “enters” into another?
Is it another, a psychic body and subtle form, that enters into the gross
corporeal form,– the Purusha perhaps of the ancient image, no bigger than a
man’s thumb, or is it something in itself formless and impalpable that
incarnates in the sense of becoming or assuming to the senses a palpable shape
of bone and flesh?
