Jin Sutra #23

First sutra: 'Although an abhavya being keeps faith in dharma, believes in it, feels interest in it, and even follows it, yet he does all this by taking dharma as a means for enjoyment, not as the cause of karmakshaya.'
The habit of the world does not leave easily. That habit which has been nursed and decorated over births upon births follows you even when you set out to leave the world.
Understand this, for without understanding it, no one can ever become truly religious. Many have left the world. It is not even very difficult to leave the outwardly visible world. The real wonder is how people go on clinging to that outward world! It is so futile, so hollow that if a little intelligence arises and the idea of dropping it comes, one should not be surprised. When nothing is really gained, the mind wants to renounce.
But within, there is a world even more substantial than the outer. That inner world is such that even when we drop something, we drop it only to gain something else. The urge to gain does not go. Thus, people leave the world in order to attain moksha; they renounce wealth to earn punya. Yet the craving to get stands inside.
In these sutras Mahavira wants to make it utterly clear that the real world is the 'urge to gain.' The outer world exists because of the urge to gain; the urge does not exist because of the outer world.
So you may leave the world, but if the fire of craving continues to smoulder within you, nothing has changed.
Mahavira calls such a religious person an 'abhavya jiva.' He only appears bhavya, but his grandeur is only on the surface. Within him stand attachment and greed.
Have you seen a religious person within whom no greed exists? Have you seen a person who is religious from the sheer joy of being religious; who does not say that by religious labor and effort he is going to earn something in the future? Have you seen a truly religious one whose mind has no expectation of the future, no hunger for fruits?
If you go and ask your religious leaders and monks, 'Why are you observing punya, tapascharya, sadhana, dhyana, samayik, fasting, vows, rules—why?' And if they can tell you why, know then that they are abhavya jivas. Bhavyata has not yet been born in them. And they will all be able to tell you: for punya, for heaven; to gain higher wombs in the future, to reach the devalok; or those more skilled in argument will say, for moksha, to be free from all.
But the one who wants to be free cannot be free, for some desire still remains—the desire to be free. If all desires get absorbed into the desire to be free, then that very desire becomes a strong rope. Little desires were like scattered threads; you gathered them into one rope—the desire for release, the longing for moksha. As the smaller lusts had bound you, this rope of moksha will bind you even more tightly.
Mahavira says: If you have dropped something in order to gain, then you have not dropped it at all. Whom have you deceived? You have deceived yourself.
In the Upanishads there is an extraordinary sutra: Kripana phalahetavah. The one who acts out of desire for fruits is a miser. He has not learned the art of life; he has not known the truth of life.
Mahavira's sutra says the same: If you practice dharma with the desire to gain—even if that desire is for moksha—you have not practiced dharma at all; you have practiced a deception in the name of dharma. Although the abhavya jiva keeps faith in dharma, there is a 'yet' attached to his faith. He believes, he is interested, he observes as far as he can—yet he does it by making dharma a means, not the end. He makes even dharma into a tool. He practices dharma because he wants to gain from dharma. If he could get what he wants without dharma, he would throw dharma into the trash. If your monks and renunciates were to discover a shortcut to heaven, they would instantly drop their bowls and water-pots and run, for it is for that very heaven they were taking this long road. If a nearer and easier path is found, who will choose hardship?
Even if a nearer way appears, the one who still stands on the path of dharma—know him to be truly religious. Why? Because for him dharma is the end, not the means.
These two words deserve deep reflection. Dharma is not a means; dharma is the end. Then what hurry is there? Where is there to go?
For the truly religious, each moment is moksha. He meditates because there is supreme bliss in meditation, not because bliss will come. For the religious there is no such thing as 'in order to.' He sits in samayik because samayik is joy, samayik is supreme peace.
Understand the distinction, because the language of both may sound alike. If someone says, 'I sit in samayik for the sake of peace,' Mahavira will say he is still abhavya, still a miser, still tethered to desire. He is making samayik a means too. At one time he made wealth a means—he thought happiness would come from wealth; then he made position a means—thinking renown would bring happiness; he became a general, went into terrible wars, beheaded thousands—hoping happiness would come from that. Yet one thing remains unchanged: that happiness must be gained through some means. Once wealth was the means, once status, once the sword; now vows, fasting, rules—the means; yoga, meditation, samayik—the means. But the basic arithmetic is unchanged. Whatever the irreligious person does, he does not relish the act itself. His relish is always in the fruit. In the Gita Krishna calls it phalakanksha—the hunger for fruits. He is forever looking ahead: this will come, that will come—therefore he acts. If he discovers that nothing will come of it, his action stops then and there. He asks, then how will it come?
Mahavira says: The one who begins to see dharma itself as the end—that person alone is bhavya. So go to temple, go to mosque, read Quran, read Gita, worship, pray—but search within: Are you doing these as a means, as a pretext? If so, in Mahavira's vision you are abhavya. The sacred blossoming that makes you divine, bhavya, has not yet arisen within.
The word 'bhavya' is Mahavira's own. He cannot use the word 'divya,' for 'divya' conjures deities and ultimately Paramatman. In Mahavira's language bhavya has the same meaning that 'divine' has in other traditions. Bhavya means: a life whose every moment is the end. Bhavya means: no longer a miser. Kripana phalahetavah—now there is no question of fruit at all. The miserliness has melted, the stinginess is gone. Now he does not live by desire—he savors nondesire; he sinks into nondesire and relishes it.
