Jin Sutra #27

The snow-clad peaks of Gauri Shankar draw near. Mahavira is flying higher and higher into the heights! Understanding will grow progressively difficult. For the heights we are unaccustomed to—not only is it hard to understand them; to breathe there is arduous. And as long as we have had no taste of such altitudes, the words that come about them may be heard by us, yet the explosion of meaning does not happen. Words pass by. If we have heard them many times, an illusion arises that we have understood.

Remember this: what Mahavira is saying—if it does not make sense to you, that is natural; if it does make sense easily, then doubt it, for that is what is unnatural.

Only through experience will understanding dawn. Before that, at most, a thirst may be kindled for experience—a longing for experience may arise: “Ah, if only we too could fly in such heights! If only the distant treasures Mahavira brings near could become the very wealth of our lives!”

If thirst arises, that is enough. If you do not understand, keep patience. Do not be nervous! And do not conclude that it will never be understood. And, by no means, conclude that it is not something to be understood at all. The mind has many strategies like this. An egoistic mind declares, “There is no substance in these matters.” Thus we protect our ego. Whenever a summit draws near, we move away—because near heights we begin to feel our own lowness!

Do not move away from heights. Invite them! Seek them! The greater the peaks that come to you, the more auspicious. Because each peak that you find increases the possibility of dissolving the ego, of letting go of this idea of “I.” For just this reason we have never welcomed Tirthankaras, the Enlightened Ones, wholeheartedly. Their very presence made us feel inferior. Standing before them, we felt small. Going near them, we felt as if, like ants, we were crawling on the ground. So only two options seemed to remain—either we learn to fly with them, or we deny them: “All this is a web of imagination; distant poetic talk; it exists nowhere; it is all mere talk.” Or we say, “We do not understand these things; how can we walk by what we do not understand?”—and in this too we go wrong.

Remember: what you do not understand, you do not understand because you have no experience of it. How can there be understanding without experience? Without experience no understanding, no awakening of prajna is possible. So do not say, “When we understand, then we will walk.” It is only by walking that you will understand. If you accept that you will move only after understanding, you place a stone across your life that will become impossible to cross.

No one knows love before; one knows only by loving. No one knows Paramatma before diving into that depth. No one knows the Atman until one plunges into one’s innermost center.

So do not use “I don’t understand” like a rock. Understanding comes only from experience. Hence, even more essential than understanding is courage. Let me repeat it: on the path of spirituality, even more essential than understanding is courage. Because if there is courage, one enters into experience; and in experience, understanding arises. Therefore those whom you call “clever” remain deprived. The clever person says, “This does not make sense to me. How can I walk where I do not understand? Who knows—I might get lost! I may lose what I already hold! These are faraway tales, sky-talk—what if my little earth is ruined? I have built a small house—of desire, of craving—a tiny world I have fashioned. What if these notions of Paramatma and Atman, this divine thirst, destabilize my whole household?”

The clever person says, “When it makes sense, I will do it.” The courageous says, “Because it does not make sense, I will do it—and see—and then understand.”

Courage! In truth, a kind of audacity is needed. That is why we called him Mahavira—Great Hero. He took a great audacious leap. He did not wait for understanding; he descended into experience. The gambler’s daring! He put everything at stake. And then understanding came—for understanding comes like the shadow of experience.

There are two kinds of understanding in the world. One is the understanding of the “clever”—it does not arise from experience; it is only intellectual. They understand words; they grasp the arrangement of words; they even fix meanings to words—but the whole game remains of words.

Take away their words and no understanding remains behind. With the disappearance of the word, their understanding vanishes. Their understanding is a heap of words.

The other is the understanding of the knower. Even if you take away all his words, you cannot take away his understanding, because it belongs to experience, not to words. If he uses words, it is only to convey his understanding to you. He did not gain understanding through words; it is not intellectual—it is existential. He has known, he has lived. Take away all his words—you still cannot take away his understanding. His seeing goes much deeper than words. He attained it in silence. In fact, he had already dropped words—then understanding blossomed.

Keep this in mind. And there is another danger: some will seem to understand these utterances, because they are not difficult in themselves; their difficulty lies in experience, not in words. The words are clear and simple. Mahavira did not use a single complicated idea—no wise one ever has. Complex ideas are used by those who have nothing and want to hide their darkness under the shadow of big words.

