Jin Sutra #25

Nāṇeṇa jāṇai bhāve—through jnana man comes to know.
Daṃsaṇeṇa ya saddahe—through darshan, shraddha arises.
Caritteṇa nigiṇhāi—through charitra there is restraint, renunciation of the inessential.
Taveṇa parisujjhai—and through tapas man is purified.

Through knowledge we know. But knowing is not enough. Knowing remains on the surface. Mere knowing does not give birth to shraddha. Unless darshan happens—unless we ourselves see with our own eyes—shraddha does not arise.

Mahavira saw; we heard. What we have come to “know” by hearing will not give birth to shraddha. Krishna spoke; we heard. We assented after hearing. That will not give birth to shraddha. And if you somehow impose a faith upon yourself, you will go astray. False shraddha does not transform life—this is its very mark: life goes one way, shraddha says something else. Shraddha says renounce; life keeps hoarding wealth. Then that shraddha is false, a sham.

When life and shraddha begin to walk together—when life follows behind shraddha like a shadow—only then is your knowing a true shraddha.

So Mahavira says, shraddha is fundamental. The jnana that flowers from shraddha alone is real jnana. And when jnana arises out of shraddha, then charitra is born by itself.

Do not found life upon knowledge—found it upon vision, upon darshan. Most people have founded their lives upon knowledge. What seems right by logic, by thought, by the intellect—they ponder and accept. But what seems right to logic will not reach the heart, because logic has no access to the heart. Logic is only a scratching of the skull; it is very superficial. Logic does not stir the life-breath.

Has anyone ever given his life for logic? Has anyone ever been a martyr for logic? That for which you could die—that alone is your shraddha. That without which you cannot live—that alone is your shraddha. You say, I will live only with this; without this, let death come—this is shraddha. That which is greater than life—this is shraddha. That for which even life can be laid down—this alone is shraddha.

Have you seen anyone laying down his life for two and two making four? If someone were to advocate this truth and you stood up with a sword, would he give his life to defend it? It would seem foolish.

For two and two make four—dying for this seems to have no worth. He will say, as you please, make two and two five or two and two three; but two and two making four is not something for which I will lose my life.

One can lose one’s life for love. Hence shraddha is like love. Mahavira says, found life upon shraddha. But understand Mahavira’s shraddha. His special word is: shraddhāna. This is not the same as what you ordinarily call “faith.” People say, we have great faith in God. That which you have not seen—how will there be shraddha? Shraddha does not come by the ear, shraddha comes by the eye.

Therefore Mahavira calls shraddhāna by another name—darshan. Shraddhāna and darshan are synonyms in Mahavira’s language—one and the same in meaning, not even a shade of difference.

So you say, we have faith in God. Have you seen? Experienced? Touched? Lived in That? Has your heart beat with That? Have you danced with That? Any recognition? No—you say it is a belief. And people say the elders say so, it has come from eternity, it is in the tradition. But this will not produce shraddha. This is your belief, not shraddha.

This is the difference between belief and shraddha: belief is borrowed; shraddha is one’s own. Shraddha is intrinsic; belief is like buying paper or plastic flowers from the market to decorate your house. Shraddha is like sowing a seed, nursing the tree, watering it, manuring it—then one day flowers come and the winds are full of fragrance.

The flowers of shraddha bloom in your own life—not borrowed, not stale; not from another; not begged.

Belief is cheap. Truth—being supreme—cannot be attained so cheaply. Who has ever known truth on loan?

The Upanishads say: satyam param, param satyam—the supreme is Truth and Truth is the supreme. How will you attain the supreme so cheaply? You will have to stake yourself. That is why I say: shopkeepers do not reach truth; gamblers do. For the first condition of truth is: lose yourself and you will find; wager yourself and you will find. It is exactly like gambling. Whether you will get it is not certain. You will have to lose yourself—only then it may be given. Before losing, no one can assure you that you will receive.

Thus shopkeepers—those who calculate, who arrange logic and mathematics—are content with belief. Belief is dead, a corpse.

Yes, Mahavira must have seen. What he said was his shraddha; what you heard became your belief.

Therefore beware: if I say something, it is my shraddha. And if you accept it upon hearing, you are deceived. For you it will be only belief. Because it is shraddha for me, it will not become shraddha for you. As I have seen, so must you see.

I cannot give you shraddha; I can only give you a few hints, by which you too may open your eyes and see. Only when you see will shraddha be. And what you have seen—no one can snatch it away. For the very seeing installs it in the heart.

Therefore Mahavira denied the śrutis, the smritis—the Veda he denied. This is a word to be pondered.

Hindus say, the Vedas and Upanishads are śruti—we have heard so; the awakened ones have said so; this is the insight of those who have known—śruti! Then we remembered it; for centuries guarded it like a treasure—smriti! All shastras first become śruti, then smriti. Mahavira said: neither śruti nor smriti—shraddha!

You must fashion the scripture yourself. Your scripture must be born from you. Adopted scriptures will not be of use.

See the difference! One woman becomes a mother by bearing a child—and another claims to be a mother by adopting. She deceives by becoming a mother without ever having carried a womb, endured the pain of pregnancy, borne nine months of long travail, the nausea, the weight; and then the pangs of delivery—as if life itself were in peril, whether one will live or not. For that unknown life hidden in the belly she placed her known life at stake—for the yet unseen one, who is he, what is he, no one knows; she risked what is familiar and known; she risked her life.

