Jin Sutra #15

The essence of the Jin-sutras is in today’s sutras—the basic foundation of Jain sadhana; the meaning of Jina-hood.

There are two approaches in the search for Paramatma. One approach is: become so absorbed in Him that you are no more; merge in such a way that the one who merges does not remain at all—like a lump of salt thrown into the ocean; it disappears, the taste spreads, but none remains. The second path is: do not be lost even a little; awaken! Awaken so totally that only awakening remains, the one who is awake is not left.

The first path is of unconsciousness, the second path is of awareness, but the essence within both is the same—that you do not remain. Hence you will not find references in Mahavira’s and Buddha’s lives like those about Ramakrishna—that taking the name of the Divine he would become unconscious, lie fallen for hours in a swoon; sometimes for days he would not return to ordinary consciousness. And when he returned, he would begin to weep and say: Mother! Why do you send me into this world of wakefulness? Call me back! Call me back into that deep swoon! I do not want worldly consciousness! I want Your divine swoon!

Such a reference in Mahavira’s life is impossible; it cannot be imagined; it does not fit into the current of Mahavira’s life. To fall down in a swoon—far from it; Mahavira would not lift even a foot in a swoon; would not move a hand in a swoon; even an eyelid would not flicker in a swoon.

And yet, between these two seemingly opposite paths there are bridges—remember those bridges. The devotee drowns himself—so utterly that none remains behind, not even a line is left in the wake. The seeker awakens himself—so utterly that only the lamp of awakening remains, there is no one left who is awake. In every case the ego is lost—either you lose it by dissolving completely in absorption, or you lose it by awakening completely. At these two extremes the result is one. Therefore the bhakta and the jnani, the lover and the seeker, all arrive at the same place. The road differs greatly; the destination not at all.

Rah juda, safar juda, rahjano-rahbar juda
Mere junun-e-shauq ki manzil-e-benishan hai aur.

Ask Mahavira and he will say: The road is different, the journey different, the looters and the guides different! My road is different, the travel upon it is different; not only that, the bandits and the pathfinders upon my road are different! Naturally so. Where sadhana is of awareness, there the bandits will be different. There those who are guides upon the path of devotion become bandits. Where one has to lose awareness, drown in divine intoxication, drink the wine of God—there the helper becomes a bandit upon Mahavira’s path. The helper upon Mahavira’s path, the pathfinder, the guide, becomes a bandit upon the path of devotion.

On the path of devotion, dhyana will become a bandit; there, prayer is the guide. On Mahavira’s path, prayer will become a bandit; there, meditation is the guide. But at the destination all meet. For the arrival is to that place where you, without residue, are utterly free, with nothing left over.

Keep this too in mind. Ordinarily we think: I shall become liberated—so it seems as if I shall survive—survive, liberated. But those who try to go deep, or who truly wish to understand—“I shall be liberated” can only mean: I shall be free of the ‘I’. The ‘I’-sense will go. As long as the ‘I’-sense remains, there is no liberation. Where the ‘I’-sense is dissolved, there is liberation. There are two methods to dissolve the ‘I’-sense: either drown it, or awaken it.

Understand it this way: Patanjali in the Yoga Sutras has spoken of three states of the human chitta. One is sushupti (deep sleep). One is jagrat (wakefulness). One is swapna (dream). The state in which we ordinarily are is the dream state—of desire, of thought, of vacillation, of a thousand cravings. The dream state. On both sides of this dream state lie two states—the state of deep sleep and the state of awakening. We have to be free of the dream state. In this dream state you have dreamt that you are. This is your dream. Either lose yourself in sushupti where no dream remains; or awaken into jagrat where you come out of the dream.

We stand in the midst of the dream. The dream—that is the world. Hence Shankara calls it maya. It is the dream state. There we see what is not; and what is, we do not see. What we see there is our own projection. What we live in there is our own desire, our own hope, our own feeling. It has no relation to truth. It is our own fabrication.

You saw a dream! While seeing it, all seems true; nothing seems untrue. In the morning you wake and find: Ah, we were lost in a dream, it appeared so true!

Every day you have dreamt, every morning you have found it false; yet when the night deepens, you again drown in sleep, the dream begins to ripple, and you forget; the remembrance is of no use.

There are two ways to come out of the dream state. Either drown in sushupti. Ramakrishna and the devotees have used deep sleep to be free of the dream. Mahavira and Buddha and Patanjali have used jagriti—wakefulness—to be free of the dream. But the real point is to be free of the dream. Either this shore or that—only do not remain in midstream!

Mahavira’s sutras are sutras of awakening. Their essential message is: Awake!

I have heard… A man came running at noon into a tavern. He said to the barmaid, I’ve come to ask one thing. He was very restless and disturbed, as if he had lost something, something very precious.

“I have to ask: Did I come here last night?”
“Certainly you did.”
“With many people?”
“You came with many people.”
“Did I treat everyone, and did I drink too?”
“Certainly you treated them and you drank.”

The man said, “Thanks be to God! Did I pay a hundred rupees?”
She said, “You paid in full.”
He said, “Then there is no harm.”

He became very pleased. The barmaid asked, I don’t understand—what is this all about? He said, “I was thinking I might have lost a hundred rupees somewhere—that’s why I was so worried.”

Even an unconscious man worries that he may have lost something! But how will you earn in unconsciousness? You will only lose! Whether you lost in drinking, or forgot on a bench in some garden. Perhaps forgetting on the garden bench would have been better; only a hundred rupees would have been lost; at least awareness would not have been lost! To be robbed would have been better—this is worse than being robbed. But the man said, “Thanks be to God! I was afraid I might have lost the money.”

At life’s end most people find themselves in such a state. They think: perhaps we have lost life! But no matter how many great houses you leave behind, no matter how much wealth you have amassed—what difference does it make?