If even for a single moment you come to know that there is a way of living in which the future is not needed, there bhavyata descends.
The word 'future' also merits pondering, for its root is the same as that of bhavya.
From the same root arise 'bhavya' and 'bhavishya.' The two words spring from one source. This is worth deep reflection! Why do we make the future 'bhavya'? Somehow the past got dragged through, the present is being managed anyhow; the whole hope is in the future. So we make the future bhavya! Utopia! What has not happened will happen in the future. Thus we consider the future as grand, 'bhavya.' The distillate of all our longings is poured into the future. What was to be and did not come to pass will happen tomorrow. What we were meant to become and did not become—we will become tomorrow. The rain that was to fall upon our life and did not—we remained dry—it will come tomorrow.
Hence in everyone’s mind the future is bhavya. Even the most wretched, the most afflicted, in his heart the future is bhavya—that is why it is called 'future.'
But Mahavira says: Bhavya is one who has no future; one who lives 'here and now' without any desire.
So long as there is future, you are abhavya. The future is a device for deceiving life, a strategy of self-delusion. By weaving webs of imagination you console yourself. Once you consoled yourself through wealth, now through religion. Mahavira says: There is not much difference. Show as much faith as you like, express as much belief as you like, display as much interest as you like, even observe thoroughly—but in your very observance there will remain abhavyata, because your eyes will be fixed on the future. You will act, but as a businessman. Your dharma will remain a deed, it will not become the lila of your life. And when dharma becomes the lila of life...
If ever you meet a person who says: There is bliss in meditation—that is why I meditate; not that bliss will be attained—meditation itself is bliss. I give in charity, not so that heaven will be earned—but because in giving there is heaven. I give because flowers bloom in the very act of giving. The flowers are not for tomorrow, not for the future—they are blooming now, here. The very thought of giving arises here, and there the flowers begin to blossom! The moment the impulse to sit silently arises here, peace begins to happen! The moment the urge to be blissful arises here, bliss arrives!
Means and end meet simultaneously—in one and the same instant.
One of Gurdjieff’s disciples, Bennett, has written a unique memoir. Bennett was with Gurdjieff the longest. He was the first seeker from the West to reach Gurdjieff, and he remained with him to the end—some forty-five years of association. Bennett writes that while working with Gurdjieff, one day Gurdjieff told him to keep digging pits, so he dug all day. He was utterly exhausted! Gurdjieff had a method—to tire one so completely that even lifting a hand becomes impossible; for Gurdjieff would say that only when you are so tired that you cannot lift your hand does your connection with the supreme energy link up. As long as your personal energy is strong, the supreme does not flow through you. So he exhausted him. He had not slept for three nights. He was falling over. He kept digging, but he no longer knew whether he could lift the spade again. He nodded off even as he raised it. Then Gurdjieff came and said: What are you doing? Not so fast. We still have to go to the forest and cut some wood.
With Gurdjieff there was a strict condition—what he said had to be done. Only through such demands could he shock the sleeping consciousness awake. Bennett had no desire at all—going to the forest was out of the question. He worried about how he would even reach his room. He might fall asleep somewhere on the way. But when Gurdjieff said it, he went. He went to the forest and began chopping wood. While he was chopping, suddenly it happened—suddenly he felt all lethargy vanish and as if a great dam of energy had burst! Here he had become completely empty of his own power; space was created. From within, where energy is filled, it broke forth. It flowed into the pit. The pit had been dug by exhaustion. Energy flowed—and every part of his body, every hair, became filled with a power he had never known. He felt, in that moment, that whatever he wanted could happen. Such power! So he thought, what should I want? All his life he had wanted bliss. He said, I want to be blissful. No sooner did the thought arise than he became utterly blissful. He could not believe that to be blissful is within a man’s power! All want it—who attains? He thought: Let me be blissful... He was merely playing with the power, seeing it dance all around him. He was so overflowing that he felt: whatever I think now will happen—then what shall I think? 'Blissful!' The moment the word arose—bliss—the whole being thrilled and danced. He could not trust it. He thought, perhaps I am deceived, dreaming, being made fun of. So he decided to test by reversing it: Let me be miserable! The moment he thought, 'Let me be miserable,' he collapsed. Darkness gathered all around, as if the sun had suddenly set; waves of suffering began to rise. He was frightened—this is hell falling upon me. What is happening! He said, Let me be calm—and instantly he was calm.
He raised all kinds of moods, one by one. He experimented with each—anger, disgust, love—and whichever mood he evoked, that very mood manifested fully.
He came running to Gurdjieff. He said: I am astonished! Gurdjieff replied: There is no need to be astonished. Quietly go to sleep. And keep what has happened in silence, and remember—never forget—that if a man is in the right state, whatever he wants—so it becomes. In the wrong state you can go on wanting and nothing happens. In the right state, when the inner strings are tuned, the distance between means and end disappears. Hindus have called this the state of Kalpavriksha.
Kalpavriksha is not some tree planted in heaven. Kalpavriksha is a conscious state within you.
