Jin Sutra #17

On Adam’s dark road,
no traveler need lose the way.
Extinguishing the lamp of existence,
I am lighting the lamp upon my tomb.

Only those who on the path of life have utterly effaced themselves can become that light by which the lost find their way. Whoever tries to save himself becomes the cause of others’ wandering. He who has dissolved himself, he has arrived; and simply, naturally, in his light many others arrive as well.

Mahavira cannot make anyone arrive; but the one who longs to arrive can journey a very long way in his radiance.

The traveler must decide for himself. If you would move, you must relate yourself to light.

Till now, life after life, we have been related to darkness. Slowly, our ties with darkness have become conditioning, have become our very nature. Darkness draws us in at once. First, the light is not visible at all; perhaps because we have long dwelt in darkness, our eyes are dazzled in light; and if by chance we do see it, a great fear arises within—fear of the unfamiliar, fear of the new, fear of the unknown.

Thus we live within rutted tracks—like the oil-press bullock, moving all day and arriving nowhere.

How will one who revolves in a circle ever arrive?

Therefore we have called life a wheel. Like the potter’s wheel, it turns and keeps on turning; one spoke comes up, another goes down—but in truth, nothing changes. Now anger rises, now delusion; now love glints, now hatred surges; now we are filled with jealousy, now great compassion pours; now clouds gather, now the sun breaks forth—such sun and shade goes on. One spoke up, the other down, and we keep circling like the wheel. But we are where we were. There is no journey in our life. Pilgrimage is far; there is not even a journey. We are like a closed pond that does not move toward the ocean.

The pond is afraid. It fears to be lost in the ocean. And the fear is true, because the pond will be lost in the ocean. But it does not know that in its losing, the ocean will be gained.

On Adam’s dark road no traveler need lose the way—

Humanity’s road is very dark.

On Adam’s dark road no traveler need lose the way;
I, extinguishing the lamp of existence, am lighting the lamp upon my tomb.

I have put out the lamp of my life, my being, and lit the lamp upon my own grave. I am lighting the lamp of the tomb! What the poet calls the lamp of the tomb, Mahavira calls Nirvana.

Life’s lamp is extinguished, the lamp of death is lit.

This will sound difficult, for we are filled with the lust for life—Jiveshana! At any cost: dying, rotting, decaying, we still want to live. Even if all is taken, if we go blind, if we drag ourselves on the street like a beggar, even if no meaning appears in life at all, still we cling to it. It seems as if life has meaning in itself.

Even when only sorrow is received, only pain, man clings to life. Even if he must sell all self-respect, sell his soul, cut himself into pieces and lay them out in the marketplace—still he clings to life.

Mahavira’s entire teaching is the teaching of extinguishing Jiveshana. Until that which you have called life is extinguished; until that which up to now you have called death is accepted—till then the gate of the great Life will not open. For what you call life is death, and what Mahavira calls death is the great Life.

Sri Aurobindo has said: When I was seeking, what I had taken for day and for light—after seeking it proved to be darkness, to be night. And what I had known as life, proved to be death. And what I had drunk as nectar was poison.

After awakening, a great upheaval happens in life; all values are reversed—as if someone were standing on his head and seeing the world, and the whole world appeared upside down; then he stands on his feet and the whole world appears straight.

What we now take as life is a highly inverted condition of our consciousness. Groping, guessing, we have assumed: this must be life. When light comes, when the eyes open, life proves to be something utterly other.

In today’s sutras Mahavira points toward that supreme Life. This is not exposition, not definition; this is only description. Understand this before we enter the sutras.

Ultimate Truth cannot be expounded; exposition is possible only for that which can be analyzed, broken into parts. A house can be explained as a collection of bricks, arranged in a particular order; remove the bricks and the house disappears. But the Atman has no parts, no fragments. It is not composed of elements as a house is composed of bricks.

Truth has no pieces, no fragments. Truth simply is. Therefore, it cannot be expounded.

Ask a scientist, what is water? He says, a compound of hydrogen and oxygen. Because it is formed by two, it can be defined. Ask, what is hydrogen? He says, formed by electron, neutron, positron. Ask then, what is an electron? He halts; the fragments have ended. He will say, an electron is simply an electron—there is no way to explain further, for it is not composed of two.

That which is composed of two can be defined, for by reference to those two we can indicate it. But where there is one, indivisible, beyond fragmentation—there, language fails.

Therefore, in these sutras, what Mahavira says about Atman—first thing—this is not exposition. Exposition is impossible. It is indication, a pointing.

Second—this is not definition. Only that can be defined which has boundaries. That which has no boundary cannot be defined. Definition means: drawing lines.

If someone asks, where is your house? There can be definition, for here is a neighbor, there another; here a road, there a river—the limits can be drawn. Within these limits, my house.

But Atman or Truth has no boundary. Where is the Atman? Hard to say, for ‘where’ implies place, and Atman is not in place. When is the Atman? Impossible to say, for ‘when’ implies time, and Atman is not in time. Atman is beyond time and beyond space—these are the only two instruments of definition.

