Jin Sutra #1

The Vedas say: the Divine was alone. Loneliness irked Him, He grew weary of aloneness. He thought: let me become many. Then He assumed many forms. Thus the world was created. This is the tale of creation.
Sa ekaki na reme, eko'ham bahusyam!
Alone, He began to be bored. He thought: let me create many forms, let me revel in many forms.
Brahmin culture is the unfolding of this very aphorism—the descent of the Divine, the diffusion of the Divine. The very meaning of Brahman is: that which goes on expanding, that which assumes countless forms, that which plays innumerable lila, that which expresses itself in myriad ways, as the ocean divides itself into infinite, infinite waves.
The One becomes many; the One celebrates in the many. The One sinks into the many, dreams. Maya is created.
The world is the dream of the Divine. The world is the wave of thought arising from the depths of the Divine.
Brahmin culture sang unique songs of this expansion of the Divine. From it the scripture of devotion was born. Bhakti-shastra means: this ever-expanding form of the Divine is sheer benediction. This ever-expanding form of the Divine is supreme bliss. Hence in bhakti there is rasa, there is flow. In one word, the childhood name of Mahavira is the pointer of Brahmin culture. Mahavira’s childhood name was Vardhaman—the one who grows, who is ever-expanding. Then Mahavira initiated another energy, another experience, another realization. It is exactly the reverse of the Veda.
The Vedas say: He was alone, bored, so He created the many. Mahavira grew bored of the many, tired of the crowd, and he desired: let me be alone. The descent of the Divine into the world, the diffusion—and Mahavira’s return back into the Divine!
Therefore Shramana culture has no word like “avatar.” Tirthankara! Avatar means: the Divine descends, comes down. Tirthankara means: one who goes to the other shore, who leaves this shore. Avatar means: coming from yonder to this side. Tirthankara means: one who builds a ford for going from this shore to the other. How to make the world vanish, how to stop the dream, how to bid farewell to the crowd; how then to become alone—that is the very basis of Shramana culture. How Vardhaman became Mahavira, how the expansion is halted; because that which goes on expanding has no end. The sprawl is vast; it will not end anywhere. Dreams will go on spreading and spreading—and we will go on being lost in them. One must awaken!
Bhakti-shastra sang songs of the Divine in His countless forms in the world; Mahavira struggled against this expanding energy—hence the name “Mahavira”—he fought, he flowed against the current.
Ganga flows from Gangotri to the Ganga-sagar—such is Brahmin culture. The formula of Brahmin culture is: surrender; leave it in His hands, wherever He goes; go along; trust; refuge!
All of Mahavira’s effort is as if the Ganga were to flow back toward Gangotri—toward the root-source, toward the fountainhead. Fight! Dare the impossible—struggle, not surrender. One must pass through great struggle, for the stream is to be turned back, taken the opposite way.
Stream means: moving from Gangotri toward the Ganga-sagar. The stream is to be reversed—to be made Radha. Let the Ganga flow upward, against the slope; let water climb the mountain. Seek the primal spring.
Brahmin culture is half. Shramana culture is also half. Together they form a complete circle. And therefore the conflict that took place in this land between Brahmins and Shramanas crippled both. The Brahmins were left with the formulas of expansion, the Shramanas with the formulas of contraction! Both became incomplete; truth was cut into halves. In my vision, where Brahmin and Shramana agree, consent, and meet, there a complete religion appears.
Surely the Divine grew tired of aloneness; He took on many forms. But He will tire of the many also; He will ask for rest. Therefore Mahavira’s words may seem anti-Vedic, because the Veda flows from Gangotri toward the Ganga-sagar. Hindus thus thought that Mahavira is Veda-opposed—so he appears.
The Divine begins to return home. He is bored of the marketplace, has seen the crowd, has assumed many forms, and is weary of them too. Again He says: enough of the many; now I want to be One. Hence there is a word with Mahavira that is most precious. Mahavira said: man is bahu-chittavan—many-minded; divided into many, many fragments—he has to become one. Divided into many forms—he has to be gathered. This gathered consciousness, in Mahavira’s language, is the Divine. Vardhaman must become Mahavira. That which has spread must return, for all expansion is of desire. The Divine also spread into the world because of desire. It is desire that expands. So the one who is to be free must contract. He must return to his original nature.
In Hindu thought the Divine has descended—avatar has happened. Mahavira says: urdhvagaman—one must ascend, return home; the world has been seen!
Therefore Mahavira’s aphorisms will seem utterly opposite to the aphorisms of bhakti. Do not be frightened. Only where Shramana and Brahmin meet is a full culture born. It did not happen, though it should have. Even now it is not too late—it can happen. Where Narada and Vardhaman Mahavira come to accord, there the full circle is born.
But the language of Mahavira is the language of struggle. With Mahavira there is no word like sharanagati. Mahavira speaks of asharan-bhavna. Go to no one’s refuge. One must return to one’s own refuge. One must go home. Do not take anyone’s support. With support, the other becomes important. No—the other is to be given up, dropped, forgotten. Let only one remembrance remain: that which is one’s own nature, one’s own swarupa—therefore, no sharanagati.
Mahavira is not a guru. Mahavira is a kalyanmitra. He says: I say something—understand it; there is no need to take my support. By coming to my refuge you will not be liberated. By coming to my refuge a new bondage will be created, for two will remain—devotee and God will remain; disciple and guru will remain. No—two are to be effaced.
Therefore Mahavira did not use the word “Bhagwan.” He said: the devotee himself becomes God.
Understand this. Though they appear opposite, these statements are not opposite.
Narada says: the devotee dissolves into God—only God remains, the devotee is lost. Mahavira says: the devotee awakens into his own completeness—God is lost, dissolves into the devotee. The devotee has recognized his own swarupa—he has become God. To recognize one’s swarupa is divinity. Hence in Mahavira’s dharma there is no God, no sharanagati. There is no one to whom to go for refuge. No prayer, no worship—it cannot be; for in worship the other is necessary. Puja demands a “beyond.”