Life is gone—gone. Life is ashes. You built houses; they will become ruins. You ran and ran; you left big vaults—someone else will own them. Your hands are empty. It would have been better had you just sat and done nothing; at least you would have remained as pure as you were at birth. All this hustle has made you even more impure. You are departing more intoxicated with wine. You have brought back more poison.

You earned nothing from life, except a new death; you earned again the craving to be born. Is this earning? What you call life, Mahavira calls dream. And what you call wakefulness is not wakefulness; it is only an open-eyed dream.

We dream in two ways: one, at night with eyes closed; and second, in the morning with eyes open. But our dreaming continues unbroken. For Mahavira you are free of the dream only when your mind is so immaculate that not a single ripple of thought arises in it. As long as there are ripples, there is dream. As long as pictures revolve within, as long as waves arise on the lake of your chitta—“let me become this, let me obtain that, let me do this, let me be that”—so long you are crushed under dreams. Then whether your eyes are open or closed makes little difference. You are unconscious. For Mahavira, there is awareness only when your chitta is without thought.

So understand the meaning of awakening. Awakening does not mean your ordinary wakefulness. Your wakefulness is only a way of sleeping. Mahavira calls that the state of chitta in which there is pure consciousness, but not veiled by any wave of thought; no covering of thought remains; only pure consciousness—this is awakening. You are seeing, and not a single cloud floats in your eyes—not of desire, not of ambition. You want nothing. You have no discontent. As you are, you are utterly content. If even for a single moment this contentment, this acceptance, is kindled—and you see existence with eyes unlayered by dreams; eyes upon which no dust of dream has settled; the mirror of consciousness becomes clean and whatever is, flashes—then for the first time the journey begins which is the journey of Jinhood. Then you have begun to move towards victory. In dreams there is only defeat upon defeat.

Jina means the art of conquering. Jinhood means the art of becoming master of oneself. We have desired to be masters of everything else—of wealth, of wife, of husband, of sons, of a kingdom, of an empire—we have wanted to be masters of others; we have forgotten one foundational point: we have not yet become masters of ourselves. And the one who is not master of himself—of what can he be master? He will become the slave of slaves.

The first sutra:

Sītanti suvantāṇaṃ, atthā purisāṇa logosār’atthā.

“In this world, knowledge is the essential meaning.”

In this world, bodh is the essential meaning—awareness!

Sītanti suvantāṇaṃ, atthā purisāṇa logosār’atthā.
Tamhā jāgaramāṇā, vidhuṇaḍha porāṇayaṃ kammaṃ.

“Therefore, by remaining continuously awake, shake the previously accumulated karmas. Those who sleep lose their meaning.”

We too have meaning in life, a certain purpose. We too want to attain something. Yes, we have many excuses. If death were to come today you would say, “Wait! Many tasks are unfinished. Who knows how many journeys were started—none completed. If you take me in the middle, the meaning will remain incomplete. The purpose is not yet fulfilled. Wait.”

Alexander and Napoleon saw the meaning of life in making empires. Someone else sees life’s meaning in some other doing. But Mahavira says: in this world, bodh is the essential meaning—nothing else; not wealth, not position, not prestige.

“Those who sleep—their meaning is lost.”

The meaning is within you, and if you are asleep, how will the meaning awaken? Only with your awakening will the meaning of your life awaken.

Many people come to me and ask: What is the meaning of life? As if meaning were some object lying outside, which someone could point out: Here it is! As if you ask: Where is the sun? And someone points: There, in the sky!

People ask: What is the meaning of life?

As if meaning were a ready-made thing kept somewhere, for you to find.

Life has no meaning. Meaning is in you! And if you awaken, meaning will spread into life. If you sleep, life will become meaningless. Then, frightened by the vacuum of meaninglessness, one begins to invent false meanings. They are props, consolations. Someone says: I have to raise my children. He stays engaged, busy. Because whenever no meaning appears outside, the inner meaninglessness becomes apparent. “We have to raise children.” Your father did the same, and his father the same. And what are the children being raised for?—to do the same. They too will raise children.

What does it mean? What is the purpose? If your father raised you, and you will raise your children, and your children their children—what is the purpose of this “raising”? What is the meaning of this ceaseless activity? There is no meaning in it. Sometimes a glimpse of this reveals itself to you.

If you only pile up money, what will happen? In the end death comes. All hands are emptied. All is snatched away. What is the point of clutching what will be snatched anyway? But at least in the meantime some purpose seems to be there—a certain delusion arises.

People invent strange meanings.

A young man came to me with his beloved. He said he wanted to marry. I said: You are barely over twenty; why take a burden so soon? You can pass two, three, five years more in freedom. No need for responsibilities now. You are still in school; wait a little; study and learn.

He said, “I want to marry precisely to take responsibility; otherwise I feel empty. I have no responsibilities.” He was from a wealthy home; all comforts. “I feel empty. If I marry, some fullness will come.”

Recently in America a man was on trial; he had shot seven people—without cause, strangers! People whose faces he hadn’t even seen—shot them from behind. On one day he killed seven people. He was barely caught. In court they asked: Why did you do it? You had no enmity—not even acquaintance.

He said, “My life feels very empty; I wanted some occupation; I wanted to fill myself with something. I wanted people’s attention to be drawn to me. And that I have achieved. Give me the gallows if you wish—but my picture is in all the newspapers, my name in every paper. Today my name is on the tongues of thousands—see!”

People say: If infamous, so what?—there will still be some fame.

Between politicians and criminals there is not much difference. The politician seeks to earn a name within the socially approved framework. The criminal cannot find a socially approved framework; he seeks a name even against society. Therefore if a politician cannot taste power for long, he becomes a troublemaker, a criminal. The basic craving is: to attract attention. The basic craving: that people feel I am something; the world should tell you that you are something, you have some meaning. You did not just come and go; you made a big noise. Your coming was like a storm; the world had to pay attention to you.

Have you ever noticed? You wear clothes in various ways so that attention falls upon you, that someone sees. Women—when they come in new saris they grow very restless until someone asks, Where did you buy it? until someone looks at the weave and praises it.