If someone asks you, when were you born, where were you born, your definition becomes possible—you give place and time. Where the lines of time and space intersect, there you are defined. But Atman is never born, never ends; it is never found at some location, nor is it bound to place. Beyond time-space—how define it? One may only say: Atman is. But even in saying ‘is,’ there is error; because ‘is’ is not to be added from outside. Being is inherent in the Atman. It is its very nature. A chair ‘is’—this is apt, for one day it was not, and one day it will not be. The ‘is’ stands between two ‘is-not’s. But the Atman was ever, is ever, will ever be. That which has never been ‘not,’ why even add ‘is’? In saying ‘the Atman is’ there is redundancy.

What then is possible? Mahavira says: Description is possible. Description, not definition. Description means: we can only suggest, gesture: it is like this, like this. Those who have known can describe. Those who have not, may set out on the journey; but by description alone, nothing will be understood. Description can kindle thirst.

You in darkness—I can describe light; you will not thereby know what light is. At best—if you are courageous, ready to risk, with a passion for quest—you may understand only this: there is something I have not yet known; and the one who speaks seems suffused with bliss, with contentment—let me also know. Surely this man knows darkness too, for he sits near me; and he has known something beyond darkness; let me trust.

Therefore, shraddha—trust—has great value. In science, trust has no value, for science does not describe; it defines, it demonstrates. Doubt as much as you like, science will still convince you: here is the definition, here the analysis, here the laboratory—repeat it.

Religion has a difficulty; it too has a laboratory, but within, not without. I cannot take you into my laboratory; however much I wish, you cannot come. Nor can I enter yours. This laboratory is utterly private.

Scientific laboratories are collective; what is examined on the table can be seen by all. In the realm of religion, only the experimenter sees. He can sing, bring news of joy, dance, or stand in silence. Or you may sense the aura of his life, come close, touch his thrill, feel the peace near him, let a few rays of his bliss fall upon you—then perhaps you will consider: what I have known has not given peace—this man is peaceful; what I have known has not conquered fear—this man has; what I have known has not won me beyond death—this man has; what I have known has increased anxieties—his have vanished; perhaps he has found something I am missing. Let me walk a little, dare a little, search; step beyond my bounds, my circle.

To rise beyond your bounds and circle—that alone is sannyas.

The world is your boundary—there, all is familiar. Sannyas is lifting your head just a little beyond that boundary.

These sutras are descriptive sutras. Each word is precious—and yet, by itself, meaningless. By meaningless I mean: meaning arises only when you experience. The words are lovely, unique. When Mahavira utters them, they are meaningful—hence he speaks. When I speak them to you, they are meaningful—hence I speak. But by my speaking, the meaning will not fall into your hands. You must pour meaning from your own experience. I give you chalices of words; the wine you must distill within and fill these cups.

These words are empty; if you breathe life into them, they will come alive. Do not mistake these words themselves for meaning—as the pundits have. Then people go on parroting. They learn descriptions of the Atman by heart—like parrots. Repeating them, they forget: I have not yet known. This was heard—shruti at best; it may become smriti, memory, but the Veda has not yet been born. The Veda will be born only in the process of your meditation.

The words are priceless, filled with depth; but by the time they reach you they will be empty cartridges. If you would re-enliven them, only with great courage, indomitable daring, readiness to risk, will it be possible.

Let us try to understand.

Aruhavi antarappa, bahirappo chhandi-oon tivihena.
Jhaijjai paramappa, uvaittham jinavarindehim.

Jineshwar Deva has said: Abandon the outer self through the triad of mind, speech, and body; ascend into the inner self and contemplate the Paramatman.

Mind, speech, body. In Mahavira’s path of practice there are these three hindrances—body, speech, mind.

The body is visible. Beneath it lie dense layers of thought—this is called speech. Whether you speak aloud or not, within you go on speaking. Even one sitting silently speaks within. Speech continues.

So, one layer is gross—body. Beneath it, a subtle layer of thought, conditioning, beliefs, revolves, encircling you twenty-four hours a day; in dreams at night, in movement by day, it keeps its perimeter around you.

Deeper than thought is mind. In the language of modern psychology, what it calls the conscious mind, Mahavira calls speech. What it calls the unconscious mind, Mahavira calls mind.

That part of mind which has entered your awareness is speech. That part which has become thought—and that which has not yet become thought, but is in the process—is mind.

Mind is like the seed; thoughts are sprouted seeds. And these three are linked. What is in your mind will appear in your thoughts today or tomorrow. What is in your thoughts will appear in your body today or tomorrow. What is in your body was in your thoughts yesterday. And what is in your thoughts was in your mind the day before.

He who wants to be free of the body will not succeed, for the body’s supports lie in thought. He who wants to be free of thought will not succeed, for beneath thought lies the deeper layer of mind.

Many paths imagine that freeing oneself of the body accomplishes all. Hatha Yoga insists on the body: conquer it so it has no power over you. But Mahavira says: The very impulse to conquer is itself a subtle body; it is not other than body. You may build a new kind of body out of it, but body will continue.