Philosophers use grand words, long utterances; you get lost in their wilderness. You can’t pin down what they actually meant—for they had nothing to say. And that nothing they inflated so much that the verbal web became vast and you could not understand; because you did not understand, you felt, “Ah, how profound!”

But men like Mahavira come to untangle, not to entangle. Their words are straightforward, crisp, as clear as mathematics—two plus two is four—so are their words.

So there is this danger too: that hearing the words you may feel, “Yes, I’ve understood!” Do not stop there. That kind of understanding will be of no use. If, hearing Mahavira’s words, you feel you have understood, then Mahavira must have been a man of very small intelligence—after all, he needed twelve years of silence and meditation, of intense austerity, of deep struggle—bit by bit he cut, burned and refined himself; when the inner flame became utterly pure, then understanding arose. And your mind is filled only with smoke, the fuel wet; no flame is visible, only smoke spreads—and in such a mind these words can be memorized. Many pundits have memorized them. You can rote-learn like a parrot. Do not mistake memory for wisdom.

So remember two things: if you do not understand, do not deny; and if you do understand, do not stop there. The path lies between these two. Understand only so much: that there is something worth attaining. Not so much that you feel you have attained it. Let enough understanding arise to kindle the thirst—and let the journey begin. Then one day experience will happen. You too will fly in that sky of heights. Wings will grow for you too!

“That which is free of all standpoints—only that is the essence of time (Samayasara). That alone is called Right Vision and Right Knowledge.”

सम्मदंसणणाणं, ऐसो लहदि त्ति णवरि ववदेसं।
सव्वणयपक्खरहिदो, भणिदो जो सो समयसारो।।

“Savva-naya-pakkha-rahido”—he whose mind is free of all standpoints, empty of all ‘naya’—only he is Samayasara. Samayasara means: the essential state of the Atman. The quintessence of existence. That is where you are, that is where your Atman is—where there is no standpoint, no bias. Let us understand this.

Ordinarily we are filled with standpoints and biases. Someone is a Hindu, someone a Muslim, someone a Christian. As long as you are Hindu, Jain, Christian, you will not come to know Samayasara. The rasa of the Atman will not be available—because the Atman is neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Jain.

So long as you say, “This is my belief,” you will not know truth. All beliefs become obstacles to truth. Belief means: without knowing, you claim to know. And he who has claimed to know without knowing—how will he ever know? To be free of belief means: I do not know—how could I clutch at any belief? How could I say what is right? I do not know anything.

One who stands in his ignorance with a silent heart, who does not forcibly grab at knowledge, who does not hide himself under the cover of knowledge, who does not cloak himself in the garments of knowledge—who accepts his ignorance—only that man takes the first step toward knowing. It may look paradoxical, yet the first step toward knowledge is to stand honestly with your ignorance. Few of us stand honestly with our ignorance. To accept ignorance hurts the ego. The ego wants to claim, “I know.” So we collect “knowledge” from scriptures, traditions, others, teachers, gurus—from anywhere.

All your knowledge is nothing but standpoints. You have collected it; you have not known. You are full of prejudice. About everything you have already decided. You sit with conclusions. And when you sit with conclusions, your eyes are not empty; your vision is jammed by partiality. A pebble of bias sits in your eye. When a pebble sits in the eye, nothing can be seen rightly.

Mahavira says: the eye must be empty, pure! The eye must simply see—without anything lodged in it. For if anything is lodged in the eye, whatever you see will be distorted.

Think: if you are a Jain and you read the Gita—you won’t be able to. It will not taste sweet. Again and again your Jainism will stand in between. You will feel, “Krishna is leading Arjuna astray.” Whether you say it or not, that stance will hold within you. To this day no Jain has given any significant commentary on the Gita; they have simply pushed it aside.

Tell a Hindu to read Mahavira’s words; even if he reads, he will read like a corpse—for within he “knows” it is all wrong. Ask a Hindu to read the Quran, within he believes, “What is there in it? Where are the Vedas, where the Upanishads! What could be in the Quran?” The same is the position of the one who follows the Quran, and the one who follows the Bible. A believer in the Bible, when he reads the Vedas, feels, “These are rustic shepherds’ songs, nothing more.” And when a Veda-believing Arya Samaji pundit reads the Bible, he finds nothing essential; he collects only trash.