From Bennett’s account you can understand what Kalpavriksha means: where the gap between means and end is no more, where there is no distance at all between the two. The very moment the means appears, the end is already present. Simultaneous! Not even a fraction of a moment in between—this is the conception of Kalpavriksha.
They say of Kalpavriksha: sit beneath that tree and whatever you ask is instantly granted. Such a tree is nowhere outside, but you can become such a tree. The first step is to lessen the distance between means and end. For wherever means and end meet, there the event of Kalpavriksha happens.
But you have created great distance. You are always creating distance. You say, tomorrow it will be attained. You cannot trust that it can be today, now, this very moment.
You have lost self-trust. For births upon births you have been caught in desire. This is the circle of desire: the distance between end and means—that is desire; the union of end and means—that is the Self. You have widened the gulf so much that even in this life you cannot believe that attainment is possible; you say, next life. Not trusting even the next life, because you know yourself well—that for countless lives you have been wandering and nothing has been attained—you say: in heaven, in the other world; if not in this world, then in the beyond. You keep pushing it away. You go on inserting time between means and end. Drop time and let it fall.
Krishna says: Abandon fruit-desire. The Upanishads say: Do not be a miser. Mahavira says: Become bhavya. Why chase the future? You can be bhavya. You have bestowed bhavyata upon the future.
Bhavya means: a moment in which there remains nothing to gain; everything is already attained. Such fulfillment, such contentment!
Then dharma will flow through your life, but now it will be like play. As a musician raises a melody on his veena—not to gain anything, but because so much has been given that he hums it, sings it, tastes it; as a dancer dances—not that someone should watch; if someone sees, it is their good fortune; if not, it is their ill fortune.
Someone came to see Van Gogh’s paintings; he looked here and there and said as he was leaving: I cannot make anything of these. I cannot even tell whether they are hanging straight or upside down. What is in them?
It is said tears came to Van Gogh’s eyes. The man asked: Did I hurt you? Van Gogh said: No. I pray to God—if only you had eyes like mine to see! You are utterly blind; that is why tears came, for no other reason.
The truly religious has an eye which the irreligious lacks—a third eye, a divya chakshu. That divine eye makes everything bhavya, beautiful. Wherever he casts his gaze, mud turns to gold. Wherever he lays his hand, earth becomes gold. Wherever he sits or stands, there Kalpavriksha begins to arise.
It is within your reach to become bhavya. But there is one way only: let the future drop. Withdraw the bhavyata you have given to the future, and install that stolen bhavyata in your own heart.
'An abhavya being practices dharma as a pretext for enjoyment, not as the cause of karmakshaya.'
Even through dharma he spreads the net of karma; karmakshaya does not happen. In the name of dharma he keeps re-imprinting the very tendencies of the world.
Havish ko aa gaya hai gul khilana
Zara ae zindagi! daman bachana.
Desire knows how to make flowers bloom. If you run from the world, it will begin to make religious flowers bloom. If you run from thoughts, it will make the flowers of meditation bloom.
Havish ko aa gaya hai gul khilana
Zara ae zindagi! daman bachana.
Be a little alert! Your thirst assumes great forms. Thirst is a master of disguises. Whatever form you prefer, it dons and begins to dance. It says, fine—this too. Until you recognize it rightly in all its forms—until you grasp one fundamental thing: thirst is the distance between means and end. Wherever there is a gap between means and end, know that thirst has taken shape. Be alert!
Zara ae zindagi! daman bachana!
Be vigilant—again the future has arrived; from somewhere desire has knocked. The moment you say, tomorrow—desire has come! The moment you say, let it be like this, if only this would happen, and you start arranging for it—desire has entered! In the moment you are sitting, or walking, or standing, and there is no thirst—if you are simply sitting, blissful; standing, blissful; walking, blissful—the small acts of life become bhavya.
The Zen masters say: The one who has found the extraordinary within the ordinary—he alone has found. He who is after the extraordinary will remain ordinary, because the chase of the extraordinary is desire’s chase.
A Zen monk was asked: Before you attained enlightenment, what did you do? He said: I chopped wood and drew water from the well. And now that you are enlightened, what do you do? He said: I still chop wood, I still draw water. Then what is the difference? The difference is immense. Before, I drew water with a hidden desire to gain through it; before I chopped wood, but somewhere the lust was in the future.
Now I still chop wood, still draw water—what else will one do? Life is made of these small things: you will chop wood, fetch water, sweep the house, cook, wash clothes, bathe, eat, sleep, rise, sit, walk—life is woven of such tiny atoms.
But one difference descends.
The act becomes bhavya when there is no desire in it. The moment you are freed of thirst, the act becomes sacred.
But we are so entangled in thirst that even when we run from where we are entangled, we leave everything else but carry thirst with us.
Ye na jana tha is mahfil mein dil reh jayega
Ham ye samjhe the chale aayenge dambhar dekhkar.
Such attachment arises that the heart remains in the gathering and the gathering enters the heart. You keep running, but nothing changes. Wherever you go, a world rises again, because the blueprint of the world lies in your thirst.
'He does not know that auspicious modifications directed toward paradravya are punya and inauspicious are papa. Dharma is ananyagat—i.e., modifications directed toward swadravya—which in due course become the cause of the cessation of sufferings.'