Then there is Mantra Yoga: it believes that changing the mind, the expressed thought, is enough. Chant mantras; bound in their rhythm, thoughts fall asleep. Those sprouts fall back to seed. But the mind remains—the hidden, profound, unconscious mind remains. It will raise new mind, sprout new thoughts. While the seed remains, how long can you avoid germination? With the next rain, a little forgetfulness, the mantra forgotten—the sprouting begins.

Therefore Mahavira says: if you would reach to the Atman, you must rise beyond all three—mind, speech, and body.

Understand this, for we are these three. Of Atman we have no clue. It lies beyond the three. We accept by trust that it is—because Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Patanjali say so. But what we have known so far is at most the body. You take the body to be yourself. So when the body is hungry you say, I am hungry—and each time you repeat this, you strengthen the identification with the body. The wave of sexuality rises in the body, and you say, I am aroused. You are making identity with the body. And by identification, this body has been made and maintained and will be made again. As soon as you call the body ‘I,’ you forge a deep bond.

Ordinarily we live upon the layer of the body. Those a little more alert begin to see the body cannot be me; it becomes clear that I live in inner thinking. It even happens that you sit hungry and, absorbed in thought, you do not notice hunger. Or the body is tired, and your child suddenly falls from the roof; you were going to rest, but energy surges: you run to the hospital, forgetting rest, forgetting fatigue, forgetting you had not slept four nights, just returned from a long journey. When thought grips, the body recedes.

A player on the field—football or hockey—his leg is injured, blood flows; the spectators see it, he does not. He is absorbed in the game. No time now—attention is in thought. The body falls far away. When the game ends, suddenly he returns to the body—blood is seen; he is surprised: how did I not know till now?

You too must have felt: when absorbed in thought, distance from the body increases. Sometimes absorption is so deep an operation can be performed without your knowing.

The Maharaja of Kashi underwent such an operation. He was a devotee, a lover of the Gita; he would hum it with deep absorption. He said, no need of anesthesia; let me chant my Gita, you do the operation. Doctors were unwilling—who could trust it? But the operation was essential, otherwise he would die. Seeing his resolve, they decided to try. They allowed him to chant. The operation took an hour. He hummed the Gita; the operation was done; he did not know.

If you unite strongly with thought, the relation between you and body becomes distant.

Those who have experimented thus conclude: we are not the body, we are thoughts. But thought is also a layer—deeper than body, but still of the body. Thought too is matter.

Mahavira’s insight here is astonishing. He says: thought is also material, pudgala. Thought has atoms. Science may agree sooner with Mahavira here than with anyone else, for his seeing is clear. Thought’s atoms—no ethereal substance, but still material, subtle matter.

Some go deeper than thought. In meditation there comes a moment when you still the thoughts, and their waves fade and vanish; the lake becomes entirely placid—no ripple of thought, no speech arises within. In that wordless state, identity forms with mind. One thinks: this am I. A lovely moment—still, silent! And one thinks: this is me. But this too is the subtlest state of body.

Modern psychology agrees with Mahavira: body and mind are not two. The very use of two words—body and mind—is being dropped. A new term: psychosomatic—mind-body. Two words mislead, as if there were two things. Mind and body are one: body is grossest mind; mind is subtlest body. Between them, the world of thought-waves. But the whole is one. In Samadhi one stands beyond mind. In meditation the mind becomes quiet; in Samadhi one is outside the mind. Then for the first time, the Atman is glimpsed.

Aruhavi antarappa... Abandon the outer self through mind, speech, body; ascend to the inner self and contemplate the Paramatman.

A unique sutra. The whole of Yoga is in it.

There is an anecdote from Gurdjieff’s life. He went to America. To fund his institute of attention, he invited the wealthy of New York—the elite were present. His fame had reached America; people were curious to see him. Fifty or sixty ladies and gentlemen. The man who wrote his memoirs says: Before Gurdjieff went to meet them, he called me and said, tell me every filthy and obscene word you know in English. The man was startled. What for? Gurdjieff’s English was poor. ‘Leave that to me,’ he said. The man told him all the obscene words. Gurdjieff wrote them down, memorized them. When he began to speak among the guests, after a while he turned to the subject of sexuality, and slowly used only coarse words. Within an hour—so the memoir says—the whole gathering was sexually aroused; they forgot themselves. Women began to play with men, men with women; they forgot they had come to meet Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff fell silent, sat and watched as the revel went on. Just as they were about to drown in it, he stood up: ‘Attention! Look at me! By words alone I have revealed your unconsciousness. With mere words I have stirred your minds. See your state—you are such slaves of words! I staged this only to show your sleep. I am creating a school to teach wakefulness; for that I need money.’ He collected thousands of dollars on the spot. It was so obvious. People sat stunned, ashamed of what they were doing. Just by the net of words...

Have you noticed? When erotic images show on a film screen, you become aroused—sunlight and shadow, and you are thrown into turmoil!

We live by words, by speech. Someone says, ‘You are so lovely,’ and flowers bloom; someone glances with disdain, and hell is born. Someone omits a respectful greeting, and the mind grows sad. Someone bows, and the gloom evaporates.