Mahavira’s language is that of dhyana, not of puja. And this is the difference between prayer and meditation. In prayer the other is needed. In meditation the other has to be erased, forgotten—forgotten so totally that only you remain alone, only pure consciousness remains; not even the line of the other remains, not even a shadow falls. Yet both roads reach the same place. Those who flow in surrender, who become the current—after all, from the ocean they rise upon the clouds and do arrive at Gangotri. They chose the easier path.
Narada’s journey is most simple. Mahavira’s journey is most arduous—hence “Mahavira”! It is the path of the warrior, not of the lover; of struggle. But there are some for whom that alone is natural. Therefore, look within. Do not bother about which house you were born into. That is accidental. Whether you were born in a Jain house, a Hindu house, a Muslim house, a Christian house—that is accidental. Understand the inner climate of your life. Is there a leaning to become a warrior? Is there a natural flow toward being a warrior? Do you feel your swarupa will blossom in being a warrior? Then become a warrior! Then follow Mahavira. And if it seems that to fight with oneself will not be, that this is not your language, if it seems that surrender is fitting, then choose Narada.
Narada is one pole, Mahavira the other. Somewhere between Narada and Mahavira are all the great ones—Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Mohammed, Zarathustra, Jesus—somewhere between! But Mahavira and Narada are the ultimate poles. And therefore, just as Narada revealed bhakti in its utmost depth, gave surrender its final form, its last definition—beyond which refinement is not possible—so Mahavira gave struggle its ultimate form. There is now no way to take it higher. Mahavira has said the last word on the path of struggle. Your choice is not to decide which is right. Both are right. Your choice is to decide which suits you.
Phool, gul, shamm-o-qamar—everything was there,
but among them, it was you alone who captured my heart.
—It makes no difference how many flowers have blossomed!
Phool, gul, shamm-o-qamar—everything was there!
Champa, chameli, juhi, ketaki, rose, lotus.
Phool, gul, shamm-o-qamar—everything was there,
but among them, it was you alone who captured my heart!
Then whichever flower draws you—that is your flower. The lotus may draw you; your son may be drawn to the rose—do not quarrel. That which draws you is your path.
People often do the opposite. They think, “Which is right?”—they have raised the wrong question. “Is Mahavira right or Narada right?”—you have asked the wrong question. Ask this: which one resonates with me? Right or wrong—how will you decide? Matters of the Ultimate—only those know who have attained the Ultimate. You decide only this much: which one resonates with you, which one your heart loves.
If you ask me, I will say: all are right. But “all are right” does not solve the issue. You cannot walk on all the paths. You will have to choose a door. All doors lead to the same temple. Yet you can pass only through one door, not through all doors. If you try to pass through many doors, you will be in trouble—one foot in one door, one hand in another—you will be stuck. If you choose more than one door, doors will not lead you; they will block you. Choose your own door. Choose your own flower. Recognize your own inclination. That which enchants you is your truth. That which works for you is your truth. The door that delivers you—that is the Guru-dvara. Having arrived, you too will find—ah! All the doors have arrived here. Having arrived, you will meet those who came by other doors and who seemed like enemies. For I have seen Mahavira and Narada embracing in that temple. But you choose. Let your choice not be “Which is right?”—that would be in poor taste. Let your choice be only this much:
Phool, gul, shamm-o-qamar—everything was there,
but among them, it was you alone who captured my heart!
Whenever I behold you, there is another climate altogether;
each time a strange color, each time a strange form!
Truth has manifested in many forms—many colors, many modes. And each time it has manifested, it has been wondrous—astonishing, leaving one speechless. If you understand Narada, you will be left agape. If you understand Mahavira, you will be utterly taken by surprise.
Whenever I behold you, there is another climate altogether;
each time a strange color, each time a strange form—
but all these forms are of the One alone. The journey is one.
Christianity says: God expelled Adam from heaven. He was driven out of the kingdom of heaven, for he did not obey—he was disobedient. Then Jesus obeyed. Jesus entered heaven ceremoniously. He who was expelled in Adam returned in Jesus. Adam is the first man, Jesus the last man. Adam is the journey toward the world—the stream. Jesus is the journey opposite to the world—Radha.
The Jewish tales are a little harsh. In the East people speak a more tender language.
The Jews say: God exiled Adam. We do not say so. We say: Sa ekaki na reme. He was alone. Eko’ham bahusyam. He said: let me become many. He was not expelled—He descended. He came, of His own will He came.
And understand this too. Wherever you are, you are by your own will. If you are in the world, it is by your own will. The Divine within you chose this. There is nothing to be troubled about. You are not here against your will. You are here by your own cause, your own longing. And this is great good fortune—that it is not against your will. Because the day you will, that very day the door of home is open—you can return. As long as you wish, you can go far. The very day you decide, that very day the return will begin.
Brahmin culture is the tale of the Divine’s expansion. Shramana culture is the tale of the Divine’s return home. Surely, the one who had grown tired in aloneness will be tired in the crowd as well.
Have you not seen this within yourself? It is so. In the bazaar you grow weary, the longing for the temple arises. You are bored with the crowd, the settlement—then the longing to go to the Himalaya arises. Those who sit in the Himalaya, in solitude—the bazaar begins to attract their mind.
I was on a journey to Kashmir with some friends. In the mountains and waterfalls of Kashmir they were experiencing great joy. We were staying on Dal Lake. Our boatman, when we were returning, said, “Give me such a blessing that I may once see Bombay!”
“What will you do seeing Bombay?”
He said, “My mind does not settle here. And if I die without seeing Bombay, a longing will remain.”
Those who came with me were friends from Bombay. They were startled. They had come to Kashmir, to the refuge of the Himalaya. And he who was born in the refuge of the Himalaya longed to come to Bombay.
