Jin Sutra #19

Life is only for a little while. If the morning has come, the evening will not delay. The moment you are born, death has already begun to walk toward you.
Between birth and death there is not much time — a very brief span. Do not spend it asleep. Because one who passes it in sleep never comes to know who he was, why he had come; he remains untouched by the mysteries of life. And in your very breath you will carry away nothing but tears, unfulfilled longings, discontent, sorrow.
Only the awake gathers; the asleep remains empty. And life is so short that unless with a wild surge, with a great resolve, with the passion to stake your whole life, you wish to awaken — you will not awaken.
Many are such who, asleep, dream that they have awakened — and convince themselves they are awake. Out of a hundred, ninety-nine sadhus and sannyasins are dreaming of awakening; they have not awakened. Because the process of awakening demands that courage by which one can wager his very life on it — and that courage is not seen in them. More often it happens that sadhus and sannyasins are frightened people. They become renunciates not out of courage, but out of fear of the world. And what can renunciation have to do with fear?
Before we enter the sutras, keep this in mind: audacity is needed. Such courage — ready to put everything at stake! The guts to take the risk. The heart of a gambler is needed. You cannot walk this path by mere cleverness. The clever go astray. Too much smartness proves, in the end, to be foolishness; for the clever one keeps accounts grain by grain. He may save the grains, but the treasure of life is lost. He saves drops and loses the ocean. Time is spent gathering pebbles and stones — and evening does not take long to fall. If the morning has come, evening has begun. The sun has barely risen and already it has started to set; the moment it lifts in the east, its journey toward the west has begun.
Before the sun sets, before darkness takes hold of you and it becomes hard to find yourself — and this has happened so many times — it is necessary to awaken you. Innumerable times you have seen the sun, you have seen the morning.
And the story of your life never comes to completion. When did it ever for anyone?
The age was listening with great delight,
We fell asleep in the very midst of telling our tale.
The tale is never completed. Everyone dies in the middle. Because desires are infinite and time is limited. The cup of life cannot hold so many desires.
If you want to go empty-handed — that is the worldly life. If you want to go with hands full — that is the religious life. But religion begins with courage.
There are two kinds of religious people in the world. One — religious out of fear. They cannot steal, out of fear; therefore they are “non-thieves.” They cannot be dishonest, from fear of being caught; therefore they are “honest.” Such honesty cannot be very deep. In this honesty deceit is hiding. It is superficial; within, dishonesty dwells. They do not lie because they might be caught. They do not do adharma because there is fear of sin, fear of hell. The flames of hell are visible to them — and their hands and feet become limp.
Most people in the world are religious — out of fear; out of the fear of punishment. But one who is religious out of fear cannot be religious at all. Better the irreligious — at least he is not afraid.
Mahavira called fearlessness the very foundation of dharma. And indeed, fearlessness is the basic wall of religion. Because you are to lose the world and search for something of which you have as yet no knowledge. How will this be without courage? That which is in front of you is to be left; and that which has never appeared — always invisible, hidden behind deep layers of the unseen, behind veils of mystery — that is to be sought.
The sensible say, “Half a bread in the hand is better.” Better half in hand than a whole loaf far away! So the intelligent say, “Enjoy what is.” Even if there is not much in it; but do not stake it — who knows whether that for which you stake exists or not! The Truth, the Atman, the Paramatman for which you set out — who has seen them? Hence Charvaka says, ‘Rinam kritva ghritam pivet’ — borrow, but drink ghee; it is right here before you! For which heaven are you renouncing? Even if the debt remains unpaid, don’t worry. But what is present — enjoy it.
The first step of religion is taken when you see that what is before you is not even worth enjoying. Whether you enjoy it or not — it comes to the same. Even if you enjoy it, what have you enjoyed? Even upon attaining it, what will you attain? Yes, in attaining and enjoying it, the time spent — that is the wealth of life gone.
Mahavira gave the Atman the name “Samay” — Time. It is of great significance. Mahavira calls the Atman: “Samay.” If you waste time, you waste the Atman. If you save time, you save the Atman. Just as objects occupy space, the Atman occupies time. Objects happen outside — in space; the Atman happens inside — in time.
Einstein might have agreed with Mahavira; he too discovered that life is made of two elements: time and space.
Objects are made of space — that is clear. Where is human consciousness? Nowhere can you point to it in space. You cannot indicate it with a finger. Wherever you place your hand, you will err. The Atman of man is somewhere in time. The body is in space, the Atman is in time. Objects are in space, events are in time. If you fall in love and someone asks, where is love, what will you say? You will say, love is an event, not a thing. When you say love is an event, you are saying it is in time, not in space. Hence we cannot say where it is. We can only say when it happened — at what hour, at what auspicious moment!
We can squander time collecting trifles. The trivial is in front; the vast remains hidden. And collecting the trivial you attain nothing. Hence Mahavira says, put it on the stake. It is trash; in staking it you lose nothing. And the time that is saved — the pure time not wasted in the world — that very pure time becomes meditation.
Time not squandered in the world is dhyana. Time not stained by worldly busyness is dhyana.
For Mahavira the word for meditation is “Samayik.” It is born of “Samay” — time.
Mahavira is very scientific in his vocabulary.
The time that is not invested in the world — that is Samayik.
Mahavira does not have God to say, “Time invested in God is meditation.” No — the time that is not invested in the world, the time that remains untouched by the world, which the world could not contaminate, upon which no shadow of the world has fallen — virginal time — that is Samayik.
One who has not saved time, who has not known the purity of time, who has not lived in Samayik — he came in the spring, yet lived in the fall. Grace was raining, but his bowl lay upside down. The stream of nectar flowed; he stood on the bank with his back turned — looking elsewhere, thirsty, with a parched throat.