'Auspicious modifications directed toward another’s substance are punya.' Mahavira defines punya thus: a relation of auspicious modification with the other is punya. A relation with the other—auspicious—is punya.
You give charity to someone—a relation is created. Charity is punya—you have given! If you snatch from someone, steal—another relation arises—snatching. Giving and snatching are opposites. Giving is punya, snatching is papa.
But in both cases one thing is common—the other is present. You give to the other, you snatch from the other. The other remains.
Therefore Mahavira says: Auspicious modifications toward paradravya are punya and inauspicious are papa. Then what is dharma? Dharma is freedom from both papa and punya—not giving and not snatching. Dharma is ananyagat—being free of the other.
'i.e., modifications directed toward swadravya, which in due time become the cause of the cessation of sorrow.'
These are Mahavira’s cardinal sutras: 'swadravya mein pravritt parinam.' His technical phrase.
The one who delights in himself...
You are sitting, doing nothing, just sitting: there is delight within yourself! You are immersed in yourself, absorbed, utterly absorbed. The mind is not going anywhere. Not to the future, not to the other. For going to the other is also going to the future. There is no thought of another—thought has stopped. You are not thinking, for all thoughts are of the other. You simply are!
This is being in swadravya—you simply are, nothing is happening. You are not creating relations. You are not building bridges. There is no yearning to go to the other, nor an urge to flee the other. The other does not arise in the realm of your imagination. Alone you are, brimful with yourself, overflowing, going nowhere. Not even a ripple, no wave—for a wave also goes somewhere. You simply are, here. Such a moment Mahavira calls dharma.
If a wave rises—and if it is for the other’s good, it is punya; for harm, papa. If no wave rises, and you remain absorbed in swadravya—that is dharma. Dharma is beyond papa and punya.
The one who is beyond papa and punya cannot have a future. You can be in yourself only here and now—the present moment. You can experience your Self, for being is available. You need not wait for tomorrow; you need not say, tomorrow I will enter myself. To enter another, you must wait—gain consent, persuade, coax. But to enter your own self—why postpone till tomorrow? No means are needed. You are already there; only a little forgetfulness has happened. With remembrance, you suddenly find you have always been at home. This being at home is dharma.
Papa binds, and punya also binds. Therefore Mahavira says: One who has taken punya to be dharma has not yet understood dharma. He has prettified his tendency toward papa, made it attractive; but he has not known what papa is. Papa is precisely this: you went outside yourself. Whether you went to kill another or to save another—both are equal. You left yourself. There the primal sin has happened.
Sitam hai, ae roshni, sitam hai, ki voh bhi ab dhoop ki jad mein
Zara sa saya jo reh gaya tha ghane darakhton ki tirgi mein.
You sit hidden under the trees, a little shade in the blazing noon—but slowly the sunlight enters even there. Slowly the sun steals that too.
Sitam hai, ae roshni! sitam hai, ki voh bhi hai ab dhoop ki jad mein—now even that has come within the range of the sun—zara sa saya jo reh gaya tha ghane darakhton ki tirgi mein.
At first one escapes papa and wants to sit in the shade of punya. But it does not take long to see that punya is only an extension of papa. Soon you see that punya too is a decorated shackle, a chain—and quickly it is seen that it too is drowned in papa.
The day punya begins to look like papa, one becomes available to dharma.
Mahavira’s definition of dharma is of the utmost, ultimate; more pure than this is hard to find.
'Dharma is ananyagat—i.e., modifications directed toward swadravya—and then, in due time, it becomes the cause of the cessation of sorrows.'
You need not worry that sorrow should cease, or that the causes of sorrow should cease. That happens in due time. This 'in due time' too must be understood.
Mahavira says: For births upon births we have done papa, sown seeds, planted trees. In due time the fruits will ripen and fall. No haste can be made there. Only this can be done: do not sow again. The fruits already growing will ripen and fall—only upon maturing. Accept them silently. Great sorrow will come—accept it. This Mahavira calls tapas. The sorrows we had sown have ripened; now we must undergo them. Undergo them silently. Do not react at all. Do not even call them bad. Do not try to remove them. Do not try to escape or run away—for all your attempts will only delay it.
Receive them with a feeling of 'Ah!'—Ah, the sorrows I sowed have ripened and the moment to bear them has come. Blessed am I—freedom is coming!
Sad chak hua go jam-e-tan, majboori thi seena hi pada
Marne ka waqt mukarrar tha, marne ke liye jeena hi pada.
Mahavira says: Live as if the time to die is already fixed. What to do? We must live! Arrange for life as one mends torn garments. Sad chak hua go jam-e-tan majboori thi seena hi pada—garments tore a thousand times; helplessly, one had to sew them. Marne ka waqt mukarrar tha, marne ke liye jeena hi pada.
Silently, in all conditions, wait until the fruits of papa ripen and fall—in due time. Mahavira says: by themselves, as fruits have their season, so have all karmas their season. They ripen on their own. Do not concern yourself with them. Leave the future. Learn to be immersed in the present, in yourself, in swaparinaam. Gradually everything else will occur by itself in due time. You need not keep account. When the fruit of papa comes, when suffering and pain arise, accept them. That is tapas.