You must have heard the old story: A woman set her hut on fire; when people came she raised her hands and cried: O God! I am ruined, destroyed, plundered! Another woman asked, “We’ve never seen these bangles—when did you have them made?” She said, “Fool, had you asked earlier, why would I have had to burn down the house? I was watching the whole village, waiting—new bangles made—someone would ask! No one asked.”

When the hut caught fire and the light blazed, the bangles glittered, and she had a chance to raise her hands and cry aloud!

Look a little within. We are all out to show our bangles—even if we have to set the house on fire. But let it not happen that we leave just like that, with no one even knowing when we came, when we went, when we stood, when we sat, when we were born. This showing of bangles—people call it: Do something to make a name. Leave your name in history. Then Tamerlane and Genghis and Nadir Shah leave their names in history—by setting fires to thousands, by slaughtering thousands.

They say: A courtesan had come to dance in Tamerlane’s camp. When the night ended she was afraid, for the road was dark; her village was ten or twelve miles away. Tamerlane said, Do not fear. He told his soldiers: On the road she travels, set fire to every village along the way! Some soldiers hesitated—that seems too much; she could be escorted by a torch. But Tamerlane said, “History will not remember if you escort her with a torch. The coming centuries should know that she was Tamerlane’s courtesan, not an ordinary woman—she danced in his court!” About eight or ten small villages were set ablaze en route. People slept in their homes, unaware—midnight—so that the road would be lit. The courtesan reached her village through burning corpses.

Have you noticed how many devices you use to attract attention? Life has no meaning, so you try to create false meanings—someone should say: You are very meaningful! What you do is valuable! You are doing a great, lofty work! One can make you do anything, if only one persuades you that you are doing something big, great, important!

In this world there is no meaning other than bodh. And the more meanings you search for, the thicker your unconsciousness becomes; awareness does not come.

“Those who sleep—their meanings are lost. Therefore, by remaining continuously awake, shake the previously accumulated karmas.”

Old habits are many; shake them, stir them, so you may be free; let them loosen! A most precious saying: “Therefore, by remaining continuously awake, shake the previously accumulated karmas.” Shake them—as one shakes a tree so that its roots come loose. And stop watering them! Is it not enough pain you have suffered? Is it not enough you have wandered? Do not water them! But the one who awakens us appears to be an enemy, for he shakes us.

Ouspensky dedicated his book “In Search of the Miraculous” to his master Gurdjieff, and wrote: “To Gurdjieff—who broke my sleep.”

But when someone breaks your sleep, it does not feel pleasant. When someone breaks your sleep you feel he is an enemy. That is why those who break sleep have always been treated as enemies. We did not give Socrates hemlock for nothing, nor Jesus the cross; nor did we pelt Mahavira with stones and drive nails into his ears for nothing. It was not without cause. They were breaking sleep. They were like alarm clocks. You were sleeping happily, seeing the last sweet dream of the night, and they came in between and made a disturbance: Awake! Your feeling is expressed in these lines:

Na azān ho, na sahar ho, na gajar ho shab-e-vasl
Kya maza ho jo kisi ko na jagāye koi.

Let there be no azan in the mosque, no dawn, no ringing of bells in the temple—the night of union! What joy if no one awakens anyone!

We are eager to sleep. What we call happiness—if you look closely—is nothing more than seeing a sweet dream. What we call a happy life is a life woven with pleasant dreams. What we call an unhappy life is also a life of dreams; its dreams are filled with fear—nightmares.

But dream is dream. Even if you see pleasant dreams, one day you will die—what then?

Hence Mahavira says: Meaning is not outside; meaning is the kindling of the lamp within you. Let your light fill your life and scatter the dreams. And the karmas you have collected from previous births, which have strengthened the roots of dreaming, which make the unreal seem real—shake them, make them tremble! Break those roots and uproot them!

“It is better for the religious to be awake, and better for the irreligious to sleep.” A most precious saying! Mahavira says: It is good for the religious to be awake; and good for the irreligious to sleep.

There is such a note in Nadir Shah’s life too. He asked a Sufi fakir—because he himself was very lazy and did not rise before ten in the morning. The night was spent in song and wine; so he rose at ten or twelve. He asked a Sufi: My courtiers tell me such laziness is not good—what do you say? The Sufi must have been repeating Mahavira’s saying; for he said exactly this: It would be best if you slept all twenty-four hours. Nadir Shah was startled: What do you mean? He said: The longer a person like you sleeps, the less disturbance there will be. You should sleep on.

Mahavira says: Let the religious be awake; let the irreligious sleep. Because if the irreligious becomes active, he will only do irreligion. Mahavira is saying: It is better for the irreligious to be powerless; better for the religious to be powerful. If the religious has power, dharma will increase; if the irreligious has power, adharma will increase—he will create some disturbance. Let politicians be ill; let them be in hospitals. As soon as they get well, they will create trouble. They cannot live without disturbance. They will give grand names to their disturbance—revolution, freedom, equality, communism… But deep down there is the craving to disturb. They cannot sit idle.

Mahavira is being ironic. He says: Let the irreligious sleep; let the religious awake.

Therefore Mahavira’s whole process is that you awaken, and simultaneously become religious; become religious, and simultaneously awaken. Otherwise, power in the wrong hands proves dangerous. This is what has happened: science placed power in the hands of sleeping people. It is not that only in this century did scientists discover atomic power. Mahavira too was an atomist. Jain philosophy is the most ancient atomistic philosophy in the world. What Einstein and Rutherford discovered in this century, the Jains have been saying for five thousand years—that matter is an aggregate of atoms, made of atoms.

The doctrine of the atom is the most ancient Jain doctrine. And as science grows clearer, so the meanings of the old scriptures become clearer. It seems atomic power had been discovered! Perhaps the Mahabharata ended in atomic force. But then the East understood one thing: so long as people are asleep, such power in their hands is dangerous; it will be misused. Power should be in the hands of those in whom goodwill has first arisen—then it is fine. Otherwise what will you do with power? You know Lord Bacon’s famous dictum: Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. True, but not the entire truth. Power corrupts no one; it only reveals the corruption that was already within you.