Have you seen how much you are in the hands of words?

Words are your sleep. This Mahavira calls vachan. It is necessary to awaken from this. A time must come when praise or blame is the same. Words must lose such power to agitate your life; otherwise what of your Atman?

Experts in advertising have understood that man lives by words—so they repeat words until layers form on your mind. Binaca toothpaste, Binaca toothpaste—over and over. You think nothing is happening to you, but you do not know—the word settles in. It becomes your vachan. Then tomorrow, at the shop, when the shopkeeper asks, which toothpaste? you reply, Binaca. You think you have decided; you have not—this is advertisement. Read in newspapers, seen on walls, heard on radio, watched on television—smiling beautiful faces with pearl-like teeth—Binaca toothpaste! Everywhere that word is layered within. ‘What two things does my husband love most? Me—and Binaca toothpaste!’

From all directions a layer of word is built in you. Politicians do the same, shopkeepers do the same. A word is seated; by much repetition grooves are carved. Socialism, socialism, socialism—slowly the groove settles in. When the groove is firm, it begins to agitate you, to propel you.

You are bound to society by words. Shake words a little and you will find yourself becoming free of society. ‘Hindu, Muslim, Christian’—what are these? Only words. ‘Jain, Buddhist’—only words. From childhood repeated—‘you are Jain’—so many times that now you no longer recall when it began. The conditioning is so deep that even in sleep, if asked, you will say, I am Jain. If drunk and fallen in the street, someone shakes you and asks, who are you? ‘Jain’—it has gone so deep.

The very word stirs you. Say, ‘Islam is in danger!’ and people run to kill and die. ‘Islam’ is a word. No word is Truth.

Therefore Mahavira says: loosen your ties with body; loosen your ties with word, with vachan; and then, slowly, with mind.

Begin with the body, for it is gross; experiments are easier there. Hence Mahavira’s whole process begins with body and is completed with mind.

As you become free of the body, you will see the inner bondage—the bondage of vachan. As you free yourself of vachan, your eyes will become so clear, so transparent, that you will see the bondage of mind. Beyond these three is the Atman; and within Atman the Paramatman is hidden.

Jineshwar Deva has said: Abandon the outer self through mind, speech, and body; ascend into the inner self and contemplate the Paramatman.

From outer to inner, and then to the more inner still... The body is our bridge to the outer; vachan too is our bridge; mind too is our bridge. Thus are we connected outwardly.

Hence you have seen: a mute person who cannot speak cannot truly become part of society. The dull of mind, lacking the capacity of mind, remain alone. In this world, those become most valued who are most skillful with words—leaders, gurus, poets, writers. Those who wield vachan become important; those who do not, lag behind.

Man’s real society is in language. Therefore if a child delays in speaking, the parents are anxious, panicked: he may never become civilized, never a part of society; he will remain incomplete and alone; his life will have no movement.

These bridges bind us outwardly. If we free ourselves from these bridges, we shall be joined within. This does not mean Mahavira says, do not speak; nor does it mean, destroy the body; nor, kill the mind. No. Mahavira says, become relaxed from them. When needed, use them. When not needed, let there be no compulsion. If you must go somewhere, use the body. If you must say something, use speech. If you must think, use mind. But let it be use; do not forget that you are separate. And when not in use, be able to set them aside, bound and placed in a corner. Retain this capacity.

Have you noticed? People sit in cinemas or cafes and shake their legs. Ask, why shake your leg? If walking, all right; but why now? If you point it out, they will startle and stop—they had no idea. This means the relation to the body has become such that even when unnecessary, the leg keeps shaking.

People mutter in sleep. Ask, whom are you talking to? No one is here—be silent! Yet they mutter. Habit of speaking is such.

Psychologists say: if a man is left for three months in solitary confinement, with all provisions delivered by machine, no disturbance, but with no one to speak to—after three weeks his lips begin to move. For three weeks he will speak within; after three weeks he will move his lips; after six, sound emerges; after nine, he speaks openly, alone, as if conversing with someone present. By the twelfth week, he is completely insane.

In madhouses you see people talking to themselves. What has happened? The identification with vachan has become so strong that the presence of the other is no longer necessary. You still need another because you have some little awareness that without the other, how speak? You go out to find a friend, a club, for you haven’t the courage to talk alone. Though even when you speak to the other, you speak alone. The other is unwilling, bored, yawning, checking his watch, eager to escape—but you hold him! People even hold hands while talking, lest he slip away; bring their face close to your face, lest you run away; with difficulty you have been caught! He does not want to listen—he says ‘yes-yes’—but you go on.

Sit quietly and listen to two people talk—you will be amazed: they do not speak to one another; each only says his own. Husband and wife—listen, and it becomes clear. Yes, there is just enough awareness to keep a thin thread between their utterances so as not to look completely mad.

Two professors went mad, placed in an asylum. The psychologist studying them was amazed: when one spoke the other fell silent; when the other spoke the first fell silent. But there was no connection between their words: one was calling the sky, the other the earth; the lines ran parallel, never meeting. He went in and asked: This is strange; when one speaks, why does the other fall silent? They said, ‘Do you think we are mad? We know how to converse. When one speaks, the other must be silent.’ But while silent, he is preparing within for when his turn comes.