One becomes a mother by holding the womb. Then there are the clever ones who say, why so much trouble? Children can be adopted. Adopt. But between adopting and conceiving, there is a vast difference. A makeshift mother may be produced, but the real mother will not be born. The real mother is born with the child.

When a child is born, two births occur—the child’s and the mother’s. On one side the child is born, on the other a mother is born. Till yesterday an ordinary woman—suddenly she becomes a mother! If you take the child into your arms, the child was never born—from you it wasn’t born. Then a deception of motherhood is produced.

Belief is just that—an adopted truth. Shraddhāna, shraddha is a truth you have given birth to. And how can anyone else give birth to your truth!

There is an ancient story from the life of Solomon. Two women came to his court. Both claimed the same child as theirs. A great difficulty. How to decide? Solomon said, fine. He called each one near and whispered, listen, it is difficult to decide. There is no witness, no eyewitness. The only just way is to divide the child in two. The one whose child it was shrieked and cried, no, do not do that; then give the whole child to her. But the one whose child it was not said, right, it is just, logical—cut him in half. The one who cried out—who took refuge not in logic but in the heart—said, no, no, then give him whole to her; he is not mine, he is hers.

Solomon gave the child to the one whose heart testified. The heart bore witness to whom he belonged.

That is an old tale.

I was reading the life of a psychologist. He discusses this story and writes: if today such a case came before an American court and the judge could not decide, he would call a psychologist. For now in America they ask the psychologist: both women claim—who is lying? And if the psychologist employed Solomon’s device, the woman who said, “Either I take him whole or else give him whole away,” would appear somewhat pathological. Obstinate! Extreme! A sensible person is a compromiser. All intelligent men are compromisers. Where you cannot get the whole, take the half. So the psychologist would say: the woman ready to accept half is healthy, normal; and the one who says either whole or I renounce whole is obsessed, filled with madness.

So that psychologist says: if this occurred today, the American court would give the child to the one who agreed to take half—because she is not insane. Her answer is reasonable, thoughtful. What kind of wisdom is it that if the whole is not possible one should even leave the half? Take what is available! Choose the middle path! Don’t go to extremes!

Those who move by the intellect, move by cleverness. Those who move by shraddhāna are madmen of the heart. That is why to the intellect, love always appears blind. Intellect says, think a little, consider, calculate, balance the accounts.

Mahavira is saying: through jnana man only knows. Knowing means acquaintance from the outside. It does not pierce to the heart. Through shraddha, through darshan, it pierces to the heart—pervades every pore; enters every breath. Therefore do not be content to clutch at knowledge. Nāṇeṇa jāṇai bhāve—through jnana there is only knowing, mere acquaintance.

As when you have read a few things about the Himalayas in a geography book—is that the same knowing as that of one to whom the Himalayas have been revealed, whose eyes have drunk the coolness of the Himalayas, who has let their beauty enter his being, who has roamed the valleys and peaks, who has touched the Himalayas? Is this the same knowing that comes from a geography book? In the book there are only black marks of ink on blank paper, nothing more. Where are those golden peaks! Where those virgin realms covered with untouched snows!

Eyes—only the eyes can see truth. Do not give much value to hearsay. Seeing is the thing! Only when you see does something happen. Not what is written, but what is seen.

Nāṇeṇa jāṇai bhāve, daṃsaṇeṇa ya saddahe.
“Only through darshan does shraddha arise.”

Shraddha means: the wires have been connected to your heart; the matter is no longer of intellect; no longer a mere opinion. It is not, “We think so”—it is. Shraddha means: it is. Not that we think so; not that others say so; not that the knowers have said so; not that we have heard—no: it is.

Vivekananda wandered seeking the Paramatman. He went to many gurus. He asked, does God exist? Vivekananda’s intensity and burning search! Those he asked would become nervous. He was a powerful man. He would ask in such a way that if the answer were not right he might pounce, he might seize the neck. He went also to Ramakrishna. Others had discussed God with him; among them were big men—Tagore’s grandfather, a man considered a maharshi. Vivekananda had gone to him too. He lived on a barge on the river. At midnight Vivekananda swam to the boat. The whole boat shook. The old man was meditating inside. Breaking the door, Vivekananda rushed in, like a madman. Midnight! Soaked with water! “What is it, young man—how did you come?” He said, “Does God exist?” The old man said, “Sit, I will explain.” Vivekananda said, “I have not come to understand; I want to know: does God exist? Have you experienced Him?”

The maharshi hesitated. Vivekananda leapt back into the river. The old man called after him, “Listen—come back!” Vivekananda said, “Your hesitation said everything. I have not come to understand or to learn. I have come to ask whether you have seen. I seek a man whose hand is in God’s hand. If it were only scripture to be understood, why would I learn it from you—I can read myself.”

Then he put the same question to Ramakrishna: does God exist? What did Ramakrishna answer? He said, “Do you want to know?” Vivekananda wavered—“Now? Or should I wait a little?” He had never thought anyone would ask as if God were in the next room—open the door and He will be shown!

Ramakrishna said, “Closer than the next room—He is within you! He is within me! Say the word and I will show you. And if you are not yet ready, think and come later.”

And before Vivekananda could say anything—Ramakrishna was a slightly mad fellow—he placed his foot upon Vivekananda’s chest. Vivekananda fell with a crash—unconscious. An hour later, when he came to, he was trembling like a leaf in a storm. He began to weep. For what had been shown, what had been glimpsed in that instant, changed his whole life. Later he tried hard to escape from Ramakrishna, tried every device—but he could not escape. This man had opened his eyes to some other dimension.