If you recognize your mind you will find the same. The tale of the Divine is in truth your own tale. There is no other Divine—and you are no other than That. The tale of the Divine is the tale of the nature of pure consciousness. The Vedas rightly say: “He grew bored—He was alone. He said, let me become many. He became many.”
Mahavira says: we have now grown bored of the many; now the longing to go home arises.
Therefore in Mahavira’s aphorisms are the formulas of the returning journey. Surely they will be different. There will be no talk of rasa here. Here the talk will be of tastelessness. Here, not of desire and passion, but of renunciation and dispassion. Here, not raga, but vitaragata will be the goal. Yet remember: it is raga itself that becomes vitaragata. It is the same energy that flows toward the ocean, and the same that flows toward Gangotri. The energy is the same. But Mahavira’s path is a little difficult, because one must fight against the current.
Let the boat be caught in the whirlpool; let it bear the slaps of the waves.
If you would live among the living, let the storm have its play.
To drift with the current—what is that but an insult to the hands and arms!
Nurtured by storms, let the boat sail against the current!
Let the boat be caught in the whirlpool!
Mahavira says: without struggle, truth will not manifest. As from the churning of the ocean amrita was born, so from the churning of life truth is born. Truth is not a thing stored somewhere that you go and pick up, or buy, or pray and ask for! Truth is the refinement of your very life. Truth is the purest mode of your own being. Truth is not a noun; it is a verb. Truth is not an object; it is a feeling, a state. The deeper you enter struggle, the more you are churned, the more you burn, the more you endure the clash of storms—the more truth will manifest within you; the more your dust will fall away; the false will separate; nirjara will happen of the useless. Bush and bramble have grown, grasses have sprouted—fire must be lit, so that only that remains for which there is no way to be destroyed. Only the amrita should remain; death must be turned to ash. This will not happen sitting idle. For this a powerful summons is needed, a profound challenge.
Let the boat be caught in the whirlpool; let it bear the slaps of the waves!
The whirlpool is not an enemy. On Mahavira’s path the whirlpool is the friend, for by wrestling with it you will awaken; by grappling with it you will rise. By enduring its blow, by struggling and conquering, you will cross beyond it. Therefore Mahavira’s path is called the path of the Jinas—the path of those who have conquered. Jina means: the one who has conquered. “Jain” arises from that very Jina. Buddha means: the one who has awakened. Jina means: the one who has won.
If you would live among the living, let the storm have its play.
—Do not pray that the storm be removed! Then what will you do?
To drift with the current—what is that but an insult to the hands and arms.
—It will be an insult to your arms if you drift with the current.
To drift with the current—
—what then of your hands? what of your arms? where will your strength be challenged? It will be an insult to your energy! Surrender—no!
Nurtured by storms, let the boat sail against the current!
This boat is born of storms. This boat thrives only in storms. This boat is born only in the storm.
Nurtured by storms, let the boat—
—this boat of life born in the storm—sail against the current. Travel toward Gangotri!
Mahavira’s path is the path of the warrior—he was a Kshatriya; it is natural! All the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were Kshatriyas. It is the talk of fighters. They only knew how to fight. Their boat was nurtured in storms. The sword was their language. War was their experience. Though they left all war and became non-violent—what of that? What difference does it make? They would not kill even an ant, and yet the being-a-warrior continued. No one can be different from his nature. They left the world, left all arenas of competition, all places of conflict and violence—but still the warrior does not vanish.
All Tirthankaras of the Jains are Kshatriyas. This is no accident. Not a single Brahmin became a Tirthankara. The Brahmin’s language is not the language of fighting; it is the language of surrender; the language of refuge.
There is a very sweet story. It must be false, yet it is sweet. And the sweetness is so deep that I do not worry about falsity; for me the sweet is the true. It is so beautiful that it must be true. That is my criterion of truth.
The story is that Mahavira was conceived in the womb of a Brahmin woman; he was to be born in a Brahmin’s womb—but the gods said, “Has it ever happened that a Jain Tirthankara is born in a Brahmin’s house? Such a thing has never been heard. And if he is born in a Brahmin’s house, how will he be a Jina, a Tirthankara? Then the boat will never be nurtured in the storm. Then there will be no language of struggle. Then in his life there will be no edge and gleam of the sword.” The gods were in great perplexity. And the first operation in the world took place. They took Mahavira out of the Brahmin woman’s womb. He was three or four months in the womb when they removed the fetus. They exchanged the womb with that of a Kshatriya woman. There a girl was to be born; they took her out and placed her in the Brahmin woman’s womb, and placed Mahavira in the Kshatriya woman’s womb.
This too is very suggestive. Woman by nature knows the language of surrender. Therefore it was right to take the girl out of the Kshatriya womb and place her in a Brahmin womb. The feminine language is that of surrender.
For those whose hearts are tender, tender like flowers, Narada’s path is theirs. But for those in whose hearts the sword flashes and glints, Mahavira’s path is theirs. The story is beautiful, meaningful. It says at least this much: “Has a warrior ever been born in a Brahmin’s house? For a warrior to be born, the very pores, the very blood and marrow must ring with the tune of battle.”
Another interesting point: the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were all born in Kshatriya houses, and all twenty-four became non-violent, they left violence. What is there to fight with a sword! That is the way of the weak; he completes his weakness with a sword. Hence the weaker man becomes, the stronger his weapons. Today there is no question of a weak or strong man to wage war—a child can drop an atom bomb. He will just press a button in an airplane, atom bombs will fall. The man who dropped the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki was no strong man—an ordinary man! And he killed a hundred thousand people in a moment! This is the way of the weak.
Mahavira says: the more a man is a warrior, the more he will drop weapons; his very being is sufficient. Then he will not kill, for the language of killing is also the language of the weak. You want to destroy the other because you fear the other—lest if you leave him alive, he may harm you; he may kill you! You kill only that which you fear may bring your death. Mahavira said: that too is the language of the weak; we will not kill anyone. Even if someone comes to kill us, we will consent to die; we will not run; we will not fight.