Awaken from vachan and you are free of society—not by fleeing to the jungle. Freedom from society comes by freedom from language. Real solitude is freedom from language. Even in the Himalayas, if not free from language, you will talk to trees and birds; you will find something to speak to. If nothing else, you will begin to converse with a God in the sky; devis and apsaras will appear—your fancies’ web—anything to support speech.

He who is free from language is the sannyasin. Hence Mahavira called his renunciates muni: one who is free of language, who has attained to silence—chosen with care.

Muni does not mean one who has fled the world or home. A deep thing is said: one awakened from language; the old madness of vachan is no more. When needed, he uses the instrument of speech; otherwise he puts it back in the garage, like a car used and parked. Mostly he remains silent, sinks in silence; when needed, he descends into language. Language becomes an instrument; he is now its master.

The day language becomes an instrument, you are a muni. Whether or not you left your home is irrelevant. When speech’s prison no longer weighs upon you, when you can speak when you wish but the urge to speak does not agitate you like a madman—you are a muni.

From these outer-going routes—body binds us outwardly: it came from outside, from mother and father; you did not bring it. It is a gift from without—their bodies’, and theirs from theirs. Trace back and the body belongs to prakriti: of earth, water, air, fire, space—Panch Mahabhuta—not yours. What comes from outside obeys the rules of the outside. The water within you obeys the laws of water, not yours. The earth within you obeys gravity; air follows air; fire follows fire. Remember this.

Therefore, if at the sight of the full moon a great surge arises in you, you may not have thought why. Just as the ocean swells at the moon’s touch, so do you. Because man’s body is about eighty percent water; the same salts as in the sea; Hindus say the first avatar is fish; science too says life first appeared as fish. The same aquatic order remains within. Hence, when the ocean rises, so do you. Who is not enchanted by the moon? But it is not you—within you the water is stirred. In understanding this, full moon and new moon become equal.

When you are disturbed at the sight of a woman and a wave of passion covers you, do not think you are affected; these are the hormones within—female, male—the chemistry of the body is affected. Half your body is from your mother, half from your father—everyone is Ardhanarishvara. This attraction is magnetic, material—pudgalic, bodily. It should be so for matter.

Therefore, as one experiences ‘I am not the body,’ others’ bodies affect him less. The day one fully experiences ‘I am not the body,’ the influence of male and female bodies ends. Whoever passes, it makes no difference; no ripple arises within. Full moon or new moon, all is the same. Waves may arise in the body; you have nothing to do with them: you become a distant witness.

Mind too follows its own laws, not yours. You have seen: you go among ten cheerful people; you were sad; within moments you forget sadness; you begin to laugh. A while ago your eyes were full of tears—what happened? Those subtle particles of mind—ten people’s mind-particles stronger than yours. Your mind falls into minority; the majority overwhelms you. Go among the unhappy, you become unhappy. Enter a hospital, and you feel like fleeing; sickness, age, decline all around. The doctor becomes hard; otherwise he would die. He must deaden himself; otherwise how live among sorrow, disease, death? The patient dies—the bed number is freed. In hospital, numbers die. If a young couple tells me they will marry within their profession—both doctors—I say, beware; two hardened ones—how will they melt into each other? It may be useful for profession and economy, but not for life.

Your mind is influenced every moment by others’ minds. Hindu crowds move to burn a mosque; Muslim crowds to smash a temple; even a good man who never thought to harm anyone, goes with the crowd. In crowds, suddenly momentum enters you; if the crowd is enthusiastic, you are filled with enthusiasm; if fast, you run; if setting fire to houses, you find relish in it. Later, asked, you say, I don’t know how it happened. Alone you would not. In crowds your responsibility thins; the majority’s waves surround and stir you.

He who is not influenced by crowds has gone beyond mind; he who is influenced remains within mind. That is why politicians draw crowds—to display influence. A leader with five lakhs in rally influences onlookers more than one with one lakh. If a rumor spreads a leader will lose, he loses; if that he will win, he wins. Nothing succeeds like success—true; success radiates particles of success; failure radiates failure. Who stands with the failing? Everyone with the rising sun; who with the setting?

Beware of crowds. When you are influenced by crowds, it is your mind influencing you—your mind stirring you.

Body, speech, mind—beyond all three you must abide as witness. He who abides as witness experiences Paramatman.

Ilahi! Grant such a vision that even the house appears a prison—not such a petty sight that the prison appears a home.

Now the prison looks like home. You have taken body to be your life—your prison. You have taken skill in speech to be your power—your slavery. You have taken mind as your strength.

People come and ask: how increase the power of mind? They want will-power. But will-power only strengthens mind.

To go beyond mind is true strength: Atmabala. What mind gives is not power, but weakness—a deception.

Arsh se aage nikal jaayen hawa-e-shauq mein—
at least such a height of flight should be.

Beyond the heavens must we go! Let the yearning for flight be at least such that even the sky is crossed.

