Jin Sutra #13

There have been others who denied Paramatma; but none with the finesse of Mahavira. By finesse I mean: he denied God, and yet saved God. He said no, and yet did not lose the Divine. Many have been iconoclasts; but in breaking the idol, they also shattered the Divine. Mahavira broke the idol, and preserved, whole and intact, the formless that was hidden within. This is his mastery.
Paramatma, when turned into an idol, becomes hollow. As long as Paramatma is a formless experience, it has value. The moment you give it a shape, you begin to drift from Paramatma—for the Divine is without form. The moment you start seeing God in stone, your eyes begin to go blind.
Islam also shattered idols. Mahavira too shattered idols. But Mahavira did it with great finesse—great ahimsa, great love. The distance is slight, yet the difference is immense. Islam broke them in anger, in violence. In violence and rage, in the insistence to break, one thing becomes clear: when we insist on breaking something, deep in the unconscious there is a hidden attachment. If we judge something worthy of being smashed, if we take the trouble to break it, there must be some value we attribute to the idol. Mahavira did not break like this. He broke—yes, he scattered the idol—yet no wound was given, no noise arose, and the formless concealed within was saved.
The caravan has already set upon the road—
Beware lest another ‘guide’ arrive!
O breakers of idols and temples—
Take care, in this very onslaught God Himself may not be struck!
Look, look at these tears, O Jamil—
May no accusation of supplication fall upon them!
O breakers of idols and temples—
In this very zeal let God Himself not be shattered.
Release from idols and temples is useful. But beware—lest in this very zeal God be broken too! Do not let that be lost which is hidden in the temple. Do not let that be lost which is hidden in the idol. Mahavira, with great finesse, saved That. Try to understand.
‘The slaughter of a living being is one’s own slaughter. Compassion for the living is compassion for oneself. Therefore the self-beneficent have renounced every form of violence toward life. The one you deem worthy of being struck—is yourself. The one you deem worthy of being kept under command—is yourself.’
This is what the Upanishads say, what the Vedas say. But the Upanishads and Vedas speak in the name of Paramatma; Mahavira spoke in the name of Atman. The difference is vast. The moment the idea of Paramatma arises, it feels as if God is someone else, somewhere else—a distance is created. Mahavira spoke the same truth in the name of Atman. Atman creates no distance; it is your very nature, the center of your being. When you begin to see your own center in the other as well, Mahavira says, you have awakened.
The whole scripture of ahimsa is nothing but the art of seeing oneself in the other. But Mahavira will not grant it by saying ‘Paramatma pervades all’. He says: you are linked with the other and the other is linked with you. Life is an inter-net of inner souls—an interrelation of inner selves. Like a spider’s web—touch one thread and the whole web trembles. Touch the consciousness of one person and the whole existence quivers. Wound a single tree and the wound spreads to all. Because we are not isolated, not broken fragments. There is no wall between you and me. Whatever happens to me, happens to you; whatever happens to you, reaches me. Throw a pebble into the ocean—waves arise and travel to the far horizon. If I wound you, I have thrown a pebble into the sea. Granted, I threw it toward you, yet its waves will move all—myself included.
So the one who inflicts sorrow manufactures sorrow for himself; the one who shares joy invites joy for himself. You will receive exactly what you give. What you are receiving now is what you once gave. You did it to the other; it has happened to you.
Mahavira says: here there is none other than you. Whatever you do, you are doing to yourself.
We are like the fool of legend, Sheikh Chilli. He sat peacefully watching people pass along the road. A fly began to trouble him, settling on his nose. Once or twice he swatted it away, but flies are stubborn. As he swatted, it came right back. Anger began to mount—such a tiny fly and it torments him! He struck harder and harder. At last it was beyond endurance. A knife lay nearby; he snatched it up and struck at the fly. The fly flew away; the nose was cut off.
The blow you send to the other, in anger, lands on you. This is Mahavira’s basic insight. If you are suffering, somewhere you wished to cause suffering; otherwise you could not be suffering. If you are afflicted, disturbed, anxious, filled with anguish, if your rest and peace and playfulness are lost—then this is exactly what you have done to life. The results you reap are precisely of your own sowing.
Our usual condition is the reverse—we think others make us suffer. Others only return to you what you once gave. They hand back your own deposit. And if you see it as ‘others are making me suffer’, your whole life-direction will be deluded. Then you will never be happy. How will you change others? To change oneself is already difficult—how will you change others? And the ‘other’ is not a single person—there are infinite others! How will you change the infinite? Even if you could, it would take eternity. If ever you did manage it, you would have suffered eternally before it happened.
Here is the difference between Marx and Mahavira. Marx says: society is responsible, the economy is responsible—change it, and all will be well. Those who place God apart, above, in the sky say: pray, worship—everything will be fine. Take a dip in the Ganga—everything will be fine. They too hand you sweet lies.
Mahavira diagnoses the disease directly. He says: there is no Paramatma up there handing you suffering—not because you did not pray or did not worship or did not follow some rule. And what sort of God would that be who expects and craves your worship, who gets angry because your prayers were not proper, because you did not follow ritual! Such a God would be very egotistical—he himself would be miserable; how would he make you happy? Think a little: if God’s happiness depends on your prayers, he must be dying of sorrow, going mad! How many pray? And those who do, do not pray for God; they ask for something for themselves. When their work is done, they forget. In sorrow they remember; in happiness they forget. They do not remember even then. So God should be going mad, if his joy depends on your prayers!
Mahavira says: there is no such God. These are your delusions. You do not wish to see the truth—that you spread suffering, hence you suffer—so you keep seeking an excuse outside: sometimes in social structures, sometimes in fate, sometimes in defects of nature, sometimes in the trigunas, sometimes in prayer and worship—but always outside. There is one thing you do not wish to see: you are responsible.
The greatest hard truth of life is just this—accepting: whatever is happening to me, I am responsible for it. A great sadness will descend: I am responsible—for my sorrows, my anxieties! To shift the blame to others brings a little relief: at least it feels as if ‘they’ are doing it—what can I do? The pleasure of being helpless comes.
Mahavira says: stop this cheating now. What you did is returning. What you gave is echoing back. And if you do not see this, you will keep doing exactly what makes you suffer—the net will spread wider and wider. The vicious circle will never end. The wheel will keep spinning.
‘Jivvaho appavaho!’—the killing of life is self-killing. Whenever you kill another, you cut and strike yourself.
‘Jivdaya appano daya hoi’—whenever you have compassion upon a living being, you have compassion upon yourself.
‘Therefore the self-beneficent have renounced all forms of violence toward life.’ Understand this word ‘self-beneficent’—Atma-kama, ‘atta-kamehim’—in the very sense we use for ‘self-interest’. The self-beneficent, those who wish their own good…
Here even the Jains need to understand something. Our confusions are such that even when truth falls into our hands, we distort it. Jains think they are practicing compassion toward living beings—doing charity to others. Mahavira says: one who has compassion upon life has compassion upon himself. That’s all. Otherwise a new ego arises—a new ghost: ‘I am compassionate; I am non-violent; look how many creatures I have saved!’ A new stiffness appears. Say only this: I have saved myself from giving myself pain. I practiced my own interest. I practiced self-benefit. There is no need to declare or advertise it. You do not go about declaring, ‘Today I did not smash my head against the wall.’ You do not say, ‘Today I did not stab my foot with a knife.’ If you do, people will laugh: What is great in this? Everyone does that much.
