Life After Death

THE MOMENT SHE woke up, Savitri saw that they were back at the banyan tree where they’d started. She sat up, squinting at the sun overhead. How could it be so high in the sky? Then she saw Ramana standing over her. He wore a mysterious look.

“We haven’t left yet,” he said. “There are still hours to go before Satyavan returns home.”

Weakly rising to her feet, Savitri gazed at the monk as if he were a magician. “What did you do?”

Ramana shrugged. “You were exhausted. You slept. I’m not responsible if you had a productive dream.” Without another word he picked up his flute, exactly as he had before, and set off. This time Savitri followed him without hesitation. They did not take the trail up the mountain but the path down, and after a while Ramana said, “When I was young there was a traveling fortune-teller who set up his tent by the Ganges. Every devout person wants to die in Benares. Their families come to the funeral, and a fortune-teller can make a good living, particularly this one, since his specialty was predicting the day that a person will die. But I refused to go.”

Ramana laughed. “I was different, even then. I used to say it’s easy to see the future. I’ll go to the fortune-teller who can see the present. The most difficult thing is seeing what’s right here.”

“Just so,” said Ramana. “But what is illusion? A kind of magic that hides reality from us? Maya is more subtle. Let’s say I show you a piece of ice, a cloud of steam, and a snowflake. Have you seen any water? If you say yes, then you have overcome Maya—the forms of ice, steam, and snowflake didn’t fool you. You went to the essence, which is that they are all made of water.

“If you say no, then you fell for illusion. The ice, steam, and snowflake grabbed your attention, and you lost the essence. It didn’t take magic to fool you. You allowed your mind to be distracted. So it is with the soul. We look at people and see everything on the surface. This one is ugly, that one beautiful, this one poor, that one rich, this one I love, that one I hate. Yet each is Atman, the same essence in infinite forms.”

“Yes, and so did you when you fell in love with Satyavan,” Ramana said. He gazed at her deeply. “I know all about you, princess.”

Suddenly Savitri’s cheeks burned. Somehow Ramana had uncovered her secret. She had been born a princess, the most cherished daughter of a rich and powerful king. When the time came for her to marry, Savitri had insisted on finding the right man herself, and so her father, despite his worries, sent her with a band of nobles to find the husband of her heart’s desire. Savitri and her guards traveled through the dense forest, and by chance they came upon a woodcutter’s hut. As soon as she set eyes on Satyavan, who was humble and poor, Savitri resolved to marry him, whatever the obstacles.

When she announced her choice, Savitri deeply disappointed her father. However, after meeting Satyavan and recognizing his good heart and generosity as well as how deeply he loved Savitri, the king reluctantly accepted his daughter’s choice. Then something disturbing happened. On the three nights before her wedding, Savitri dreamed of Lord Yama, and each night he said the same thing: Satyavan would die when they had been wed exactly a year.

“So you already knew,” said Ramana. “And yet you decided to marry someone who was doomed. Why?”

“And what is true love but recognizing someone else’s soul? If you can see past all the illusions laid in your way by Maya, you will always commune with Satyavan’s soul. This connection can never be lost, no matter what happens to his body.”

Ramana touched Savitri’s forehead, and instantly she saw bodies burning on the funeral pyres beside the Ganges, their ashes escaping on the wind. “The eye can’t help but see this,” Ramana whispered, “yet it never saw the soul in the first place, so the act of seeing nothing makes us believe in death.” He let these words sink in. “Do you think you can stop believing your eyes now?”

Savitri nodded, and for an instant she felt Satyavan’s soul merge with hers, just as she had on the day they met.

Believing what we see is addictive—we can hardly do without it. I know a man in his sixties, a retired broker, who lost his wife in a tragic accident. She was driving home around sunset and got distracted somehow. Her right front tire slid up over the curb, and one jerk of the steering wheel caused her vehicle to overturn into oncoming traffic. She died of massive internal bleeding in the ER three hours later. Her husband went into shock. He couldn’t comprehend suddenly losing her. Even after several months he was in severe psychological pain; he became obsessed with the idea that he had to talk to his departed wife or live in grief permanently.

“They say that when you love someone long enough they become part of you,” he said.

“The moment Ruth left I felt a hole inside me. That’s how I would describe grief—and it hurts like hell.” We were sitting in his house, which felt far too big for one person. He must have realized this himself, because he had taken to shutting off several bedrooms and retreating to an overstuffed chair in the study.

“I was grieving, like a sick dog, for months after Ruth died,” he said. “Then I decided it just hurt too damn much. I mean, some part of my mind was telling me, over and over, that Ruth wasn’t really gone. I began to have conversations with her. Yet I wasn’t one of those fortunate people who feel the presence of the departed. I was talking to—what? The air? A figment of my imagination?” He paused for a moment before going on.

“I made up my mind to see a psychic about this. You’d be amazed how many people you can find in Southern California who can talk to the dead for you.”

I murmured something about a survivor’s need to know what happened to their loved ones.