You see, a man who has nothing does not drink; he is against alcohol. Suddenly a lottery lands in his hand—then he begins to drink. He forgets all his opposition to alcohol. People feel that wealth has corrupted him. Not so. The lack of wealth made him console himself—“the grapes are sour.” Even if he wanted to drink, how could he? So he repeated the words of morality and religion. Now wealth has arrived—he forgets all.

This happened in our country. During the freedom struggle, those who appeared to be great renouncers and ascetics were not so; the test comes when power arrives. When power was not in hand, anyone can be ascetic. When power came, the state changed, and the so-called renouncers became rulers—instantly renunciation and austerity disappeared. It will seem that power corrupted them. No—power only gave the opportunity; the seeds of corruption were already there. How can your money corrupt you if you were not already prepared? You were only waiting for money. Money arrived, the occasion came—now there is no need to restrain. If one restrains now, he is mad. One had restrained only because the grapes were out of reach. Now the ladder is at hand—who will stop? Now stopping is impossible.

As soon as power comes into hand people become corrupt—not because power corrupts, but because power gives opportunity. If poetry was hidden within you, then with power poetry will manifest; you will say: Now there is comfort, no running about, wealth is in hand—let me sit at home and hum songs! Until now I had to labour, dig pits; time was wasted, energies expended—where was the opportunity to sing? Now the opportunity has come.

So money in the right hands is auspicious; in the wrong hands, inauspicious. Therefore mark my words. I do not say: renounce wealth. What is there in wealth? Your hands should change. Those who renounce wealth and flee—the so-called renouncers—only flee from the opportunity; what of the seed? The seed remains within, goes along. Then they begin to fear wealth, for they understand the logic—when money comes, trouble begins. But can money bring trouble? Can pieces of silver bring trouble? Then pieces of silver are stronger than the soul! Pieces of silver bring nothing—the trouble is within you.

Hence I say: the true renouncer’s test is in the world, not outside it. The escapee is one thing; the true renouncer is tested within the world. There it will be known. The one who remains like a fakir while living in a palace—there it will be known. The one who remains alone amidst men and women—there it will be known. Where all means are available, yet he remains unshaken—there it will be known.

Therefore if someone asks me to name the supreme image of renunciation, I will not name Mahavira, I will name Krishna. Mahavira is a supreme renouncer, but outside the limits of the test. The test never happened. He is far from where trouble arises. But Krishna has passed through the test. I will name King Janaka. He has an entire empire, a whole web of kingship; and amidst it he is beyond.

So I do not tell you to flee. And if you understand Mahavira rightly, he too says: awaken—not flee. Yes, it may happen that in awakening this world appears meaningless to you—as it did to Mahavira. Then your natural destiny leads you to forests and groves, to mountains—that is fine. But you are not leaving the world out of effort. There is no strain in your leaving. You move in accord with your nature, to where you fit. There is a difference.

One man runs away from the marketplace out of fear; the market has not yet lost its meaning for him. If meaning has vanished, why fear? Another man finds no meaning in the market and so leaves. Both seem to be going, yet within them is a revolutionary difference.

Understand it this way: A rope lies on the path. You pass by, mistake it for a snake, and you run. You were going east; you run east—but you run out of fear. Another man comes. He too looks carefully; he does not see a snake—he sees a rope. He too has to go east; he goes east. But between the one who fled in panic and the one who saw a rope and went, there is a fundamental difference. Both move in the same direction. But behind the fleeing one is darkness, fear, ignorance; behind the awakened one is light, clarity.

“In this world, knowledge is the essential meaning. Those who sleep lose their meaning. By remaining continuously awake, shake the previously accumulated karmas. It is better for the religious to be awake, and better for the irreligious to sleep.” So spoke Lord Mahavira to Jayanti, the sister of King Shatanika of Vatsa.

“Pramada (heedlessness) is called karma (asrava), and apramada (heedfulness) is called akarma (samvara). By pramada a man is ignorant; by the absence of pramada he is wise.”

“Pramada is karma.” Pramada means intoxication within; a stupefaction; a sleepy-so-ness.

“Pramada is called karma.”

It is not what you do—that is not the question—it is why you do it.

The very same act can be done differently, can be done with awareness—and then it is not karma.

Understand. You are involved with your children, steeped in attachment. You have placed great ambitions upon their shoulders. What you could not do in your life, you want your children to do. If parents are uneducated, they push their children mercilessly into education—because their own lack hurts. If not in me, at least let it be fulfilled in my children. Parents who yearned all their lives and could not reach a high post, begin to prepare their children: We missed—do not you miss! You prepare your children for the war of life. This is one state.

Another man also has children—but he is awake. Upon awakening, “mine” falls away; “children” remains. “Mine” is part of pramada, of stupefaction.

What is mine? Empty-handed we come, empty-handed we go. How can children be mine? Perhaps they came via me; I was a passage; but they come from the unknown. Passing through my crossroads does not make them mine. Being with me does not make them mine. Taking support of my body to grow does not make them mine. Even if they appeared through my germ, that too does not make them mine.

Consciousness has its own journey. These children near you have come from their own journeys. In this life, by coincidence, they pass by you; they are not yours.

Have you noticed? Hair is joined to your body—you cut it; it is no longer yours. Nails you cut—then they are not yours. As soon as the child is born—outside the mother’s body—what of yours remains? If “mine” falls, if possessiveness falls—you will still care for the children; but in that care there is no attachment. And by that care you will not fulfil your ambitions, your ego, your unfulfilled longings. You simply extend help: You are helpless; to the extent I can, I will do something. But you say: Become whatsoever you are meant to be; do not listen to me. I am a failure already; let me not spoil you too.