What you are involved in today — tomorrow you will find it futile. One who finds this sooner has that much awareness, that much intelligence in him. Some never see it till their last breath — not even after dying! Some awaken a little as old age comes. As the body starts to wobble a bit, the soul gathers a little. Illnesses begin to take hold, diseases make a home, one gets hurt. A thought arises: how life has been squandered! But the more intelligent awaken in full youth. When all around the alluring world was there and the attractions on every side — even then they looked with a deep eye and found behind it all: nothing, just the mind’s illusions; a web of one’s own fancies and dreams; one’s own projections. Some awaken even in their childhood!
They say Lao Tzu was born awakened. It could be so; because the reverse we see daily — people die asleep. If for a whole life people can die asleep, if that extreme can happen, then at the other extreme it can also happen that someone is born awake; one whose very sunrise contains the sense of evening; one who, the moment the lamp is lit, remembers its extinction. The more intense the intelligence, the more religious it is.
Where are those songs of mine now?
The emerald cup is shattered,
The glow of wine has vanished;
Those toys that soothed my restless heart —
Where are they now?
Where are those songs of mine now?
On the world’s tasteless desert-sand
I laughed — supported by them;
Those gardens of my ever-spring-fed dreams —
Where are they now?
Where are those songs of mine now?
May it not be that you remember this only when you no longer have the strength to do anything! Everyone remembers someday. All those songs with which you lulled your mind, humming them softly — one day they all prove futile. Lines drawn on water; signatures made on sand — you cannot even make them before they are wiped away and vanish! Paper boats you launched — they sank as soon as you set them afloat! Houses of cards — a slight gust, and then no trace to be found!
Where are those songs of mine now?
The emerald cup is shattered,
The glow of wine has vanished;
Those toys that soothed my restless heart —
Where are they now?
Where are those songs of mine now?
But may this not occur on that day when there is no power left in the eyes to see, no energy in the breath to awaken! May it occur now — then something can happen.
Mahavira says the experience of the world can be divided into three parts. The objects that are seen are Jneya — the known. What we know is farthest from us. One who is after wealth is after the known, the gross. For him the objective world is everything. He will gather wealth, status, build houses — but his insistence will be on things. One who steps a little inward does not grasp the known, he grasps knowing. There is a tree. You are looking at trees. Trees are the last periphery of the known — Jneya. Move a little inward: between the trees and you a very significant event is occurring — Jnana, knowing. Trees are seen; they are green, beautiful, delightful. Their fragrance fills your nostrils. From the fresh earth a scent arises. The flowers have bloomed. The birds are singing. A bridge stretches between you and them, a filament-web. That filament-web is what we call knowledge — Jnana. If there are no eyes, you will not see the greenness. So greenness is not only in the trees — without eyes it cannot be. Greenness happens between the trees and the eyes. Scientists too now agree. When there is no seer, do not think that the trees in your garden remain green. If there is no one to see, they cannot be green. Because greenness is not a property of the tree; greenness is the relation between tree and eye. Without eyes trees are not green — they cannot be. There is no way. If there are no eyes, greenness will not manifest. Trees will be — colorless. The rose will not be rosy. The rose and you meeting — then the rose becomes rosy. ‘Rosy’ is the relationship between you and the rose.
So the second realm is Jnana — knowing. Some people chase things and flowers. Those a little more understanding search for knowing. Scientists, philosophers, poets, thinkers — they are engaged in grasping knowledge. They expand knowing.
Mahavira says: this too is a little outside. Hidden deeper within is your knowing nature — Jnata, the knower. These are the three stances — Jnata, Jneya, Jnana. Those who seek the supreme mystery do not even concern themselves with knowledge; they concern themselves with: “Who is this that knows?” Those farthest out on the journey of knowing concern themselves with “What is the thing to be known?” The seekers of the ultimate mystery ask: Who is the one that knows? Who am I that knows — for whom trees are green, for whom rosy flowers are rosy; for whom moon and stars are beautiful! Who is this ‘I’?
Between these two is the philosopher, the scientist, the thinker. Mahavira’s entire search is for that knower-form: “Who is this that knows?” Because Mahavira says, if the knower is not known, what will you do by knowing the rest? If you do not recognize yourself, what use are other recognitions? If without familiarity with yourself you set out — then however many acquaintances you make, what is their essence? Do not squander life in knowing others. Do not waste it in comprehending the process of knowing. Who is this within you through whom knowing happens, through whom the relation with the known arises? This knower-ness! This Chaitanya! This awareness! Its search is religion.
First sutra:
Navi hodi appamatto, na pamattô jānāo du jo bhāvo.
Evam bhaṇanti suddhaṁ, nāo jo so u so chev.
“The Atman is Jnayaka — the knower. The Atman is the one who knows; the seer. The knower is neither apramatta (unmindful) nor pramatta (mindful). That which is neither inattentive nor attentive — that alone is pure. The Atman is known only as the knower, and in the pure sense it is solely the knower. In it there is no impurity born of the known.”
This is a very fine, subtle sutra! Try to understand it. It is very close to the deepest heart of Mahavira. This is his foundation upon which the whole temple of Jain sadhana stands.
The Atman is the knower — this is the first thing, the first proclamation, the first statement that the Atman is not the known, not an object — not something you can know. Because whatever we know — its mystery is lost. Hence the Atman can never become an object of science; there is no possibility. However much science tries, whatever it comes to know will not be the Atman. Because the Atman is absolutely the knower; it cannot be known. We cannot place it before ourselves. That before which we place all else — that itself is the Atman. We can never place the Atman itself before us.
If you understand Mahavira correctly, he is saying: the word “self-knowledge” is not quite accurate. Knowledge of objects is possible, knowledge of others is possible — but how self-knowledge? Self-knowledge would mean you have split the Atman in two — knower and known. Mahavira says: the knower is the Atman; that which is known is not the Atman.
We know our body. The foot is hurt; there is pain. Mahavira says: since you know that the foot is in pain, one thing is certain — you are not this pain, you are not this foot. The knower is always beyond; transcendental. Hunger arises — Mahavira says one thing is certain: you came to know hunger arose; therefore you are not hunger. You are the one to whom it became apparent, to whom it was felt that hunger has come; the body is hungry, bread is needed; thirst has come, water is needed; it is hot, sweat streams are flowing, let me seek some cool place, some shade.
