Jin Sutra #21

Jaina vision is a vision like mathematics, like science. There is no place in it for poetry.
That is precisely its distinctiveness.
Just as two and two make four, so are Mahavira’s utterances. To understand them you need the intelligence of a scientist. As when we heat water to one hundred degrees it turns into steam. The moment water reaches a hundred degrees it will become steam. For producing steam, neither anyone’s prayer is needed, nor anyone’s blessing. And if the water has not reached a hundred degrees, pray a hundred thousand times, gather a hundred thousand blessings—the water will remain water; it will not become steam.

As science says: there is no need of God; the laws of nature are enough, sufficient; the presence of God would not add anything to those laws. A fundamental intuition of science is the principle of minimality—the fewer principles we can manage with, the more appropriate. The whole endeavor of science is that ultimately one single principle be found by which the entire riddle of life is solved. Hence the non-essential is to be given absolutely no place.

If by heating to a hundred degrees water becomes steam, then to make water steam there is no further need of any God. And anyone’s prayer is futile. Whoever knows this law—if he wishes to make water into steam, he will make it so.

From the standpoint of science, God belongs to our ignorance. Because we do not know the law of life, we take the name of God. You must have noticed, whenever you say ‘God knows,’ what you mean is that no one knows. ‘God knows’ does not mean that God knows—it only means that you do not know, no one knows. Wherever you have to confess your ignorance, you bring in God. But you present it in such a way that it seems as if someone knows. In saying ‘God knows,’ you have hidden the fact that you do not know; you have covered it over before the other, you have not allowed your ignorance to be exposed.

Science says: as knowledge grows, God recedes. The day knowledge is complete, God will be nullified.

Mahavira’s vision is of the same order. Therefore Mahavira denied God, denied prayer—he tried to understand the pure mathematics of life.

Man is in bondage—there must be causes. If man is to be freed from bondage, those causes have to be removed. Just this—straight and clear. All other longings, all other expectations are only devices to forget oneself.

No one has put you in chains; no one is going to come to free you. You did not use the simple law of life; hence you got entangled in bondage. Use it, and you will be out of bondage.

As when a person walks carefully, he does not fall. When someone falls, we tell him—walk carefully!

What does it mean to walk carefully? It means: there is the earth’s gravitational pull—walk keeping that in mind. If you walk crookedly, you will fall. The very law of gravity that enables you to walk, supports you—without it you could not walk—if you go against it you will fall, you will break your limbs, perhaps never walk again. So understand the law of gravity, and build a musical relationship between you and that law. Only this much is religion.

Mahavira defines religion thus: to understand the sutras of life’s swabhava, its intrinsic nature, is religion. To recognize the nature of life is religion. Swabhava itself is dharma.

These sutras are just this straight and clear.

The first sutra:

‘Maggo maggaphalaṃ ti ya, dravihaṃ jiṇasāsaṇe samakkhādaṃ.
Maggo khalu sammanṇaṃ maggaphalaṃ hoi nibbāṇaṃ.’

‘In the Jina’s dispensation the teaching is of two kinds: the path and the fruit of the path. The path is the means to liberation, and the fruit is Nirvana.’

Path and the fruit of the path! Mahavira’s entire words can be divided into these two halves: cause and effect. Do this—and this will happen. In only these two rows all of Mahavira’s sayings can be arranged. Some statements tell you what to do, and some statements tell you what will then be. If you drink poison, there will be death. If you find amrita, the nectar, you will attain immortality.

The result follows the cause just as your shadow follows you. So what is there to do? Not prayer, not worship, not temple, not recitations—for from these nothing will come. With causes they have no connection at all.

It is like this: rain is not falling and someone is performing a yajna. There is no causal connection between a yajna and rain. Someone is ill and you are tying an amulet; there is no causal nexus between an amulet and disease. Take treatment. There are pathogens—arrange to be free of them. Amulets will not frighten germs, nor will they free you, nor will you be freed from them.

Mahavira says: if there is suffering in life, search precisely for the cause. That you want to escape suffering—we know this; but merely by the desire to escape, you will not escape. And because you want to escape suffering, anyone tells you anything and you begin to do it—you will not escape that way either. The adviser may have a good intention; the seeker may have a good intention; but life does not run by intentions. Life runs by truths, by laws. So discover the law. The moment the law is discovered, revolution happens in life.

Mahavira calls the search for that law: the path. If that path is found, then even prayer for the result is unnecessary—do not waste even that much time. For once you have lit the fire and the water has begun to heat, do not sit and pray, ‘O God, turn this into steam!’ There is no need now to bring any God in between. Now water will become steam. The fuel is sufficient, the fire is lit—water will become steam. Now no one will be able to stop it. Nothing can happen contrary to this law.

Mahavira does not believe in miracles. No one with a scientific intelligence believes in them. A miracle would be deception somewhere, for the laws admit no exception. If someone produces ash from his hand there is some conjuring going on somewhere, because life’s laws accept no exception. Life’s laws do not bother about persons—they are impersonal, universal. There is no way for otherwise to happen.

If someone makes water turn to steam at sixty degrees, then either he is deceiving you with the thermometer, or he has arranged some trick, creating the illusion that at sixty degrees water is becoming steam.

Water turns to steam only at one hundred degrees. He has woven some web of illusion. But miracles do not happen in this world.

The very meaning of a miracle would be that the world’s laws show favoritism—they do something contrary for one person they are pleased with; they relax the law for another; they get annoyed at a third. For the one they favor, water turns to steam at sixty degrees; for the one they dislike, even at a hundred and fifty degrees it does not turn to steam.

But Mahavira says: water turns to steam at one hundred degrees. Laws neither get annoyed nor pleased. Law is impersonal. Keep this in mind. God is a person.

Therefore whenever we talk of God, possibilities start arising in our mind—that if we pray a lot, praise a lot, persuade and cajole, then what has not happened for others may happen for us. Because with the idea of a person comes the feeling that we can coax him, win him over, persuade him; we will cry, implore, arouse sympathy, beg for compassion! After all, God is compassionate; if we weep enough, compassion will arise.