This body is made of clay—one must go beyond it. These words are subtle atoms of the same clay—one must be free of them. This mind is the treasury of body and speech, amassed particles—one must be free of it. There the inner sky begins. And beyond the sky—that is Paramatman: where even the sense ‘I am Atman’ dissolves, where only Atman remains and the ‘I’ drops utterly.

Now understand a little more. We say, my body, my mind, my thoughts—‘my.’ First, the ‘my’ must fall. Then we say, ‘I,’ Atman. Then even ‘I’ must fall. When ‘my’ falls, Atman is revealed. When ‘I’ falls, Paramatman is revealed.

Atman—free of the tri-rod of mind, speech and body—non-dual, alone; nirmama—free of ‘mine-ness’; nishkala—without body; niralamba—free of all dependence on other; vitaraga—beyond attachment; nirdosha—without fault; moha-rahita—free of delusion; and nirbhaya—fearless.

This is description—no definition, no analysis. Such is Mahavira’s experience. He states it with exquisite subtlety.

Free of the tri-rod of mind, speech, and body... Where neither mind remains, nor speech, nor body; where body falls far away, thought-waves recede, mind itself is left behind; where you go beyond all this; enter the innermost; the temple’s walls fall away; all habitation is left behind; you arrive where the inmost sky of emptiness is. Then, nirdvandva—without duality. In that moment, two do not remain—only one.

In the Upanishads, a seeker asked Yajnavalkya: How many gods are there? ‘The scriptures say thirty-three thousand,’ he replied. The seeker said, ‘That’s too many; whom shall I worship? Tell me again, how many?’ Yajnavalkya said, ‘Then, essentially, three hundred and thirty.’ The man said, ‘Still too many.’ ‘Then three.’ ‘Even three is trouble—who will I heed?’ ‘Then one and a half.’ ‘Now we are close—tell the truth.’ ‘The truth is one.’

Truth is one—yet even to call it ‘one’ is not apt, for ‘one’ evokes ‘two.’ One cannot stand alone without two. Therefore the sages of India have not called it one; they say Advaita—not two. Mahavira says nirdvandva—no duality, no conflict. And nirdvandva is sweeter than Advaita, for Advaita says ‘not two’; Mahavira says ‘no struggle.’ ‘Not two’ suggests stasis; ‘no struggle’ suggests process. Mahavira emphasizes movement: what is ever dynamic is truth; where movement ceases is death; where there is ceaseless ascent of energy, there is life. Hence, nirdvandva, alone. Be careful: the loneliness you know is not Mahavira’s. Your loneliness is the absence of the other; Mahavira’s aloneness is the presence of oneself.

In English the distinction is beautiful: loneliness and aloneness. Mahavira’s is aloneness—ekanta; yours is loneliness—tanhai. Your loneliness is tinged with sadness, a sense of lack: something should be here and is not. You enter a room—no wife, no children—your eyes search for an other and find none. That is loneliness.

Mahavira’s aloneness: wherever the gaze falls, it finds only itself. The room is full of oneself; the whole sky filled with oneself. One touches oneself, hums to oneself. Being has become so deep that the other is not needed; the other is not even remembered. Even if there is other, it does not occur as other. Nirdvandva! Mahavira’s aloneness is creative, positive.

Nirmama—without ‘mine-ness.’ Your ‘nirmam’ means ‘pitiless’; you call a hard man nirmam. Mahavira and pitiless? No—we live in different languages. For Mahavira, nirmama means: ‘mine’ has fallen; nothing is ‘mine.’ You feel both ‘mine’ and hardness are the same, as in the story: a house catches fire; the owner beats his chest and weeps. Someone says, ‘Do not worry, I heard your son say it’s sold; the money is already paid.’ Tears dry; peace returns: ‘I did not know.’ The same house burns; but if it is not ‘mine,’ what worry? Then the son arrives: ‘The deal happened, but the money was not paid. The house is ours—it is burning!’ The father begins to weep again. The house is exactly the same; but tied to ‘mine,’ it brings sorrow; freed from ‘mine,’ the matter is finished.

Wherever you have said ‘mine,’ sorrow comes. Where you have no relation, sorrow does not come. The more the net of ‘mine,’ the more the sorrow; the more that net breaks, the less the sorrow. Mahavira’s nirmama is not harshness; truly, only such a man is compassionate. Because of ‘mine,’ you are hard. Your compassion cannot be free; if your son falls, you lift him; if another’s falls, you avert your eyes. ‘Mine’ makes you hard. When ‘mine’ dissolves, compassion is freed, no longer flows in narrow channels; it becomes a flood with no banks.

Niralamba—without support. The Atman has no dependence; it is the ultimate support—svayam-bhu. What the Upanishads say of Brahman—ultimate support—Mahavira says of Atman. Whether Brahman or Atman—it makes no difference. We must accept one that is niralamba; otherwise existence hangs without foundation. The scientist says: water is made of hydrogen and oxygen; oxygen of electron, neutron, positron; these of electrical energy. Of what is electrical energy made? It is simply energy—niralamba for him. Somewhere, the search must arrive at that beyond which there is nothing.