Whatever you know, by knowing it, becomes “the other.” Knowledge makes everything the “other.” Knowledge is only of the other. So “self-knowledge” cannot be — not in the sense in which we know other things.
The Atman is the knower, not the known. Always the one who knows. Therefore those who seek the Atman should constantly move inward to that place where only the knower remains and nothing is left to know. Mahavira calls that Samadhi — where pure knowing remains and there is nothing left to be known; the lamp burns, but its light falls upon no object. The lamp is burning now; its light falls upon the wall — the lamp is the knower, the wall becomes the known, and the relationship that joins the two is knowledge. Imagine a lamp burning in emptiness, its flame falling upon nothing — such a state of consciousness Mahavira calls Samadhi. Where pure awareness — only the knower-form remains; no object to know creates disturbance; no object to know produces impurity — unbroken, unobstructed flow of consciousness; pure consciousness alone!
“The Atman is the knower.” And — “the knower is neither apramatta nor pramatta.”
This too is well worth pondering. Mahavira says, you are asleep now — awaken! But then he also says: awakening is not the nature of the Atman either. If sleep is not the nature of the Atman, how can waking be its nature? Both waking and sleeping are outside the Atman. A day comes when you begin to experience that you are beyond both waking and sleeping. You are the one who knows: now I am awake, now I slept. In the morning you know: ah, I woke! So you cannot be one with waking. You come to know waking: I am awake! All night you slept; in the morning you say: such deep sleep came! That too you know. Sleep you know. Sometimes sleep does not come right; in the morning you say, there were interruptions, the night was unbridled, there were bad dreams, it was all uneven. There was no peace, no rest, I rose tired; the night did not bring sleep! So at night you know sleep; in the morning you know awakening. Certainly you are neither waking nor sleep. You are the Atman — knower-form beyond both waking and sleep.
“The knower is neither apramatta nor pramatta.”
But from a practical standpoint we say to the sleeping one: awaken — if the Atman is to be known. When he awakens, we say: now awaken even from awakening! To the worldly we say: take sannyas! Then to the sannyasin we say: now drop even sannyas! It is like this: a thorn has entered your foot; with another thorn you pull it out; then you throw both thorns away. There was a disease — you took medicine; when the disease goes, the bottle is thrown in the trash. The effort toward awakening is no more than a medicine. The disease is — you are asleep; this is our condition. To rouse it, the medicine is dhyana, awakening, viveka. But when you are awake, it becomes clear: I am beyond waking too. This sleeping and waking — even this is happening in the body and the mind.
Hence Krishna says in the Gita: Yā nisā sarvabhūtānām, tasyām jāgarti saṁyamī — when all are asleep, the disciplined one is awake. What does this mean? Does the disciplined one not sleep? He sleeps, but he knows: that which slept is not I.
Mahavira goes even further. He says: when the disciplined one is awake, he still does not identify with waking — sleep he certainly does not identify with, as Krishna says people do, saying “we slept.” The disciplined one says, “I remained awake.” Mahavira says: go higher still. Do not identify with waking either; with sleep you certainly have to break identity. Break stupor, but do not cling to non-stupor. Break attachment, but do not cling to detachment.
Hence Mahavira used a new word: Vitaraga. Mahavira did not call his supreme renunciates “viragi” — dispassionate — because “viragi” seems like the opposite of raga (attachment). You were asleep — now awake. You were in the world — now sannyasin. There was raga — you achieved viraga. Mahavira says: Vitaraga.
The word Vitaraga is wondrous! Vitaraga means: neither attachment remained, nor detachment remained. Vito — gone beyond; you have crossed both! That whole world has gone! You dropped the whole coin. The world of duality no longer accompanies you. Sleep and waking are also a duality. Raga and viraga a duality! World and sannyas too a duality. You have become non-dual; gone beyond all!
“One who is neither apramatta nor pramatta — he alone is pure.”
This is a unique definition of purity. One who does not wake, does not sleep; who is not stupefied, nor un-stupefied; who neither gets lost in the world, nor gets lost in sannyas — who does not identify anywhere — he is pure. What Gurdjieff calls “identification” — tadata. One who does not connect his nature with any thing. Who remains far, beyond! Who always knows, I am separate, I am separate. With no thing does he carry the feeling “this am I.” The moment the feeling “this am I” arises — impurity begins. Because whatever we join with begins to affect us.
Have you noticed? People identify with certain things and slowly that color spreads over their lives. A poet who identifies with experiences of beauty — slowly you will see: he begins to become beautiful. A new quality appears in his life. He becomes beautiful. One who takes himself to be a warrior, a fighter — slowly the signs of a warrior begin to appear around him.
We become that with which we identify. Slowly that which we have linked with ourselves transforms us.
Hypnotists know that if a man is hypnotized and told, “You are not a man, you are a woman,” in deep hypnosis he identifies with being a woman. Then if you tell him, “Walk,” he will not walk like a man, he will begin to walk like a woman — which is very difficult! Because a man’s bones are different. And especially a woman’s gait is different, for within her body there is the place for the womb. Because of that place, there is a roundness in her gait that cannot be in a man. But if you hypnotize someone and tell him he is a woman — he will walk like a woman. Tell him to speak; he will speak like a woman; even his voice will change. Such can be the depth of hypnosis. If you place a cold pebble on the hand of a hypnotized person and say, “These are embers we place on your hand,” his hand will burn, a blister will arise. The pebble is not hot — far from being an ember — it is cold stone; but you place it and say, “It is a live coal” — he will fling it off and jump up screaming, “You killed me, you burned me!” And not only will the spot appear — a real blister will rise.
What happened? There was no ember — but identification happened with the idea that there was an ember. That is why people can walk on fire — it too is identification. A Muslim fakir or a Hindu yogi can walk across embers. It is a matter of identification. There must be a firm identification that “I will walk, God will protect,” or “some wali will protect.” With such trust you will not burn. Your trust will be your protection. Identification is formed.