Ordinarily there are two measures: whenever someone attacks you, either you run or you grapple—both are measures of the weak. The very weak run away; one not so weak fights. But both are weak.
Mahavira says: the one who has truly gone beyond weakness, who has become fearless—he neither runs nor fights. He says: “Here I stand! Here I remain. If you would kill me, then kill.” He dies, yet no feeling of violence arises in his heart. He dies, yet no retaliation arises in his heart.
Here, understand one more thing, for then the aphorisms will be easier to grasp.
When the Divine thought, “I am alone, I am tired; let me become many,” life was born. Surely Mahavira will devise the means of death. The return is inverse. As the Divine spread the threads of life, so Mahavira must spread the threads of death—or rather, cut the threads of life. A tree stands—its roots of craving spread in the earth; thus it stands. It drinks sap, spreads its branches into the sky, drinks the rays of the sun. If the tree is to die, to contract, to sink back into the seed, to return—then it will draw back its roots, then bend down its branches, for then the energy of the sun is no longer needed; then the sap of the earth is no longer needed.
All of Mahavira’s aphorisms are, in a profound sense, aphorisms of self-annihilation. Therefore you will be astonished that Mahavira is the only awakened one who even permitted his sannyasin to choose self-death. No one else in the world has. Permission for self-death! No law of the world and no scripture accepts that a person has the right that if he wishes to die, he may die; Mahavira accepts it—he must. It is logical, for he is moving toward contraction, returning; thus one must sever all connections with life at every side. And if someone wishes to sever them entirely at once, who else has the right to stop him? Mahavira has given man the final freedom: even if he wishes to die, the decision is his. If he wishes to die, it is his right! Death is man’s birthright. But these matters are consistent with his path. And all his aphorisms are about how our ties with life may be cut to pieces, how this spread may cease, how we may set out toward home again. His entire scripture is a scripture of death.
Why ask the physicians for a cure for the heart’s pain?
When life itself is the disease, what remedy can there be?
For Mahavira, life itself is the disease. Other diseases are secondary—shadows of the basic disease. Life itself is the bondage. One must be free of it.
The moksha of Mahavira is the great death—where you are utterly erased; where nothing remains; where the supreme Shunya descends.
Now let us take the aphorisms:
Mahavira has said: “What you desire for yourself, desire the same for others. And what you do not desire for yourself, do not desire that for others. This is the Jina’s ordinance. This is the Tirthankara’s teaching.”
Understand! Ordinarily what you desire for yourself, you do not desire for others; for then what would be the meaning of desiring it for yourself alone? You want to build a palace for yourself; if you look deep you will find that you want no one else to build such a palace. Otherwise the fun is gone. If everyone has palaces, what would be the point of your having one? You want a beautiful woman—or a beautiful man; you also want that such a beautiful woman not be found by anyone else, otherwise a thorn will prick. You want such a beautiful woman who is only yours—and such a beautiful woman should be with no one else. Even in the beautiful woman you only want to fill your ego. In your palace too you want to stuff your ego.
What you want for yourself you never want for others. On the contrary, you want the opposite for others: bliss for yourself, sorrow for others. Say what you will, insist from above that it is not so, that you want happiness for all—but search a little attentively! You can want happiness for all only when you have begun to sever your roots from life—not before. For life is competition, rivalry, ambition, madness, snatching and grabbing, throat-cutting struggle.
There is an old tale: a man prayed intensely and pleased a deity. After years of practice the deity spoke and said, “What do you want?” He said, “Whatever I ask for, let it be granted.” The deity said, “It will be granted. But one condition: your neighbors will receive double what you receive.” All the worship and prayer became futile. The man grew sad. What kind of blessing is this! The fun was that I should have what my neighbors do not. The blessing was received; there was no lack in the blessing. The deity said: whatever you ask, that very moment it will be fulfilled. There was no hindrance in this. But the mind was not content, not pleased—the flower did not bloom. He grew very sad. With a heavy heart he thought: let me see if the boon even works. What kind of boon is this! Empty, a spent cartridge. No juice in it.
Yet he said, let me try perhaps. He said, “Let a palace be built.” A palace was built. But when he came out and looked, he fell into a great difficulty: his neighbors had two palaces each. He beat his chest. What kind of blessing is this! It has become a curse. Better it had been as before. I would have done it by my own labor. But he found a way. Man’s violence is deep. He said, “Fine! The deity has tricked me; I too will find a way.” He must have met lawyers, taken counsel. Some lawyer suggested: there is nothing to be alarmed about. Where there are laws, there are loopholes. Do this: go and ask that two wells be dug in front of your house. “What will that do?” “Just try first.” Two wells were dug in front of his house; in front of the neighbors’ houses four wells each were dug. The lawyer said, “Now you pray that one of your eyes be put out.” Then he understood the secret. “Ah! It hadn’t occurred to me.” He asked for the boon of losing one eye; both eyes of the neighbors were lost. Now the neighbors were blind—and four wells in front of each house; what happened, you can imagine.
But our happiness lies in the suffering of others. Our life lies in the death of others. Our entire cheerfulness stands upon someone’s sadness. Our entire wealth stands upon the poverty of others. However much you may show sympathy in the sorrow of others, whenever someone else is sorrowful, somewhere deep within you are happy. And even in your sympathy there is the hint of your own joy.
Have you ever caught yourself while displaying sympathy? Someone went bankrupt—you go to show sympathy. You say, “How bad it is!” But have you ever looked in a mirror at your face while saying, “How bad it is”—what a flow of relish runs over it! Have you ever gone when someone won a lottery, to say, “Excellent! How wonderful for you!”?