Now it was no longer a matter of knowledge. Mahavira calls this shraddhāna. Shraddha happened. This unlettered Ramakrishna defeated Maharshi Devendranath. He was learned, a great pundit, one of the founders of the Brahmo Samaj. But he had śruti and smriti—not shraddhāna.

Mahavira says: through jnana one knows; through darshan shraddha is. And when shraddha happens, charitra is born. For what there is no shraddha for can never descend into your character. If you impose it, it will be hypocrisy. It will be on the surface. To show others. Within, you will remain contrary, different. At the outer door one way, at the inner door another. You will say one thing, do another. It will never enter your character. Something enters the character only when the seed is planted in the soil of shraddha.

Jesus said: a farmer went out to sow. Some seeds fell on the path, on stony ground; they never sprouted. Some fell by the roadside, where the soil was fine but people passed and trampled them; even if they sprouted, they died. Some fell on moist, tender soil—there they were born and remained protected.

So unless some knowledge becomes your shraddha, unless a seed falls into the soil of the heart, unless something is experienced as truth in your very vision—no transformation of character, of conduct, happens. Yes, you can attempt to transform by effort. Many have done so.

Character can be fabricated straight from knowledge—but that is the character of the hypocrite. If one moves directly from knowledge to character, he will impose upon himself. He will speak truth, but will not be freed from falsehood. Falsehood will boil within; he will plaster truth on top. He will become non-violent, but violence will burn within like a forest fire. He will take a vow of brahmacharya, but lust will be present in every pore. His vows will be outer, like garments; they will not become bone, flesh, marrow.

When knowledge passes through shraddha and then reaches character, then samyak charitra is born.

Through character, the futile is restrained. This alone is the meaning of character for Mahavira. Character, according to him, is a cessation of the unnecessary. Keep this in mind, for it is basic to Mahavira’s negative vision. He does not say you must impose brahmacharya. Brahmacharya is the nature of the Atman; it is not to be imposed. Imposition is needed only because through shraddha the futility of lust has not yet been seen. You heard someone speaking about brahmacharya; it sounded sweet; it partially matched your experience; you are tired and harassed by the misery of life. You felt, this is right, proper. So considering it appropriate, you began to impose brahmacharya—positively, legislatively. You will strive to become celibate.

Mahavira says: if it is seen that lust is futile, then brahmacharya need not be imposed; lust drops away, and what remains is brahmacharya. Understand this difference deeply.

Untruth falls away; Truth—what remains when untruth is gone—your nature—this is truth.

Hence Mahavira says, through charitra there is only negation, renunciation—the futile drops. The meaningful is already within—but it is entangled with the futile. You do not have to bring the meaningful from outside. No planning, inviting, practicing to bring it—simply see the futile as futile. To see the futile as futile is enough. Once seen as futile, it slips from the hand, falls. You will never pick it up again. And what remains without it—this is truth, this is your nature. This you have always been.

It means you are already right; only a wrong connection has been made. Rightness has always been; a wrong association has joined. If the wrong association drops, you are as you have always been—right. It is not that you have become wrong and must become right; it is only that on gold a layer of mud has settled, dust has gathered on the mirror—remove the dust, wipe it; the mirror is mirror. The pure mirror is present beneath the dust. Dust did not destroy the mirror! It covered it—uncover it.

Therefore for Mahavira the soul is a discovery—only an uncovering. As an ember hides beneath ash—blow, the ash falls away, the ember remains. So when the breath of seeing is applied, the ash falls off; what remains is charitra.

“Through charitra there is cessation; through tapas there is purification.”

Remember what I told you yesterday about tapas. Tapas means: whatever pains come, accept them silently—without complaint, without negation.

Tapas also means this much: in past births, in the long journey behind, we sowed seeds of suffering and now their fruits have ripened. Who will bear them? They must be borne. If they must be borne, to bear them with suffering is wrong. That which must be borne—bear it simply, naturally, peacefully. Because if you bear it with suffering you sow fresh seeds of suffering. You react. You keep saying, I did not want this, what is happening? You go on denying. You again display desire. Within, your wanting persists. You wanted pleasure and pain is coming—so you are angry, resentful. Pain you must bear anyway. But now you have sown fresh seeds by anger and resentment. Their pain will have to be borne again.

Mahavira says: silently, without any reaction, if pain comes, bear it. As before a mirror a beautiful person comes or an ugly person comes—the mirror refuses neither; it reflects both. Both depart, the mirror remains empty. So Mahavira says, if happiness comes, do not clutch; if pain comes, do not push away. If happiness comes, understand it as the fruit of past punya-karma; if pain comes, understand it as the fruit of past papa-karma. Stand neutral, like a mirror—without bias, without choice. Make no opinion. This state is named tapas.

By tapas man is purified. Why? Because by tapas one is freed from the past. The past is the impurity. Freedom from the past is purity. To be weighted by the past is impurity.

We sit with heaps of trash, refuse of countless births piled upon the chest! This is impurity. To be free of it is purity. And as soon as one is pure, Mahavira says, what is—our original form, our nature—its image begins to emerge; its outline becomes clear. And one thing is linked to the other. But the beginning is shraddha.

Darshan, jnana, charitra—Mahavira has called these the path to moksha. Life is deeply organic: from seed to sprout, sprout to tree, and the tree bears fruit and flowers.