If you want the exact analogy for a viewpoint stuffed with prejudice, read Dayananda’s Satyarth Prakash. It is blazing proof of a biased eye. He has found “errors” in everyone—and absurd ones—errors that are hidden in the finder’s mind, not anywhere in those texts. But the finder had already decided.

Whatever you sit having decided, you will go on proving. If you have pre-decided, it is difficult. If you fix your conclusions before knowing, you will never know truth; you will never give truth a chance to reveal itself before you.

Mulla Nasruddin got a suit stitched by a friend, a tailor. When he went to try it, the suit did not fit; it was awkward. It did not sit on the body. But the tailor was full of praise. He kept saying, “Look in the mirror to the right! Your friends won’t recognize you. Your wife may not recognize you—so handsome you look! Now step out, take a round of the street!”

Mulla went out—full of embarrassment; he felt so awkward in the suit. He quickly returned. The tailor—an old friend—said, “Welcome, Raj Kapoor sahib! Long time no see!”

The tailor had decided that he had stitched a marvel. Whatever you decide beforehand, you unconsciously try to prove—collecting evidence for it; ignoring contrary evidence. Your eyes begin to select—the supportive you choose, the opposing you drop.

This is not the way to know truth; it is the way to live in untruth. So Mahavira says:

सम्मदंसणणाणं, एसो लहदि त्ति णवरि ववदेसं!
सव्वणयपक्खरहिदो, भणिदो जो सो समयसारो।।

One who is free of all standpoints; who has no assumptions, no beliefs; who is a naked consciousness, a sky-clad one—no covering upon him, the vastness is his only robe, he accepts nothing less—such a naked consciousness, a silent mind, an impartial person—only he is Samayasara. He will know the essence of the Atman, the truth of the Atman; he will recognize existence; he will enter the temple of Being. Worthiness is to become free of prejudice.

When people came to Mahavira with questions, he would ask, “Are you already holding something? If so, speaking is useless—dialogue cannot happen.”

When one comes already holding, there can be dispute, not dialogue. Dialogue is possible only when no one is holding anything; when one is ready to go wherever truth takes him; when one is courageous enough to accept whatever truth reveals. Then, says Mahavira, dialogue can be. Then, in fact, very little needs to be said; for truth cannot be said. I will indicate a few hints—follow them. By following these hints, gradually, you will begin to experience what I am experiencing. You will be able to see from the same gate from which I am seeing life—come close to me. But if you think you already have the gate, you will not come near, and we shall only waste ourselves in tug-of-war.

Observe—everywhere in the world where “conversation” is happening, look closely: conversation rarely happens. Where is dialogue? There is dispute—open or hidden. Whenever two people speak, where do they open? They remain busy proving themselves.

Mahavira never engaged in scriptural debates; he never roamed like Shankaracharya debating. Mahavira’s grip was deeper. He said, “What will debate do? If someone sits already convinced, he cannot be persuaded. And even if you silence him by logic, his heart is not convinced! Sometimes it happens that you are defeated in logic, but within you carry a wound: ‘We’ll see next time; today I failed to find the argument!’ You are silenced, but your heart has not been transformed. Your tongue has been forced into quiet. Perhaps someone is more skilled in argument than you.

He who wins in argument does not necessarily have truth. He who loses in argument does not necessarily lack truth. It can be that he who has truth lacks the logic to prove it. It can also be that he who has all the logic to prove truth has no truth. If someone defeats you in argument, he proves only that he is more skillful, more experienced—nothing more. Nothing of truth is proved. And it can happen that he begins to follow you after defeating you—yesterday he believed one thing, today he believes the opposite—but belief is belief. Yesterday one belief, today another belief—the mind remains the same. Knowledge has not been born.

Mahavira says: do not replace one standpoint with another—drop standpoint itself; become impartial. That is why even Jains are not true followers of Mahavira. For in becoming “Jain” they have already erred. Mahavira was not a Jain. There is no way to become a “Jain” with Mahavira—because his fundamental vision is that all standpoints corrupt. The Jain has already decided Mahavira is right—therefore he is deprived. He sits already believing that whatever Mahavira says is true—therefore he moves far from Mahavira.