But Mahavira says: in doing such things you are not deceiving anyone else—you are deceiving only yourself.

Such efforts are futile, and the time spent in them you have wasted. Find the path!

Mahavira’s emphasis is on the path; not on the prop of God; not on reliance upon God. This is precisely the vision of all science. Science says: something is happening somewhere. Today we may not know why it is happening; but the day we know, the power to bring it about will come into our hands.

And until we know, it is better to say that we do not know.

Thus most of Mahavira’s utterances point to the path. And some speak of the fruit. The entire Jina’s dispensation is divided into two parts.

Einstein would agree. Planck would agree. Even Russell would not find fault with it. Therefore in Mahavira’s words, or in the Jain scriptures, you will not find poetry, the miracle of poetry. If you read them they will feel dry. They are like exact mathematics—geometry, spiritual geometry. Geometry has been raised concerning the inner being.

Hence the kind of beauty that is in the Upanishads, the kind of juice that is in Krishna’s words, is not in Mahavira’s words.

Mathematics cannot be sung. If you sing mathematics, mathematics is spoiled. Because to sing you have to bring something non-mathematical into it.

Thus we never expect a poet to be logical. And if a poet speaks of dreams, we forgive him. If the poet wanders in fancy, we say, he is a poet, it is poetry.

But from a mathematician we expect differently. From the mathematician we want a straight and clear line, a pure line, into which the mathematician has inserted nothing because of his feelings—only a reflection of truth. A reflection of pure truth. No decoration, no ornamentation.

Therefore Mahavira’s words, like Mahavira himself is naked, are naked. There is no ornamentation in them. As it is, so it is said. And those who have a scientific intelligence will feel a great trust in Mahavira. They will find a deep kinship with him.

‘The path and the fruit of the path have been stated in two ways. The path is the means to Moksha, and its fruit is Moksha or Nirvana.’

We should understand the words Moksha and Nirvana.

‘Moksha’ is a unique word. Outside India there is no equivalent word in other languages. Heaven exists in all languages, but ‘Moksha’ exists in none outside India. Because the very conception of Moksha was not born in any other land. Nowhere else did the human contemplation and meditation go to such heights, such depths.

Moksha means: where there is neither pleasure nor pain.

Heaven means: where there is pleasure, abundant pleasure. Heaven means: that which we desire is there; just as we want it, so it is. It fulfills our wanting. It fills our desire. Where everything is according to our longing, there is heaven. And wherever for a moment our desire is fulfilled, we too are in heaven for that moment.

Hell means: where everything happens contrary to our desire; whatever we want, just the opposite happens; precisely that from which we want to escape, that is what happens.

Hell and heaven are in the languages of the whole world.

‘Moksha’ is a very unique word. Moksha means: we have no more desire, no more preference. For Mahavira says: as long as there is desire, bondage will remain. Yes, it may be that you forge chains of gold—you may break iron chains and cast chains of gold. And it may be that you set diamonds and pearls upon those chains. They begin to look lovely. They become so lovely that they appear like ornaments.

Many ornaments that you take to be ornaments turn out to be chains; and many chains you do not even remember as chains—they have been hidden within ornaments.

So Mahavira says: the longing for pleasure—or the attainment of pleasure—is also a chain, a golden chain. The attainment of pain is an iron chain. But both bind. Have you noticed? If for a single instant ever there has come such a moment of awareness in you when there is no longing for pleasure, no longing for pain—then you have seen what kind of freedom is felt! All boundaries vanish. All prisons dissolve! For an instant in the sky of your consciousness there is not a single cloud. Cloudless sky! Infinite sky! The moment desire rises, clouds gather, darkness spreads! The sky is lost, only clouds remain—clouds of smoke remain!

If even for a single instant in your life such a thing happens when there is no wish for pleasure, nor for pain—no wish at all; you are sitting in non-desire—Mahavira calls that moment ‘samayik’. You are outside the world. Because in Mahavira’s reckoning, the meaning of the world is: to be within desire.

To be filled with desire is to be in the world. Desire whatever you may. Whether it is for the wealth of the earth or the wealth of heaven; whether you long for merit—yet if there is any longing, desire continues—and you are in the world.

There are also such moments of awareness when there is no desire, when you are—absolutely alone! Pure! Not even a streak of smoke within. Where are you in that moment? Are you within the body? No, in that moment the memory of the body is lost. You become videha—bodiless. Because our relation to the body is a relation through desire. In that moment you are not in the body. In that moment you are not on the earth. In that moment you are not in space. In that moment you are not even in time. In that moment you suddenly enter a different realm altogether—the other shore! Soon you will return. Because your capacity to live there, to breathe at that height is not yet evolved. You have not yet cultivated the knack of flying at those heights; you have not practiced.

Therefore sometimes for a fleeting instant when desire slips, you suddenly experience freedom.

Thus for the first time man must have had the idea of Moksha: that which is possible for a moment—why not forever? That which flashes now and then in consciousness for an instant—why should it not become the very nature of consciousness?

Moksha means: where consciousness has no desire. Where there is no desire, there is no road in the world.

Desire creates the road; it brings you into the world. Because where desire comes, the world of objects appears. You wanted something—your eyes went far, fell upon the other—‘the other’ arose—you are bound! You are caught in entanglement!

And the one who desired happiness—he found sorrow.

This is the experience of all of us. All have desired happiness—where did it come? All desired happiness; all obtained sorrow. When will you see? When will you awake to the fact that one thing is desired, another is obtained?

Mahavira says: this is the fundamental law of life—that the one who desires pleasure will receive pain. Pain is hidden in the very desire for pleasure. Understand this.

First, only the one who is miserable desires pleasure—that’s one point. Because you desire only what you do not have. What you already have—why would you desire it? What is present—its desire drops; desire arises only for what is absent. Absence gives birth to desire. Absence is the mother.