Do not begin from the middle! Begin at the beginning. Many are in a hurry. They think, “Flowers are available in the market. Why take so much trouble? Why so much hassle? What can be had cheap, let it be taken cheap.”

In the West scientists now say: soon babies will be born in test tubes, so that women need not go through such hassles. It will happen. Within twenty years it will happen—in your presence. Once women know that babies can be grown in test tubes, as soon as conception occurs in the womb the ovum will be removed and placed in a test tube. Then in the hospital scientists will take care. The mother will be spared nine months of disturbance, difficulty, pain. All that will be spared—but the mother too will not be born.

Just think! Your child is born in a test tube—whether he is “yours” or another’s, what difference does it make? If through some clerk’s error the test tubes are switched, you will never know whether the child is yours or someone else’s. What difference is there?

Then the arithmetic expands. Scientists ask: why must your child be from your sperm at all? Better sperm are available. True. When a man sows seed, cultivates, grows flowers—he chooses the best seed. You want to produce a child—choose the best seed. Better seed than yours can be had. So soon—if not today then tomorrow—like seed packets in flower shops, scientists will sell sperm packets for babies. The plans are ready. Not only that, as the packet carries a picture of the flower that will grow, the child’s picture too will be on the packet—what kind of child will be born. You can choose: what eyes, what hair, what face, what height; boy or girl; scientist, poet—what do you want? But then one thing is certain: everything will be “perfect”—but the child will not be yours. You will be deprived of becoming a mother or a father.

This is coming, because man has become terribly afraid of difficulties. Wherever convenience is available, he accepts it all—even if convenience costs him life itself—it does not matter, convenience is needed.

Tapas means: life passes through struggle, storms arrive, difficulties are there—accept them. Accept them in a calm spirit, and then by and by purity will shine forth. The soul will deepen. You will become centered, self-possessed. And one thing links to another. Begin with shraddha. Begin with the heart. For there breath of your breath is hidden. That is your temple. And then knowledge comes of itself.

A thought had only arisen and the eyes brimmed—
How close those tears were to the memory of Someone.

A mere thought arises; a remembrance comes—and the eyes fill with tears.
How close the tears are to someone’s memory! As tears are close to remembrance and when a memory stirs in the heart the eyes moisten—so, where darshan happens, jnana happens. Jnana is very close to darshan. And where jnana happens, charitra begins to happen. If one thing be attained—darshan—everything is attained.

Mahavira spoke of three so that the whole analysis is clear; otherwise even saying darshan would suffice. Once you see where the door is, you do not walk through the wall. And once it is experienced that fire burns the hand, you do not put your hand into fire again. Fire is one thing—even its picture makes you cautious.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin went on a sea voyage for the first time. He had never traveled by sea, never sat in a ship—only in a bus. He sat in the ship a while, then went to the captain’s cabin and asked, “Have you filled up the petrol?” The captain said, “Everything is filled, do not worry, sit in your place.” After a while he came again, “Listen! The engine—is it alright?” The captain got a little irritated. “Everything is fine, please sit!” But he came again. Seeing him approach, the captain grew anxious: “Again! Now what?” Mulla said, “Everything else okay? No trouble?” The captain said, “What is it to you?” Mulla: “What is it to me? Don’t later say, when we stop, ‘Get down and push!’”

Habituated to buses! One scalded by milk blows even upon buttermilk. If you have seen that fire burns, if it has entered experience—

Consider: you are sitting in a theater; if people simply shout “Fire!” panic ensues. No one sees the fire; perhaps someone is joking—but the moment the shout “Fire!” rings out, a stampede begins. Then try as you may to calm people, nobody listens. Even the word “fire” terrifies. So deep is the impact of living experience!

So if lust burns you—then not only lust, even the very word “lust” you will not take upon your lips. If lust has scorched your life and left wounds—then not only lust itself; where there is talk of lust, you will not sit. There is no meaning—who sits for the futile! And not only futile—if painful, if it has given bitter wounds—who goes to implore more wounds!

But you listen to discourses on brahmacharya and greed is aroused. The fire of lust has not yet been seen, and talk of brahmacharya arouses greed—this creates obstruction. It brings a confusion into life.

Mahavira says: begin with darshan. Darshan, jnana, charitra—this is the right sequence. And if you want to truly know life, keep watching it moment to moment in wakefulness. There is no other method. Whatever is—if anger is arising, watch anger—with wakefulness. That will become darshan. Do not read scriptures on compassion; look closely at anger—it is from that that one day compassion is born.

I am intimate with the reality of this phantom-elephant of delusion—
I look closely at the flower after it has withered.

Such close looking is of no use. When the flower has withered, seeing is worthless.

In old age people begin thinking about lust. When the flowers have faded, when energy is gone, when one is tired, when life begins to fail, when life itself starts discarding and throwing one upon the junk-heap—then one thinks of renunciation.

Hence Mahavira gave India a most unique formula: when you are young, brimming with energy, if you can see the sorrow of life and be done with it—if the fruit of renunciation ripens in full youth—that is most auspicious. Because then there is energy. The energy with which you would have moved toward the world becomes the means to move toward moksha. It is the same energy. But when energy has gone, when limbs are weak, when you cannot rise, cannot sit—then you begin to think of renunciation! That is not renunciation; it is self-deception. Life itself is renouncing you. Your renunciation has no value. It is like giving up certain foods after the teeth have fallen—now you cannot chew them.