'He who longs for punya yet longs for samsara. Punya is certainly a cause for a good destination; but nirvana comes only through the cessation of punya.'
Mahavira says: It is good to long for punya—but it is still a longing for the world. Therefore do not stop with the desire for punya. Desire punya so that you may be freed from papa. One thorn is removed with another. In that very way, desire punya so that papa may be extracted. But once the first thorn is removed, do not leave the second in the wound. It too is a thorn. Thank it and throw both away. When papa is removed, do not begin to preserve punya; otherwise you only preserve samsara.
'He who longs for punya longs for the world. Punya is a cause for a good destination, but nirvana happens only through the cessation of punya.'
Idhar andhere ki laanatain hain, udhar ujale ki jahmatein hain
Tere musafir lagaye bistar kahan pe sahra-e-zindagi mein?
A great difficulty! On this side are the curses of darkness; on that side the inconveniences of light. Papa torments you, and punya also torments you. Where shall your traveler spread his bedding in the desert of life? In this desert there is no place for rest. Rest is within the traveler. If you spread the bedding outside, you will wander. The bedding must be spread within. Mahavira calls this 'ananyagat; modifications directed toward swadravya'—the bedding laid within!
See Vishnu—reclining upon the Kshira-sagara! He has spread his bed upon the ocean of milk! A delightful story.
Kshira-sagara means the ocean of nectar, whose end never comes. His bed is spread upon it. And that bed? Shesha-naga, coiled beneath.
The serpent is the symbol of your energy, Kundalini, the energy coiled within you. Upon the coils of that very energy, the one who reclines upon the ocean of the infinite! Lakshmi presses his feet! All wealth presses his feet unasked. All splendors become available effortlessly—not that he strives for them. While there is striving there is only pain pressing your feet. So long as there is desire, what comes to hand is pain. As long as there is asking, the supreme treasure will not be yours.
Here even begging is not attained by begging—how then the supreme treasure! The supreme treasure is given to emperors—those who have spread their bedding upon the inner Kshira-sagara, upon the coils of their own Shesha-naga.
No, there is no place outside in this desert of life to rest. Here there is only running and more running. Every point that appears to be rest only becomes the beginning of a new race. You think: now, now the moment of repose has come; as you reach, the horizon of rest moves further on.
No one has known rest in desire. Rest is not there—nor pause, nor Ram. Rest is within, where thirst becomes zero.
'Know inauspicious karma as kushil and auspicious as sushil.'
Listen to this word with care.
'Know inauspicious karma as kushil and auspicious as sushil. But how can that be called sushil which introduces one into the world?'
First Mahavira says: Know inauspicious karma as kushil, auspicious as sushil. Instantly, in the next sentence, he negates it: How can you call it sushil which leads into the world? To a mind full of logic this seems contradictory—the statement immediately turns on itself. Just a sentence earlier he said: inauspicious is kushil, auspicious is sushil—and now he says: how can the auspicious be called sushil, for it introduces one to samsara!
This is spoken for two different levels of people. Whenever you find 'inconsistency' in the sayings of one like Mahavira, understand that the statements are delivered upon different levels. First he speaks to those immersed in papa: Know inauspicious as kushil and auspicious as sushil. Then when he has freed them from papa, he says: But listen—how can that be called sushil which brings you into the world? This was only a makeshift, a practical device.
Mahavira says: His statements stand upon two foundations—vyavahar-naya and nischaya-naya. One statement is practical: remove a thorn with another thorn; so he says, This thorn is auspicious—use it to extract the one that has pierced you. When the thorn comes out, he gives the nischaya statement: Now throw both away, for how can a thorn be sushil? A thorn is in truth dushil, kushil.
Mahavira’s speech is always on two levels. One is where you stand—he speaks to you there. The second is where you will stand after listening and understanding—then he will say immediately: Now do not begin worshiping the thorn you have used.
Punya is good for working purposes—it helps free you from papa. But do not cling to it. Do not let it become your ultimate direction; otherwise you are freed from illness and caught by the medicine. Medicine is auspicious to free you from disease, but do not worship medicine. Do not sing the glories of punya.
But this is what happens. A man gives a little charity and broadcasts it. Not only broadcasts—he arranges that people should know he gave; let the newspapers print it, the photo be published—that he gave!
Mahavira says: Charity was like washing off a sin; you sinned and repented—what’s the noise? Someone had tuberculosis, took medicine, recovered—does he go to the papers to declare how great he is, that he took medicine and got well? We would call him mad.
Mahavira says: You have sinned plenty; now you trim it back with bits of punya—what is there to shout about? The truly virtuous acts in such a way that the left hand does not know what the right hand has done—silently. Let no one know. Because punya is repentance—what is there to announce? He acts out of necessity: so much sin has been done, now it must be cleansed; so much filth has been gathered, now a bath is needed. You do not build your bathroom in front of your house so the whole village can watch you bathe. You bathe quietly in the bathroom. Your house of punya should be equally hidden. If you gain praise from it, that becomes a new calamity—you will begin doing punya to enjoy the taste of applause. Then bhavyata is lost; you become abhavya again.
So the one who does punya silently—that one is bhavya. The one who performs punya with announcements—that one is abhavya. But we do punya precisely for the sake of announcements. We are ready to do it not for punya, but for proclamation.