Ramakrishna practiced all the paths of religion — an experiment never before done. In those practices he lived for six months as the Bengal Krishna-bhaktas of a sect — the Radha sect. The practitioner of that sect lives with the feeling “I am Krishna’s gopi, I am Radha.” He wears women’s clothes, sleeps at night with an image of Krishna. For six months Ramakrishna practiced thus. An astonishing event occurred — his breasts grew large, feminine. When a person like Ramakrishna identifies, it is no small identification. He poured his whole being into it. His voice became feminine. He began to walk like a woman. Not only this — he began to have menstruation, which is a wondrous event. Such was the identification! Even after the sadhana ended, it took another six or eight months for the feminine form to depart.
The science of hypnosis is reaching the verge of opening great doors, and a day will come when, on revealing its full studies, many things of religion will become very easy to understand.
Whatever you are — it is your own idea. If you take yourself to be unhappy, you will become more and more unhappy. If you can take yourself to be happy, you will become more and more happy.
Someone asked the Sufi Ba Yazid, “You are so joyous — always joyous — what is the matter?” He said, “I made one rule: in the morning when I wake up two choices lie before me — to be happy today or not to be happy; to pass the day in happiness or in misery. And I almost always choose happiness. Why select misery? What sense is there? So I am happy.”
Try it. In the morning let your first decision be: today I will be happy. Suddenly you will find many events of happiness begin to occur. They would occur anyway, but if you have decided to be miserable — as ninety-nine people have — they are thinking they will be happy when some happy event occurs. Until then — they will be miserable, what to do! Perhaps a lottery will open some day — then they will be happy. I say even then they will not be happy, because the habit of misery becomes so strong, so solidified, that even when a happy event comes, you do not know how to be happy. One who has never danced — even if the moment to dance comes, how will he dance? His hands and feet will not cooperate.
Mahavira says purity means: where there is no identification — neither with pleasure nor with pain; neither with body nor with mind. Where only the pure knower remains and no thing casts a shadow — in that shadowless realm the Atman is pure.
“The Atman is known only as the knower.”
There is no way to know the Atman as the known. It is known only as the knower, not as a known thing.
“And in the pure sense it is solely the knower. In it there is no impurity born of the known.”
Understand this a little. Have you noticed? Whenever someone stares at you intently, you feel a certain restlessness and obstruction. Hence a rule is accepted in society: no one looks at another intently for more than three seconds. If he does, we call him a lout. A lout is one who stares (from “lochana” — eyes). Fixing eyes on another — a lout. Three seconds is all right; it is accepted. Passing on the road, a man may look for a moment at another — fine. But if he keeps looking again and again, if he stops and stares, fixes his gaze — have you noticed, if someone fixes his eyes on you, you feel restless! Even if someone stands behind you and stares at you from behind — you will still feel restless; though you are not looking at him, you will know he is staring.
Experiment and see. On a train, in a bus, stand behind someone and fix your gaze on his spine for two or three minutes. He will turn immediately and look with anger. Psychologists have done many experiments on this.
What is the matter? Why does a man not tolerate another’s fixed gaze? Because whenever someone looks at you intently, very intently, he changes you into an object. He destroys your knower-nature. He makes you the known — an object. Just as someone looks at a chair, a house, a tree — if he looks at you in the same way, then your knower-form is destroyed. You feel you are being taken for a thing; as if you were something to be looked at.
Yes, if someone looks at you with great love there is no restlessness. If the one looking is beloved to you, there is no unease. Because you know — he is not looking at your body. You know — he is not making you into a thing. You know — his eyes are searching for your knower-nature; they are searching your inner being. His eyes go within you in search of you — you who cannot be made into an object — he holds the desire to be in companionship with that. Therefore only in moments of love does the gaze not feel obscene. Otherwise if someone keeps staring — the eye becomes violent; it appears vulgar, outside the bounds of decorum.
Whenever you look at a person do not try to make him into a thing. Otherwise you are seeing with violence. Do not look at a person as a means, for each person is an end — a supreme end. Do not look at a person thinking: what use is he; this man has position, he will be useful, say Jai Ramji; this man has office, flatter him a little; this man has wealth, a need may arise; this man has power, friendship will be practical.
When you look at a person as a means, you are violent. Because that knower-nature hidden within him is an end — an ultimate end. It cannot be made a means.
“The Atman is known only as the knower, and in the pure sense it is solely the knower. In it there is no impurity born of the known.”
This is very fundamental. Do not lose it in a web of words. Do not lose it in intellectual intricacies. Many intricacies have been spun around it. Scholars have made many meanings, interpretations — pro and con. Scholars have their own accounts. They say: how can the knower stand alone without the known? They raise a logical doubt: if there is no known, how can there be a knower? If there is no knowledge, how can there be a knower?
A group of philosophers say that when the known and knowledge are lost, the knower too will be lost; darkness will prevail. Perhaps by logic their point looks right. But experience is a little beyond logic. And Mahavira has no taste for logic — he is simply stating what he has known. I tell you too: the knower remains. Knowledge is lost. The known is lost.
Therefore if you seek, do not fall into the net of logic. Take a few steps in the direction of sadhana.
Alfaz ke pechon mein ulajhta nahin dana,
Gavvās ko matlab hai sadaf se ki guhar se —
The wise grain does not get entangled in the twists of words.
The deep-diver cares for the shell — for the pearl.
— The wise do not become entangled in the traps of words.
The deep diver is interested in pearls — not in shells. Pearls are hidden in shells, but not in all; some shells are empty — some words are empty, they contain no pearl. Scholars’ words are like shells — they contain no pearl. Because the pearl must be shaped out of experience; it must be made of life. These words of Mahavira are not shells — they are pearls; and you will understand their meaning only when you too begin to shape them.
As I see it, until in some sense you begin to become like Mahavira, you will not understand Mahavira. There is only one way to understand: begin to become like that which you seek to understand.