Beware—be awake to what is happening right now, today, here! Awaken the capacity for darshan there. As darshan awakens—in anger, in lust, in greed, in attachment—you will find attachment, lust, anger, greed falling; and within, a new energy is born. For the energy that was invested in anger, once freed, becomes compassion. Through the medium of darshan, anger becomes compassion. And the journey of kama becomes the journey to Rama.

“Without samyak darshan, jnana is not.”
Nānda-saṇissa nāṇaṃ.
“Without jnana, there is no charitra.”
Nāṇeṇa viṇā na honti caraṇa-guṇā.
“Without the qualities of charitra, there is no moksha.”
Aguṇissa natthi mokkho.
“And without moksha, where is bliss, where is nirvana?”
Natthi amokkhassa nivvāṇaṃ.

Simple, straightforward—and utterly scientific sutras!

“Without darshan, there is no jnana.”
Therefore, whatever knowledge you have collected—do not mistake it for jnana. However much you have amassed—take it as an ornament upon ignorance; it has decorated ignorance; jnana has not been born. It has covered ignorance; it has not created knowing.

“Without jnana, there is no charitra.”
Darshan, jnana, charitra—and the test of jnana is that it descends into conduct.

I have heard: the famous martyr Chandrashekhar Azad knew only three abuses. Even in great anger he would repeat those three again and again: donkey, worthless, son of an owl. A friend said, if you enjoy abusing so much and your abuses run short in anger, why not learn more? There is no shortage of abuses—but you keep repeating the same three like a broken record; it doesn’t even sound good!

Azad said, “There is no need of a fourth. Abuses—and then bullets.” He took a pistol from his coat pocket: “Abuse, then bullet. Three abuses are enough—after that, bullet.” He said, I live by this formula: thoughts must be brought into action. Abuse is only thought; the bullet is action.

But the strange thing is: if there is abuse, the bullet will come by itself. How long will you go on abusing? If there is anger, violence will arise; you cannot save yourself. What we harbor in thoughts today, tomorrow it shows in action. For action is nothing but the condensation of thoughts layer upon layer. Thoughts become things. What you think today becomes your conduct tomorrow. Your conduct today was your thought yesterday.

Thought and conduct are parts of one journey. Thought is the first step; conduct is the last. If some thought never becomes conduct, it only means it is not your thought. Then how can it become conduct?

Ask physicians! If there is a shortage of blood in your body, anyone’s blood will not do; your own type is needed. Your body accepts only your type of blood; no other. If a plastic surgeon changes some skin on your face, he must graft skin from your own thigh or leg—your body will not accept someone else’s skin.

What is true of the body is even truer of the soul. Only what is your own experience is accepted by your soul; otherwise it is rejected. Only what has been forged in your life-breaths will be received; otherwise it is thrown out. As not every blood can be infused into you, and not every skin can be grafted upon you—the body is outward; the soul is far deeper, your ultimate being. There only you are you. Only what is your own can find place there; all else is rejected.

Therefore Mahavira says: without samyak darshan there is no jnana; without jnana, no charitra; without charitra, no moksha.

And if one is not yet purified in character, where is his liberation? For moksha is the very name for being freed from the false, the breaking of bondage.

And without moksha, where is nirvana, where is bliss?

So if you are unhappy, it is not accidental. You will remain unhappy, because you are not traveling toward bliss. And even when you do become eager, you are in a hurry, impatient. You want to take two or four steps at once; to leap two or four stairs at a time—let something happen quickly. Some begin with knowledge. Others, even more impatient, begin with character. Whenever the thought arises, you begin thinking how to change character. You want the last thing to come first. You are falling into confusion. You will stand on your head.

That is why I say: ninety-nine out of a hundred Jain monks are standing on their heads. They have begun with character. But Mahavira’s sutras are so clear, so simple—no great cleverness is needed to understand them. No entanglement at all. Mahavira does not confuse; he sets things simply and clearly. What could be clearer than this: without darshan, no jnana; without jnana, no charitra; without charitra, no moksha.

But what is the Jain monk doing? He is cultivating character. He says: when character is purified, jnana will be purified; when jnana is purified, darshan will be purified. He has reversed the whole process. He is standing on his head. Therefore neither darshan arises, nor jnana, nor charitra. Everything is stale. Everything is borrowed. Everything is dead, like a corpse. There is no festival of truth. No living experience of the Divine.

“Kriyā-vihina jnana is futile.” Hayaṃ nāṇaṃ kiyāhiṇaṃ. “And the action of the ignorant is futile.”

These sutras are precious!

Hayā aṇñāṇao kiyā—“The ignorant man’s action is useless.”

If you carry knowledge that does not come into life, into living action, it is futile, wrong. And if you are ignorant and begin to toil in action, to fabricate character—that too is futile.

Knowledge without action is futile; for you know, but do not bring it into life. It is as if food is laid out and you sit hungry. The food is useless—there or not, it is the same. It is cold, but blankets lie in front of you and you do not wrap them; or the sun has risen, you shiver in the cold and you do not go sit in the sun to enjoy its warmth. Such knowledge is futile if it does not descend into action. What will you do with this food?

The life of Jesus mentions that he performed a miracle and turned stones into bread. A Christian once asked me, do you believe this? I said, I do—because others perform an even greater miracle: they have turned bread into stone! So it is no great matter if Jesus turned stone into bread; I see daily that millions have turned bread into stone. That is the real miracle.