Only one who is utterly impartial can stand with Mahavira—not even saying, “Mahavira is right.” Only saying, “I do not know; I am ready to inquire. From wherever a sunray comes, I am ready to follow. I am ready for the journey into the infinite.”

And to set out without belief is arduous. You say, “Without a belief, how can I go?” Even scientists frame a hypothesis before experimentation. Hypothesis means: a provisional standpoint—at least this may be so. Then they set out.

Mahavira’s science is deeper than the scientist’s. He says even that much partiality is dangerous—because by that partiality you will see what is not. And now scientists, too, have begun to see this.

Polanyi wrote a remarkable book: Personal Knowledge. After three hundred years of scientific inquiry, it is clear that our knowledge is not impersonal; it is personal. The scientist carries his assumption into his experiment; it colors his findings. What we know—what it truly is—remains difficult to say; the knower overpowers the known.

Until recently, scientists believed their truth was impersonal—and that other statements belonged to poets. But Polanyi showed that science too is personal. Einstein is speaking as Einstein; Newton as Newton. True, Einstein argues with such force that we cannot refute him until a stronger Einstein appears. And in three hundred years this has been happening—Newton was overturned by Einstein; things we thought were absolutely right became not right. Even a subject like geometry did not remain fixed; Euclid was overthrown; others proved contrary axioms; new geometries developed. Even mathematics is no longer a single inviolable realm—for axioms contrary to the “self-evident” ones have been shown workable, and new mathematics emerged. It is now evident: all knowledge is personal, a leaning; it depends on the man.

Mahavira says: one who is to know the supreme truth—belief is far; even hypothesis is not right, even a ‘naya’—a thin line of viewpoint—is not right. Go empty—blank. Let the paper of your mind have nothing written on it, otherwise whatever is written will be projected. Your mind’s page must be utterly blank. Which means: your mind should not take an active part in the search for knowledge; it must remain passive. Not active—passive. Let your consciousness be feminine—receptive—only receiving what is; not projecting what “should be.” Take this to heart.

There are two ways of inquiry—active and passive. In the active, you strive to find something; in the passive, you simply stand impartial. Active striving becomes thinking; passive striving becomes meditation. When you become active in the search, you fill with thoughts—thought is the limb of an active mind. When the mind is active, it fills with thought; when it is passive, it remains blank. Clouds in the sky—active; a sky without clouds—passive—no activity.

Mahavira says: let all the mind’s activity fall to zero—free of viewpoints—“savva-naya-pakkha-rahido”—and what remains, in that passivity, is what Lao Tzu calls wu-wei—non-doing—a mirror-like passivity, reflecting what is. If the mirror adds or subtracts, it has become active; but if it reflects “as it is,” “just so,” that state Mahavira calls Samayasara. That is the quintessence of spirituality. From there your world of experience begins. That alone is called Right Vision and Right Knowledge.

Mahavira says: all else is words; the real thing is only this. Call it Right Knowledge, Right Vision, or if you wish—meditation, Samadhi, the thought-free state—whatever you name it, one thing is certain: it is a passive state. In it you take no part; you simply stand. Begin to practice a little. It will not become clear just by my saying it—practice a little. Sometimes its glimpse will come. You will dance when the first glimpse comes. You will hardly believe, “What have I been doing till now!” Your entire life will take on a new design. Practice a little.

Sit silently and look at a tree—just look. Do not become active. Do not even say, “This is a peepal tree.” Do not say, “This is a rose bush.” Do not say, “How beautiful the roses!” Do not say, “Ah, how lovely the blossoms!” Say nothing in the mind. All these are viewpoints; your beliefs.

A rose is just a rose—neither beautiful nor ugly. Morning is simply morning. All the statements are yours; morning itself is unsayable. About it, no statement can be made—it is inexpressible. All words are yours. Remove yourself. Do not say anything. Do not become active. Just keep looking at the morning. The sun rises—let it rise. Winds rustle in the trees—let them rustle. Do not give words. Do not fabricate words. Free of words, empty of words, just keep looking. Slowly, slowly—through practice—one moment will come, even for a single instant, when you simply looked and there was nothing to insert from within. You did not pour anything into existence—you only stood, a seer, a pure witness—what Mahavira calls jnayaka-matra—just the knower, just seeing! In that instant a window opens. For the first time existence reveals its form to you. For the first time you see what is—because for the first time you add nothing, mix nothing. In that moment you are pure, and existence is pure. Two purities meet each other. Mahavira calls this Samayasara.