“I am neither body, nor mind, nor speech, nor the cause of these. I am neither the doer, nor the instigator, nor even the approver of the doer.”
Nāhaṁ deho na mano, na ceva vāṇī na kāraṇaṁ tesiṁ.
Kattā na na kārayidā, anumantā neva kattīṇaṁ.
— Not body, not mind, not speech, not their cause, not the doer, not the one who makes do, nor the approver of the doer.
Yesterday we were speaking of the Gita. Krishna says: become merely an instrument. Mahavira says: not even an instrument. If you become an instrument, you still are something — you still give support, you become a means. Mahavira says: neither the doer, nor the instigator, nor the approver of the doer. The instrument is a different matter — do not even give approval. Do not say even inwardly, “Yes, this is right.” If someone is killing someone, do not even say, “Yes, this is right.” Do not approve. Do not even think in the mind, “Yes, this is right.” Not even in the mind. If even a ripple arises within you — a little wave that says, “No, perhaps it is not wrong; it was necessary” — even then sin is done.
Krishna says, “For the destruction of adharma, of sin, Arjuna — become an instrument.” But Mahavira says: to become an instrument of violence is deadly under any pretext. It is dangerous. And what trust can be placed on the mind of man? Most often it happens that what you want to do you do in the name of God.
Man is very dishonest! Hence the world is so full of wars! Both sides say they are doing God’s work. Both say they are engaged in a dharma-yuddha. Since the Mahabharata happened and the Pandavas won, the history we have is one-sided.
Think a little — had the Kauravas won, would the history be the same? Had the Kauravas won, they would have proved that the Pandavas lost because they were irreligious. And if the Kauravas had won there would be no Krishna’s Gita; perhaps there would be some Bhishma Pitamah’s Gita.
Had Ravana won there would be no Ramayana — it could not be. Who would write it? Who writes for the defeated? The victorious have all companions; who accompanies the defeated? Then there would be a story opposite to the Ramayana — in which Ravana would be religious and Rama irreligious.
Think a little. Vibhishana betrayed; but a devotee of Rama says, “Devotee Vibhishana! Dear to Rama!” But had Ravana won and a story been written, Vibhishana would be proven the greatest of traitors, a cheat, a liar — the very origin of Mir Jafars.
Who writes the story determines it. And whoever writes it will assume, “What I did was what God wanted.”
Mahavira knows man’s dishonesty. Man is a great deceiver! He wants to do his own thing and pins it on God. If Hitler had won, the story would be another. Churchill won — the story is otherwise. Who writes the story decides.
Mahavira says: do not get entangled in these nets. How will you know God’s will? How will you decide that this is God’s will? How will you decide: Arjuna’s victory — that is God’s will?
Every man wants to win. And every man will do everything to win. And will assume: it is God’s will — He wants me to win.
In the last world war a German and an English general talked. The Germans had begun to lose. The German asked the English general, “You have begun to win — how do you keep winning? What is the secret?” The general said, “The secret is clear. Before we fight each day, we pray to God. God is with us.”
The German said, “That does not sound convincing, because we too pray before battle — and we too believe God is with us.”
The Englishman laughed and said, “You must understand one thing: has anyone ever heard God knows German? In what language do you pray?”
The Englishman thinks God knows English. Sanskrit pundits say Sanskrit is Devavani — the language of the gods! And other languages — they are not divine tongues!
It is very easy to consider your own language Devavani. And very easy to consider your own desire God’s desire. And very easy to hide your ego behind God’s screen.
Mahavira does not want to give man any means for self-deception. He says: that you are a deceiver is obvious — because for lives you have wandered, you deceive yourself in myriad ways.
“I am neither body nor mind nor speech nor their cause. I am neither doer nor instigator nor approver of the doer.”
Until with such profundity you remove your ultimate nature from all identifications, you will not reach that pure state which Mahavira calls “Jinatva.”
Even in renunciation our lust for enjoyment remains. And even when we drop desire, we do so to fulfill some desire. We even give charity out of greed. Priests sitting on the banks of the Ganges counsel people: “Give one here — receive a crore there.” What kind of accounting is this! What relation is there between one and a crore? But when one must stir greed — what harm in hyperbole! Give a penny here, receive a crore there! At least keep some sense of interest! This is a bit much. But the point is not the crore — the point is to squeeze one out of you. They know you are greedy; you will give charity out of greed. Even when you give, you first ask, “What will I get?”
When Bodhidharma reached China, the emperor asked: “I have built thousands of Buddha temples — what merit will I gain? And I feed hundreds of thousands of monks — the state sustains them — how much punya have I earned?” He had asked others too, but they were shopkeepers; they must have said, “Great merit is accruing; arrangements will be special for you in heaven.” They must have said seven heavens you will ascend; heaps of merit are being piled up; you will become Indra! But this Bodhidharma was a bit rustic, simple and straight.
He said, “Merit! Are you in your senses? For asking this — a sin accrued. You will fall in hell.” Emperor Wu was shaken: “In hell!” Bodhidharma said: “Charity given with the hope of gain is not charity. If even a line of gain remains, charity is perverted.”
Still the emperor asked: “What I have done — is it not pure, not religious?” Bodhidharma said: “What has religion to do with purity? Religion is free even of purity. Pure and impure — those are worldly things.”
The emperor was displeased — because who likes such a man! Our greed we hold so dear that even to make us give we must be seduced through greed. We are so afraid that even to make us fearless our fear must be trained. Our life is in a strange reversal. Life is life — and even when we die, the structure of our hopes does not change.
On my ashes, someone sits with a one-stringed lute —
Hope still keeps singing a little song.
We die, graves are made — yet on the grave you will find the same old hope playing its one string — the same desire, the same lust, the same greed, the same attachment!
“One who knows the pure nature of the Atman, and who knows the states of the other (all that is not the Atman) — what wise one would say, ‘This is mine’?”