If parents are even a little awakened, they will ensure this: they will alert the children—We have wasted life; you do not. Please do not become like us; become anything else—because this we have been and found nothing.

The sleeping father does the opposite. He says: Become like me! If the children begin to be a little different, he is angry. They must be replicas—exact images of me. Because they are “mine,” through them you seek a kind of immortality: I will perish, but my images will remain. Some thread of me will continue.

The acts are the same. Kabir weaves cloth, goes to the market to sell. Gora the potter makes pots, sells them. Raidas all his life makes shoes. But something has changed. Kabir still makes cloth—but there is no business in it. He does not intend to earn and then sit upon the money like a snake. It is necessary—for bread, for clothing—so he does it. It is needed, so he does it. There is no lust in it now.

Understand the difference between need and craving. Needs should be fulfilled for all—they are part of life. Cravings are derangements; they are never fulfilled; they have no relation to life’s needs. A man wants to be an emperor—what relation has this to any need of life? A hungry man wants bread—this is understandable. A naked man wants clothes—understandable. But to want to be an emperor—what need is served by that? You are thirsty—you need water. You stand in the sun—you need shade—understandable. But to heap a pile of wealth and sit upon it—this is sickness, derangement. People gather billions and still do not stop! They can do nothing with that money; there is nothing left to buy; what could be bought is bought—and still the race continues. This is a deranged race, a madness. Whoever becomes free of this madness—their action does not bind. Their acts become natural, spontaneous.

Therefore Mahavira calls pramada karma. Not the doing, but the unconsciousness in the doing is karma. This needs thought. This sutra is very precious. What you do is not the question—do you do it with awareness or with unconsciousness? A unique definition of karma—pramada is karma, apramada is akarma!

Pamāyaṃ kammam āhaṃsu, appamāyaṃ tahā’vara.

So awaken—even then action will continue. After all, Mahavira awakened, and yet lived forty years; he still acted—stood up, lay down, ate, fasted, meditated, kept silence, spoke, fell silent—actions continued. But these actions no longer bind. There is no trance in them, no stupor. They are not being done in sleep; they are done awake.

As you awaken, life returns to pure needs. The unnecessary loosens its grip. Suppose today you suddenly receive news: an earthquake is about to strike Poona, and you have only a little time to save a few things and leave; you gather everything and wonder what to take, what to leave. You will be surprised to see your own thought: Why did we gather so much useless stuff! Only very little will be worth taking. And while choosing you will yourself see: nine out of ten things you are leaving behind. Yet to collect them you spent so much time; ran like mad; lost life’s wealth to gather trash. At the moment of taking away you yourself will think: so much is not worth taking.

Among the Eskimos there is a beautiful custom—if only it spread worldwide, it would be of great use! As we have Diwali once a year, they too have a day of festival. On that day they give away whatever is unnecessary. The result is great. Homes become empty, pure, clean. And the second result is: when at year’s end the unnecessary is anyway to be given away, they do not gather the unnecessary during the year—why run for what will be distributed later? Thus an Eskimo’s home rests upon sheer necessity. And you will not find anyone as content as the Eskimo. On the day of death everything will be left—nothing you can carry. If a little remembrance of death remains, you will drop the futile chase.

Examine your hundred actions; ninety can quietly be dropped for which there is no reason.

Two small boys were talking. One said: My mother is amazing—she can talk for hours on any subject. The other said: That is nothing. My mother can talk for days without any subject at all. Subject? What subject—no subject needed.

Notice how much you speak—how much was necessary, how much could you have left unsaid! What you are doing—how much is necessary, how much could be dropped!

Slowly bring order into life; bring awareness. Where one could reach by walking, why run?

When I was a university teacher, I noticed that in exams students write with their hands—but the whole body is taut. I would say to them: If you write with your hand, pressure on two fingers is understandable; but why is the whole body—from toe to head—tense? Some understood, and wrote with the body relaxed. Later they told me: This is surprising! We were wasting energy unnecessarily, which created panic.

You ride a bicycle—but rarely do you see anyone riding properly. If rightly done, pressure on the ball of the foot is enough. No need to tense the whole body. Yet while pedalling the whole body is taut. Then you tire, then you are bored.

Look into life: whatever work needs this much—give this much. Anything more than a pinch is due to stupor. The cyclist does not even know what he is doing. He does not remember. What could be done with a needle—you sit with a sword. You wound yourself and others. A needle stitches; a sword tears. What a needle can do cannot be done by a sword.

A right way of living is needed.

Mahavira says: “Pramada is called karma; apramada is called akarma. Through pramada a man is ignorant; through the absence of pramada he becomes a knower.” Take care! You are wasting life’s fragrance for nothing.

Kahin ki rahegi na āwāra ho kar
Yeh khushboo jo phoolon ne kānṭon pe tauli.

With great difficulty fragrance comes. With great struggle! Look at the journey from seed to flower—how arduous! Almost impossible. How many hindrances! How many obstacles! Will the seed crack or not? If it cracks, will it find right soil? If soil is right, will there be water? If water is given, will sunlight fall? A child may uproot the sapling; an animal may eat it; a dog may make it a urinal! What will you do? A thousand obstacles—and then a tree stands; then flowers appear. Weighing itself upon thorns, fragrance is born.

Kahin ki rahegi na āwāra ho kar
Yeh khushboo jo phoolon ne kānṭon pe tauli.

And then what is the result? The fragrance wanders like a vagabond and is lost.

To become human is a very long journey. In this land we have said: eight million four hundred thousand wombs! For endless time, journeying and refining, this flower has blossomed which is called “human.” This is the flower of humanity. And now what are you doing? This fragrance is becoming vagabond. It is being wasted, lost in unconsciousness.

“The ignorant seekers think that by activity they will exhaust karma; but they cannot exhaust karma by karma. The steadfast exhaust karma by akarma (samvara, withdrawal). The intelligent, free from greed and pride and contented, do not commit sin.”