Have you ever noticed? The milkman adds water to milk; you say he has adulterated it. But consider: what if he has added pure water? Why call it impure? He may say, “I have doubled the purity—pure water, pure milk—I added no impurity.” Yet you will say, “The milk is impure.”

Impurity is not because some “impurity” was added. Even if two pure things are mixed, impurity results. The reason is simply: milk is no longer milk, water no longer water. Remember, not only milk becomes impure; water too becomes impure. You accuse only the milk; not the water—because water is free, has no economic value. But remember too: water has become impure. If someday you need pure water, you will discover, “Ah, this too is impure—milk has been added!” Adulteration is impurity.

Whenever you adulterate existence—pour something of your own—mix milk with water—everything becomes impure—you and existence. When you stand—neutral, witnessing—existence here, you here—two mirrors facing one another, without adding anything—then two purities meet.

This meeting of purities Mahavira calls Samayasara. Until this happens, your life is life in name only—impure, lukewarm. There will be no flame, no radiance; no flowers of bliss will bloom; no benediction.

Life is like a lamp in a pauper’s hut—
It never learned to blaze in open splendor.

No—life is not a poor man’s lamp. But we have made it so. It cannot flare in fullness, it cannot burn openly; its flame never becomes flame—a flicker, always flickering, half-extinguished.

Life is like a lamp in a pauper’s hut—
It never learned to blaze in open splendor.

No—life is not a pauper’s lamp. But we have made it so—because we never gave life a chance. We have imposed so many conditions on life; built so many obstructions; raised around its light so many for-and-against, beliefs and ideas; built a fortress—brick upon brick of opinions and stances—how can the flame leap, how can it be revealed?

The very lamp that now flickers dimly—this same became a blazing sun in Mahavira. The same life! Kabir said: one sun—no, even saying one sun won’t do; the day I awakened, thousands upon thousands of suns burst into flame within me at once. For that state of radiance, it is difficult to find an analogy. Even a thousand suns are too few—for suns wear out. Our sun too, scientists say, will become cold in some millions of years. Its fuel is being consumed. Everything has a limit. However huge, after billions of years, there comes a limit—and it will be finished. A lamp lit at dusk is out by dawn—no matter how long the night. But the lamp within is such that its flame is eternal. Thousands of suns arise and set, and the inner flame never goes out. So even the image of a thousand suns is too small. But let suns be aside—far away—presently we cannot even call our inner lamp a flicker; we do not even sense a flame.

Hearing Socrates, Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, many attempt to go within. For all say: know thyself! They close their eyes, try to go in—and quickly return, for only darkness is felt. And these sages keep saying, “It is a realm of great light!”

No—you cannot go within yet. You have not even looked at the outside with a pure eye. You have not learned the ABC of life’s truth.

Therefore Mahavira’s first sutra says: He who is free of all standpoints alone is Samayasara. If this is not done, one standpoint yields another—like a tree’s many branches, and sub-branches upon branches. Take in one guest, soon a crowd appears—relatives of relatives.

I’ve heard: a man came to Mulla Nasruddin’s house from a nearby village and brought a duck—sent by his friend. Mulla was delighted. He said, “Wait—at least drink the soup.” He made soup, served his friend and said, “Come any time.” A few days later another man came. “Who are you?” “A friend of the one who brought the duck.” “A friend’s friend is a friend.” He too was fed. This became endless. Soon, “A friend of the friend of the friend...” The chain grew long. Mulla became distressed. One duck—and the whole village keeps coming! Something must be done. After a while yet another arrived. This time Mulla told his wife, “Make only hot water—nothing else.” He gave the man hot water to drink. “Duck soup,” he said. The man tasted it and said, “This seems like plain hot water—no duck anywhere.” Mulla said, “How could you find a duck? This is the soup of the soup of the soup... only water remains!”

Thought gives birth to more thought. The first thought was already futile; the second becomes more futile; the third, even more. In the end you are left with a crowd of thoughts devoid of substance.