When someone is happy you do not go to display your happiness; then jealousy seizes you, envy seizes you. Embers settle in your chest. Blisters spring up within, wounds are felt, there is pain—that someone else has gone ahead again. Then you speak other words. You say, “He is a cheat, a dishonest man.” Then you say to God, “What is happening in your world? There is injustice! Here the sinner and the adulterer win, and the righteous lose”—the righteous meaning you; the sinners meaning all those who win!
Have you ever noticed—whenever someone succeeds, you console yourself, you give yourself comfort, that he must have won by some wrong means, some dishonesty, some bribe, some trick, some connection somewhere.
A woman came to me; her son had failed. She said, “Great injustice is being done. These teachers and this whole educational system—all cheats, all corrupt. Those who bribed the teachers, all passed; my boy failed.” I said, “Even before this your boy used to pass—then you never came to say, ‘My boy has passed; surely someone or other must have bribed someone.’ When your boy passes, he passes by his own effort; when others’ boys pass, they pass by bribery!”
Have you ever seen these double standards? When you succeed, it had to be—you are talented. And when someone else succeeds, he is dishonest—he found some underhand way. When you lose, you lose because you are a virtuous soul. And when someone else loses, he loses because he is a sinner—because of his deeds. Have you seen these double standards? But these standards make sense on the path of expansion, because expansion means competition. Expansion means a throat-cutting struggle. Expansion means one must fight with the other—for every inch of land, for every inch of position, for every inch of wealth.
In this very first aphorism Mahavira gives you the first lesson of death. He says: that which you want for yourself—want it for others too. In this way desire will die. Then desire will not survive. The very root of desire is cut. That which you want for yourself—want it for others too.
Just think: you wanted a palace to be built—want it for others too! In that very desire you will find your desire to build a palace is gone. You wanted this to be, that to be—and the same to be for all—suddenly you will find someone has pulled the ground from beneath your feet.
And what you do not want for yourself—do not want it for others either. People have conceived heavens for themselves, and arranged hell for others. Whenever you think for yourself you think of heaven, you imagine. No—if you do not want hell for yourself, do not want it for others either.
Why does Mahavira give such value to this aphorism? It is his fundamental aphorism. It looks very simple on the surface, but its net is very deep; this aphorism will transform your unconscious at a very deep level. If you can follow even one aphorism, the whole religion will become available to you. Want for yourself only what you want for others; and what you do not want for yourself, do not want it for others—suddenly you will find the scramble of your life is gone. Suddenly you will find competition has vanished; ambition finds no place; seeds begin to dry, begin to burn.
This is the Jina’s ordinance.
Etiyagam jinasasanam—this is the Tirthankara’s teaching; those who have conquered themselves, this is their teaching.
“In this impermanent, non-eternal, sorrow-full world, what action can I do by which I may not fall into misfortune?”
Mahavira asks: Adhruva, ashashvata—everything is changed every moment. Here nothing is eternal. Life is like a line drawn on water. You cannot even draw the line before it is erased. You cannot even build the palace before the moment of departure arrives. You gather your furnishings; you cannot even sing your song before the farewell appears. Life passes in preparation alone—and death arrives.
“Adhruva, ashashvata, dukha-bahula”—and where there is more sorrow, and where happiness is merely a hope; where happiness is only a dream, but the truth is sorrow—what action shall I do in such a world that I may not fall into misfortune? For it might be that in drawing futile lines I am weaving misfortune for myself. And we are weaving it. In futile longings we weave a web for ourselves, just as sometimes a spider weaves a web and is itself caught in it. And what we weave brings nothing; it only loses something.
How people run after wealth! And having gained it, what do they gain? What is gained? The hands remain empty. At the moment of death one remains as poor as the poorest. Yet the whole life is wasted. The very life could have become meditation, which you turned into money. The very life-energy could have become meditation, which you squandered in wealth. That very life-energy could have become the ultimate resolution of your life—Samadhi could have happened—and you remained engaged in collecting trivia. And trivia such that you cannot carry it at the moment of death; death will snatch it away. And trivia gathered by giving who knows how much sorrow to others, creating who knows how much pain, creating hell for who knows how many. Having given so much sorrow, how will you be happy? So much sorrow will return to you again and again, and rain down multiplied without end. For the world is an echo. You sing a song—the very song echoes back and rains upon you. You hurl abuse—the very abuse returns and rains upon you, piercing you.
This world is only an echo.
So Mahavira says: the fundamental question is—what action shall I do! In this sorrow-full world, in this non-eternal world, where everything changes moment to moment; where neither things can be trusted, nor the body trusted, nor the mind trusted—
“I do not even trust the beatings of my own heart, O expert;
sometimes they become complaints, sometimes they become prayers.”
Here even your own heart cannot be trusted, which is so close—closest to you. The heart—that is closer than close—you cannot trust. In one moment it is joyful, in the next it weeps. A moment ago it was giving blessings, a moment later it is full of grievances. A moment ago it seemed radiant, and a moment later dark engulfed it. Here even your own heart cannot be trusted. What else should be trusted?
“The livers of the buds are withered, the tongues of the thorns are dry;
we, deceived by a garden, have perhaps sat at the edge of a jungle.”
Somewhere a deception has occurred. All desire happiness, yet sorrow is what we get. All ask for flowers, yet thorns is what we receive. All are eager and pained for bliss, yet pain is found.
“The livers of the buds are withered, the tongues of the thorns are dry;
we, deceived by a garden, have perhaps sat at the edge of a jungle.”
Somewhere a mistake has been made. Some basic error has happened. We are perhaps not understanding. Perhaps we are engaged in extracting oil from sand—otherwise how could there be so much sorrow? If all want bliss, how can there be so much pain? All want amrita and yet only death happens; amrita does not seem to happen. All want to dance, to be joyous; yet the stream of rasa dries up day by day. There is no dance in life, no exuberance, no festival.
“What action shall I do that will save me from this misfortune?”
What shall I do? What doing will take me out of this affliction?
“These pleasures of passion give a moment’s joy and long-lasting sorrow; they give much sorrow and little happiness; they are opposed to world-transcendence, and are mines of calamities.”