If you have not committed violence today, do not imagine you have done some special virtue. Simply know: you had compassion upon yourself. This formula is precious. Otherwise a new madness begins. Earlier you thought others make you suffer; now you will begin to think you bring happiness to others. But if you can bring happiness, you can also bring suffering. The fundamental delusion remains. And if you can bring happiness and suffering to others, why can they not do the same to you? The logic remains exactly where it was.
Mahavira wishes you to embrace, with depth, this profound truth: whatever you do, you are doing to yourself. Others may be the occasion, the pretext. But ultimately, inexorably, every doing proves to have been done to oneself.
‘The slaughter of life is one’s own slaughter. Compassion for life is compassion for oneself.’
Mahavira says: a religious person is a ‘selfish’ person—he has understood what to do with himself. He has learned courtesy toward his own being. The irreligious man is uncouth—uncouth toward himself. The irreligious is ignorant—cutting, wounding himself; thinking he is hurting the other. In that very thought, in that very dream, he keeps breaking himself upon himself.
‘The self-beneficent have renounced all forms of violence.’ They have not retained violence of any kind in their lives.
Violence means: the urge to make another suffer. Violence means: taking pleasure in another’s pain. Violence is: intoxication with others’ torment—what modern psychology calls sadism. That is what Mahavira calls himsa.
Mahavira’s insight into violence is deeply psychological. There are two kinds of people in the world, say the psychologists. One—the sadists, who take pleasure in oppressing others.
There was a great writer, de Sade; from his name ‘sadism’ was coined. His only pleasure was in torturing others. Even when he loved a woman, he would lock the doors and first beat her, whip her, make her bleed. She would cry and scream, run, and he would lash her. There was no escape—doors locked. Until she screamed and ran and wept, his sexual arousal would not wake. This was his method. When the woman ran, screamed, when blood began to flow, then his arousal would rise—then he would make love. He died in prison, because he did this to many women.
A surprising fact was discovered: the women who loved de Sade never again found any other man’s love satisfying. Perhaps they did not dare go to him again, yet all other love became bland. Strange—because the storm of excitation he raised, none else could. De Sade used to carry a bag with him—who knows whom he might meet! In it was his full kit—whips, barbs, instruments for piercing. Should a woman appear and love happen—without the kit how could he love!
From the women’s experience another hint emerged: they too tasted some pleasure in being tormented—just as men taste pleasure in tormenting. Then came the second term: masochism, from the man named Masoch. Masochism means taking pleasure in one’s own suffering. He tortured himself. He too used whips—but upon himself. Until he had beaten himself soundly, until blood came and his own screams rose, his arousal would not rise. The woman who loved him was told: first beat me, whip me, dance on my chest. As Kali dances upon Shiva’s chest—so he would say: dance upon my chest, trample me. When enough beating had happened, when blood flowed and the body was striped with welts, then the tide of arousal rose—then he could love. This was his method. From him, ‘masochism’ was coined.
So there are two kinds: those who take pleasure in others’ pain, and those who take pleasure in their own pain.
Most of those you call renouncers, ‘mahatmas’, are masochists—ill people. A truly healthy person neither delights in making others suffer, nor in making himself suffer. He does not relish suffering—that is the sign of health. Taking pleasure in pain means perversion, a distortion; something has gone awry.
To relish a flower—this is natural. But if someone begins to relish thorns… To place a flower upon your palms, to brush your eyelashes with its softness—this is intelligible. To make a garland of flowers and place it on your neck—this is intelligible. But if someone begins to pierce himself with thorns and garland himself in thorns, then something has gone wrong—he has deviated from nature.
Pleasure in suffering—whether in one’s own or another’s—is violence. So, if you ask me, then ninety-nine percent of Jain monks walking after Mahavira are his enemies. They relish violence, though they have turned its direction toward themselves.
Consider this a little. Mahavira says: even if you make another suffer, it returns upon you—only the circle is larger. If I lash you, the lash will return to me—it will take time; the distance to you, and then the return. Perhaps you will not send it back directly; you will route it ‘care of’—then the journey is long. Sometimes it takes births. After lifetimes the lash returns. By then I may have forgotten that I ever struck you—but it will come.
The masochist is in a sense more ‘efficient’. He says: why such a long journey? Better to take the whip in my own hand and strike myself directly—cash in hand! But in every case the lash falls on oneself. Whether you inflict pain upon another or upon yourself—you are violent.
You have seen, on the roads of Kashi, renouncers lying upon thorns—they are masochists, violent men, relishing the torture of themselves. You have seen ascetics fasting for months—they are pain-lovers, torturing themselves, enjoying violence. You have heard of ascetics who gouged out their eyes—they are pain-lovers. You have heard of those who cut off their genitals—they are pain-lovers.
Humanity is split: either inflict pain upon others, or inflict it upon yourself—but inflict pain.
A healthy person renounces all forms of violence. This is Mahavira’s definition of health. A healthy person is ahimsaka. He neither gives pain to another nor to himself, because there is no meaning in giving pain. To give pain is to waste life’s opportunity. Where the music of bliss could arise, you convert the energy into suffering; where flowers could bloom, you spread thorns.
‘The slaughter of life is self-slaughter.’ Thus Mahavira brings the sense of Paramatma within. He lets the temple fall, and saves God. For when pain travels from me to you and returns to me, it means only one thing: you and I are connected—there is a bridge. There is traffic, a give-and-take. Our distances and differences are superficial; deep within we are linked. Otherwise how could my pain return? It goes, it comes—waves go and waves come back. It means, in depth, we are parts of a single ocean. The name of that ocean is Paramatma.
But Mahavira does not establish Him outside; he establishes Him within you. For the moment God is installed outside, people get busy with worship and prayer. They do not transform life—they pray. They say to God: O Lord, change my life! They themselves spoil life, and hope someone else will change it. Then such a God becomes a support for the old structure. For until you change, nothing will change. If there were a God like that, he would have changed you long ago. For how many days have you been praying! Your hands are folded in namaz since when! How long have you knelt before idols! Nothing happens. Centuries have passed, lives upon lives you have prayed and worshipped—nothing happens. You remain the same.
Look at the worshipper—every day he goes to the temple, every day he returns—the very same. Nothing changes in form. Yes, another danger arises: he becomes assured—‘All right, the Lord will take care.’ And he goes on doing whatever he does. What you do will shape life; not worship.
‘Look, look at these tears, O Jamil—
May no accusation of supplication fall upon them!’
Jamil has said: these tears which flow of joy—may no one mistakenly take them as prayer! May no charge of prayer fall upon them!
Mahavira never even folded his hands, never bowed—lest someone accuse him of praying! Lest someone say: this man prays!
For prayer means: I have erred, let someone else set it right. This would be outside the arithmetic—against the mathematics of life. I erred; I must set it right. What is happening to me is the fruit of my own karma. I must transform my actions. The path will be hard—but there is no other way. It will be difficult—but it is the only path. The path is difficult.
‘Whom you consider worthy of being struck—that is you.’ The one you plan to kill—that is you. ‘Whom you deem fit to keep under command—that too is you.’ The one you enslave is you. The one you set out to kill is you. Life is but the expansion of a single Atman. Exactly the same flame of consciousness that burns in you burns in the other.
There may be a thousand clay lamps—but the flame is one, its nature one. Clay lamps may differ—one shape, another shape; a thousand shapes. One color, another color; a thousand colors. Small lamps, big lamps—but the flame within each is one.