Those who collect donations know this very well. They first get the names of a few wealthy people. They say: You needn’t actually give ten thousand—give a thousand; but write down ten thousand so that others feel envy and competition: 'Who does he think he is! He gave ten thousand? Then write eleven for me!'
Even for charity the ego must be placated; even for virtue the disease must be scratched. And when the donation is given, the donor waits for the return: a procession! Bands! The whole town must talk! The news must travel far and wide!
A gentleman came to see me with his wife. The wife told me: Perhaps you do not know my husband. I said: This is his first visit. She said: He is very charitable. He has donated one lakh rupees. The husband immediately pressed her foot and said: Not one lakh—one lakh ten thousand. Even ten thousand less pains him—he hastened to correct.
A donor cannot be a man of status. The one who craves status cannot be a giver.
Mahavira says: 'Know inauspicious karma as kushil and auspicious as sushil, but how can that be called sushil which brings one into the world?' Ultimately, that too is kushil. From the viewpoint of sin, punya is sushil; from the viewpoint of moksha, punya is kushil.
Therefore all Mahavira’s statements are statements of vision—this is what he calls 'naya,' a way of seeing. No statement is absolute; all are relative.
You say: So-and-so is very tall. It has no absolute meaning—he is not taller than a camel, nor a mountain, nor a tree. When you say tall, you assume a human average: six feet, he is seven; but under the mountain, he is small.
They say camels are afraid of approaching mountains. They would be, for in the desert they themselves are mountains. Near a mountain, humility arises.
Our statements are relative. From one angle they are true, from another, false.
Einstein proved the law of relativity in the world of science twenty-five centuries after Mahavira. But Mahavira had already established the same law in the world of religion.
Mahavira and Einstein stand together. What Mahavira contributed to religion, Einstein contributed to science. Einstein shook the scientific world—everything became relative. No statement remains absolute. There is no statement you can make without conditions; behind every utterance lies a condition.
Mahavira said the same. Therefore, do not see contradiction here. These are two-angled statements.
However hard you try, your ultimate nature will not be revealed through punya. Punya can be a midway station. Turning away from papa, rest awhile in punya—but the destination is moksha.
Ye mai chhalak ke bhi us husn ko pahunch na saki
Ye phool khilke bhi tera shabab ho na saka.
However much the wine of virtue overflows, it cannot reach that beauty; however much the flowers of goodness bloom, they cannot become your true youthfulness.
Even by displaying punya your bhavya form will not be revealed. The auspicious may manifest, but not the bhavya; for bhavya is as far from the auspicious as the auspicious is from the inauspicious. Bhavya is beyond the world.
Ye mai chhalak ke bhi us husn ko pahunch na saki
Ye phool khilke bhi tera shabab ho na saka.
Your supreme beauty, the inner beauty—punya cannot touch it. Punya too is a deed. However great the deed, it is smaller than the doer. However great the act, it cannot be greater than the one who acts. The waves you raise cannot be bigger than the ocean.
Mahavira says: Our inner Self is vast. Deeds are tiny ripples—auspicious or inauspicious, but ripples all. Do not take those ripples to be all. Even if they are waves of virtue, they cannot touch your supreme beauty. However many flowers of virtue bloom, they cannot even be worthy of being laid at the feet of your supreme beauty.
In this world, whatever we do is a deed—punya or papa, good or bad. The one who sits within—beyond doing, the witness—he is not part of this world.
He alone is our supreme beauty. He is mukti, moksha.
Meri rangaten na nikhar saki, meri nihkaten na bikhar saki
Main voh phool hoon ki jo is chaman mein gila-guzaare saba raha.
Try as you may, your colors will not be brightened by deeds. From papa they surely won’t—only soot will be smeared. From punya they will not either. Layer yourself with gold—it won’t brighten you.
Meri rangaten na nikhar saki, meri nihkaten na bikhar saki
Nor will your fragrance spread through your deeds—because you are greater than your deeds.
Main voh phool hoon ki jo is chaman mein gila-guzaare saba raha.
Your complaint will remain—whether you do evil on the scale of Nadir, Chengiz, Taimur, Hitler, or perform the virtues of an Ashoka or an Emperor Wu—your final radiance will not come from deeds.
You are greater than deeds. Will the ocean be brightened by polishing the waves?
The ocean brightens in witnessing. The ocean brightens by being tided over into the non-dual absorption in swadravya.
In the Upanishads are precious statements: 'Yo vai bhuma tatsukham'—in the vast is joy. In the infinite is joy. 'Na alpe sukham asti'—there is no joy in the small. 'Bhumaiva sukham'—verily, joy is only in the vast. 'Bhuma tveva vijijñasitavyah'—therefore, only the vast is to be sought.
Mahavira says: That vast is hidden within you. Your deeds are small undulations—auspicious and inauspicious—but all are undulations. They run toward the shore—the other. When there is no ripple in the ocean, the ocean is shoreless, because nothing is heading toward the shore. When there are no ripples, the ocean is broken from the shore—without a bank. Then the ocean is vast.
'Yo vai bhuma tatsukham'—joy is in the vast. 'Na alpe sukham asti'—where is joy in the small! 'Bhumaiva sukham'—seek the vast; joy is only in the vast.