So when someone desires happiness, he has already said one thing—that he is unhappy. And the one who desires happiness has said another thing too: that if he does not get it, he will be more unhappy; dejection will surround him; failure will be his lot. And the very moment this thought arises—that if I do not get it, I will be more miserable, I will be gloomy, agitated, defeated—fear enters! Fear comes! This person was miserable anyway; by desiring happiness he has invited more misery, and he has become fearful. Now he walks towards happiness with faltering steps.

And we always ask for happiness outside: it will come from some woman, from some man, from wealth, from position! But what relation has happiness to position? On what chair you sit—what has that to do with happiness? In what size a house you live—what has that to do with happiness?

Happiness has no relation to a big or small house. For beggars standing on the street have at times been seen happy. Mahavira himself was such a beggar. And emperors in palaces have at times been seen miserable.

So the relation of sorrow and happiness does not appear to be with situations, with circumstances—it is connected with some inner states. Therefore, whenever you asked for it outside, you asked in the wrong place. And asking is always outward. Inside whom would you ask from, and for what? There, there is nothing—an empty sky. There is emptiness. There, even if you want to clench your fist, it will not clench; and even if it does, nothing will come into your hand. Who has ever bound the sky in his fist? No one has bound the Atman either.

Inside nothing can be grasped; outside, things can be grasped—so we think it will be outside. Thus we run outside where it is not. Then one day the dream breaks and we come to know that it is not there; we become greatly miserable. From that great misery an even bigger desire for happiness arises. For the more miserable we are, the more intense becomes the longing—hurry up, death is approaching, we must be happy. Such is a vicious circle. From misery arises the longing for happiness; from the longing for happiness arises even greater misery.

So Mahavira says: the one who has dropped has not only dropped sorrow—he has dropped pleasure too. He has not renounced only hell—everyone does that; what skill is there in it? What intelligence is there in it? Who does not want to escape sorrow—everyone does. What wisdom is there in that? What distinctiveness is there? But the one who looked keenly, understood, opened the layers of life, recognized the secret, grasped the mathematical formula—that the entire trick of sorrow is that it entices you with the promise of pleasure and deceives you. You run after sorrow, deluded by the promise of happiness. What you get is sorrow, what you always wanted was happiness.

The one who awakens to this experience does not desire happiness. And the one who does not desire happiness—sorrow begins to depart from his life. For without the desire for happiness, sorrow cannot be manufactured.

Think a little!

The one who has not desired success—how will you make him a failure? And the one who has never wanted to win—how will you defeat him? And the one who has never plunged into the madness of being rich—how will you make him poor? And the one who has not asked you for respect—how will you insult him? How will you do it? What way is there? He has given you no leverage.

The one who desired respect—you can insult him. The one who desired wealth—by his very desire he has become poor. The one who desired victory—he has heaped up defeats.

Therefore Mahavira says: Moksha means to make this insight the steady state of your life—that there is neither the desire for pleasure nor the desire for pain, neither hell nor heaven—no desire at all.

The state of no-desire is Moksha.

This is the result—Moksha. Moksha can happen here. Do not think as people ordinarily do, that Moksha happens after death. The one to whom it did not happen while living—it will not happen to him after death either. First Moksha descends into life. Therefore one first becomes jivan-mukta—liberated while living. Then the one who became free while alive will remain free after death as well. Liberation is the only wealth death cannot rob. All other treasures death takes away.

Thus Mahavira says: if you are even a little intelligent, do a little arithmetic, set up the mathematics! All that you are collecting—death will snatch it away. First, you will not even manage to collect it. Who has ever managed? And if somehow you do manage, by the time you manage it, death will arrive at the door. You will accumulate, and death will snatch away. What kind of foolishness is this? Earn that which death cannot snatch: the state of freedom! The state of no-desire in consciousness! The cloudless sky of consciousness where there are no clouds of desire! Then death will be able to do nothing.

Death is defeated at one place—Moksha. Everywhere else it wins. Understand this.

We have an urge for life, and therefore death wins. Jiveshana—the craving to live! We want to live—in any case we want to live! We are ready to meet any condition, but we want to live. We may be rotting, decaying, dying, lying on a cot, hanging in hospitals, hands and feet tied this way and that—yet we want to live. We do not want to die. In whatever condition a person may be lying, ask him, ‘Do you want to die?’—he will refuse. You will be surprised. Many say, ‘Now, O God, take me!’—even they do not want to die. They too are only saying words.

A friend of mine wanted to die, to commit suicide. His father was very frightened. He was an only son and I was his only friend, so he came to call me. I said, ‘Do not be afraid! I know him well. Do not worry.’ But he said he was worried; the boy had locked his door. And if you knock he shouts, ‘I will die, I will not open the door!’ He might do something to himself, smash his head. Perhaps he has hidden a knife; perhaps he has poison; perhaps he has got tablets! And the father is a physician, so he was even more afraid—poisons are in the house, tablets and medicines—he might have taken something!

I went. There was a crowd; the neighborhood had gathered. I went to the door and said: Listen, if you want to die, why so much uproar? Noise befits one who wants to live. If you are determined to die, why so much advertisement? Open the door and come with me! We will arrange a proper way for you to die; what kind of method is this you have chosen?

Then he could not threaten me that he would die. He could not figure out what to do, so he opened the door. I said, ‘Come with me—we will go to the Narmada, to Dhuandhar. There you can jump. It is a moonlit night, a waterfall; if you are to die—nothing was found in life, at least let death be beautiful!’

He looked at me with great attention and astonishment; because whoever had come had stood outside the door and tried to persuade him, ‘Son, do not die! Do not do this!’

He had a love affair. The girl had refused to marry him. So people were advising him: ‘You will find much better girls; what is there in her? Why are you upset?’ But he was adamant.

I brought him home and said, tonight do whatever you want to do, because this is your last night—want to see a film? Eat some sweets? Write some final letters? Whatever you want—say it now, because later there will be no chance. And at two in the night we will get up and go. You jump; I will go to see you off. It is the duty of a friend—to be of use in an emergency. Now at this moment no one but me can be of use to you.