Turns keep arriving at every milestone—
The distance to the goal keeps growing at every place.

Every turn brings new turns, you keep going, and the destination recedes. The more you walk in thoughts, the farther you go from yourself—because that is the destination.

If you want the Self—turn back—walk to the source! Drop thoughts one by one. When you come to the last thought, you will see: it was my bias from which the whole journey started. Drop that too. In that thoughtless state lies Samayasara.

Until that pure mirror-like state dawns, you will not know life, nor yourself. For you will keep missing. Life is here and now—moment to moment—and thought does not allow you to meet it; thought is always elsewhere—either in the future or the past. Either tied to memories of yesterday—the whole heap of what has been—or projecting the future.

Mulla Nasruddin could not sleep. A doctor advised: “Count sheep; as you count, sleep will come.” He began: one, two, three... a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand... Then he thought: “If this goes on, it will run into millions and billions—what then?” He decided to start shearing their wool. Soon there were heaps of wool. “Where will I store this? Warehouses aren’t easy to get. The rains are coming.” He began making coats and blankets. The pile grew so huge he panicked: “The market is anyway bad; no buyers; we are ruined!” In the middle of the night he screamed, “Help! Help!” His wife woke up, frightened: “What happened?” “We are ruined, robbed!” “But what happened?” “A dream?” “Dream—what dream? I never fell asleep! That quack told me to count sheep... I counted, sheared, stitched, and to sell—no buyers; so much stock—we are finished!”

Thoughts go on one after another—either past or future. Past thoughts stir memory and its wounds; or future thoughts arouse imagination and craving. You either scratch old wounds—dangerous and useless—for they keep wounds fresh; someone had abused you, you recall it, you get angry again; your whole being fills with rage again—the wound becomes green again. Or you incite desire for the future. Both are dangerous. Today’s desire becomes tomorrow’s sorrow; what is future today becomes the past tomorrow.

If there are no thoughts in the mind, you are here—now. Neither past nor future—the present moment surrounds you wholly.

We too have gone to the rose-garden many a time—
Either before spring, or after spring had passed.

What is the point of going to the garden?

We too have gone to the rose-garden many a time—
But either before spring, or after spring had passed.

The garden of existence is here and now. Its way is the present. You go either when spring has gone by or not yet come—either with the past or with the future.

One who stands thought-free joins the present. A direct connection happens. He stands face to face. This recognition, this encounter—Mahavira calls Samayasara.

“A sadhu should daily ‘sevan’—imbibe—Vision, Knowledge and Conduct. From the standpoint of Nischaya-naya, these three are the Atman itself. They are Atma-svarupa. Therefore, essentially, it is the Atman that should be ‘sevaned.’”

दंसणाणचरित्ताणि, सेविदव्वाणि साहुणा णिच्चं।
ताणि पुण जाण तिण्णि वि, अप्पाणं जाण णिच्छयदो।।

In existing translations there is a small difference—yet a precious one. Translators—Jain monks—let their personal bias seep in. “Damsanana-charittani: Vision, Knowledge, and Conduct; sevidavvani sahuna niccam: their daily ‘sevan’ is the mark of a sadhu.” But they translate: “A sadhu should daily observe Vision, Knowledge, and Conduct.” The word “should” is nowhere in the original. The sutra defines who the sadhu is; it does not list his duties. Who is a sadhu? One who daily “sevan”—imbibes—Vision, Knowledge, Conduct. Not “observes”—sevan: who eats them, drinks them, enjoys them. A sadhu is he who daily enjoys Vision, Knowledge, Conduct.

Now it becomes clear. First: daily, moment to moment, in the present—not in the past or the future—here and now he enjoys. The non-sadhu enjoys either the past or the future.

We too have gone to the rose-garden many a time—
Either before spring, or after spring had passed—
—that is the non-sadhu. The sadhu is he who enters existence through the door of the here and now; who enters “now”; who, here and now, encounters existence.

Sevan—what a lovely word! He enjoys it.

The Jain monk must have felt awkward with the word “bhoga”—enjoyment. “Sevan karta hai”—they changed it to “should observe.”