Mahavira says: the basis of ignorance is to say, “This is mine.” Mamatva — attaching “mine” to anything, identifying the Atman with anything — that is the basis of all adharma. He says: what knower of the pure nature would say, “This is mine”? “Mine” is ignorance — condensed ignorance! Say “my house.” Or “my shop.” Or say “my temple.” Or say “my religion.” Say “my son!” Or say “my guru!” Wherever “mine” is — where emphasis is on “my” — there is ignorance. The claim “my” is the claim of ignorance.
Nothing is yours — except you.
Mahavira is very absolute and clear here. Other than you — nothing is yours. Only your being is your own. That alone you brought; that alone you will take. All else is play. A wife, a husband; a friend, an enemy; one of your own, one a stranger — all play. Where you are staying — there, nothing is “mine.”
It is a dharmashala; to stay a night — fine. In the morning, move on — move on you must. Mahavira says: one who drops “mine” — his ignorance falls away.
What happens when you say “my house”? No change occurs in the house — that is clear. You will die; the house will not cry. If the house falls, you will cry. One thing is sure: when you say “my house,” the change occurs in you, not in the house. The house remains exactly as it is.
A Sufi fakir was going with his disciples. On the way he saw a man dragging a cow by a rope. He said to his disciples, “Surround this man — there is a lesson to teach.” The man was taken aback: what lesson? The fakir asked his disciples: “Tell me, which of these two is the slave of the other — this man the slave of the cow, or the cow the slave of the man?” Naturally the disciples said: “The cow is the slave — the rope is in the man’s hand, he can take her where he wants.” The fakir said: “You have looked from above. Imagine we cut the rope — then will the cow follow the man, or the man follow the cow?” They said: “If the rope is cut the cow will not follow — even with the rope she hardly goes. The man will follow the cow.”
The fakir said: “Do not be deceived by the rope. The cow has nothing to do with the man. The cow has made no identification with the man; the man has made identification with the cow. So the slave is this man, not the cow.”
When you say “my house,” do not think the house says, “You are my master.” Houses do not make such mistakes. Houses are not so ignorant. Houses care nothing for you. If they had a little consciousness they would laugh — they would smile at your foolishness. They might forgive you, “All right, you are ignorant — let it pass.” But houses have nothing to do with you. Before you were, the house could have stood; after you are gone, it will remain.
Ibrahim was the emperor of Balkh. A fakir came to his door and created a fuss: “I must stay in this palace.” But he did not say “palace.” He said, “I must stay in this inn.” He argued loudly with the guard.
The guard said, “I’ve told you a thousand times this is not a dharmashala — not an inn. The inn is elsewhere. This is the king’s palace — his own residence. Are you in your senses? What are you talking? This is no place to stay.”
The fakir said, “Then I want to see the king.” Ibrahim too was listening from within — the voice of that fakir had some magic in it, some sting; there was something mysterious in his way of speaking, not merely stubbornness or madness. “Bring him in.” The fakir came in and asked, “Who is the king? You?” He was on the throne. Ibrahim said, “Clearly, I am the king. And this is my residence; you are making useless trouble at the gate.”
The fakir said, “Strange! I came earlier too — there was some other man on this throne and he too said the same.”
The king said, “That was my father — now he has passed away.”
“And before him I had come — there was a third man sitting. And every time I come, the guards change, the man changes. The house is the same. And every time — the same quarrel!”
“They were my father’s father — he too is gone.”
The fakir asked Ibrahim, “When I come a fourth time will I find you here, on this throne — or someone else? Since so many change here — that is why I call it an inn. You too are here only for a while. What is the harm if I also stay? If the morning has come, you will go — I will go.”
They say Ibrahim was awakened. He stepped down from the throne and said, “You have woken me. Now you stay — I will go. What is there to do here! Why even waste this little time where in the morning one must go!”
Ibrahim left the palace, and became one of the great Sufi fakirs.
My house! My son! My wealth! My religion! Wherever you spread “mine,” your “I” — the false “I” — arises. The “I” that is made by the expansion of “mine,” Mahavira calls that ego. And the “I” that remains when all “mine” breaks — Mahavira calls that the Atman. What you have taken so far as your “I” — that is not the “I.” It is but the rope tied between you and the cow. It is not your inner being. It is your stamp of ego stuck upon your house.
Hence Mahavira says:
Ko nāma bhaṇijja buho, nāuṁ savve parāie bhāve.
Majjhamiṇaṁ ti ya vayaṇaṁ, jāṇanto appayaṁ suddhaṁ.
“What knower will say, ‘This is mine,’ when all names belong to the other? The utterance ‘in the middle’ is apt only for one who knows the pure self.”
One who has known “nothing is mine” — only he is the knower. And only he who has known “nothing is mine” will come to know “Who am I?”
People come and ask, “How to know who I am?” The direct process is: loosen “mine.” Wherever you find “mine,” cut the rope. There is no need to run away — to leave your home and flee. Fleeing seems like an inability to cut — running away in fear. Fear that if I stay, the house might become “mine”! That I might start feeling “it is mine”! So you flee to the forest — what will happen there? The bush beneath which you sit will become yours.
Do you see? Even a beggar makes his place on the roadside “his.” If another beggar comes there — there is a quarrel. It’s nothing — a public road. But beggars have their pitches. Where a beggar sits is his shop.
A man passed before a beggar. The beggar cried, “Baba! Give some money so I can go to the cinema.” In front was a board: “I am blind.” The man asked, “Are you blind?” He said, “No, actually this pitch belongs to another beggar. He is on leave today. I am not blind, I am lame. This is another’s shop. I am just sitting today because he is off. And this spot is prime. When he is off, he seats me here.”
If you go to the forests, to the Himalayan caves where renunciates who left the world sit — they too have their caves: let no other sit. If another does, there is a fight. What difference does it make? The house is dropped — the cave becomes “mine.” The cave is dropped — you sit by the roadside; that patch becomes yours. It is not a question of where you attach yourself — anywhere you will glue the “I.” Wherever you stick it, the problem begins.
People stick it even to religion. “My temple!” Hindus say: ours! The Muslims’ mosque — “ours!” A Hindu is delighted when a mosque falls.