A little happiness! It is as if someone goes to catch fish and puts flour on a hook. The fish come for the flour, not for the hook; but the hook is what they get. It seems as if some fisherman is making a joke. All run for happiness, and in the end discover their mouths are pierced by hooks.
You too have desired happiness so many times! Found it? Mahavira says: perhaps a little taste may have come in the first instant; in the moments of initial thrill you may have deceived yourself that it has come—but soon the false coating peels away. Soon it becomes clear.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin said to his boss at the office that he had married and wanted to go to the mountains for his honeymoon—two or three weeks’ leave. The boss said, “How long will the honeymoon last—one week, two weeks, three weeks? Take leave accordingly.” Mulla said, “You please tell me.” The boss said, “I haven’t even seen your wife—how shall I tell you how long it will last?”
Now delays may differ, but the moment comes soon when love becomes ash. Some keep deceiving themselves a little longer; some awaken a little sooner. But sooner or later all awaken. Whatever love there is in this world—whether of wealth, of beauty, of position—sooner or later it is uprooted. How long will reality remain hidden?
Reality is sorrow. Happiness is just surface paint; a little rain falls and the paint washes away. It is like paper flowers; a little rain, and they scatter, they rot.
“These pleasures of passion give a moment’s joy and long-lasting sorrow; they give much sorrow and little happiness; they are opposed to liberation from the world”—opposed to freedom from the world, for it is in their hope that people are stuck, standing in a queue: now it will come, now it will come! It has not come so far—it must be coming! People keep waiting in line, without asking whether anyone at all has received anything in that queue. Granted, some reached right to the front—an Alexander—yet ask Alexander too: did it come?
When Alexander was dying he said to his physicians, “I do not want to die without seeing my mother.” But the mother was in another town. Either she must come or Alexander must reach there. At least twenty-four hours were needed. And Alexander said, “I am ready to give everything; whatever your fee, take it, but make me live twenty-four hours more—let me at least take leave of the one who gave me birth; I want to see my mother and go.” The physicians said, “Impossible.” Alexander said, “I will give you half my empire.” The physicians stood sad. He said, “Take it all.” Alas! If I had known earlier that even by giving the whole empire one breath cannot be bought, why did I waste all my breaths for this empire!
But in this haste and bustle, in this running about, all was lost.
Each breath is so precious—you do not know. Therefore Mahavira says: think—where are you spending your breaths? What you will get—is it worth getting? Lest after losing it all you discover that the price you paid was too high and what you gained was nothing. Mistaking false diamonds for true ones, you took the fake!
At least from death I do not expect such trickery;
life, you have deceived me with deceit upon deceit!
Life is a chain—deceit upon deceit.
“However much one seeks, as in the banana tree no core is found, so in sense-objects no real happiness is found.”
It seems so—seems so because of stupefaction.
Have you seen a dog chewing a dry bone—with what relish he chews! You will sit in wonder at what he can be chewing in a dry bone. There is no juice in a dry bone. What is he chewing! What happens is: when a dry bone is chewed, the dog’s jaws, tongue, palate are abraded—by the impact of the dry bone blood begins to flow. He sucks that very blood, thinking juice is coming from the bone. Is the juice coming from the bone? He is drinking his own blood, making wounds in his own mouth, yet he holds the illusion that the bone is yielding juice. Those who have awakened and looked, who have opened their mouths a little, have found that sense pleasures are like dry bones—nothing comes from them. If anything seems to come, it is the stream of our own life. And we are creating the wound unnecessarily. The blood is ours, which we fling up and take back.
The joy that is felt in sensual enjoyment is your own joy that you pour into it. It does not come from your object of desire. In loving a woman, in loving a man—the glimpse of happiness you get neither comes from the woman nor from the man—you put it there. It is your own blood which you splash about vainly. But the illusion is that happiness is being received. How can one explain to a dog! He will not believe—he does not have that much awareness. But you are human! You can have a little awareness. You can awaken a little!
“However much one seeks, as in the banana tree no core is found, so in sense-objects no real happiness is found.”
“Just as an itchy person, while scratching, takes pain to be pleasure, so the deluded man takes the pain born of passion to be happiness.”
Itching happens. You know that by scratching, more pain will come—blood will flow, wounds will form, the itch will worsen, not improve. Knowing all this, still you scratch. An irresistible urge to scratch seizes you. Knowing, understanding, acquainted with past experience—so many times this has happened; still some darkness, some delusion, some sleep of ignorance, some black night, some stupor seizes the mind—you scratch anyway!
Have you noticed—people scratch an itch quickly. They are afraid. They know that if they scratch slowly they will stop. So they scratch quickly, deceiving themselves. Flesh is torn, blood flows. There is pain, there is burning. Again the same experience! But can you trust yourself that next time when the itch comes you will not scratch it?
How many times have you been angry? How many times has anger filled you with poison? How many times have you gone into lust; how many times returned frustrated? How many times have you desired; and each time desire broke and shattered; how many dreams you wove—what did you get? Only ashes in your hand. Yet when desire seizes you again, when anger comes again, when lust rises again—you will stray again.
Man does not learn from experience. The one who learns—awakens. Man does not extract essence from experience. Your experiences are like a heap of flowers—you have not made a garland out of them. You have not strung the flowers on a single thread so that all your experiences might be gathered on one thread and a life-sutra, a life-vision might arise in your life.
You have had the same experiences as Mahavira. There is no difference in experience. You too have found sorrow—not only Mahavira. You too have found deception in happiness—not only Mahavira. Where is the difference? Experience is the same. Mahavira made a garland of experiences. He joined one experience to another. He grasped the essence of all experiences. He made a thread of that essence. Holding that sutra in his hands he crossed beyond. You have not yet strung the thread. A heap of experiences lies there—you have not made a garland. Making the garland—that is sadhana. These are hints in that direction.