He listened, looked at me with great anger. He said nothing. I set the alarm for two. We both slept. I placed the alarm clock between us. As soon as two struck, he hurried to shut the alarm. I caught his hand on the clock. I said: The alarm cannot be turned off! He sat up straight and shouted: Are you my enemy or my friend? Why are you bent on killing me? Must I really die?

‘I have no purpose of my own. If you want to die, I will go with you. If you want to live, I am ready to stay with you—my work is to be with you. If you find pleasure in dying, why should I obstruct you! Think again: in the morning you might change—seeing the sun rise, seeing people, the crowd—then do not start talking about death again. Decide now. If you want to die, die. If you want to live, then live—and do not talk of dying again.’

That man is still alive. He is very angry with me! He even got married—to another woman. Now he even has children. And when I went to that town again and called him, he came in great annoyance. He is not pleased. As though I had done him some harm. And I was doing precisely what he wanted to do.

People say: let me die now! They are not saying they want to die. Do not misunderstand. They are only saying that life should be a little better. Is this any life at all?

In this desire to die there is the longing for life. Even in the desire to die there is the intention to suck more out of life. They are saying: Now there seems to be no essence in life; what is the point of living! But still, inside, there is the urge to live! Otherwise, who has ever prevented anyone from dying? Who can prevent anyone?

Among the laws of the governments of the world, the most foolish is the law against suicide. It is beyond understanding. Governments should not make such laws as they cannot enforce. No government can enforce a law against suicide. If someone wants to die, how will anyone stop him? Think a little! Ninety-nine out of a hundred who attempt suicide are only making a show; they do not want to die. Ninety-nine out of a hundred attempt to die and are saved. They had arranged in advance to be saved. The urge to live is so profound! And the one who does die—there is doubt even he wanted to die. He died—that is another matter. He made a little too much arrangement. He did not understand. He should have taken ten pills, he took twenty. There was an error in his arithmetic. The wife thought the husband would come home in the evening; he did not come for two days, and she lay through the night and died.

The one who dies out of a hundred seems to have succeeded by mistake. Ninety-nine do not succeed because they arrange failure in advance. The attempt to die is a declaration about life. They want another kind of life, but it is not that they do not want life. They want life—they want it otherwise. This life does not bring contentment. So in attempting to die, they are complaining about life.

But who can stop anyone? No one really wants to die, hence the law functions. Otherwise I see no way you could stop someone who wants to die. The one who wants to die will find a way.

Death is a person’s birthright. No state can take it away.

But nobody wants to die; so the question of taking it away does not arise. Sometimes someone succeeds by mistake. Even he must be repenting after death: ‘Oh, what have I done! I overdid it a bit. I took two steps too many; I should have taken two fewer.’ As a ghost, he too must be remorseful.

Mahavira says: because there is a craving to live, death is able to take something away from you. The person in whom even the craving for life has disappeared—it does not mean that the craving for death will arise. How can the one who has no craving for life develop a craving for death? He simply accepts what is. Life is life, death is death. He has stopped imposing his desires. He accepts the fact. Now he is living—he is living; a moment later the breath stops—he will allow it to stop silently. He will not make the effort to take one breath more. And yes, even in the last stages he will not die—because there too there is the share of craving, of desire.

The liberated person is one in whom even the urge for life no longer remains. Then death brings no result.

And where death becomes futile—that is the touchstone that you have known the Supreme Life. Mahavira calls that Supreme Life Moksha, or Nirvana.

But both Buddha and Mahavira have used the word Nirvana in different senses. Buddha’s Nirvana has exactly the sense that blowing out a lamp has—the lamp is extinguished. Mahavira’s Nirvana means something else, for his vision of life is different. Mahavira says: the lamp does not go out. The lamp will never be extinguished; this flame is eternal. Only, from the lamp’s flame no smoke rises.

‘Vān’ means vasana—obsessive longing. ‘Nibbāna’ means becoming free of vasana. You have seen, when you burn fuel: flames rise and smoke rises. If the fuel is wet, more smoke; if it is dry, less smoke. If the fuel is completely dry, no smoke can arise; because smoke does not rise because of the fire, it rises because of the dampness in the wood; it does not rise because of the wood, but because of the water hidden in the wood.

So Mahavira says: when a person’s consciousness becomes like utterly dry fuel, with no dampness of vasana remaining—each pore dried out, every vasana dried, not a trace of green craving left—then the flame rises, but no smoke rises.

The name of that flameless flame—without smoke—is Nirvana. The fall of vasana is called Nirvana.

According to Buddha, the extinction of the Atman is called Nirvana; according to Mahavira, the extinction of vasana is called Nirvana.

‘The path is the means; Moksha is the fruit.’ And in these two statements, Mahavira says, everything is said.

‘Darshan, jnana, charitra, and tapas—these, Lord Jinendra has called the path to Moksha. Auspicious and inauspicious states of mind are not the path to Moksha; from these, as a rule, there is bondage of karma.’

Then what is the path?

‘Dansanāṇa-carittāṇi.’

Darshan, jnana, charitra, and tapas—these words are immensely precious. The entire cream of Mahavira is contained in these three words, the triratna—darshan, jnana, charitra.

Darshan means: the capacity to see; the drashta, the witness. Jnana means: that which appears to the witness; that which comes into the experience of the seer. And charitra means: that which descends into life because of knowing—once one has awakened, seen, known.

So the first event happens as witnessing—darshan. The second event is bodh—knowledge—understanding dawns. The third event is charitra. For that which is understood—how could you act contrary to it?

If you ask Jain monks, they often invert the order. They put ‘character’ first—whereas in no sutra has Mahavira ever put ‘character’ first; he has placed character last. First darshan, then jnana, then charitra. If you ask a Jain monk, he will say: ‘Charitra! First improve your character. When character improves, then knowledge arises. Has any characterless person ever known? And when knowledge arises, then perhaps darshan will be attained.’ He has turned the whole thing upside down.