A Hindu pundit and a Muslim maulvi were great friends. The maulvi was planning to build a new mosque and was seeking donations. He wrote to his friends, and to the pundit as well: “We are striving to build a mosque — a donation!” The pundit wrote back, “Impossible. I am a Hindu — to donate for a mosque is not possible. Yes, I send a hundred rupees for the demolition of the old one. Will you demolish the old before building the new? My donation is for tearing down the old. Use it only for that. How can I give for building?”
If a mosque falls a Hindu is pleased; if a temple burns a Muslim is pleased. No one cares for God — they care for their own. If your God is being beaten, no one comes to save him. People are happy — “good, yours are being beaten.”
In Jabalpur during Ganesh festival, Ganesh processions go on. Each neighborhood has its place allotted. First the Brahmins’ quarter’s Ganesh, then another, then at the end the Harijan quarter.
Once the Brahmins’ quarter was a little late and the oil-pressers’ Ganesh arrived first. When the Brahmins’ Ganesh came, the Brahmins said: “Move the oil-pressers’ Ganesh — how can their Ganesh be ahead!”
Yes — there are different Ganeshas for Brahmins and oil-pressers! Move the oil-pressers’ Ganesh back! An insult indeed. And the oil-pressers’ Ganesh was pushed back. Leave aside Hindu and Muslim deities — even among Hindus, deities of oil-pressers and Brahmins differ.
Everywhere man stands waving the flag of his ego. One who lets this flag drop is able to know the Atman.
Drop this mine-and-thine. Do not be too enchanted with dreams.
Tark-e-umeed se hi milega sukoon-e-dil —
Only by renouncing hope will the heart’s peace be found.
What trust can you place on a life of two days!
Keep only this much seeing: that whatever is here, is for two days, a passing moment. Look carefully at its transience — then you will not call it “mine.”
Only by renouncing hope will the heart’s peace be found.
And the deep peace of the heart — the peace of the Atman — comes only from the abandonment of desire; only from the abandonment of attachment.
What trust can you place on a life of two days!
“I am one, pure, without ‘mine-ness,’ and filled with knowledge and vision. Abiding in my pure nature and absorbed in it, I bring all these alien states to cessation.”
Ahamikko khalu suddho, nimmamao ñāṇadaṁ daṁsana-samaggo.
Tamhī ṭhio taccitto, savve eae khayaṁ ṇemi.
“I am one...”
Understand each word of this sutra. Mahavira says: I am one. You cannot yet say you are one. If you look carefully, you will find you are a crowd. You are many. You are a marketplace. A turmoil in which many voices dwell.
Mahavira said: ordinarily man is “bahucittavan” — multi-minded. He used this word twenty-five hundred years ago. Modern psychology now uses it: multispychic. A person does not have one mind; he has many.
You often say, “My mind does not like it.” Did you notice — what your mind did not like in the morning, that very thing in the evening starts to be liked! What was good today, tomorrow becomes bad. What was delightful a moment ago, becomes the enemy. Do you not think you have many minds, not one? If there were one mind your love would be of one flavor. If one mind, your mood would be steady. If one mind, there would be no change. There would be eternity within you.
But you are a crowd. Gurdjieff said: you are a house whose master is asleep — and the servants have formed shifts, because each servant wants to be master. All at once they cannot. With the master asleep — the servants have divided the shifts. Each becomes master for half an hour. When a servant is master, he runs the show. He listens to no one.
Gurdjieff is right. Such is man’s condition.
When you are in anger, anger rules. It is one servant of yours. And in anger you do such things that an hour later, when the reign of anger is gone, you will repent — because another master has come. That master says, “What mistake! A great error.” You seek forgiveness. Under the influence of this second master you say to someone, “Never again will I be angry.”
Again you err. The one who gets angry — when his mastery returns — this repentance will not help; this assurance will not help. Why would anger fulfill a promise given by another?
Lust arises, and you come under its influence. Then in the morning you go to the temple and take a vow of brahmacharya. Evening you forget. Evening comes — lust sits on the throne — you are in trouble again.
Try to understand. None of these minds is yours. You are asleep. Among these minds you must choose none — for any you choose, your situation will be like a democratic government — the rule of the majority. But can one trust the majority? Today one party is in the majority, tomorrow another. Today’s friend becomes tomorrow’s foe. There forms change daily. The play goes on. That government which appears formed can fall at any moment. Those you never hoped would come to power — reach the throne. This goes on. It is like the waves rising in the ocean.
If by oath you fabricated a majority, you will be in trouble. The minority will always create uproar. They will agitate; create troubles; pull down the majority. This is the difference between a disciplined man and a knower. The disciplined tries to create a democratic government within.
Ki tarke-may to maile-pindar ho gaya —
By too much “no,” my clay-pot became smeared.
Main tauba karke aur gunahgaar ho gaya —
By repentance I became even more a sinner.
Have you ever sworn not to do something?
The moment you swear, more relish arises for it. Even if earlier there was no such relish — vow and see!
By too much “no,” my clay-pot became smeared —
as soon as you renounce something, imagination leaps on horseback: “Oh, taste it! There must be great pleasure — otherwise why is the world so against it? There must be some secret. So many advice against — yet no one leaves it!”
By repentance I became even more a sinner —
Repent — say, “Never again.” And immediately sins will begin to rise within; the desire to do will surge whenever you say, “Never again.”
Try a fast. That day you will relish food as never before. That day you will eat only food. Night and day you will dream only of eating. What you drop, imagination becomes juicy toward that.
The disciplined is in great inner conflict — civil war. There is a difference between the disciplined and the knower. Mahavira’s emphasis is on the knower.
Mahavira says: “I am one, pure, without mine-ness, filled with knowledge and vision. Abiding in my pure nature and absorbed in it, I bring all alien states to cessation.”
Mahavira does not say: “By destroying alien states I become established in my nature.” He says: “By abiding in my nature, alien states come to cessation.”
“I abide in my nature and am absorbed...”