“Yes, I agree. The psychic I found had only good intentions, I’m sure. I walked into her place feeling nervous. She didn’t live in a gypsy’s tent or anything. It was a town house, and to look at her, she could have been anybody standing in line at your local supermarket.”

The psychic was reassuringly down to earth. She found him a comfortable chair with pillows, put some bottled water by his side, and sat on the opposite side of the coffee table. She closed her eyes and asked that they both sit quietly. He could meditate if he knew how. The man didn’t, so he sat with his eyes closed, peeking at the psychic when it seemed she was taking a long time to speak.

“She said a woman wanted to talk to me, and that she was getting images: two children, one far away now, a cabin in the mountains, a great field of white (snow? a frozen lake?). We do have two grown children, and our daughter lives in England. And Ruth and I liked to ski, sometimes renting a cabin near the slopes. All at once I was paying attention.”

He sighed. “I know. That’s how it went. The psychic kept hitting on things that felt real to me, but if you weren’t there—”

“Right then I did. Maybe because I wanted it to be her so damn much.” He went on to say—as thousands of people do in such situations—that the psychic came up with many arresting details. Whoever is contacting the psychic draws a picture through convincing small touches, such as pet names and quirky events that stick in the mind.

I said, “Ruth told you she was in a good place and not to worry. She was safe and kept telling you she loved you. Right?”

“I know it sounds trite,” the man said hesitantly. “But it felt genuine. I was very emotional the whole time, close to tears. The session lasted maybe forty-five minutes. The psychic hugged me. It had been emotional for her, too; it was weird to think we had been total strangers an hour ago.”

He shrugged. “I immediately felt better. But then doubts crept in. Why was Ruth talking only about things I already knew? Was the psychic just reading my mind, or my aura, whatever that is? Was she tuning in to some desperate wish of mine? Now I’m not sure how much good it really did.”

What this man didn’t know was that I had had a similar experience myself. Several years ago I was asked to participate in a university study to explore whether communication with the dead is real. I sat in a sealed-off room and was told to say nothing—all contact with the psychic would occur through the experiment leader. In fact there were three psychics connected to us by telephone, each in a different part of the country, and they were unable to hear or talk to one another.

Two of the three psychics said, “Do you have Deepak Chopra in the room?” They had not been told who I was, or even that I was a man. They didn’t hear my voice.

All three said that someone departed wanted to talk to me. Two immediately knew it was my father, who had died suddenly two years previously. One took a bit more time circling around the relationship with me, then hit on it being my father. This “father” knew my childhood nickname in Hindi. He said he was happy and not to worry. All three psychics came up with these generalized, positive sentiments. The whole thing lasted two hours.

Like the man who contacted his dead wife, I thought this was a genuine experience. I also came away with doubts. My “father” knew things I knew, but nothing more. The experiment had strict guidelines, which I came to regret. I couldn’t blurt out questions or react to what I was hearing. I wondered why the departed don’t say more about what dying is like. There are also questions about whether “Ruth” and my “father” should be considered ghosts, departed souls, or not quite either. To the Vedic rishis they were wisps of memory in the Akasha, information floating around until it found a place to attach itself. “Ruth” and my “father” were as real as anything else in the Akasha, but to give them quasi-physical status remains a problem. I prefer to view the “father” who talked to me as aspects of his consciousness that had such a close association to me that we could still communicate.

Skeptics would point out that we are in the habit of seeing and hearing other people, a habit we are loath to drop even after death. Therefore a ghost is a holdover created by the mind. Believers would contend the opposite, that ghosts are real and almost physical, the embodiment in shadowy form of people who cannot find a way to leave this world. But in both cases habit and memory are at work. Was it my habit or my father’s that brought us together? I think a bit of both, because anyone whom you relate to through love and intimacy shares your consciousness. We are inside one another, as shown by how easily I can call up my father’s voice, face, mannerisms, speech patterns, and ways of thinking. To some extent I have adapted some of these as my own, which further blurs the line between us.

When we speak to the dead we are using a familiar connection, then, and it can be strong or weak. When it’s weak, we see and hear the deceased in our minds; when it is strong, we see and hear them more vividly, as if outside ourselves. But neither I nor my father is outside the field. That’s the point the rishis emphasize over and over, and my experience tells me it’s true.

To successfully navigate the “other side” means mastering the powers that are needed there. If the “other side” isn’t merely an imitation of this side, those powers must be different from willpower, physical strength, and the other familiar supports of life in the material world. Yet our subtle powers, being part of ourselves, can’t be totally foreign, either. For most of us our primary world is physical, of course, but we are using subtle powers all the time, and these may support us in the afterlife. If the rishis are correct in saying that everyone inhabits the Akashic field, both in life and after death, then subtle powers of consciousness unite both.

Self-awareness: The power to know yourself. This power keeps you centered.

Willingness: The power to open your mind. This power allows reality to be seen despite old conditioning and beliefs.

Intention: The power to manifest desires. This power connects you with your purpose.

Discrimination: The power to make fine distinctions. This power guides you in the subtleties of understanding.

Acceptance: The power of nonresistance. This power enables you to integrate reality into yourself.