But in Mahavira’s words, nowhere does charitra come first—it cannot. First the stupor must be broken. Darshan means the breaking of stupor; the capacity to see arises; the eye opens. Once the eye is open, it begins to register what truth is. The experience of ‘what is truth’—its name is jnana.

Therefore jnana cannot be obtained from scripture.

Thus Mahavira has placed jnana after darshan. Jnana can come only from dhyana—not from shastra. And charitra can never be produced by practice. Practice produces habit.

Charitra is born when the clarity of your vision becomes so intense that you cannot go against it.

I have heard: a scorpion said to a crab, ‘I must cross the river, friend! Carry me across.’ The crab said, ‘Do you take me to be a fool? In midstream you will sting me on the back; I will drown—I will die.’

The scorpion said, ‘It seems you are very weak in logic. You haven’t learned logic properly. O simpleton! If I am sitting on your back and I sting you, you will drown—that is true—but I too will drown! I too will die! So that would be illogical. How could I do such a thing? If only your death were to be, it could be understood; but your death will also be my death. Therefore it is contrary to reason.’ The crab said, ‘Your argument is right. It is perfectly reasonable. Come, sit!’ The scorpion climbed on; they set out; and in midstream what was to happen happened. The scorpion stung. As both began to sink, the crab asked with his last breath, ‘Sir, what happened to logic?’ The scorpion said, ‘What has logic to do with it? This is my character.’

People live as they do—they are compelled to live that way. They have only that kind of vision. You think a person drinks wine; therefore he is in stupor. The reality is different. He is in stupor; therefore he drinks wine. You think a person eats meat; therefore he is violent. You think wrong. He is violent; therefore he eats meat. If you think he is violent because he eats meat, then your effort will be to make him give up meat. The meat may be given up, but if he was a meat-eater because he was violent, the violence will not cease. Then violence will find a new route. He will become violent in some other direction; by some other excuse he will exercise violence.

Remember, we are as we are because of the inner state of our chitta.

From the outside the inside cannot be changed. From conduct the interior cannot be transformed. But if the interior changes, conduct begins to change immediately.

Mahavira’s sutra is utterly clear: darshan, jnana, charitra. These three are called the triratna by the Jains. These are their three jewels upon which the mansion of Moksha is built. These are the foundations. And the one who has these three jewels—he has everything, all the wealth of the worlds. The wealth of the three worlds has come to him.

Darshan is attained—by awakening, by non-negligence, by awareness. Do not take darshan to mean Jain darshan, Hindu darshan, Buddhist darshan. Darshan does not mean philosophy. Darshan means the capacity to see; the cleansing of your eyes; that you can see in such a way that in your seeing you do not mix in your emotions; that you can see without bias; neutral, impartial, untainted—you do not insert yourself; you can see without inserting yourself. Then darshan will be attained in your life.

Anger comes—look at anger carefully. Do not try to suppress anger to build character. Look at anger carefully. Look so carefully that the entire meaning of anger becomes clear to you. Look so carefully that it becomes your living experience that you are separate, the witness—and anger is separate. Look so carefully that anger remains lying there like an object, and you stand here as the seer; the bridge between the two breaks.

Darshan means all bridges are broken. The person stands aloof and looks—if there is anger, at anger; if there is lust, at lust; if there is violence, at violence; if there is love, at love; if there is attachment, at attachment—he looks with detachment; he only looks. What Krishnamurti calls awareness; what Buddha called samyak smriti—right remembrance; what Gurdjieff called self-remembering—that is what Mahavira calls darshan. As the capacity for darshan grows dense in you, what it reveals—the essence that accumulates through darshan—is jnana. So there is one kind of knowledge that comes from scriptures, and another that comes from the witnessing of life. That Mahavira calls jnana. If you read in the scriptures—what will happen? Often it has happened:

‘Scholars are common; those with the seeing eye are rare—
No wonder that your begging-bowl remained empty.’

Ahle-danish—learned men—are many. The so-called intelligent are many.

But those who are ahle-nazar, who have the eye of the seer, a pure eye, the capacity to see—such are very, very rare.

If the cup of your life has remained unfilled with nectar, there is nothing to be surprised at; for you tried to fill it from scriptures. You thought you would become wise through scriptures. So you became ahle-danish—learned. Truths were memorized. But memorized truths are not truth—they are only empty doctrines. Who will breathe life into them? Life has to be breathed in by oneself. Remember this.

Only that which you realize is truth. What you have not realized cannot be truth—it can only be a doctrine about truth. It is like this: read cookbooks endlessly—your hunger will not end, nor will your life be nourished. You will have to bake bread. Knead the flour. Light the fire. Not only that, you will have to digest the bread. Even if the bread is prepared, it is of no use until there is the capacity to digest it—until it is digested, transmuted into blood, becomes bone and flesh and marrow. Otherwise, what use?

On the furnace of darshan, the bread of jnana is baked. And when you digest that bread of jnana, when it becomes your blood and flesh and marrow—then charitra. Charitra is the last thing. First, in the empty sky, darshan happens. Then darshan descends into your inner being and becomes jnana. Then jnana is woven into your life—stitched in without seams. Then charitra arises. These are the triratna—and tapas.

The word ‘tapas’ also needs to be understood. Tapas does not mean to inflict pain on yourself. A tapasvin is not one who torments himself—not a masochist. Tapas means: when pain comes, to receive it with patience. Tapas means: when pain comes, do not drive it away as an enemy; receive it too as a friend. Ordinarily, we invite pleasure and reject pain. Tapas means: do not invite pleasure; and when pain comes, which has come uninvited—it always comes uninvited, for who invites pain?—receive it.

Ascetic practice is exactly the opposite arrangement to ours. We write letters to pleasure—‘come’; we send invitations. And pain—when it comes uninvited—it always comes uninvited, for who invites pain—we push it away, throw it out.

Tapas means: the very reversal of this outlook on life. Do not invite pleasure, do not write any invitation; and if pain comes, that which has come uninvited—the guest is God—receive him.