What is within me is not otherwise within you. The differences between you and me are of clay lamps. My body is different, yours different; colors and styles differ—yet all this is on the surface. The deeper you go within, the more differences vanish. At the very innermost, you find: the lamp burning here, the flame burning here—that same flame burns there. The nature of flame is one. To harm that flame is to harm your very nature.
‘Whom you deem worthy of being struck is you; whom you deem fit to keep under command is also you. Therefore, neither keep anyone under command, nor deem anyone fit to be struck.’
Here all are masters; none is born to be a slave.
Reflect a little. Those you ‘love’, you make them slaves. The husband becomes the master of the wife. He says to the wife: accept that I am God. The husband becomes ‘Parameshwar’. The wife writes ‘your slave’ in letters—but that is not the reality. In her heart she thinks ‘your mistress’. Hence the house is called the woman’s house—she is the householder. No one calls the husband ‘householder’; the wife is. Ownership is hers. And try finding a husband who does not move by her ownership. Outwardly he parades as master in the marketplace; inwardly the wife shows him, morning to night, in many ways, who is master.
One day Mulla Nasruddin’s friends had gathered at his home. Some quarrel arose. The wife lunged, as was her habit. He ran and hid under the bed. She bent down and said, ‘Come out! Out!’ Mulla wriggled deeper under the bed. She said, ‘Will you come out or not? Today let it be settled who is master!’
Is this any way to settle it! But even those we love we bind in slavery. Hence people get weary even of love; they want release from love. Strange—here even love seems to bring pain. Because we say love, but it is something else. We choose beautiful names—but behind the names something else hides.
When you say to someone ‘I love you’, look within. What is your real desire? Under the name of love something else will be hiding—violence, possessiveness, ambition. The urge to seize a person will be hiding. Hence, once you seize, the charm is lost. What husband continues to relish his wife? There was great savor until she was not attained—life at stake. As soon as attained, arms and legs go limp—story over. Because the savor was in conquering—in challenge. Now challenge comes from other women, not from the wife. The wife is conquered—what is there to conquer! Any passing woman becomes an attraction again—the old invitation to conquest returns. Under the name of love there is conquest—the ego. Then begins the race of possession under the name of love—who possesses whom, who is the real master. Life is wasted deciding who is master. Bickering over every small matter—each trying to keep the other under command. The father says to the son: obey me, because I love you. Do as I say, because I love you. Do not do the opposite of what I say, because I love you. I speak for your good.
You have not managed your own good—how will you manage another’s! You remain blank pages—and lecture your son! The son listens while he is weak. He too is only waiting: soon I will be powerful. If grown sons torment their fathers, it is not accidental. Every father tormented his son when he was small—‘for his good’, yes—but tormented nonetheless. The talk of ‘good’ is all empty chatter—the relish was in tormenting.
When the father is old, the son begins to reply; what was given begins to return. I have heard: a bride came into a household. The husband’s old father did not please her, as old men please none. She wanted to be rid of this burden. But there was nowhere to send him—he had to live there. He had grown very old. His hands trembled. When he ate, sometimes food spilled from the spoon, sometimes the spoon fell, sometimes food fell upon his clothes. The daughter-in-law grew angry. One day she lifted him from the chair at the dining table, set him in a corner, and said: no more eating with a spoon! She mixed all his food in one bowl and said: eat from this. From that day he was forbidden to come to the table. But he kept growing older, and his hands trembled more. And now the atmosphere at home had become such that he was no longer counted as a human being. One day the bowl slipped from his hands. The daughter-in-law said: ‘Enough! Now you must be given animal arrangements.’ From then on she placed his food in a large bucket—like for cows and buffaloes.
This went on. The young woman’s little son watched all this. One day he gathered scraps of wood—the carpenter was doing some work—and began to join them. His mother and father, sitting at table, asked: ‘What are you making?’ He said: I am making wooden buckets for when you both grow old.
By nature all things go in circles. What you do to your father, remember—your son will do to you. Remember: what your son is doing to you is what you did to your father. Remember: what you are doing to your son now, he will return tomorrow. In life nothing stops—it returns.
Be thoughtful. Do not impose authority and slavery in the name of love. Love is supreme freedom. One who loves imposes nothing. Love means: the freedom to let the other be other. To accept the other as he is—that is love. Not to change him—not even in the name of great ideals, for all ideals become tools of ownership. You say to your son: this habit is wrong—drop it! Under the pretext of habit you are placing your noose on his neck. If the habit is wrong, offer your view. Say it, and leave it. Do not use it to install ownership. Say only: to me this habit seems wrong—then it is your choice. You are your own master. If you choose even the wrong, choose.
Last night I was reading a modern thinker, Sartre. He offers a definition of maturity: a mature person is one who has the freedom not only to do right, but also to do wrong. If there is no freedom to do wrong, what ‘freedom’ is that? If there is freedom only to do right, the word freedom is being misused.
Love makes free. It warns, yes, with care: I went there and found pits—step mindfully. If you wish to go, take my experience; go afterward. I do not stop you. I was burned there—so I tell you there is fire; then go as you wish. Do not go—your choice. Go—your choice.
To state one’s truth is enough. But we place our foot upon the neck. We use ideals as prisons, as chains.
Mahavira says:
‘Whom you deem worthy of being struck is you. Whom you deem fit to keep under command is also you.’
An important corollary follows. If you try to make someone a slave, that very person will attempt to enslave you. For the one you keep under command is you. By mistake never enslave anyone—otherwise you will become a slave. And if you have become a slave, inquire—you will find it is the result of your own urge to enslave. The perfectly healthy person is one who is neither a slave nor wishes to make anyone a slave. As long as the desire to enslave remains, slavery will come.
All around are people exactly like you. What you want is what they want. What you do not want is what they too do not want. Understand this truth rightly.
A young man, Nicodemus, asked Jesus: I am in a hurry—give me a small sutra that can change my life. Jesus said: do not do to another what you do not want done to you. That is enough; all religion is contained in it. Do not do to another what you do not want done to you. Enough.
This one sentence is the whole essence of the Bible. It is also the essence of Mahavira. He is making you understand: the other is not ‘other’—the same consciousness as you; the same Atman; the same seeker of happiness and freedom as you.
Keep only this in your awareness. With this awareness you will neither bind nor be bound. The binder too becomes bound. The jailer cannot leave the prison either. The prisoner is inside, the jailer outside—but the one outside must also stand guard so the prisoner does not escape. He too must become a prisoner with the prisoners.
‘The Jinas, the awakened ones, have said: the non-arising of attachment and the like is ahimsa; their arising is himsa.’
‘The awakened have said: the arising of attachment and the like is violence; their non-arising is nonviolence.’
This is the subtlest analysis of ahimsa. To set out to injure another—this is far down the line; this is when thought has become gross. The moment attachment arises in your mind, violence has already arisen—whether you act or not is secondary. A little attachment arises. You pass by a mansion; the thought arises: ‘I too should build such a house.’ Violence has begun—the seed is sown. To build that mansion, you will need money; to get it you will have to wrest wealth from others. You will have to compete. You will have to search every route—honest or dishonest, as necessary. The moment the urge for that mansion arises, the seed of violence is sown. The tree will take time to grow; but if you wish to avoid the tree, avoid the seed.
Therefore Mahavira says: the arising of raga is violence. Do not think violence begins when you cut someone’s throat.
This is the difference between crime and sin. Crime is when sin becomes manifest and the law can catch it. Until then it is sin. If you sit and think of killing the world, no court can punish you. The police will not come to arrest you for violent thoughts. There is freedom of thought—just do not express it.