To truly know something as deep as what happens after death, your mind must call upon these powers. That’s the only thing, really, separating us from the Vedic rishis: they used their subtle powers to the fullest; we call on them to a much lesser degree. We are postponing the soul journey until we die. Yet our subtle powers are needed every day—for ourselves and for those relationships that expand our horizons.

You have to be centered and self-aware so that you don’t manipulate others or allow yourself to be manipulated.

Your willingness to see beyond your own ego creates an open space for the relationship to grow.

Instead of allowing the relationship to fluctuate as mood dictates, you intend for it to become richer and deeper.

Your partner is constantly filling you with a stream of desires, needs, and opinions (you are doing the same back). You must discriminate how much of this outside influence is positive for you, neutral, or outright negative.

Having paid attention to all of the above, you can fully accept your partner without posing a threat to your integrity and personal growth.

Now substitute the word “soul” for “relationship.” All the things that make a relationship work apply to your soul. Those skills will be crucial if the afterlife brings you into the soul’s domain, as every spiritual tradition says it does. You and I can already identify with every experience that occurs in the afterlife because they are familiar. As I grow, so do my powers.

I will become more self-aware as the boundary between “me” and “not me” dissolves. The self will begin to encompass much more of reality as the boundary dissolves. I will feel free.

I will become more willing to change and evolve. My old beliefs will be tested and allowed to change if need be. I will feel curious and fascinated.

I will trust in my intention to know the truth, whatever it may reveal. I will feel in control.

I will find that I can discriminate very fine layers of nature. Subtle worlds won’t be hidden from me because they are inside my self already. I will feel connected.

I will accept my own truth as it unfolds. This brings a final end to fear and doubt. I will feel fulfilled.

I’ve placed so much emphasis on feeling because for most of us the reason to be alive is so that we can pursue the feelings of being safe, loved, happy, and fulfilled. We connect to the soul through these desires, and we are motivated to move into the subtle realm of the soul for the same reason. For some people that’s motivation enough, but most of us require a breakthrough or a turning point before we can fully put our subtle connections to work.

“My husband and I were having problems,” a woman in her forties told me; I’ll call her Kate. “He promised to work less and spend more time with his family, but that didn’t improve things much. He kept moping around the house, and instead of sneaking off for a drink he’d sneak off to check his voice mail. Just for peace of mind I agreed to a friend’s suggestion and learned the same meditation technique she was using.”

This involved sitting alone in a quiet room twice a day for ten to twenty minutes and repeating a mantra, Kate said. The first few times she fell asleep, but her teacher reassured her that this was a positive sign. She had a lot of stress to release from her body.

“The second week went better. My mind got quieter and I stayed awake. My breathing settled into a soft, slow rhythm. It surprised me one day when I had the feeling that I wasn’t even breathing at all. Even more surprising was the time I had the impulse to sit on the floor in a modified lotus position. I had never taken a yoga class; my body seemed to know what it wanted to do.”

Kate felt good about all this, and she began to feel more centered in her daily life, less subject to flashes of anger and irritation. Things settled down considerably in her marriage.

“Then one night as I was falling asleep, I noticed a faint blue glow. My eyes were closed, and at first I thought it was just an afterglow from the bedroom lights, the kind you see when a photo flash goes off in your eyes. But this was different. The blue I was seeing felt magnetic. I couldn’t keep my attention off it. Then I opened my eyes in the dark, and the whole room was filled with the same blue glow. There were sparkles or flecks of gold in it.”

I told Kate that this was not an uncommon experience for Yoginis. She was perceiving the light that emanates from a subtle level of perception. I asked her how it felt.

“Soothing. Safe. But mostly the light was fascinating. It drew me in until I felt I could gaze at it forever.”

“Which shows,” I said, “that you were being fascinated by your own awareness. The soul, it is said, shows itself to our subtle senses as a pearlescent lustrous glow.”

“There’s no realistic way to do that,” I said, “since your experience was spontaneous. It’s like trying to repeat a first impression or a first kiss.”

When she looked a little crestfallen, I told her that one of the classic traps for spiritual seekers was the temptation to repeat a moment of heightened experience. We harbor that impulse. Have you noticed this yourself? The surprise of a breathtaking sunset, a delicate moment of intimacy, even a superb meal, all beg to be repeated. But it’s never quite the same, because what makes the moment special isn’t the sunset, the loving gesture, or the fine food. It’s a sudden crossing over into the subtle world.

I told Kate about the continuum of experience that leads from happiness to bliss, from physical intimacy to oneness with the soul. She had given herself permission to move more fluidly along this continuum. Meditation is a gentle way to unloose our moorings. It isn’t so forceful that it pushes your perception into a new domain; instead there is a gentle arrival into subtler sensations—like the blue glow Kate saw—attended by subtler feelings and insights. I congratulated her and promised that there would be more breakthroughs to come.

Through our brief voyages into the subtle world we can anticipate how gentle the afterlife will be. There, subtle power feels natural. Peace and fulfillment come through direct communication with the soul.