So tapas does not mean producing pain. But the pain you have collected over births will come. What stance will you take with it? Tapas is a stance, a vision. Tapas says: I had sown the seeds of pain; now the time has come to harvest the crop—I will harvest it. Who else will harvest it? If I sowed the seeds of pain, then I must reap the crop. Why reap it with tears? I will reap it in acceptance.

Keep this in mind. Otherwise the misunderstanding is that people who become ascetics think: earlier we wrote letters to pleasure; now let us write to pain. But they keep writing letters. They keep on inviting. Earlier they clutched at pleasure; now they think, clutch pain. Earlier they would not let pleasure go; now when pain begins to depart they say, ‘Do not go! How will we live without you!’ But that is perversion. That is disease. An old disease has been exchanged for a new one.

Tapas has only this meaning: whatever comes as pain—we must certainly have earned it; without earning, nothing comes. We must have invited it in some form; without invitation, nothing comes. We must have invited it thinking it was pleasure; our belief was wrong. What we called pleasure was named pain. Pain has come—now receive it. Do not shove it out, do not deny it. Keep the same witnessing with it too.

‘Darshan, jnana, charitra, and tapas—Lord Jinendra has called these the path to Moksha. Auspicious and inauspicious states of mind are not the path to Moksha.’

This is a very revolutionary statement: ‘Auspicious and inauspicious states are not the path to Moksha. From these, as a rule, there is bondage of karma.’

Let me do good, not bad; let me do punya, not papa—these are auspicious moods. May I give no pain, may I give joy—these are auspicious moods. May there be no violence from me, may there be ahimsa; may there be no greed, may there be charity; may there be no anger, may there be compassion—these are auspicious moods. But Mahavira says: in the very ‘let me do’ there is bondage. The bad binds, of course—but the good also binds. The greedy is bound—yes; but the generous is bound too. The sinner is bound—yes; but the virtuous is bound too—although the virtuous wears golden chains.

Therefore Mahavira says: auspicious and inauspicious states are not the path to Moksha. One has to be free of both. The unholy has to be left, of course; but the holy too has to be transcended. A state is needed that surpasses all states. A state that has no attachment, no insistence about anything at all.

‘From these states, as a rule, there is bondage of karma.’

‘So many shocks borne at the hands of friends—
All complaints in the heart against enemies faded away.’

If you look closely, friends have given so many pains that there is no point in complaining against enemies! Mahavira says: if you look closely, the road to hell is crowded with auspicious desires. Let alone inauspicious desires—what is the point of complaining about them! If someone wrathful is bound—this is natural. But one who is straining to be compassionate—he too becomes bound. There too the ego is manufactured.

‘So many shocks borne at the hands of friends—
All complaints in the heart against enemies faded away.’

Auspiciousness has tormented us so badly—what to say of inauspiciousness! Our own have tormented us so—what to say of outsiders! They are not even worth complaining about.

See how much your auspicious moods have tormented you! See how much love has tormented you—then think of hate. You wanted to do good for someone—and how much trouble you got into because of it. Then think of when you wanted to do ill to someone.

Mahavira says: become such a witness that you are not a doer of either good or bad. From there the door of Moksha opens. Good and bad are the paths of karma. And karma binds. Neither auspicious nor inauspicious—balanced between the two!

Kshurasya dhara nishita duratyaya—
Sharp as the edge of a razor, difficult to traverse.

Like one who walks upon a razor’s edge—such is the path. Leave auspicious to one side, inauspicious to the other. A sanyami—one of restraint—is he who has become skillful in walking the middle; who does not choose; choiceless, without alternatives, nirvikalpa, he walks. He keeps himself balanced in the middle.

The Hindu shastras say: madhyam abhayam! The one who is in the middle is without fear. Lean a little to the left, a little to the right—fear begins. Not leftist, not rightist; exactly in the middle—one who keeps himself poised!

It will seem difficult, because to us it seems easy: leave the inauspicious, no problem; we will take hold of the auspicious! Leave anger, we will leave it; we will hold on to compassion. But there must be something to hold! The old habit of grasping is there.

Mahavira says: grasping itself is the world. And the cessation of all grasping—the opening of the fist—is Moksha.

‘If out of ignorance even a man of knowledge begins to believe that pure association—that is, bhakti and other auspicious moods—lead to freedom from suffering, then that too, being a form of attachment, is involvement with the other’s time.’

Mahavira calls bhakti too a cause of bondage. Even if out of ignorance, the so-called wise think that pure association, pure devotion—why would it bind?—they too are wrong. From auspicious devotion too only a portion of raga—attachment—is created.

Mahavira’s path is the path of resolve. There is no place there even for devotion.

There is no place for God—how could there be place for bhakti!
In the Rigveda the rishi asks:
“Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema?”
To which god shall we offer our oblation with ghee? Whom shall we worship and adore? But Mahavira says that so long as there is worship, there will be bondage to an Other. You become dependent on the other. If there is a God, there is heteronomy; and where there is heteronomy, bondage remains. How will you become free? How will you become utterly liberated?
In Mahavira’s reckoning, the very existence of a God is contrary to liberation. Either there can be moksha, or there can be God. If God is, moksha cannot be—because God would be absolute, unrestrained, above law. Mahavira says: anyone above law is dangerous—because then it’s his whim! As the Hindus say, God’s play, God’s will! He created the world! For Mahavira this is intolerable.

Mahavira says this would mean that those who have attained freedom could, by a whim of God, be sent back into the world. Then such moksha has no value. If the world is created by God’s will, what will we do even after attaining moksha? If, the day his will changes, he commands, “Vacate moksha—return to the world,” then the whole thing is futile. If it is all a sport and he is unrestrained and above law, the talk is meaningless.

Mahavira asks: Is God above law, or is law above God? If law is above God, then God is not God—law is God. And if God is above law, then law is nonsense. What then is the meaning of law, if an autocrat can do as he likes at any time?

Therefore Mahavira says: if you want order in the world—you will be surprised how fundamentally different perspectives can be!—the Hindu says, “If we want order, we need God, for without God who will maintain order? Otherwise there will be anarchy.” And Mahavira says, “If there is a God, there will be anarchy—because how will order be sustained if someone sits above the rules and can twist and break them?” Mahavira denies God for the very reason Hindus accept him.