The law worries only this much: do not do what you think; if you do, you will be caught. If you only think—your fun. But religion goes deeper. Religion says: do not even think. Because if you have thought, how long will you resist doing? Thought becomes thing. Feeling condenses and pours down as event. What looks tiny today grows large tomorrow; it keeps spreading. Today there is no sign—you seem utterly calm.
In Mahavira’s life it is told: he had a disciple, Prasenachandra. He had been an emperor, then renounced and became a nude monk. One day another emperor, Bimbisara, came to see Mahavira. He said: on the way I saw Prasenachandra standing in a cave—blessed is he! He was my childhood companion. He has attained monkhood, he has become a digambar muni. I am accursed—still rotting in the world. A question arose in my mind: if, at that very moment, Prasenachandra had died, to which heaven or to moksha would he go?
Mahavira said: if he had died at that moment, he would have fallen into the seventh hell.
Bimbisara said: What are you saying? The seventh hell! Then what will become of us? He is standing there, having left all.
Mahavira said: before you arrived his retinue passed by—ministers, generals, soldiers. Two of your ministers stood near him and spoke: ‘Look, like a fool he stands here! This is Prasenachandra! He was a great emperor. Had he stayed at his work he would have owned the whole earth. Here he stands naked like a dolt! He left everything to his ministers. His sons are small; the ministers are looting. By the time his sons grow up, nothing will remain in the treasury.’
Prasenachandra heard. He stood with eyes closed, but he heard. Anger arose: ‘Oh! Do my ministers think I am dead? I am still alive!’ In anger, as was his old habit, his hand went to his sword. There was no sword now—he was naked—but the old habit. As his hand went to the sword, another old habit worked: whenever he grew very angry and his hand went to the sword, the other hand would steady his crown lest it fall. There was no crown. His hand rose to steady it; it touched bare forehead. He remembered: what am I doing! Instantly he dropped the tension, he dropped the violent feeling.
Mahavira said: when you passed, his hand was on the sword. Had he died then, he would have gone to the seventh hell. But now, if he dies, his moksha is assured. Only a moment’s distance—outwardly he looks the same, but the inner state has changed.
Your being is inner; your interiority is you. Feelings change you inside. Thoughts change you inside. Outside, when you bring thoughts into action, society begins—and where society begins, law begins. But where you are, there is the account of sin and merit—there is religion.
‘The arising of raga and the like is violence; their non-arising is nonviolence.’
We give even life for life—
Yet life itself is not worthy of trust.
Once I was the one beneath whose feet the heavens bent—
Now the ground does not even care to turn its neck.
Today or tomorrow this body will fall, merge with dust. Once I was he beneath whose weight the firmament bent; now even the earth will not bother to glance back. We give even life for life—and life is not to be relied upon. The life for which we are ready to kill and die is a bubble upon water—now here, now gone; a line drawn in dream—not even drawn, only imagined to be drawn.
When a man begins to see the worth of his life—that it has no worth; dust will return to dust—then the ragas and dveshas with which I strive to save this dust are meaningless. When the insubstantiality of life is seen, the insubstantiality of all attachment and aversion is seen. The taste of that insubstantiality is ahimsa.
But we are steeped in falsehood. Where hope has broken a thousand times, we go on hoping; where nothing is ever found, we go on searching.
A Sufi fakir’s house—one night thieves broke in. The Sufi was asleep; he awoke and lit a lamp. The thieves were frightened. He said: ‘Do not fear—I will help you.’
They said: ‘What! Are you mad? We are thieves!’
He said: ‘Do not worry. I have been living in this house for thirty years searching, and have never found anything. I will help you search. If you find something, we will share half and half. I have lit the lamp—do not run.’
In the life you have been living for lifetimes—have you found anything? But hope does not die. Perhaps tomorrow—on this thin thread you live. Your experience says ‘nothing’, but your hope wins over experience. This is life’s greatest disease: hope winning over experience. Experience says: there is nothing here. Experience has said it a thousand times. Always your hands are smeared with ash. But hope says: who knows!
‘Umeed to bandh jaati, taskin to ho jaati—
Vaada na wafa karte, vaada to kiya hota.’
A man goes on living even on so little: ‘At least say it! At least bind me a hope! Give me a consolation!’
Have you noticed? You go on trusting even in those things you know yield no result. How many times anger! How many times you burned in lust—what did you get? Your hands remained empty. But still…
‘Hazaar baar bhi vaada wafa na ho lekin—
Main unki raah mein aankhen bichha ke dekh to loon.’
Not coming—no harm! If he failed a thousand times—no harm! Once again maybe he will come. I will spread my eyes upon his path and see!
Thus all sit at their doors, eyes strewn upon the path, waiting for that who never came and never will come. Close the door. Rise—enough of this road! The one you await does not exist. There is no question of his coming.
One who awaits bliss by the road of desire waits upon a wrong road—for bliss cannot come that way. The nature of desire is not bliss; it only binds hope. Desire is a hollow conch that blares empty boasts.
You have heard the tale: a man worshipped Shiva intensely. When his worship was complete, Shiva said: ask a boon. The man said: ‘What shall I ask? Give what you think proper.’ Shiva gave him a conch: ‘From this, whatever you ask will be given. Say “let there be a house”—and there will be; say “let there be rain of wealth”—and there will be.’
At once—Shiva forgotten—he tried it: ‘Let jewels rain’—they rained; house, courtyard, doorway filled. The news spread. A sannyasin came to see him. He stayed the night. The sannyasin said: I know you have a conch, for I too have one. I too worshipped Shiva. But yours I do not know; mine is ‘maha-shankh’—whatever you ask, it doubles. Ask a lakh—it gives two.
The man said: let’s see. Greed grew. He had already been receiving, yet greed caught him. The sannyasin showed the conch and said to it: a crore of rupees. The conch said: what will you do with one? Take two! The devotee said: perfectly fine—you are a renunciate; you have no need. The smaller conch will do. He handed his small conch to the sannyasin. The sannyasin fled that night. In the morning, after worship, he took out his great conch and said: ‘Let there be a rain of crores!’ The conch said: shall I make it two crores? But nothing happened. He said: all right, two crores then. The conch said: oh, four then? Still nothing. He grew nervous: four then—do it! The conch said: eight? It was a blathering conch. It only doubled in words—nothing happened.
Desire is such a blathering conch. It tells you—‘it will happen, it will happen; more than you ask. Your dream is small—I will fulfill a dream that outstrips your dreaming. What hope have you dared! I will give such that you will be dazzled—what you never hoped or imagined.’ But these are only words. Experience says otherwise: neither two nor four nor eight ever rain down. But hope grows bigger—‘I will make it even more! Do not worry about the days wasted; look ahead, look to the future. Do not keep accounts of the past. The sun will rise! The moon will shine! Just look ahead!’ Hope drags you forward.
Therefore Mahavira says: the genesis of raga—here you must understand and awaken. Do not support hope. Say: ‘All right, you blathering conch—say what you will. We will not ask for anything. Neither lakhs nor double. We have dropped asking.’ In a few days you will see: when you do not ask, the blathering conch cannot double, for it doubles only what you ask. If you do not ask, it falls silent. If you do not ask, desire will not bind hope. You ask—that is where the fault begins—because you asked, you fell into hope’s whirl. Hope says: I will give double!
Mahavira catches hold of the root.
‘It is by the very endeavor to commit violence that karmic bondage occurs. Whether any being actually dies or not—this is the nature of karmic bondage.’
This is a priceless sutra. Understand it also in the perspective of the Gita, for the Gita’s whole message is here. Krishna says to Arjuna: none kills, none is killed—so, carefree, strike. The Atman is immortal—‘na hanyate hanyamane sharire’. By killing the body, the Atman does not die. Do not worry—this is dust; it will fall. What is hidden within will remain.