'Whether the chain be of gold or of iron, it binds all the same. Thus the jiva is bound by his auspicious and inauspicious karmas.'
Mahavira says: Whether the fetter is gold or iron, both bind. Do not be pleased that in the prison you are a special prisoner—the iron on others, gold upon you. The beggar is bound in iron; the emperor in gold. The real question is: Are you bound? The evildoer is bound; the virtuous too is bound. Sometimes the virtuous is bound more—for the sinner wants to throw away the iron; the saint wants to save the gold.
Thus sometimes the criminal longs to be free, but the virtuous does not—for how will you be eager to drop that which brings pleasure and respect, which fattens the ego!
Sometimes, therefore, those are unfortunate whose hands bear golden chains—they begin to preserve them, to wear them as ornaments.
'Therefore, from the highest standpoint, both kinds of karma are kushil; one should neither be attached to them nor associate with them. Because through attachment and association with kushil karmas, swadhinata is destroyed.'
And swadhinata—freedom—is for Mahavira the ultimate value. Beyond it, nothing. When you are perfectly free, with no limit, no hindrance—unobstructed freedom—only then are you vast, only then bhuma. Then you are no longer small. And freedom is destroyed by both. Therefore grasp neither papa nor punya; do not cling to the world, nor to renunciation. Use sannyas as a device to leave the world—and then go beyond that too.
Here it is necessary to be tired of the prison; and you must also be tired of what you call 'home,' your nest.
Voh bijliyon ki chashm-ke-paiham ki kuchh na poochh
Tang aa gaye hain zindagi-e-aashiyan se hum.
If you watch the storms closely, you will tire not only of the prison, but of the home too.
Voh bijliyon ki chashm-ke-paiham ki kuchh na poochh
Tang aa gaye hain zindagi-e-aashiyan se hum.
Then you will tire even of the life of home—the place of safety, shelter. You will tire of support and refuge. You will tire of enemy—and of friend. You will tire of others—and of your own—because in truth even your own is 'other.'
Nevertheless, Mahavira says again: 'From the highest standpoint, both are kushil; therefore do not be attached, do not associate, for such association destroys freedom.'
'Yet, through vows and tapas, attaining heaven is better. Not doing so and bearing the pains of hell is not good—for standing in the shade is better than standing in the scorching sun.'
When Mahavira says: leave all—punya too, papa too—immediately it may occur to him that man is cunning. If told to drop both, he may not drop papa but will drop punya. He will say: Perfect! When I said: drop the world and sannyas too—many of you may have felt: Excellent! then let us drop sannyas.
We hear what suits us.
A friend came to take sannyas and asked: Ultimately, we have to drop even this, no? I said: You have not even taken it yet—do not be in a hurry. But he said: If ultimately it has to be dropped, what is the use? Granted that medicine must ultimately be dropped—but when the illness is gone. You do not tell the physician: What is the use of taking the drug if I must leave it later? If you do not take it, the illness will linger. Medicine must be taken and then dropped. The steps must be climbed and then left behind. If you say: since I must leave them, why climb?—you will remain below.
Mahavira must have thought: If I say drop papa and puna alike, as both are bonds—man might not drop stealing, but drop charity. He will say: Right! The chain of theft is heavy enough; why take on the chain of charity as well? The bondage of the world is enough—why add the bondage of renunciation? One chain is plenty—iron already on the hands, why add gold?
So Mahavira has to add at once: 'Through vows and tapas, attaining heaven is better. Not to do so and to suffer hell is not right.'
Even if medicine is bitter, it is wise to endure the bitterness—otherwise the hell of illness remains.
'Because standing in the shade is far better than standing in the sun.'
Sannyas offers a shade—a provisional shade; the last shade is the Self. Sannyas is a shelter—not the ultimate, but a wayside inn. Rest there for the night and move on at dawn. But do not argue: Since in the morning I must move on, why rest at night? Then you will not be able to go far.
Those like Mahavira constantly face this difficulty: whenever they speak, they first utter what is right; then immediately they must keep you in mind, lest you misunderstand. So he says: Do not worry. Though I said the golden chain is still a chain, do not be hasty; first replace iron with gold. Do at least this much. The golden chain will be a little lighter, less crude. You will not look as ugly as you did in iron.
Transform the world a little into sannyas. And the other ultimate statement—the paramarthic extreme—makes sense only when sannyas flowers. When the first thorn is out and the second becomes useless, then cast it away.
Pass through life as if it is the fruit of past karma—indifferently, with distance, with neglect, without reaction, without getting entangled in trifles. Like the dust of the road that falls as you walk—let it pass. Dogs bark as you walk; the sun beats down—let it all pass. What has been created over births upon births can be left only in this way—through neglect. When suffering comes, let it stay. Do not bind enmity with it. Do not say, 'let it not be.'
Hai aur kitni door teri manzil-e-qayam
Rah-rah ke poochhte hain ye umre-ravan se hum.
The seeker keeps asking within: How much farther? He asks his passing age: how much more? But whatever happens, he accepts it; and he does not sit down. He accepts what happens and continues the journey.
Hai aur kitni door teri manzil-e-qayam—within he keeps the reminder of the goal: how far! Rah-rah ke poochhte hain ye umre-ravan se hum—he asks his flowing life, how far, how far? He keeps himself gathered. He does not let himself fall into depression.