And moksha means precisely such a state of consciousness that one cannot ever be sent back. Otherwise what has been attained through such labor, such austerity, such striving—if it becomes a mere matter of God’s sport, that is a bit much. What is won after efforts of many lives—if it can be lost at the slightest change of his mood—then that attainment is not worthy of being called attainment. Then the world is a madness.

“If anyone believes that ‘pure association’—such as devotion and other auspicious feelings—brings freedom from suffering, he believes wrongly, because it too is a fraction of attachment (raga).”

If you listen to the devotees, it does seem to be a fraction of attachment—pure attachment, very noble attachment, not at all stained by the world—yet attachment all the same.

Apart from his remembrance, “awake,”
nothing else seems pleasing.

The devotee says, “Except for the remembrance of God, nothing else gives me joy.” But this plainly means the joy is still not one’s own—it depends on remembering him. So it is dependent, elsewhere, outside oneself.

Since evening, your memory has been arriving;
the goblet brims over with your memory.
The strings of thought are shimmering;
your memory is singing like a song.

And the devotee uses for God the very words he uses for a beloved. You can’t tell the difference. It feels as if the attachment that was toward human beings is simply projected toward God.

Since evening, your memory has been arriving;
the goblet brims over with your memory.
The strings of thought are shimmering;
your memory is singing like a song.

We can say this for a beloved—and also for God.

Hence Sufi sayings can be read with a double meaning: interpret them in a worldly sense and they are addressed to a beloved; interpret them spiritually and they are addressed to God. But the words are the same. Omar Khayyam’s rubaiyat were corrupted in just this way. Fitzgerald, who first translated them into English, took them as songs in praise of wine. But when Omar speaks of wine, he means the remembrance of God, his memory, his zikr. The cupbearer he invokes is that very God. And the pouring of wine he speaks of is the elixir of life. But what difference did that make? Fitzgerald rendered them as beloved, cupbearer, tavern—worldly things.

The words can serve both uses.

Come, let there be hide-and-seek within;
you be the moon,
I the bride of night—
let the courtyard flash and sparkle.
Come, let there be hide-and-seek within.

The language of devotees—Mira’s language, Chaitanya’s language, or Kabir’s—will feel difficult. Kabir says, “I have become the bride of Rama!” The language uses this world’s affective, love-laden words. Mira says, “I have prepared the bed, when will you come?” “The bed is prepared”—this is straight from the wedding night.

So Mahavira’s point is meaningful: however pure the attachment, however pure the association, however pure the devotion, its tone still belongs to the world.

Do not stop me, moralist, from drinking at dawn,
for to bow in prayer I must bring a little truth into my heart.

The Sufis say: “Do not stop us from drinking at the hour of prayer, because to pray we need a little truth. And without drinking where does truth arise? Without drinking a man goes on lying and deceiving.” That is why the drunkard’s words sound more honest—he begins to speak truth. There remains no care to fabricate lies—who remembers lies? No profit, loss, calculation—nothing remains.

Do not stop me, moralist, from drinking at dawn—
O preacher! Do not stop me from drinking at the time of prayer—
for to prostrate I must bring a little truth into my heart.

Now, either we take it as worldly wine, or we take it as some inner wine. But Mahavira says: wine is wine. However high you raise it, however pure the grapes you press, wine is wine—and intoxication is intoxication. Whether it descends upon you on seeing a beautiful face, or arises on hearing the songs of God’s birds and blooms—what difference does it make? Your attachment is still outward. A beautiful woman is outside, a handsome man is outside, a beautiful flower is outside—and God’s beautiful sky and moon and stars are also outside.

“Because it contains an element of attachment, devotion too is other-oriented.”
It is invested in the other. It is eager for the other. It does not return toward oneself. It flows toward the other—and the other is bondage.

Therefore Mahavira will not give devotion a place. And if we listen to the devotees, there is surely truth in Mahavira’s words—definite truth. Because devotees talk to God as lovers talk to each other: sulking and appeasing, quarrels and complaints.

I should have been angry at such neglect—
instead you are angry with me—what spectacle is this?

The devotee says to God:
“I should be angry at your neglect; I keep calling and get no answer…
I should have been angry at such neglect—
instead you are angry with me—what spectacle is this?”

The devotee talks, prays, speaks, sometimes cries, sometimes even gets angry with God. He sulks; for two or four days he won’t pray, shuts the doors—“Let him be!” Then he makes up again.

But Mahavira will say: this whole play is imagination. It is attachment. The other is still present. Granted, it is purified, auspicious, harms no one—indeed, it brings benefit. Still, so long as there is benefit, harm too is tied to it. One has to go beyond it.

For Mahavira even feeling is bondage. Hence his path is that of pure non-emotionality. What Jains do in their temples today—if Mahavira were to return, he would be displeased. He would say, “What are you doing? This is precisely what I had forbidden.” Sitting before Mahavira’s own image with adornments, saying, “O Lord!”—and talking to Mahavira. There is no way to talk to Mahavira. If you accept Mahavira, if you wish to keep his path pure, there is no way to talk to him. In truth, even worship is not possible in Jainism; there is no scope for prayer; there is no path of devotion. Yet temples are built, worship goes on, images are installed.

The fact is, those who are by nature devotees—if they are born in Jain homes, what should they do? They cannot be devotees in that framework—so they corrupt Mahavira instead.

All religions of the world have become corrupt, hybrid, because people belong to religions by birth. This is dangerous. I would prefer Mahavira’s religion to remain pure, so that a few who can reach through resolve find a clear, straight road. But it can remain pure only when people choose it themselves, and religion is not imposed by birth. Thus on Krishna’s path you will find people who should have been on Mahavira’s path; they spoil things there. They even pray, but tears do not come. They say, “How to pray? No stream of feeling arises in the heart!” And on Mahavira’s path you see people who, if on Krishna’s path, would arrive easily—their eyes are brimming; their cup is overflowing. But Mahavira says devotion contains attachment, so they restrain themselves; they try to dry their tears.