Krishna is exactly right: the Atman does not die. Mahavira enters a different dimension: by the very endeavor, the very intention to commit violence, bondage occurs. Whether anyone dies or not—violence does not depend on another’s dying. You wished to kill—therein is violence. Whether someone died or not is not the question; you wished to kill. Essentially the question is not whether violence outwardly occurred. The deep question is: did you intend to kill? Sometimes your intention is one thing, and something else happens.
It happened: about five thousand years ago in China, acupuncture was born this way. A man had headaches all his life—intolerable. He tried every treatment—nothing worked. His head was heavy like a stone day and night; lightning-like flashes split it. He could not sit, or work—life had become unbearable. He even attempted suicide, people prevented him. An enemy shot an arrow; it struck his leg—and at the very instant the headache vanished. He went to physicians: what happened? The arrow struck my leg, and in that moment the pain left my head! Thus acupuncture was born. People began to investigate—pressing some point in the leg affects the head. They tried striking the same point in others with headaches—and were helped. Seven hundred points were mapped. Press some, some illnesses are cured; press others, other illnesses. The body is an electrical field; press at one point, currents shift elsewhere. Mysterious—but acupuncture works.
Now the question: the man who shot the arrow—did he commit sin or merit? The lifelong pain vanished. If we look at the fruit—merit. But if we look at his intention—sin. He intended to kill; not to cure a headache. So he committed violence. That the other was cured is irrelevant to him; it is an accident.
So your deed is not determined as sin or merit by the outcome, but by your intent. Sometimes, from a bad intention, a good thing may occur. Sometimes, from a good intention, a bad result may occur. But the decision is not by the fruit—it is by the intention in your innermost: what did you want? Sometimes you went to do good and harm happened—still not sin. Sometimes you went to do harm and good happened—still sin.
Mahavira’s analysis does not rest upon fruits. Krishna and Mahavira both agree the Atman does not die. Yet Mahavira says: in the very desire to kill, there is violence; that desire itself is bondage.
Wealth does not bind. Let money lie all around you; what binds is the urge to grasp, to possess. Woman does not bind; the craving to enjoy binds. If you see rightly, the whole net is within—not outside.
People say to me: we want to leave the world—as if the world is outside! By ‘world’ they mean shop, market, wife, children. The world is within; it is in your intention. The world is in your craving and desire.
‘It is by the very endeavor to commit violence that karmic bondage occurs. Whether any being dies or not—this is the nature of karmic bondage.’
Try to understand the nature of hope. Let experience win; defeat hope. Trust what you have learned from life’s experience. Do not trust what the mind weaves in its dreams.
‘I do not insist that you do true justice—
Even a false solace will keep me living.’
You too live on false solaces. You ask them from others.
When Westerners come East they are amazed—Easterners are masters at giving false consolations. In this land, if you go to someone and ask: will you get this done? he says: certainly. In the West it is not so. There he will say only if he can do it; even then, with conditions: I will try—whether it will happen is uncertain. If he cannot, he will clearly say no. In the East it is not so. Ask anyone—he says: yes, it will be done. Whether he can or not—why trouble you needlessly? When it will happen, it will happen. For now—consolation!
When Westerners come East for business, they are bewildered: whom to believe? Everyone says yes. ‘No’ is considered bad manners.
Have you noticed? Someone comes to you in need of a job. You say: yes, I will try, I will arrange it! At that moment you have not even thought for a fraction that you intend to do anything. You are just deflecting the nuisance—‘go’. You think you have rubbed a little balm—now he will live on hope.
Here it is etiquette to bind consolation. Someone dies—you go and say: never mind, the Atman is immortal. You know! But you say: whether I know or not, he is in sorrow—give him solace!
‘I do not insist that you do true justice—
Even a false solace will keep me living.’
On such threads people live. This is what your sadhus and sannyasins are doing—handing you false solaces. You go and say: my mind is disturbed. He says: ‘No worry—chant Ram, Ram; all will be well.’ But what has Ram, Ram to do with your disturbance? You are creating the disturbance; Ram has no hand in it. You will go on creating disturbance, and chant Ram also—what will happen? Only a little more disturbance. He has not caught the root. To catch the root is labor, difficulty—perhaps he does not know either. But he gives you consolation. You return pleased: I got a blessing that my mind will be calm.
In India sadhus keep their hands always ready—to give blessings. They say: take a blessing. They neither take anything nor give anything. They lose nothing; you gain nothing; only an exchange of words. But you return with a stronger hope—now all will be well.
If you truly want transformation, go to those who do not hand solaces; who place the diagnosis of your life squarely before you—even if it hurts, even if your wound is touched and your bandage is peeled, even if pus oozes from your ulcer. Go to those who are not addicted to consolation; who lay your life’s truth bare as it is. Pain will come. But transformation hides in pain. If you listen and strive to understand—and act accordingly—you will change. They will not soothe you, but they will bring revolution to your life. You roam from one sadhu to the next because after many doses of solace you lose faith, and seek another. There is no shortage of sadhus. Life is short; sadhus are many. Solace, solace, solace—you go in circles.
Stop. Grasp the truth of life. Life’s truth is not easy; it is no consolation. It is hard. A thorn is stuck in your chest—removing it will hurt. You will cry out. But that cry is necessary. Count as your friend the one who can accompany you through that pain.
The true Master does not give solace. He gives truth—even if bitter. If the physician were to insist on sweet medicines only, there would be no healing; the patient might be pleased for a moment. Syrup can be given, but the disease will not go; he will happily return home, but the illness will deepen. No—bitter medicine must also be given—even poison-like. The patient may be annoyed—still it must be given.
Hope has led the whole world astray. Seek no more hopes. Go where hope breaks, where consolation peels away, where the nets of your comfort tear, where your entire personality, built upon lies, collapses into ruins—go there. The path is formidable.
‘People say waiting is worse than death—
My whole life has passed in waiting.’
Everyone’s life passes thus. What are you doing other than waiting?
Samuel Beckett wrote a little play—Waiting for Godot. Who is this Godot? Someone asked Beckett: after all, who is Godot? You read the whole play and it never becomes clear. Beckett said: if I knew, I would have written it in the play. I too do not know who Godot is.
People are waiting. Ask them clearly—whom are you waiting for? They do not know. Godot—meaning: the one of whom nothing is known. But they wait. All sit eagerly, doors open—someone is coming.
The story of Godot is delightful. Two men sit—that is how the play begins. They ask each other: ‘Well, how are things?’ ‘All right. Feels like he’ll come today.’ Who will come? They never say—‘Feels like he’ll come today.’ The other says: ‘I think so too. He should come. We have been waiting so long. He is not the unreliable type. Let’s see—maybe today.’ They keep glancing down the road, sitting by the roadside. No one comes. Afternoon passes; evening comes. ‘He didn’t come again. The limit of dishonesty! He wasn’t like this—something must have happened—maybe someone fell ill.’ Never is there any talk of who. Many times they are fed up: ‘Enough—stop this waiting!’ Yet both sit. At times one says: ‘I’m going. You wait.’ Limit has been crossed. But none goes—where to go? Wherever you go, you will have to wait there too. They stay. They talk, but never even ask each other who they are waiting for. It is simply assumed—they are waiting for someone.
This Godot grips everyone.
Have you ever asked: Whose arrival are you waiting for? Who is supposed to come? For whom have you opened the doors? And for whom have you decorated the house? No—you will say, we don’t know for sure who is going to come; but it feels as if someone will.
People come to me and say, “We don’t even know what we are searching for—yet we are searching.” But how will you search if you don’t even know what you’re searching for?