“Just as an itchy person, while scratching, takes pain to be pleasure, so the deluded man takes the pain born of passion to be happiness.”
Understand a little: our valuation makes a big difference. Our valuation, our interpretation makes a great difference.
Have you noticed? You embrace a woman and think: I found pleasure. It is the pleasure of thinking. The same happens in dreams—you think, and pleasure is had. In dreams there is no woman—it is only you. In dreams there is no woman—it is your notion. You may well be clutching your own quilt to your chest and seeing a dream. Upon waking you laugh at the madness!
Yet in the dream you get as much pleasure—perhaps even a little more—than with a woman in waking. For in waking a living woman stands there. In a living woman there is also the smell of sweat. In a living woman there are also thorns. As there are in you, so in her. The presence of a living woman creates a few obstructions. The presence of the other makes you dependent. The pain of dependence is there. The woman may not be ready for an embrace just then—she may push your hand away. But in a dream no one can push your hand away.
A man went to a psychologist and said, “I am in great trouble; please help me. At night I dream that thousands of beautiful women, naked, dance all around me.” The psychologist, who had been lounging in his chair, sat up straight. He said, “This is trouble? You fool! What else do you want? Tell me your secret—how do you produce this dream? What is your fee—name it!”
The man said, “The trouble is that in the dream I too am a woman. That is the problem. Please somehow let me remain a man in the dream—that is what I have come to ask.”
In dreams, pleasure is had. Have you ever been an emperor in a dream? Surely you have. Nothing is lacking there.
In China there was a great emperor. He had only one son. The boy lay on his deathbed. The emperor sat by him for three days and three nights. All hope was centered in him. All ambition was centered in him. Then a nod overtook him; after three days awake, the emperor dozed in his seat. He dreamed he had twelve sons—each more beautiful, more strong, more talented, more brilliant. He had a great palace made of gold. The paths of the palace were studded with jewels and diamonds. His empire was vast—he was a chakravarti. Just then the boy on the bed died. The wife screamed; the dream broke, and the emperor saw the dead boy before him; saw his wife screaming. The wife knew a great shock would strike the husband. She was frightened, because the husband only kept looking; not only did he not weep—he began to laugh. The wife thought he had gone mad. She said, “What has happened to you? Why are you laughing?”
He said, “I laugh because now for whom shall I weep! Just now in my dream I had twelve sons—very beautiful; this one was nothing! They were very healthy, strong—as if death would never come to them. They were sons of amrita. And I had a great palace—this is a hut! It was made of gold. The road was set with diamonds and jewels. Your scream spoiled everything. I did not know you existed, I did not know this son existed; you were lost in the dream just as the dream is now lost. Now I wonder: for whom should I weep? First for those twelve, or for this one? Hence laughter comes. I laugh that weeping is futile. I laugh that that was a dream with eyes closed, and this is a dream with eyes open.”
That which you take as happiness seems happiness. Many times you take even pain to be happiness—seems happiness. The first time someone smokes a cigarette, there is no happiness—only pain; coughing comes, the smoke goes to the head, there is dizziness, panic. After all, it is smoke—dirty smoke. How can happiness be had by taking it within? But then slowly, by practicing—
“A rope passing and repassing leaves a mark upon the stone.” Then by rubbing the rope—by practicing—“Through practice the dull-witted become wise.” Earlier you were dull-witted, without sense—so you smoked and did not enjoy it. Then by practice the intelligence arrives; then you smoke with relish. Then without smoking you begin to suffer. When you drank alcohol the first time—tasteless, bitter. Then slowly it becomes sweet. A thing as bitter as alcohol begins to taste like honey. Practice…
If you sift your life’s joys and sorrows carefully you will find: what you called joy is joy; what you called sorrow is sorrow.
In the far East there are some small tribes. They do not kiss. They did not even know—until they came into contact with “civilization”—that people kiss. And when they saw that men and women kiss, they were very alarmed—it seemed very repulsive. What kind of thing is this! Filthy lips, false lips, slobbered with saliva, rubbing against each other—and they say it is pleasurable! For ages they had never kissed. They had no idea. What they do—you will be surprised if you do it. They rub noses with each other. Have you ever rubbed noses? If you rub noses you will look mad. What are you doing! Someone might see! You won’t even rub your nose with your beloved’s nose, because she too will think your brain is off—rubbing noses! But that tribe has been rubbing noses for centuries. That is their kiss—more hygienic! Ask the physicians; they will say it is better than yours. At least they only rub noses—they don’t exchange bugs and germs. In kissing there is an exchange of millions of germs.
I have heard: a man went to his doctor, very agitated. He said, “This smallpox is spreading fiercely. And my boy has caught it.”
The doctor said, “No need to panic. It has spread; it is a major outbreak. Be careful—it’s contagious—but don’t panic. The boy will also recover.” He said, “He will recover—that is another matter. The boy kisses my maid—that is what panics me.”
“Did you not explain to him?”
He said, “Now what is there to explain—I have also kissed her. And not only that…”
Even so the doctor said, “Don’t panic; it will be fine.”
But he said, “That’s not all—I have kissed my wife too.” The doctor panicked. “Stop—stop, enough nonsense! You kissed your wife? First let me examine myself, because I too have kissed your wife!”
Till then he had been calm. Diseases—passing hand to hand! People say, great pleasure in a kiss! But have you ever thought, have you ever reflected awake? What could that pleasure be? You will be startled, because you have never thought with awareness, never been attentive. Reconsider the very things in which you have considered there to be pleasure—reconsider once again! With dispassion, with a scientific eye, observe. You will be amazed—your pleasures are the pleasures of your assumptions. What you have assumed, what you have gripped in the unconscious—that alone feels pleasurable. The moment you awaken, your pleasures will depart. In this life you will find sorrow upon sorrow.
The entire shastra of Mahavira’s sadhana rests upon this realization—that you experience the utter sorrow of life.