You keep knowledge which is of no use! Have you ever used your knowledge? You cannot—because it did not arise from darshan. It is not yours. In the depths of the mind you know it is not right. Outwardly you go on saying, it is right—social convention, society, tradition!

Your knowledge is mere etiquette. But within you do not trust it. And what you do not trust—how will you bring it into life? The food you do not trust—how will you eat it, digest it? Above you call it food; within you see it as stone, as mud. Thus knowledge remains lying unused.

“Kriyā-vihina jnana is futile, and the action of the ignorant is also futile.” If an ignorant man tries to be virtuous, it is useless; however much he imposes character, it will never become the pulsation of his being. It will not become the song of his life. It will remain on the surface. Scratch a little—and the real pus will ooze out.

Therefore do not scratch your so-called virtuous men—or else their virtue lies less than skin-deep. If not scratched, everything goes well. Give a little scratch—and trouble begins. That is why your virtuous run away from life—because life brings scratches.

Someone asked Rabindranath, “Why did you build Shantiniketan in Bolpur?” He said, “Should I have built it in Dholpur? Here at least we can speak—Bolpur!” And I say to you, unless you can speak even in Dholpur, there is no meaning in your speaking in Bolpur. Peace must be dense where there is tumult all around. Dholpur!

If you cannot be free in the marketplace, your freedom is worth two pennies. If you become free on Himalayan peaks, that freedom has no value. For as soon as you descend you will find that freedom is left on the mountain. In the market scratches will be given.

Bring your monks a little into the market! They will be known there, for there is jostling from all sides.

I have heard: a sannyasin lived thirty years in the Himalayas. His fame spread far and wide. People began to come to his cave, to touch his feet. Finally, at Kumbha Mela, people said, “Maharaj, now come down.” He too had gained confidence—thirty years! Not once did anger arise. Not once resentment. Not once any distortion. He said, I will come. He came. Now Kumbha Mela! Who cares for whom! Pushing and shoving! As he descended, someone stepped on his foot. He forgot the thirty years of Himalayan dwelling, of peace and meditation. He leapt, seized the man’s neck: “What do you think! On whom are you placing your foot? Walk with awareness!” Then he realized—ah! thirty years turned to dust!

But you had been sitting in solitude; no one’s foot came upon yours; there were no opportunities. A small scratch—and you are in difficulty.

The sadhu, if he attains to samyak charitra, will not be a fugitive. There is no need to escape. In his being there will be saintliness. He has not “left” anything—the wrong has left him. And he has not imposed anything—the right has revealed itself. His character will be a reflection of his inner soul. You will not find contradiction in his life. No double layers within. Not that he is something inside and striving to be something else outside. What he is within, so he appears without. Therefore Mahavira stood naked.

Standing naked is deeply symbolic: as I am within, so without. Why wear even clothes? Why appear as I am not?

You have seen: behind clothing there is not only the desire to cover the body. If it were only to cover, fine. But behind clothing is the desire to show the body other than it is. Mahavira’s nakedness is not a protest against garments; it is a protest against your deep urge to appear other than you are.

Observe men and women: men have padding put on their shoulders so the chest looks broad. Cotton—who comes inside to see! From outside the chest looks prominent.

Women contrive in a thousand ways to enhance their breasts. If not present, make arrangements. The effort is to appear as one is not.

Mahavira stood naked—in this sense. It is symbolic: as I am, I am. Why show otherwise? Showing otherwise will not make me otherwise. Whom to deceive—and what is the point?

If there is darshan, jnana will be; if jnana is, a character begins to come—but it is utterly natural. There is no imposition, no effort, no strain. A spontaneous state.

I stayed as a guest at Mulla Nasruddin’s house. In the morning he had a tiff with his wife. Seeing me, he wanted to exert a little extra authority over her. He said, “Look, did you not take a vow before the maulvi and the community that you would always obey me?” Since I was present, he thought she might bend a little.

But the wife said, “Yes, I remember. But I took it only because I did not want to create a scene in that first meeting.”

What is the meaning of such a vow—taken only to avoid a scene in the first meeting? There were people, the maulvi, society, the marriage proceeding, the knot being tied—where to create a scene in all that—so!

Your vows, fasts, character—if based on such reasons—will be superficial.

The wife grew very annoyed—this talk of maulvi and marriage being raised. She said, “Many times it occurs to me that you must be thinking again and again, had I married someone else it would have been good.”

Mulla replied, “Never! Why would I wish ill for anyone? Yes—one feeling does arise sometimes: it would have been so good had you remained a virgin for life.”

We keep hiding. Where there is no love, we show love. Where there is no goodwill, we show goodwill. And we keep building a form around us unlike what we are. Slowly, not only are others deceived—we too are deceived by our own propaganda. The falsehoods we ourselves spread begin to appear true to us. Then a great dilemma arises. People are trapped in this dilemma.

Mahavira says: knowledge without action is futile; action of the ignorant is futile. So do not force conduct. For what has not yet descended into your knowledge will make you a hypocrite. And if something has descended into your knowledge, its test is that it comes into action. Do not take this as Jains often do—thinking, now that it is in knowledge, it must be brought into conduct. No—this is only the test, the touchstone. Mahavira is saying: if it has truly come into knowledge, it will come into action of itself. But one condition: it must have come into knowledge through darshan. If it has not come through darshan, it will remain lying there like knowledge—apart from you, unrelated; there will be no bridge between your heart and your knowledge.

“As a cripple, though seeing the forest-fire, dies because he cannot run; and the blind, though running, dies because he cannot see.”