People come and say, “We have something to ask; but we don’t know what to ask.” And they’re not wrong—they’re very honest. That is the situation. People want to ask; they feel something must be asked. Somewhere inside there is a pressure, a swell—something wants to be asked. But what? Nothing is graspable. No shape forms, no outline settles. One wants to seek—but what? Who is this Godot? No one knows.

Wake up from this waiting! This waiting has gone on too long. No one has ever come, and no one will ever come. Close the doors. Now seek the one who you are. At one time you waited for wealth, then for status; you sought respect in people’s eyes, you prayed, looked up to the sky for some God—but all of it was Godot! You are not clear what you are seeking, what you are asking for. Now it is time to dive within. See that which we are. It is no longer appropriate to wait for anyone else.

“Not to have renounced violence—and to keep the outcome of violence—this itself is violence.”

If you have not consciously renounced violence, violence will continue. Mahavira takes us to a very subtle plane. He says: the intention to hurt another is violence, of course; but if you have not consciously renounced every possibility of causing hurt, if you have not deliberately made nonviolence your way of life, then that too is violence.

Not to desist from violence—not to wakefully, consciously, decisively make it clear to yourself, “I have renounced violence”—is dangerous. What you have not renounced can arise again. In some hour, some untimely moment, some situation, what you have not renounced may erupt. Maybe you never thought of killing anyone; but if someone confronts you with a knife, you will forget. You have no art of nonviolence to fall back on. You will seize the old art of violence, because it is an old habit.

So Mahavira is saying: the style of violence is a habit of lifetimes. The style of nonviolence must be consciously accepted. You must make it the discipline of your life. Otherwise, when an opportunity to be violent arises, you will suddenly forget yourself. You never even intended to be violent, but violence will happen—because the habit is old, the conditioning is old. To break those old conditionings needs a conscious decision—the decision to renounce violence.

“Not to have renounced violence—and to keep the outcome of violence—this itself is violence.”
Even to preserve the possibility is violence.

“Therefore where there is heedlessness (pramada), there is constant violence.”

This is the deepest grip possible.

“Where there is heedlessness, there is constant violence.”

Pramada means stupor, unconsciousness. Where there is sleepiness; where one goes on walking in sleep—eyes open, but the mind asleep, unconscious; where we are moving in a faint, there is violence. What can an unconscious person do? Every day a thousand occasions for violence arise—what will the unconscious do? There is no awareness from which a new awakening, a fresh surge, a new ray might break forth. Unconscious, he will move by the old habit. The aware person moves moment-to-moment out of awareness, not out of habit.

Someone insults you; you won’t even notice before your face flushes. When it flushes, you realize: “Oh, it happened again!” It happens in a split second, in a fragment of a moment. A beautiful woman passes by—something shifts inside. A moment ago you were sitting idly, nothing was there; no thought of woman. You were looking at the green of the trees, the blooming flowers, the stars in the sky—no hint of anything. But the imprint is within. The old habit is stored within. A woman passes—lightning flashes in a moment. Something trembles inside. A storm arises. Some desire becomes alert. The seeds are there; when rain comes, they sprout.

So Mahavira says, “In truth, stupor itself is violence, and non-stupor is nonviolence. The self is nonviolence and the self is violence. When the self is stupefied, there is violence; when the self is awake, there is nonviolence. This is the certainty of the doctrine.”