This is God’s gift—to whom it is destined;
not every heart receives the sorrow that abides.
—This supreme sorrow, this abiding grief that here all is sorrow—game-javinda—this permanent grief…
This is God’s gift—to whom it is destined;
not every heart receives the sorrow that abides.
Mahavira received it. You too can. It is there—granted, it is there. You do not see it. You dodge it. You avoid seeing the truth of your life, because you are afraid—and your fear is natural. You fear that if you see life’s truth, perhaps only sorrow upon sorrow will remain in your hand. Therefore you turn your back. Therefore you avert your eyes. Therefore you close your eyes. But whom are you deceiving thus? This deception is a deception given to yourself.
I have heard a story. In a city a new shop opened. Any young man could go there and find a suitable wife for himself. A young man reached the shop. Inside he found two doors. On one was written: Young wife; on the other: Older wife. The youth pushed the first door and entered. Again he found two doors—no wife yet. Again two doors! On the first was written: Beautiful; on the second: Plain. The youth again entered the first. Again there was neither a beautiful nor a plain one—no one at all. In front again two doors: Good cook; Does not cook. The youth again chose the first door. Naturally—you too would. In front again two doors: Good singer; Does not sing. The youth again took the first door, and this time in front of him a mirror was placed, upon which was written: “You desire too many qualities. The time has come to take a look at your own face.”
Such is life: desire, desire, desire! Feeling one door after another. You forgot to look at your own face. The one who looked at his own face—his desire fell. The one who moved in desire—he gradually forgot even his face. The one who took the support of desire—one desire led to the next; each door led to two more; there was no one to be found. Life is empty. Here no one ever found anyone. Yes—at each door there was hope: more doors. On each door a sign: strive a little further. Hope was given. Hope was tied. Then you dreamed again. But remained empty. Now the time has come for you too to stand before the mirror. Know yourself!
He who knows himself asks nothing more of the world. For here there is nothing worth asking for. He who knows himself receives all that he had asked—and what he had not asked. But he who keeps asking receives nothing at all.
In this life you not only deceive yourself; those whom you call your own—you deceive them too. A child is born in the house. You lived in deception; you teach him the same deception. You lived in sorrow; you teach him the same sorrow. Thus madness does not end in the world—it increases. We give our illnesses to others.
To impress his son, Mulla Nasruddin took him hunting one day. Taking aim at a bird, he said to the boy, “See, son, how unfailing my aim is!” Saying this he fired. As always, the shot missed. Seeing that the boy was gazing intently at the flying bird, Mulla said, “Look, son, look! Behold the wonder! Even dead, the bird is still flying!”
But we are not ready to admit that our aim has missed. The father’s aim missed, yet he says to the son, “Look, son, look! The aim has hit; behold the miracle! Perhaps never again will such an opportunity come. The bird, even dead, is flying!”
If your aim has missed, do not give anyone even by mistake the impression that it has hit. Accept your defeat. This will benefit you and benefit others. Accept your failure, because your failure is the first step of your victory-journey. Do not go on deceiving. This arrogance is futile. There is no substance in this arrogance.
Mahavira is speaking these aphorisms to break this arrogance. We go on asking the same things. Each time we are defeated, again we ask the same. Sometimes our demands are so incongruent and foolish—yet because they are our demands, we neither see their foolishness nor their incongruity.
A beggar bought a lottery ticket and prayed to God, “O Lord! Give me the first prize in the lottery, so that I can buy a car. My legs are breaking, begging on foot.”
He will beg in the car too! As if we have any awareness at all. What are you asking? Whatever you ask—you are asking within the same old structure in which you have been living for lifetimes, and in which you have found nothing but sorrow, nothing but pain and anguish.
A town’s headman went to Delhi for a change and fun. He went and landed at the house of a casual acquaintance and began chatting. For a long time, when he showed no sign of leaving, the host called his servant and said, “Pack up our things, and make ready to leave.”
The headman and the servant both were surprised. All at once—where was he going? Finally when the headman asked, “Where are you going at this hour?” the host said, “Brother! You have taken possession of the house. Before our goods too pass out of our hands, it is good to run away from here.”
Your condition is the reverse. You have taken possession of the house of the world; you have taken possession of the goods too. You alone remain—and you are losing yourself now. Run! The method of Mahavira’s sadhana is to awaken you when the house is on fire and to make you leave this house. Come out! People will say to you, “Are you turning escapist?”
Mahavira says: when the house is on fire, escape is intelligence. Where there is sorrow—to run away from there is intelligence.
And remember, if you can escape sorrow, the door of the possibility of bliss opens. But bliss is nowhere outside. Bliss is your nature. The world is outside. Bliss is your nature. The more you go outward, the further you go from bliss. The less you go outward, the more the tune of bliss begins to play. The sitar of bliss stands ready to be played—only come home.
Mulla Nasruddin worked in a rich man’s house. One day he said, “Sethji, I want to leave your service. I have worked here for many years, and still you do not trust me.” The Seth said, “You fool! What are you saying! Come to your senses, Nasruddin! All the keys to the safe I have entrusted to you. What more do you want? What further trust?”
Nasruddin said, “Do not take it badly, sir! But not a single one of those keys fits in the safe!”
In this world where you think yourself the master—where you parade the bunch of keys, jingle them—has any one of those keys ever fitted anywhere, ever opened any lock? Or are you only jangling the bunch, taking pleasure in its sound? Many women take pleasure—dangling a big bunch. I do not see so many locks in their homes as the keys they dangle. But the sound, the jingle, gives pleasure.
Look carefully—the keys of yours have all gone waste. You tried anger, tried greed, tried attachment, plunged into lust, earned wealth, obtained position, read scriptures, did worship, did prayer—does any key fit?
Mahavira says: none of the world’s keys fit. And when you throw away all keys—at that very instant doors open. In becoming utterly vitaraga from the world lies the key, the master key.
Enough for today.