If a forest is aflame and a blind man is in it, he can run—but cannot see where the flames are. He runs and still burns to death. And if there is a lame man, he can see where the fire is, where to flee, by which path to escape; but he has no legs—he too burns to death.

One who has knowledge but no action will die—he is lame. One who has action but no awareness will die—he has legs but no eyes.

“It is said that only by the union of jnana and kriya does the fruit come—just as in the forest, the blind and the lame, having met, by mutual cooperation enter the town safely. A chariot does not run on one wheel.”

Pasantō paṅgulo daḍḍho, dhāvamāṇo ya aṃdhao.
The blind too dies—he had legs; he could have been saved. The lame too dies—he had eyes; he could have been saved.

But their meeting is needed.

Saṃjo asiddhīi phalaṃ vayaṃti, na hu ega-cchakkeṇa raho payāi.
Aṃdho ya paṅgu ya vaṇe samicchā, te saṃpaḍattā naraṃ paviṭṭhā.

If both come together—if the blind and the lame agree upon a compact, make a friendship, a relationship so that the lame says, “Seat me on your shoulders, that I may become your eyes,” and the blind says, “Sit upon my shoulders, that I may become your legs”—if in that burning forest the blind and the lame become one person and no longer two; if the lame sits upon the blind man’s shoulders, and sees for him, and the blind runs for the lame—if they unite, then they can escape; then fragrance comes to gold.

Mahavira says, a chariot does not run on one wheel. Such is the condition of man’s life. The forest of life is ablaze. How to get out? Those who have only character without awareness will not get out. Those who have only jnana without character will not get out. Within you an alchemy must happen, a transmutation: your knowledge must become darshan—your eye; and your knowledge must become your character. Let events happen on both sides of knowledge—on one side knowledge becomes darshan; on the other side knowledge becomes charitra—then the two wings of the bird are available. Now you can fly in the vast sky.

It is a dark night—but when was lighting a lamp forbidden?

By the hand of imagination that charming temple was raised—
By the hand of feeling its canopies were spread—
By the hands of dream it was lovingly adorned—
With heaven’s scarce colors and nectars it was steeped—
That has collapsed; then gathering bricks, stones, pebbles—
When was it forbidden to build a little hut of one’s own peace?
It is a dark night—but when was lighting a lamp forbidden?

The day you attain darshan, your old mansion—of dreams, of heaven’s colors, of rainbows—will fall to dust. Not even ruins will remain. Do dreams leave ruins? It will just vanish, as if it never was. Not even ash will remain in your hands.

Upon attaining darshan, seeing life with attentiveness, one thing becomes clear: life is, you are—and in between, all the dreams you had woven were false. They arose from your swoon, from closed eyes. As in the morning a man awakes and opens his eyes—the whole dream disappears.

Darshan means just this: open your eyes to life, wake and see! How many dreams you decked and adorned; how many colors you filled! All will suddenly vanish. However colorful, dreams are dreams. Do not panic when they vanish. With bricks and stones even a small hut can be built. From truth too, a small hut of peace can be made. Large palaces of false dreams have no substance; no one ever lived in them. People only thought they would live there. It was mere talk. However beautiful that talk seemed—it was only verbiage.

I have heard: someone came to Mirza Ghalib to borrow money. Ghalib spoke sweetly. The borrower also spoke in verse:

“Uncle! You’ve arrived at such a bad time—
You’ve walked in vain and made me quake—
Your timing’s off, you’ve made a mistake—
My poems have gone to rob the bank—
Just now we’re starving for a stake—
When they return, your sketch I’ll make—
For now, call out the guards’ ‘hake’—
Else my wife will make your fate—
And I will do a little fake—
My lord! Don’t set block at gate—
Else my wife won’t leave a hair straight.”

So long a poem! But nothing to give or take. The man must have fled from the poetry and never returned.

However colorful your words, however poetic your rhyme, however beautiful your verbal art—it is all delusion. The sooner you awaken, the better.

What is the meaning of darshan? Only this: let the eyes be emptied of dreams.

Darshan is the foundational wall. If you do not understand darshan, all of Mahavira will remain uncomprehended. Darshan means: the eye without dream; no fantasy in the eye, no craving. The eye is willing to see what is; the eye does not demand what “should be.”

Let me repeat: whenever you say, “It should be so,” at that very moment you become incapable of seeing what is. You begin to see, at some deep level, that which is not but should be. You start weaving a dream. You do not see the real; you demand the ideal. You do not look at what exists; you hanker for what ought to be. You bring hope in between. You bring imagination. Then imagination weaves its webs. Then everything goes wrong. Through imagination whatever you see is not truth; it is what you wanted.

Observe, when two people fall in love, they begin seeing in one another things that simply are not there. The woman begins to see in the man a Mahavira such as never existed. The man sees in the woman all the beauty of the world. They talk in ways beyond reckoning—seeing the moon and stars in each other’s faces and eyes. From each other’s sweat they smell infinite flowers. These are dreams—they want it so. If by the wedding night all these dreams burst, do not be surprised. The surprise is only that you could see so long.

Then the lover thinks the other has deceived me. No one deceives anyone; you deceived yourself. Then the lover thinks, this beloved turned out false. The fragrance of flowers I had sensed—did not appear; she has cheated me! She turned out so shrill; I had heard all music in her throat! I had known a nightingale—and now her voice is harsh. Did she deceive me? Was that sweetness feigned? That grace I experienced—was it a trap? To ensnare me? And the beloved too thinks, the godliness I saw in him—where did it go? I wanted to place my head upon his feet—so those feet were all pretend? All hypocrisy?