Atta cheva ahimsa—the self itself is nonviolence; the self itself is violence. This is the certainty of the doctrine.

“He who is unheedless is nonviolent.”
He who is awake, who lives consciously, with awareness, with right mindfulness—placing each step deliberately, discerningly—he is nonviolent.

“He who is heedless is violent.” One who lives in intoxication, who does not really know where he is going or why—he just goes! Catch yourself. Shake, stir, wake yourself! Give yourself a jolt!

Among the Sufis there is a device—giving a jolt. One order of Sufis tells seekers that whenever you feel torpor coming over you, give your body a sharp shake. As a tree shakes in a storm, shudders in a gale and the dust falls off—so give yourself a jolt now and then.

Try it sometime. For a moment you will feel a freshness, a wakefulness, a remembrance of yourself—“Who am I!” Consciousness will flare up briefly, flash—and then fade. Keep giving yourself such jolts.

Sometimes little things prove useful—very little things. So whenever someone abuses you, give yourself a jolt. Gradually make it your inner arrangement. If someone abuses you, you will jolt yourself. With that jolt you will find the connection with habit is broken. This is exactly “electro-shock,” as psychology calls it. A man goes mad; no remedy seems to work. They run electricity through his brain. What happens? The rush of electricity creates a tempest in the brain. A shock strikes. Because of that shock, his identification with the possession that was riding him—the madness—breaks for a moment. For a moment he forgets “I am mad.” Continuity is broken. Afterwards, when he comes back, he does not remember he was mad a moment ago, that he must resume being mad. The link to the habit has snapped. Often it helps; often the madman is cured. You can do this for yourself.

All of us are mad. And all our behavior is asleep. We must find ways—any way possible—to awaken ourselves. Many kinds of shocks can be given. Even a small reminder can help. I have given you a mala; make of it a new habit of remembering: when sexual craving stirs, at once take the mala in your hand. No one will even notice. But the feel of the mala will remind you—“Ah! Falling again—ready to fall again!” I have given you ochre robes; they are for remembrance—otherwise, what do ochre robes do?

A man addicted to alcohol came for sannyas. He said, “I am a drinker—how can I hide it from you! I do want sannyas. But my worry is: how will I go to a liquor shop in these ochre robes?”

“That is your problem. Why should it be mine? You worry about it. I have done my work—I have given you sannyas. I won’t be trailing you twenty-four hours a day. Now you handle it.”

He said, “You’re putting me in a fix.”

It is a fix. We were living in sleep; waking up is a bother. But he was a courageous man, clean-hearted. Otherwise there was no need to say anything; he could have hidden it. Who says you drink! A few days later he came back and said, “It has become difficult. My feet stop. Not that I no longer feel like drinking; I do—but these robes create trouble. When I show up there, people stare at me as if I were some strange animal. I was standing in line at the cinema; people all around began looking. Two men came and touched my feet, and I fled—if people are touching my feet here, then surely it is not right to go to a cinema.”

You know the old story? A thief was running. People were after him. He saw no way to escape. He reached a riverbank; there was a heap of ash. He quickly threw his clothes into the river, became naked, took a dip, smeared ash on himself, and sat under a bush with eyes closed, in lotus posture. The pursuers arrived—no one in sight but a holy man. They all touched his feet. The thief thought, “This is the limit! I am a fake sadhu and people are touching my feet!” But a jolt happened—“If only I were real, what would not be!” In that jolt a revolution happened. The people left after touching his feet, but he became a sadhu forever. He said, “If even counterfeit sainthood is accorded such honor, if there is such nectar even in the false, what to say of the true!”

These are aids to remembrance. Your ochre robe—if your hand lifts to strike someone, your own robe will come into view. That alone will be enough. Let the hand drop. You take a glass of liquor, bring it to your lips—your robe comes into view; put the hand back down. Slowly you will find a new state of awareness thickening inside you, cutting through old habits.

“As in the world there is nothing higher than Mount Meru, and nothing vaster than the sky, so there is no dharma equal to nonviolence.”

Therefore Mahavira called nonviolence the supreme religion—higher than Meru, vaster than the sky.

The word “ahimsa” invites reflection. Mahavira did not use the word love—though it would have been more fitting if he had. He chose not to. There are reasons. Because you already think you know what love means—and that is utterly wrong. If he were to use that word, he feared you would assume he meant your kind of love. So Mahavira employed a negative term: ahimsa—nonviolence. But what he means is love—the same that Sufis call ishq, the same that Jesus calls love. Mahavira chose his words very carefully, with you in mind. Because with “love” you have old associations. For you, love means attachment and lust. Your sole meaning of love has been desire; you have not known its deeper meaning.

The real meaning of love is: to become so healthy that you do not want to hurt anyone, nor yourself. You love yourself and you love the other. And this love is not a relationship; it is your state. Even if no one is there, love radiates around you. Like a flower blooming alone in a wilderness—still its fragrance spreads. A lamp burns in the darkness, on the night of no moon—still light spreads. The lamp does not think, “No one is here—what’s the point?” The flower does not think, “No one passes this way, no nostrils to arrive here; for whom should I spread fragrance? Forget it.” So too, one who has attained love does not think, “If someone comes I will give; or I will give to a particular one.” Love is his nature.

But Mahavira used the word ahimsa, to save people from an old delusion, so they would not take his love to be their love—as if he were endorsing it. But a new delusion began. Man is so entangled you cannot save him. With the word ahimsa, a new misunderstanding started.

Now, look at many Jain monks—love is nowhere to be seen in their lives. They have taken the literal, and narrow, meaning of nonviolence: “Do not do violence”—purely negative, no creativity, nothing positive. Do not kill an ant—but there is no love for the ant. Do not kill because killing leads to hell—that is greed, not love. Do not insult anyone because insult obstructs liberation—that again is greed, not love. Understand this difference.

So I want to tell you: Mahavira’s ahimsa means love—not your love, because there is another love; nor the Jain monks’ ahimsa either, because that is utterly dead. You cannot live in a mere no. Can one build a home on negations alone? Something creative is needed.

Creative means: some energy must be kindled within you. Mere shrinking won’t do. Do not hit—fine; but why not hit? Because you love—therefore. Not because if you hit you will go to hell—that is self-interest, not love. Do not harm others—because your love will tell you that to harm another, to cause suffering to another, is to harm your own expansion in love.

Love spreads, grows. Mahavira says: “Like the sky! Higher than Sumeru, vaster than the sky!”

Such expansion needs a creative hour; there must be a presence for it to grow.

Ahimsa literally means the absence of violence. It is like in medicine if one asked, “What is health?” and they said, “The absence of disease.” But a corpse also has no disease—would you call it healthy? It fits the definition—no TB, no cancer. Only the living can be ill; how can the dead fall ill? So the definition “absence of disease” is insufficient. Yes, a healthy person is not ill, true—but health is also something more, something positive. When you have been healthy, didn’t you experience its own flavor beyond simply “no TB, no cancer, no ailments”? When you are healthy, you don’t even remember such negatives. Health has its own joy, its own yes-saying, its own effulgence. Health is a spring bursting forth; it is not about disease.