The real question is being absorbed in the One; less the renunciation of the world, more the experience of truth, the taste of truth.
“I am one...”
Who is one within you? Desires are many; thoughts are many. Even the body is not one — because it changes each day. In childhood one; in youth another; in old age another. And these are gross divisions — look carefully and it changes daily. Morning it is one, evening another. The body changes a thousand times. The mind changes a million times. None of these are one. Within all this, if you find the One — it is only the witness — the knower-form which Mahavira calls the Jnata — that is one. In childhood it was the same, in youth the same, in old age the same. In pleasure, in pain, in anger, in love, in compassion — the same. That One.
One who grasps the One has found life’s base. He who builds his house upon that One — its spires rise to moksha.
“I am one, pure, without mine-ness, filled with knowledge and vision...”
The single mark of the inner being is: knowledge-vision — the capacity to know and to see. That is its nature. If you use this capacity to know and see — the world is created. If you do not use it, leave it pure — moksha blossoms.
“Abiding in this pure nature and absorbed in it, I bring all alien states to cessation.”
Thirst only wandered — the hope of water never met;
Waves came to the river — the shore’s solace never met;
Eyes met, but lips like wings only quivered and stopped;
Love was born — but love never found a language.
— Such is life: only thirst, no quenching.
Thirst only wandered — the hope of water never met.
What you call the world — thirst and thirst and thirst — a desert. Yes, mirages appear in the distance; when you come near, they prove to be mirages.
Thirst only wandered — the hope of water never met.
Even if springs appeared, they did not prove true. They were dreams of the mind.
Waves came to the river — the shore’s solace never met.
Waves arose many; but the shore — that place where all waves rest — did not appear.
Storms aplenty, tempests aplenty — but no refuge where peace descends.
Waves came to the river — the shore’s solace never met.
Eyes met — the lips, like wings, only trembled and stopped — always incomplete. Something gained, something was lost.
Eyes met — the lips only quivered like wings;
Love was born — but love found no language.
In this world there is thirst and love — but neither language, nor medium, nor door appears. The soul wanders in deserts — of thirst, of dissatisfaction, of discontent.
If you go outward — so it will be. Coming within — the shore is found. Outside only thirst; inside only quenching. Let me say: outside nothing but thirst, and not a drop of quenching; inside nothing but quenching, and not a drop of thirst. The real issue is to come within.
Bliss is your nature.
“I am one, pure, without mine-ness, filled with knowledge and vision. Abiding in my pure nature and absorbed in it, I bring all alien states to cessation.”
All those thirsts, those flounderings, that running, that rush — the whole outer net, the dry throat, the weeping eyes — all that is relinquished, falls away.
The Upanishads express exactly this insight of Mahavira:
Ajo nityaḥ śāśvato ’yaṁ purāṇo —
Unborn, eternal, everlasting, the ancient — I am the Atman.
Ajo nityaḥ śāśvato ’yaṁ purāṇo.
Until one is linked with the Eternal, how can happiness be found in the transient? You are busy making wealth out of bubbles of water. Until they are in your hand, rainbows appear upon them; the moment you grasp — they burst.
The Upanishads say: satāṁ hi satya — the nature of the truthful is truth itself.
Truth is not something outside — it is the nature of your being.
Satāṁ hi satya. Tasmāt satye ramante —
Therefore they delight in the inner Truth.
The same Mahavira says: absorbed, abiding in the nature, alien states subside.
Bring this a little into practice. Rising, sitting — retain a thread within; string all the beads of life upon this thread. When you rise, remember: I am the knower, not the one who rises. The body rises; the mind rises. I am only the knower. Walk on the path — and go on knowing: the body walks, the mind walks; I am only knowing. I know the body walks, the mind walks. When you eat, remember: the food is going into the body; the body is being satisfied, the mind is being satisfied; but I am the knower.
Thread this knower through all the beads of life. Slowly it will become natural. Whatever you do, within an unbroken tone will sound: “I am the knower.” In that knower you will become one. Knowing that knower, you will go beyond the world.
Mahavira says: as lotus leaves live in water yet are untouched by water, so one who has found the witness — while in water, does not touch the water. Wherever you may be, you are outside the world. Even within the world, you are beyond. Then you stand in the crowd — alone. Right now even when you stand alone, you are in the crowd.
These words of Mahavira are not the statements of a philosopher. They are not the speculations of a metaphysician. They are the experiences of a great sadhaka. Make them your experience — then their secret will open. Make them your experiment — and become the laboratory for them — only then will these sutras prove true.
Satāṁ hi satya. Tasmāt satye ramante.
Delight in these truths. Let these truths become your nature. Then into your life “His” rain will fall:
Ajo nityaḥ śāśvato ’yaṁ purāṇo —
Of that Eternal which is always and will always be. And the moment that Eternal rains, the transient releases. The transient need not be dropped. Does anyone drop bubbles of water? Awareness comes — they drop on their own. In ignorance we clutch the world; in knowing we grasp ourselves. He who has found himself — has found all. He who has lost himself — even if he gains everything, what he has gained will not suffice. One day he will weep; his eyes will be full of tears.
Where are those songs of mine now?
The emerald cup is shattered,
The glow of wine has vanished;
Those toys that soothed my restless heart —
Where are they now?
Where are those songs of mine now?
On the world’s silent desert-sand
I laughed — supported by them;
Those gardens of my ever-spring-fed dreams —
Where are they now?
Where are those songs of mine now?
Before the eyes fill with tears and the heart remains a mere heap of ash — awaken! Before life slips from your hands — rises and scatters — arise! Do not lose the opportunity!
Life is brief. Do not waste it. The temple is within you. Learn to use time rightly — learn Samayik — and you will enter the temple.
Time invested in the world, and time released from the world — only two dimensions.
Release time from the world. Free time from the busyness of the world! Samayik will blossom! You will enter yourself! You will gain soul-wealth! The soul-song will play! The dance of the Atman! Absorbed, you will be immersed!
Enough for today.