Soon thorns appear and flowers depart. Soon reality shows and dreams recede.

And it is not only between lover and beloved—it happens in all our relationships. At every turn we see what is not. We stretch rainbows where there are none. And when we do not get rainbows, we weep, we scream, we fill with melancholy, sorrow, anxiety.

Darshan means: the art of seeing what is—without mixing any hope into it, without drowning it in imagination, without bringing in “what should be.”

If the eye is clear, you will never be entangled. If the eye is clear, you will remain related to the real; the unreal will not bind you. And with a clear eye, the cognition gathered is called jnana. The final outcome of the cognition gathered by the clear eye is called charitra. And the ultimate fruit of charitra is moksha.

It is a dark night—but when was lighting a lamp forbidden?
The night is dark. Reality is austere. But there is no prohibition on lighting the lamp.
It is a dark night—but when was lighting a lamp forbidden?
—Light the lamp of the eye! Awaken darshan!

By the hand of imagination the charming
temple was erected—
By the hand of feeling its
canopies were stretched—
By the hands of dream it was
lovingly embellished—
With heaven’s rare colors and
nectars it was stained—
If that has fallen, then gathering
bricks, stones, pebbles—
When was it forbidden to build
a little hut of one’s own peace?

What is seen through pure darshan—reality—fashioning your life’s hut out of that reality is charitra.

To build life out of dreams, and to build life out of truth—these are the only two ways to build life.

If that has fallen, then gathering
bricks, stones, pebbles—
When was it forbidden to build
a little hut of one’s own peace?
It is a dark night—but when was lighting a lamp forbidden?

But this is not about lighting any outer lamp—it is about lighting the inner lamp. And this lamp begins to burn as you cleanse the eye and begin to see. What to do?

Mahavira’s word is—samayik. Patanjali’s word—dhyana. Buddha’s—samyak smriti. Fill life with wakefulness! Whatever you do, while doing it remember to keep removing dreams. Old habits will return again and again. Keep removing them.

Your prayer is: may your desires be fulfilled.
My prayer is: may your desires be transformed.

You want your cravings fulfilled—but Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna want your cravings to be transformed. If you insist on fulfilling desires, you will remain in dreams. Let desire change—let there be no desire, a void—and the energy that was invested in desire will be freed; the energy tied up in craving will explode in your life. As we split the atom, from that tiny, invisible atom so much energy is released! The particles of the atom bind one another; when we separate them the force that bound them is freed. Its result was seen at Hiroshima and Nagasaki: in an instant, a hundred thousand people turned to ash. Within so small a particle, invisible—such energy hidden! Then how much energy is hidden within the soul! Just remove the bonds upon the soul. As removing the bonds on the atom released immense energy—so when the soul’s bonds are removed, the supreme energy that appears is what Mahavira calls Paramatman. It is self-explosion.

Bonds must be removed. The bonds are of desire, of hope. The bonds are of stupor. So set to work to break the stupor.

All of Mahavira’s teaching can be condensed into one flavor: set to breaking your sleep, your swoon. Whatever you do, do it with wakefulness. Walk the road—walk awake. Eat—eat awake. If you take someone’s hand—take it awake. And always watch that no dream slips in. For a few days, keep sifting out dreams; removing, removing—and soon you will find, at times, even for a moment, there are no dreams and a glimpse is given. That glimpse will become jnana. Then go on gathering those glimpses. They gather of themselves. What happens in oneself cannot be forgotten; others’ statements must be remembered. What happens within goes on accumulating, becoming dense. And as drop by drop an ocean is formed, so drop by drop jnana falls and charitra is formed.

Nāṇeṇa jāṇai bhāve, daṃsaṇeṇa ya saddahe.
Caritteṇa nigiṇhāi, taveṇa parisujjhai.
“Through jnana there is knowing; through darshan, shraddha; from shraddha, charitra; through charitra, purification.”

“Nādaṃsaṇissa nāṇaṃ”—without darshan there is no jnana.
“Nāṇeṇa viṇā na honti caraṇa-guṇā”—without jnana there is no charitra.
“Aguṇissa natthi mokkho”—without charitra, where is moksha?
“Natthi amokkhassa nivvāṇaṃ”—and without moksha, where is bliss?

If you long for that supreme bliss, sow the seeds of darshan. Sow the seeds of darshan—you will reap the harvest of jnana. Digest that harvest of jnana, be nourished by it, and charitra will arise.

And moksha is the aura of charitra. The man of character is free. The characterless is bound. The fetters of the man of character fall away.

But as of now, the “virtuous” you have seen—you will find they have forged new chains. Your unvirtuous are bound; your virtuous are also bound. Often a great irony appears: your virtuous are more bound than your unvirtuous. The unvirtuous seem to have a little freedom. The virtuous sit imprisoned in temples, monasteries, prayer-halls—frightened, trembling. Something has gone wrong. The aura of character is moksha. That which does not free is not character.

Begin with darshan—one day the aura of moksha is available. It becomes certain. This is the right arithmetic of life.

And whatever Mahavira is saying is a truth of scientific harmony. Each step is scientific. As at a hundred degrees water becomes steam—so are Mahavira’s words: from darshan to jnana, from jnana to charitra, from charitra to moksha!

Enough for today.