Mahavira finds that foundation in Atman. Surely, to seek it in Atman is deeper than in electricity—because even the discovery of electricity is by Atman. When the scientist speaks of electron, his consciousness reaches that depth. That which reaches must be deeper than what is reached. Therefore Mahavira values Atman even more than Paramatman: Atman will discover even Paramatman. The knower is greater than the known. If you stand upon Everest, you are higher than Everest.

Paradravya-alambana-rahita, vitaraga, nirdosha, moha-rahita, and nirbhaya—fearless. We tremble, frightened night and day. The excuses may be many, but deep down is the fear of death: I might be lost. Wealth is clung to for self-protection; position, prestige, name, lineage—all for self-protection. Every day someone dies—our feet shake. The storms of death pass daily. Today someone went, tomorrow another; the day after, we must go—panic.

No one can be fearless in such a state. Those you call brave are not fearless; they are not cowards, but fear exists in both—coward runs away obeying fear; the brave stands despite fear. Only he is fearless who has realized Atman—because Atman is immortality. There is no death there. Arriving there, one knows: consciousness neither dies nor is born—ajani, anadi, amrita. Then all fear falls to zero. Without knowing Atman there is no way beyond fear; and without going beyond fear, how will you go beyond sorrow, beyond anxiety and torment? Man’s being is a deep trembling. Knowing the Self, trembling ceases; sthitaprajna arises; the flame burns smokeless, unmoving, as in a house where no wind enters. For the first time spring comes. Before, what you called spring was only the beginning of autumn; youth only the step into old age; birth only the start of death. In the Self, for the first time, spring—flowers that never wither, that do not bloom to fade.

Nahin yeh naghma-e-shor-e-salasel,
bahar-e-nau ke qadamom ki sada hai—
No longer the clank of chains; this is the footfall of a new spring. Formerly even spring bound us; even love became bondage; whatever came proved a prison. Now, for the first time, spring arrives.

Atman is nirgrantha, niraga, nishalya, free of all faults, nishkama, and nir-krodha, nir-mana, nir-mada.

Nirgrantha, niraga, nishalya—Mahavira’s special terms. Nirgrantha: no knots, no kinks, no complexes; all boulders removed from the stream; then even the stream’s noise ceases—noise is from rocks. When life-energy flows without obstruction—now we are full of knots. We cannot flow straight; we walk like the drunkard—staggering; one foot here, the other there; we say one thing, mean another; we wanted to do one thing, we did another. Life is not simple; and we will not attain simplicity because we take our complexity for simplicity and rationalize it. Anger—you do not say, I am angry; you say, anger was needed to correct the son. Thus the knot is strengthened. When others do it: ego; when you do it: self-respect. Your originality is originality; another’s is madness. If a Christian becomes Hindu—apostate; if a Hindu becomes Christian—he has found the right path. We hide our knots; whatever we hide, grows. Knots must be exposed.

Hence Mahavira’s nakedness—symbolic. As I am, I will keep no garment, no cover; let all be exposed—good or bad; accept or reject as you will. How people behaved with him—astonishing! Stones were thrown; sticks used; wild dogs set upon him; he was hurled upon rocks. People were angry because we are tangled; a simple man’s presence hurts us. The dishonest want all to be dishonest; an honest man among them is intolerable—he exposes their dishonesty. Mahavira, a man without knots, standing simple and naked—people could not bear it. They drove him from village to village. But this man accepted all; he did not try to change anyone. If driven out, he left; yet he came again through the same village if it lay on his path. That which happened naturally, he allowed to happen. Spontaneity is Mahavira’s fundamental note—no ornamentation, no insistence to appear otherwise—just as he is.

It is said he did not bathe for years: ‘The body is foul; why the pretense? Whom to deceive?’ For years he did not clean his teeth: ‘The mouth stinks—why pretend it does not?’

Notice: whatever you do, you do to show others. At home, how you sit; when going out, you prepare—reputation is at stake; business begins—the teeth for eating and the teeth for showing.

Mahavira made a unique experiment: no tooth-cleaning, no bath. For years no water. Devotees must have felt pity; hence among Jains the abhisheka—once a year they pour water over Mahavira; now they pour it on the statue. Even his followers felt uneasy: such naturalness is too much. Yet observe: animals are not foul; only man seems foul despite his arrangements. Nature appears bathed—except man. Rousseau later said, back to nature, but Mahavira lived it. A formidable sadhana—dropping the craving for others’ opinions is hard.