“The ignorant seekers think karma is exhausted by doing more karma.” But the wise do not accept that karma can be exhausted by karma.

“By akarma.” What does akarma mean? First—let the futile acts drop. I am not telling you to renounce—see with awareness that they are futile; they will fall of themselves, depart; your attachment will break. By awakening a little, watch your daily routine—from morning to night—what are you doing? What is unnecessary? First let the unnecessary go. This is the first step: slowly you remove the futile. And you will find ninety percent is futile. I am not exaggerating; you may find ninety-nine percent. I say ninety so you do not panic.

I told a friend: Speak as if you have to pay for every word; as if you are sending a telegram and each word costs. He tried; later he said: It is astonishing! One can manage a day with ten or twenty words. Where “yes” and “no” would do, how much I used to speak! And great benefits came. By saying something wrong or unnecessary, a thousand entanglements arose.

Think: how many troubles in your life have arisen because of your speaking! You came home, said something to your wife; you had no intention of harm—but you said it, and you are trapped. You are unconscious; you spoke unconsciously. She heard unconsciously; she heard something else. A fight begins. You explain a thousand times—That is not what I meant—but what is the use? To explain what you did not mean you say more, from which she catches something else. Where will it end?

Many misfortunes will decrease if you remain a little silent. Speak thoughtfully; speak only when essential. Speak as if each word has a price. You will find not only that your words gain power, but also that the hurdles created by speech are reduced—neither do you create obstacles for yourself nor for others. And a grace will begin to be expressed in your life, because one who remains silent gathers energy; by talking you expend it.

The first step towards akarma is: wake up to futile action. Then, what meaningful acts remain—and some will remain, for as long as there is life there will be action—do them with the attitude of a witness; do not be the doer. Do as if you are not the one doing. The body is hungry—you make arrangements; but you remain distant from hunger and from arrangement. Neither did you feel hunger nor did you act. You remain in non-doership; you say: I am the witness, watching. The body is hungry—I arrange bread. Thirst arises—I go to the lake. But you are no longer the doer.

This disappearance of doership, and acting from witnessing—from awareness, apramada—is what Mahavira calls akarma. Do not think akarma means doing nothing—as Jain monks have misunderstood. Akarma does not mean you simply sit. For what will happen by your sitting?

A sannyasin came to see me. I had a camp in Kashmir. He came earlier; I said: It would be good if you come to Kashmir. He said: Difficult. Fine, I said. In Bombay, where I was staying and he came, I said: Tomorrow morning some friends gather for meditation at such a place—do come. He said: That too is difficult. I said: What is the difficulty? He said: The difficulty is—I do not touch money; I have renounced touching it. So to sit in a taxi, money is needed; to board a train, money is needed; so I must keep this gentleman with me—wherever it is convenient for him, there I can come. Tomorrow is not convenient for him. I said: This is great. You keep the money in his pocket. The entanglement has increased. You think you do not touch money; you think you are free. You are not free of money—you are bound to this man. It would have been better to keep the money in your own pocket and take it out with your own hand; now you take it out through his hand. The work is still yours. Without money the work does not happen—that you know. Whom are you deceiving? What fault or virtue is in your hand that you spare it and use his? If you sinned, at least you sinned alone; now you make him sin too. A double crime. You will be caught badly. Do not think you are a renouncer.

A Jain monk sits withdrawn, saying: We do nothing. But someone will earn his bread; someone will provide his clothes. Great Jain monks—people fear inviting them to their village—because their coming means trouble for all lay followers. Heavy expenses. Small villages cannot call great monks—who will bear the cost?

Think: if you sit idle, someone else will fulfil your needs. But as long as there are needs—and there are needs as long as life continues—action will continue. By putting your act on another’s shoulder, by firing from another’s shoulder—you will not be free; here a double sin accrues to you. You are doing what you do, and you put it on another’s shoulder—using him as a means. That too is wrong.

Do what is necessary. Then keep the attitude of witnessing. Fulfil the body’s needs. Do not desire beyond need. Stop at the root need. And whatsoever happens—remain a witness.

“The steadfast exhaust karma by akarma. The intelligent, beyond greed and intoxication, content, do not sin.”

Intelligent! Mahavira calls those intelligent who are capable of witnessing. Not the cleverness you call intelligence. Your so-called intelligent man is like you—stupefied. Perhaps skilful in some field; he has learned a technique. You say a painter is very intelligent—because his painting is better than yours. But the painting of life—he is making it as you are. You say a poet is intelligent—he can sing what you cannot. Fine. But the final painting of life he makes just like yours. There is no difference. He has anger, you have anger. He has greed, you have greed. He is besieged by jealousy, so are you.

Mahavira says: The one who has managed the painting of life, the song of life, who has used intelligence there—only he is intelligent; the rest is so-called intelligence.

Lazzat-e-dard ke aivaz daulat-e-do jahān na loon
Dil ka sukoon aur hai, daulat-e-do jahān hai aur.

Even if the wealth of both worlds were offered in exchange for the blissful pain of seeking truth, I would not take it. Heart’s peace is one thing; the wealth of two worlds is another. Once even a whisper of that peace appears in the heart, all else becomes insipid. The intelligent does not do religion for greed—not to gain heaven; nor out of fear—not to escape hell. The intelligent finds that as awakening comes, bliss comes. Bliss is not the fruit of awakening; bliss is the very nature of awakening. It is not that first awakening is attained, then bliss—it comes in awakening itself. As you awaken, new thrills of bliss, new rays, a new dance arise within.

Is ahad mein kamyabi-e-insān hai kuchh aisi
Lakhon mein bāmushkil koi insān nazar āyā.

Among millions, rarely is a human seen, because the fundamental mark of the human—awakening—does not appear. Animals too feel hunger and seek food; sexuality arises and they satisfy it. Animals too are managed by greed and fear—beat a dog and he will do whatever trick you wish; give him a morsel and he will follow you wagging his tail. If man too moves only between greed and fear, what is the difference between man and beast?