Imagine a spring whose path is blocked by stones. We say, “Remove the stones, and the spring will gush.” But merely removing the stones is not the spring. In some other ravine you may remove stones and nothing will gush forth. Removing obstacles may be necessary, but it is not the spring itself. The spring is something positive. If it is there, it will appear when the stones are removed; if it is not, you may go on removing stones forever—like certain Jain monks: this they don’t do, that they don’t do—all is about “don’t.” They don’t steal, but they are not without possessiveness; they don’t grasp, but they are not free of greed; they don’t do violence, but they are not nonviolent—because the positive is missing.

Zindagi jila-e-aeena hai; aeena hai ishq.
Sang se mamur-e-kawnain, aur shola hai ishq.
Ilm barbat hai, amal mizrab hai, naghma hai ishq.
Zarra-zarra karwaan hai; ishq Khizr-e-karwaan.
Life is the polish of the mirror; love is the mirror.
The two worlds are filled with stone; love is the flame.
Knowledge is the lute, action the plectrum; love is the song.
Every particle is a caravan; love is Khidr, the guide of the caravan.

Love is the clear mirror. Everything in life other than love is the grime on the mirror. Worldly things are stones; love is light. Knowledge is the instrument; conduct is the plectrum; love is the music. Every particle of life is a traveler; love is the guide of the caravan.

What Mahavira called ahimsa is what the Sufis call ishq. This needs saying again, because the same difficulty Mahavira foresaw with the word love, I see today with the word ahimsa. Mahavira could not use “love” because people’s notions of love were wrong. Today I hesitate to use “nonviolence” because people’s notions of it are wrong.

Our words are corrupted by us—because our words carry our echo. When the lustful speak of love, their love is filled with lust. When a man of negation speaks of nonviolence, his nonviolence becomes mere negation. Ahimsa means love—supreme love.

Hai ab zindagi saaye-e-ishq mein—
Zara maut daaman bachaa kar chale.
Woh sholon se aksar rahe hamkinar
Jo phoolon se daaman bachaa kar chale.
Life now moves in the shade of love—
Let death pick up its hem and pass carefully.
Those kept company by flames, most often,
Are they who held their skirts away from flowers.

Life is now with love, in love’s shade.
Hai ab zindagi saaye-e-ishq mein—
Now let death walk cautiously, for one who comes under love’s shade knows no death; he attains the immortal.

And love is like a flower; death is like a live coal. But this existence has a secret: in the end, the flower wins; the ember loses. In the end, the soft wins; the hard loses. From the mountain the water falls—soft, slender; huge rocks stand in the way—who would think they could be carved away! Yet, slowly, slowly the rocks are cut into sand. The current is soft, the rocks hard; but the soft always wins. The final victory belongs to the gentle.

Woh sholon se aksar rahe hamkinar
Jo phoolon se daaman bachaa kar chale.
Those who protected themselves from flowers, from softness, found only embers in their lives—only burning.

Do not think the flower is weak. Think of the flower as supremely powerful. Stones seem strong; but stones are dead—how can the dead be powerful? The flower is alive—its blooming is life; its fragrance is life; its softness is life.

We often choose violence because it looks stronger, more powerful. Nonviolence, love, looks weak. We trust violence quickly; we cannot trust nonviolence, because we have lost our trust in flowers. We have forgotten the power of the gentle, the strength of humility. That love is strong—we’ve forgotten. We believe anger is strong. This is precisely the difference between the religious and the irreligious man.

If you ask me: a religious man is one who has come to know that the soft ultimately wins—whose trust has shifted to the flower, whose reverence has left the stone. The irreligious man praises the flower, perhaps, but when the time comes, he trusts the stone.

Mahavira’s nonviolence, falling into the hands of followers, got distorted—became pure negation. It was a great life-source—but here is our difficulty: whatever we hear, we interpret according to ourselves. If someone’s beloved dies, if a lover dies, we interpret in our own way. If we don’t see tears in the eyes of the one left behind, we think, “Ah, then there was no pain, no grief. She didn’t cry—so there was no attachment, no love.” But know this: when pain is truly deep, tears do not come; even tears stop. Tears are evidence of pain, yes—but not of the deepest pain. Now the difficulty: tears also don’t flow when there is no pain; and tears also don’t flow when there is great pain. Mistakes are easy. Sometimes a dry eye may make you think there was no pain; sometimes—and I say often—dry eyes may hold such deep pain that even tears cannot flow, and yet you may misunderstand that there is no pain. In life, words become limited. In existence there are no limits to what can be. We must see each event in its own uniqueness—not through any old definition.

“Do not suspect my dry eyes;
Tears too are shed in this way.”
This is another way.

So do not decide hastily. Mahavira spoke of love, but he did not use the word. In not using the word love he saved people from past error, but a future error occurred. Those who came after turned ahimsa into mere negation. The words are all negative—achaurya (non-stealing), aparigraha (non-possessiveness), ahimsa (nonviolence), akama (non-desire), apramada (non-heedlessness)—so it seemed to them Mahavira says only, “No, no, no.” There is no place for yes. For this reason the Hindus even called Mahavira a nihilist: no God—and then the whole scripture filled with “no.” But inside that “no” a great “yes” is hidden. He had to use “no,” because people had already corrupted the “yes-words.”

But the mistake happened again. It is not Mahavira’s fault. One must use words. And man is such that whatever word you give him, he will misuse it—because one hears only what one is able to hear. So, behind Mahavira, a procession of negative-minded people gathered. That is why Mahavira’s religion could not spread; can anything spread on the basis of negation? It shrank. Can a life be built on “no-no”? Songs of life do not arise from “no-no.” So it shrank. A few pathological people, negative by temperament, clustered around. Their whole arithmetic is to keep saying no—to deny whatever arises. With denial upon denial, they are cut, they die; their process becomes almost suicidal. Hence with Jain monks you will not find celebration, no yes-saying of life. You will not find life’s fragrance there. You will not find song and dance.

What kind of religion is it from which no dance can be born, from which no song arises, in which no flowers bloom? It is a shrunken religion. It will attract the sickly, the negative. It will be a kind of hospital, not a temple.

Therefore I want to tell you clearly: the precise meaning of Mahavira’s ahimsa is love. What the Sufi calls ishq, Mahavira calls ahimsa. Jesus said, “God is love.” Mahavira said the same:

Tugaṁ na mandarao, agasaao visalayaṁ natthi.
Jaha taha jaṁmi jāṇasu, dhammahiṁsā-samaṁ natthi.
Just as in the world there is no mountain higher than Meru,
and no expanse vaster than the sky,
so, know well, there is no dharma equal to nonviolence.

That is all for today.