Today’s Jain mendicants try to imitate, but the essence is lost; they still worry for others’ opinion. They make Mahavira’s spontaneity into regulation. I have even seen hidden toothpaste with Jain nuns. One nun’s breath smelled; I asked why others did not—she laughed: ‘We all use toothpaste, hidden. After you said it, I too began—do not tell anyone!’ With Mahavira, discipline was dropped; with them, it is made into discipline—tradition, not revolution. It is also said that gradually the smell of sweat stopped from his body; the Jains explain it in a mythic way—‘A Tirthankara’s sweat does not smell.’ No need for such claims. Look at nature: animals in the wild—do they stink? My view: Mahavira became so natural that the very chemistry changed. When the itch to impress falls, the body undergoes a revolution. Different states of mind alter bodily states. When a woman is sexually inflamed, her sweat has a different odor—the males smell and know. In the same way, when one becomes free of sex, the old odor disappears; another fragrance arises. The mouth smells due to friction from speech; if one is silent, that odor ceases. Mahavira ate only when absolutely necessary—rarely, very little—standing, not sitting; never from a vessel but from the palm—karapatri; in the sun, by the road, naked, accepting whatever came. Once in ten or twelve days. The food was fully digested. In the West, cars are being designed to burn fuel completely to avoid polluting fumes; likewise, when total digestion occurs, excretion lessens. Jains say Tirthankaras do not excrete; I would say: if you eat once in twelve days, there may be negligible waste.

He lived so naturally that the mind could not interfere. We contrive in the opposite way: with many guests, more food is eaten; turn on the radio, people eat more. Mahavira arranged so that only what nature needs is taken—nothing added by mind. Thus knots dissolve and one becomes childlike, animal-innocent—simple. Nirgrantha means such simplicity that not a single crooked line remains.

Between two points the nearest path is a straight line. Our path is crooked. Mahavira is like a straight line; we are zigzag; we say one thing, do another; not only do we deceive others, we deceive ourselves.

You will never awaken unless you see where you rationalize your knots. Anger—you say necessary; attachment—you call love; fear-based alliances—you call friendship; pride-based renunciation—you call charity. Then you will become a jungle of knots. Mahavira says: be simple. Know yourself as you are. Knots will loosen; a new energy arises—ease, simplicity, guilelessness.

Niraga, nishalya: when there is no knot, there is no attachment. Nothing to save, nothing to renounce. When there are no knots, the thorns—the shalya—fall away. Someone insults you—you say it ‘pierced.’ It is not the insult that pierces but your ego. Drop ego; then insults have no thorn. Nishalyata is a lovely word. Within you is the readiness to grasp thorns—that is the real thorn. Because you sought honor, dishonor hurts. If you did not seek honor, dishonor could not hurt. Because you wanted success, failure brings grief. If you desired to stand first, you weep when you do not. If you had chosen to be last, who could defeat you? Then life becomes nishalya.

Free of all faults, desireless, without anger, without pride and intoxication—these are gestures toward the Atman. For those who have realized, these are attained; for those who have not, they are signposts. The description is both the state of the Atman and the path. If you would reach the state where there is no intoxication—of wealth, position, pride—then begin to drop intoxications. Do not strut. Withdraw from pride. If Atman is nishalya, recognize and heal the wounds where thorns pierce you; do not blame others. As long as you blame others, wounds will not heal; you will continue to be pricked and to preserve the wound.

Who wants to be abused? But how will you prevent the world from abusing? There is one remedy: remove the place within where abuse sticks. Heal that wound, and even if the whole world abuses, you will pass through it—nishalya.

The description of Atman is itself the path.

Dil mein zauq-e-wasl o yaad-e-yaar tak baqi nahin—
A fire caught this house such that whatever was there burned.

Kindle such a fire in this house of sleep that all within it burns; so that even the memory of old delights and attachments is gone. Only after such burning will your pure gold, your kundan, emerge.

Talash-e-yaar mein kya dhoondhiye kisi ka saath—
hamara saya hamein nagawar raah mein hai.

And on this inner journey of Mahavira, no companion will be found. Here even one’s own shadow is burdensome. This is the path of the alone—the one.

Withdraw gradually from the crowd; withdraw from the other; drop concern for others’ opinions; remove dualities.

There comes a moment when even your shadow is not with you, for shadow belongs to body, mind, thought—gross. The Atman casts no shadow. Now the condition is that the Atman is lost and shadow remains; then comes the condition where Atman remains and even the shadow is gone.

Do not think you will be able to do something merely by hearing Mahavira. Unless in your life you find the grounds on which Mahavira speaks, unless you see in your own life that he is right, even if you impose his words upon yourself—as the Jains have done—you will gain nothing; you will become more entangled; your knots will increase. Sometimes an ordinary householder appears more nirgrantha than a monk—because the monk has made more rules, more nets; he is not natural; his time is wasted tending regulations.

Hoti nahin qabool dua tark-e-ishq ki—
dil chahta na ho to zaban mein asar kahan.

If your heart itself does not long, what effect will words have? Do not take vows for the crowd. In temples, before people, one takes a vow of brahmacharya to harvest applause—but it is not born of life; later you will repent. If the heart longs, prayer is not needed—you desire, and it happens.

People try to manage both worlds; thus man becomes complex.

Shab ko mai khoob si pi, subah ko tauba kar li—
rind ke rind rahe, haath se jannat na gayi.

Drink wine at night, repent in the morning; the rake remains a rake, and heaven is still not lost. Managing both, both are lost. He who manages one, all is managed; and that one is hidden within—you. Mahavira calls it your inner Atman, your Paramatman.

Enough for today.