Humanity begins on the day when behind your instincts a voice of awakening, a source of awakening, is born. Only upon awakening do you become man—not before. And it is not that you never awaken. It is not that moments of awakening do not happen. Because what is your very nature must sometimes glimmer. However many clouds gather, somewhere between two clouds a glimpse of sky appears.

So keep in mind—you too awaken sometimes; though you take no note of it, for you do not recognize it. You give it another name. Sometimes it happens—you stand at dawn; the sun is rising; birds are singing—and a deep silence and ease descend. You think it is due to the beauty of the morning, the sun, the birds. No. Though the birds and the morning gave a context, in that context for a moment you were awestruck, the stream of thoughts stopped, the clouds did not move; through the gap a little of the inner sky showed.

Sometimes in someone’s love the mind fell silent. Sometimes while listening to music—a master of the vina played and the strings trembled outside and within you something trembled; the vina ceased; within, too, for a moment all ceased; a profound peace was felt.

But you think it is because of the musician’s skill. Though he was a condition, the happening was within you.

In life, such moments come; but you mistake their cause.

Whenever peace comes, a certain inner light arises—only then does it come. Once you understand this, you will not gather outer causes; you will begin to take care of the inner awakening.

Ai kāsh ho yeh jazba-e-tāmīr mustaqil
Chauṅke to hain kharābī-e-khwāb-e-garān se hum.

Would that this urge to create be made permanent! We have been startled from the ruin of heavy sleep—may we not be lost again.

It happens every day. Your sleep too breaks—and again you are lost in sleep.

Ai kāsh ho yeh jazba-e-tāmīr mustaqil
Chauṅke to hain kharābī-e-khwāb-e-garān se hum.

It can be. This construction—this momentary state—can become permanent.

But you must make it so. Repeat it. Invite it again and again. Whenever the time and chance arise, reawaken this state—so that familiarity grows; a relationship forms; so that slowly a pillar of light stands within you.

“Men, remain continuously awake! He who is awake—his intelligence grows. He who sleeps is not blessed. Blessed is he who is always awake.”

Jāgaraha narā! Nichchaṃ jāgaramāṇassa baḍḍhate buddhi.
Jo suvati na so dhanno, jo jaggati so sayā dhanno.

He who is awake is blessed. O men, remain continuously awake! He who awakens—his intelligence increases. He who sleeps—his intelligence sleeps. He who awakens—his fortune awakens. He who sleeps—his fortune sleeps. The culmination of awakening is godliness. Therefore I say: Bhagavan means “the one whose bhagya—fortune—has fully awakened”; the one who has left no corner asleep within, no patch of darkness.

Uth ki khurshīd ka sāmān-e-safar tāza kareñ
Nafas-e-sukhta-e-shām o sahar tāza kareñ!

Rise—that we may freshen the provisions for the sun’s journey; that the breath, burned in evening and dawn, may be made new! Rise—to journey with the sun! Not the outer sun—this is the inner sun of awakening.

“As from one lamp hundreds of lamps are lit, yet it remains full of light, so is the acharya like a lamp. He remains luminous and illumines others too.”

“Yah dīvā dīvasayaṃ”—as from a lamp another lamp is lit; from the flame, flame. Seek a person who is awake, in whose presence your longing to awaken is stirred; in whose presence the supreme longing to awaken arises in you; whose presence is contagious—and you too begin to think, to contemplate, to strive: How to break sleep? A companion in awakening is needed. Scriptures cannot do it. You are asleep—only someone awake can awaken you. Keep scriptures and you will make a pillow of them. What will the scripture do if you make it a pillow? You will lay your head upon it and sleep more comfortably. You need a Tirthankara!

Mahavira says: Only he is an acharya who is awake, whose conduct flows from awakening. As from one lamp hundreds are lit, yet the first lamp remains shining—such is the glory of spiritual wealth. Share it—it does not diminish. Distribute it—it does not run out. All other wealth, by sharing, diminishes; therefore all other wealth makes a man a miser. Only spiritual wealth is such that by sharing it does not decrease. Light thousands of lamps from one; it is not that the first lamp’s flame becomes less. The gift of light does not lessen you. The donation of flame creates a luminous sangha.

Thus Mahavira lit thousands of lamps; the Jin-sangha was created. Thus Buddha lit thousands of lamps; the Buddha-sangha was created. But slowly, when the living person is gone and words are collected in scriptures, people make pillows of scriptures.

Paḍā thā sūnā sitār dil kā, huī achānak yeh jāg tumse
Jo zindagī rog ban chukī thī, ban ga’ī hai āj rāg tumse.

Thousands felt this near Mahavira.

What life had become a disease—today became a melody from you.
The heart’s veena lay silent—suddenly it awakened from you.

Remember—a deep principle discovered in this century by Carl Gustav Jung—he called it synchronicity. Hard to translate. Its meaning: If within one person a certain happening occurs—if one person’s veena sounds—then whoever comes near, upon their veena too similar resonance begins. They too will remember a forgotten raga. They too will begin to recall themselves. There is no causality here. It is not that because of Mahavira’s presence you awaken. Awakening is your nature; in Mahavira’s presence the forgotten is remembered. What happens happens within you; it could have happened without Mahavira too; but in Mahavira’s presence it happens easily. As one lamp burns and another, seeing it, remembers: I too am a lamp, I too can burn. As one seed sprouts and within another seed an ache arises: I too can sprout.

Hence satsang in the East has been of immense value. Satsang is alchemy. Satsang means: to be near one who is awakened; to be in the presence of one who is awake. Then slowly, without doing anything, a new raga arises within you. Suddenly you find some sleep is breaking, some layers are trembling.

Marḥabā ai jazba-e-khud aitbādī marḥabā
Woh hilā tūfān kā dil, ḵhishtī ravāñ hone lagī.

Bravo, O surge of self-trust—bravo!
The heart of the storm quivered—the boat began to move.