Obstruction arises when you go against your own nature.

Someone asked earlier: “Can’t we synthesize surrender and resolve?” That is exactly what you have done. Not a question—it’s already your practice. But synthesis does not happen, only compromise. You strike a balance between both, and in doing so both paths get corrupted.

Think of it this way: one travels by bullock cart, one by car, one by train, one by airplane—all arrive. Each path is different. A train runs on rails; a bullock cart need not, it goes over rough tracks. A car cannot go there. All these roads and vehicles are fine. But if you say, “Let’s synthesize—yoke bulls to the car; put the car’s engine into the bullock cart; bolt train wheels onto the cart and cart wheels onto the train”—there will be no synthesis; you will only render every vehicle unfit to move. You will have ruined the roads and destroyed the vehicles.

Each path has its definite markers and its own direction. So when I speak on Mahavira’s path, remember: I want Mahavira’s pure teaching to become clear to you; then whoever finds that journey congenial may walk it. There, forget devotion entirely. There, you have nothing to do with the Sufis. There, strive to become purely non-emotional, because that very non-emotionality is the axle of the cart there.

But people usually do this: they bring feeling onto Mahavira’s path, and when they read Narada, dispassion starts rising in their minds. These are devices to avoid arriving. Excuses so you need not arrive. You create such entanglements.

Ultimately there is synthesis—but only upon arrival at the goal. From where I stand, I see all paths arriving here. But each path’s arrangements are different: one passes through mountains, one through deserts, one through lush groves. On one path the cuckoo calls; on another there is utter silence—no birds at all.

The arrangements of the roads differ. Each has tried to keep its road pure.

So Mahavira states plainly:
If someone, being ignorant, believes that from pure association—devotion and such—there is freedom from suffering, he believes wrongly; for devotion is other-oriented.

Devotion will not lead to freedom from suffering.

Remember, when Mahavira says devotion will not lead to freedom from suffering, that statement is meaningful on his path. It is not an ultimate, absolute pronouncement. This does not make Narada wrong. It only clarifies that on Mahavira’s path there is no cuckoo-call of devotion. And if, on Mahavira’s path, you hear the cuckoo of devotion, you have gone astray—you are not on the path. There, feeling is bondage, because there the presence of the other is dependence.

Dhigastu paravashyataam—
Fie upon dependence, upon heteronomy!

There, God is not endearing; his very presence is proof of your slavery.

Mahavira is speaking of his own path. This feels difficult to you. You think, if Mahavira is right, Narada must be wrong. There you err. You think, if Narada is right, Mahavira must be wrong. You are in too much haste. You do not see life’s vastness. Life is so vast it accommodates within itself all opposing paths. Here both Mahavira and Narada are right. People have arrived by Narada’s path, and people have arrived by Mahavira’s path.

But one thing is certain: those who walked, arrived. Some sit by the roadside arguing who is right. Life passes in such thinking. How will you know who is right without walking? Only by walking will you know. As you near the source, cool breezes begin to touch you. As you near the goal, light comes into life. Nearing, vision turns into knowledge; knowledge into character. Step by step you will find yourself transformed—changed, made new, reborn.

Each step is a birth. Each moment a new arising. That arising alone proves that you are walking aright. But those who sit have no way to know who is right. They will pile up arguments, think, try to reconcile scriptures.

And argument is like a courtesan—it has no value. You can use it as you please. Now, Mahavira says God cannot be accepted for the sake of order; the Hindu says God is needed for order—who else will maintain it? Opposite logics, both seemingly correct in their own places. You will never arrive by sitting and thinking. Rise and walk!

Mahavira’s path is among the purest of paths. But keep it pure. Do not bring worship into Mahavira’s path; do not bring prayer.

If your relish is in worship and prayer, there are paths of worship and prayer. Instead of spoiling a path, step over to the other path yourself.

The world will become truly religious the day people can freely move from one path to another—no one obstructing, no one forcing, no one eager to convert or to prevent. If someone’s heart throbs for bliss, rasa, feeling, he will find the path of feeling. No one will block him or persuade him to “come to this path”—because under influence you may choose the wrong path; under prohibition you may halt at the wrong path.

Life should be a free movement, a facility for transformation and change.

Mahavira’s path is perfectly right in itself. But that does not make others wrong. Those who appear opposite to it are not wrong. If you remember this, sectarianism will not arise within you.

Sectarianism arises like this: Jains who read these aphorisms see someone going to Krishna’s temple and think, “Poor fellow—astray!” They recall Mahavira’s aphorism that devotion contains attachment, and conclude, “This man is caught in attachment.”

Do not think like that. You decide only for yourself—that is enough. You know nothing of the other’s inner arrangement. Decide for yourself—and even that decision should be for walking, not for sitting and thinking.

Mahavira wishes to take you where no thought remains, no feeling remains, no desire remains, no God remains—where only you remain, solitary, in your own perfect purity.

Your consciousness burns smokeless!

Every lofty scene has now grown low—
O Throne, into what sky am I flying?

Where even heights are left behind.
Every lofty scene has now grown low—
heights too are left behind. Heights as well as depths. The inauspicious is left—and the auspicious too. Sin is left—and virtue too.

Every lofty scene has now grown low—
O Throne, into what sky am I flying?

And into what sky am I flying!

Mahavira calls that sky the soul—inner sky. There is supreme bliss there, supreme peace.

Mahavira calls that supreme state the state of Paramatman.

For Mahavira, Paramatman is not one; it is the destiny of each person. Every person is on the way to becoming Paramatman. Every person is becoming God—sooner or later moving toward it.

God is not there in the first moment of creation—God is in the last attainment of each person. There are as many gods as there are souls. If these souls are turned outward, God is looking outward; turned inward, he looks inward. Free from both outward and inward—then God is established, settled, has returned to himself. Mahavira calls this state moksha.

That is all for today.