Ae shama! subah hoti hai roti hai kisliye
Thodi si reh gayi hai ise bhi guzar de.
As dawn approaches, the night grows darkest—this is the news of dawn.
Therefore, as moksha, nirvana draws near, suffering grows dense. The fruits of infinite births begin to ripen together. In due time—the hour has come.
Mahavira became very ill. Buddha’s body was poisoned. Ramakrishna departed through cancer; so too Raman.
Many wonder—why should such ones end in such suffering?
We do not understand life’s arithmetic. For those whose final hour has come near, the accumulated fruits of countless births ripen swiftly—because when they depart, they will depart utterly; they will not return. So all settlement—karmakshaya—happens in haste, with intensity. All kinds of pains, which had been suppressed, rise to the surface. And they must rise—not only as the fruit of past karma but as the preparation for the futureless; the way they watch them in peace, allow them to pass in utter ease—this becomes their final preparation, their last provision.
Ae shama! subah hoti hai roti hai kisliye
Thodi si reh gayi hai ise bhi guzar de.
The world must be left, because the spring that appears in the world is false. Therefore, as one leaves the world, all the flowers will fall—autumn will come; even leaves will fall; bare, stark trees will remain. But this is not the final state—it is a station. One who accepts this autumn wholly, with a total heart, finds another kind of spring arise within—one whose autumn never comes. The one who embraces this autumn utterly, with welcome and without a trace of refusal—that is the meaning of tapas—flowers bloom again, but now they are the flowers of the Vast, of the supreme ocean, of the supreme Truth.
Inhin bajte hue patton se gulshan phoot niklenge
Baharon ka ye maatam sirf anjam-e-khizaan tak hai.
Do not think the renunciate is unhappy. Outwardly it may appear so. Do not think the renunciate is a pessimist. Outwardly it may appear so, because he is leaving what you call happiness. But the renunciate is not a pessimist. He is moving toward the supreme enjoyment, because what you call happiness is not happiness; what you call sorrow is not sorrow. What you call happiness is only your desire, hope, thirst.
Havish ko aa gaya hai gul khilana,
Zara ae zindagi! daman bachana.
What you call happiness is only havish—craving—that never fills, a bottomless hunger. What you call sorrow is the fruit of the desires of past births.
Thus, the renunciate does not see your happiness as happiness—he sees it as mere dream; and he sees your sorrow as real—for it is the fruit of karmas done in past lives. He drops your happiness, for how long does it take to drop an imagination? There is nothing to drop. It was only a thought. He drops your happiness instantly.
The one who drops your happiness—that one is a sannyasi. But sorrow cannot be dropped so easily, for it is no longer imagination. The wounds left by infinite fantasies—sorrow is their name. He accepts sorrow.
Renunciation of imagination—sannyas; acceptance of sorrow—sannyas. Happiness falls away in a trice because where is it? There is nothing to leave—your fist is empty.
Two madmen were talking in an asylum. One clenched his fist and said: Guess what’s in my hand? The other said: Give me some hints. The first: No hints. You have three chances. The other said: An airplane. The first: No. The other: An elephant. The first: No. The other: A train. The first said: Wait, let me look. He slowly opened his fist and said: It seems you peeked!
There is nothing there—no train, no plane, no elephant. Open the fist and it is empty. If there is something, it is only because of madness—a figment of insanity.
Therefore, to drop happiness takes but a moment—your fist is empty.
That is why people do not open their fist—lest they discover there is nothing. Keep it closed! They say: a closed fist is worth a lakh. I agree: closed, it is worth a lakh; open, it is dust. Because there is nothing there. Close it and it seems precious. Keep the fist clenched, keep locks on the safe. Do not open, else you will find yourself empty-handed.
Happiness can be dropped at once—just a touch of witnessing, and it is gone. But sorrow? Sorrow will take a little time. Across uncountable lives, the scars of wrong notions have remained...
The renunciation of joy and the acceptance of sorrow—this is Mahavira’s sannyas. And the supreme fruit of this sannyas happens on its own. That supreme fruit is nirvana—not pleasure, not punya, not heaven. The supreme fruit is moksha, supreme freedom.
There has never been a greater exponent of freedom. Others have spoken of freedom, but Mahavira holds such a grip upon freedom that to protect freedom he is willing to offer even God upon the altar of freedom—yet he will not offer freedom upon the altar of God. He says: If God remains, freedom cannot be complete. Therefore there is no God. Freedom is complete. And the whole journey of births upon births is for this supreme freedom.
How shall we attain it?
Slowly begin to give place to the threads of freedom in your life. Wake up to whatever binds. First awaken from papa, for it binds; meanwhile, take the support of punya. You need some place to put your foot. Turning away from papa, you need a ground—stand upon punya. But do not stand so long that you build a house there. As soon as papa is finished, leap beyond punya too. Then all shores disappear.
'Yo vai bhuma tatsukham'—then there is joy in the vast. 'Na alpe sukham asti'—where is joy in the small! 'Bhumaiva sukham'—joy is only in that Bhuma.
Let us long for that Bhuma, seek that Bhuma! That Bhuma is hidden within us. That freedom is our very nature.
Enough for today.