Near such a one, the self-confidence long buried awakens. Bravo—self-trust! You will feel within: something asleep is stirring. You will pat your own back.

Woh hilā tūfān kā dil, ḵhishtī ravāñ hone lagī.

A little stirring of the storm within—and the boat lying for lifetimes at the shore sets out.

In satsang the master does nothing; his presence… Even presence does nothing—through presence something happens. The sun does not open each flower by hand; it rises—and flowers open. The sun does not knock at each bird’s door—Sing, the morning has come! Yet, the sun rises—“the heart of the storm quivered, the boat began to move”—and a thirst arises in birds’ throats; song begins to flow of itself.

Such is the presence of the sun; such is the presence of a Tirthankara, an avatar, a messiah, a prophet; the presence of one whose lamp burns unwaveringly. If such a moment is found somewhere, do not miss it. Your mind will find a thousand tricks to miss it. Because of this very mind you missed Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ. You missed and missed. Missing has become your habit. Stake all if ever in anyone’s presence you feel: here a lamp is lit. Stake all. This is the gambler’s work—stepping into the unknown. Courage and trust! But stake all.

Why? Because if you lose—what will you lose? You have nothing to lose. If you gain—you gain all. If you lose—you lose nothing. But what you have you consider to be a lot.

I have heard: Near Shivpuri a great poets’ conference was being organized. Some poets were travelling there by car. On the way bandits surrounded them. One poet said, “Brothers! We are going to your village to participate in the conference. What do we have? We can recite some poems—listen!” The bandits gave them eleven rupees and said, “Sir! Recite your poems in the village—and a little longer there; we have other work to do in the world now.”

Even if Mahavira were to come to your door and agree to sing his song, you would say, “Sir, find someone else; we have many things to do in the world. Take these eleven rupees as dakshina for sparing us; recite your poem somewhere else.”

At Mahavira’s feet you offered flowers—those are the eleven rupees: Sir, be quiet; spare us—we have much to do in the world.

But look closely at this world—what are you doing? And in the world where you are so entangled, what are you seeking? To me it appears everyone is seeking God. Some seek in the wrong place; some seek in the right place. Some knock on doors where walls are, not doors; some knock at the right doors.

I tell you—even the one who knocks at a prostitute’s door is also seeking Paramatma. For at the prostitute’s door he seeks bliss—and the search for bliss is the search for God. The one who has drunk in the tavern and lies in the gutter—he too had gone seeking God. For the search for bliss is the search for Paramatma. But the place is wrong. Another tavern was to be sought—where the wine of invisible grapes is poured! If you must be a drunkard—be drunk at the feet of some Ramakrishna! Drown there!

Whatever you seek, your excuse whatever—if you look closely you will find you are out searching for bliss. If even this much becomes clear, most difficulties will vanish. Then you have a touchstone in your hand: Where I am seeking—can bliss be found there? How many times have I gone there? Always I return empty-handed. I lose something; I do not return having gained; I return more impoverished. The begging bowl perhaps becomes bigger; the vessel of the heart is not filled.

You are seeking bliss—let this be clear—and keep the touchstone with you. Test as a goldsmith tests gold upon the stone—test life upon bliss. You will find that what you call life is never gold upon that stone. Only then will you be able to hear the words of one who is awake—of a Jina.

But you deceive yourself. You ask for one thing; you want another; you speak something else. You deceive others—not only others—you deceive yourself.

I have heard: A Jewish rabbi was preparing his sermon for the next morning. Outside some street children were making noise; he was disturbed. He went to the window and said, What are you doing here, you fools! Have you not heard? At the river a great monster has appeared—huge, terrible—never seen before. What are you doing here?

Hearing this, the children ran headlong to the river. The rabbi thought: Good; trouble gone. He returned to his notes. Soon he saw the whole village going toward the river. He asked from the window: Brothers, where are you going? They said: Don’t you know? A monster is at the river—huge, green, with great teeth! (Even details the rabbi had not given.) The rabbi said: Wait, I am coming too. He thought: The story I myself made up—but who knows, it might be true!

Deceiving others, a man comes to deceive himself: Who knows—it may be true! What harm is there in looking?

You say one thing, you desire another, you think a third. Your life is ensnared in entanglements of your own making.

A beggar cried to Mulla Nasruddin: “Sir, I am hungry—give me some money so I may eat.” Out of compassion Mulla took him to the sweet shop and fed him. After eating, the beggar came out very angry, muttering: “What a joke! To see a picture I need two rupees—those I don’t get; already five people today have fed me.”

You ask for food—what you wish is to see the picture!

Look closely at life—what are you asking? For what you ask will be given you. Then you will repent. If not given—you will repent; if given—you will repent. For you asked for one thing and wanted another. At least that beggar knew his want; you do not even know yours.

Break this unconsciousness. Clarify exactly—what do you want? Find the right direction—where to search? There are only two directions—no great confusion: either one searches outward or inward. You have already searched outward. Give the inward a little chance!

Remember, the worldly man has only one experience—of the outside; the religious man has both—the outer and the inner. Therefore listen carefully to the religious man. Listen to Mahavira, to Krishna, to Buddha. Where you search, they too searched—and did not find. Then they searched where you have not searched—and there they found.

So spare a little time, a little energy. Give twenty-three hours to the world; save one hour for yourself. One who has not even one hour for himself—none is poorer than he. Call it meditation, call it prayer—call it what you will; but save one hour for yourself. At death you will find the twenty-three hours went in vain; that one hour proved the real saving. And that one hour will conquer the twenty-three; it will defeat them. Because when taste begins to flow—how will you deceive yourself then? When the real coins show, how will you be fooled by counterfeit?

Break this unconsciousness. None but you can break it.

Uth ki khurshīd ka sāmān-e-safar tāza kareñ.

Rise! Awaken a little self-trust.

Marḥabā ai jazba-e-khud aitbādī marḥabā
Woh hilā tūfān kā dil, ḵhishtī ravāñ hone lagī.

Enough for today.