This happens with all our scriptures. Where a simple “is” is indicated, we translate it into “ought.” Where there is only a statement of “is”—like “fire burns”—we keep it. But if we say, “Fire ought to burn,” it becomes absurd. No one would translate fire that way; fire does not obey such nonsense—it burns. The moment “ought” enters, craving, desire, future enter. “Ought” means it is not now; it has to be brought by effort—tomorrow perhaps, after days, years, lives—who knows how long.

Ordinary listeners too are content with this translation—it gives them an excuse. “Should”—good. A device to postpone until tomorrow. Virtue tomorrow, vice today!

You have noticed—when it is about giving, you say, “I will give.” When it is about anger, you do not say, “I will.” You say, “I am doing it now!” Anger happens. And compassion? “One ought to be compassionate!”

A friend came to take sannyas. He said, “I am thinking—have been thinking for long. Still considering; still not firm.” I asked, “Do you think similarly about anger—or do you decide without thought?” He said, “With anger it is the reverse—I think not to be angry, and it happens. With sannyas it is that I think to take it—and it does not happen.”

We have found devices to postpone the good, the true, the beautiful. Hence no one objects to such translations—they are indicators.

Mahavira says:

दंसणाणचरित्ताणि, सेविदव्वाणि साहुणा णिच्चं।

He alone is a sadhu, a sahu, who is daily enjoying Vision, Knowledge, Conduct—not postponing, living them now and here; who has broken ties with the future. The one tied to the future is the householder—grihastha; which means desire, craving: “We will enjoy tomorrow.” And the householder’s mistake is that tomorrow death may come, and you will not have enjoyed. You will keep postponing—and one day death arrives. All you postponed remains postponed.

Mahavira says only this: do not postpone the auspicious. When the call of the good arises, enjoy it this very instant.

Postpone the inauspicious—let it be tomorrow. If postponed, good.

In my view, if you postpone the inauspicious until tomorrow, it will fail to happen—just as the auspicious has been failing to happen. Try it. If someone insults you, say, “I will be angry after twenty-four hours.” If you can manage to be angry after twenty-four hours, it will be a miracle; it cannot be. Even after twenty-four minutes—if you delay—anger becomes impossible.

Abraham Lincoln’s life records: a friend came seething with rage. Someone had written him a nasty letter. Lincoln said, “Sit—reply now. And pour your heart into it! Do not fear— I am your friend and your lawyer. This is too much! Write with all the abuse you wish.” The friend was startled—he had not expected this. But he sat and wrote. His heart was full; he wrote, abused, answered every ugly point. When he finished, Lincoln said, “Give me the letter.” “Let me address it.” “No need. We won’t send it now. We’ll send it after seven days. Come then, read it again; if you still want to send it, we will.” The man agreed. Seven days later he read it and could not believe he had written it. In seven days, the fire cooled, embers died; the abuses no longer felt important; the other man looked mad. His own letter looked madder. He said, “Do not post it. Tell me how to treat my mind so that such things don’t arise. Good we didn’t send it—through his letter I got a glimpse of my own soul!”

I tell you: if you postpone anger until tomorrow, it will be postponed just as compassion has been postponed until today.

Mahavira says: a sadhu is one who is now enjoying Vision, Knowledge, Conduct. And “sevan” is better than “observe” because “observe” suggests forcing a discipline; sevan feels like turning experience into nourishment—integrating it into one’s blood and marrow.

“From the standpoint of Nischaya-naya, these three are the Atman. They are Atman-form.”

They are not separate. This is the Jain triveni—trinity. Since there is no God-idea for Jains, Samyak Jnana, Samyak Darshan, Samyak Charitra are their Shiva, Brahma, Vishnu—their trinity. These three are forms of the Atman—manifestations of your purified being. They are Atman itself.

“Therefore, essentially, it is the Atman that should be ‘sevaned.’”

A wondrous utterance! One’s own is the only rightful food. One’s own is the rightful enjoyment. Drink your own self; savor your own self.

Ordinarily we arrange life to enjoy the other—to consume the ‘par.’ Mahavira says: by consuming the other you have wandered in the world. Now consume your own self. Enjoy your solitary aloneness. Dive into your own nature. Dance with what is hidden within; make that your companion! Let the rasa play within!

You have never tied relationship with yourself. You have never embraced yourself, never kissed yourself, never fed on yourself. Sevan your own!

That stream in the chest which never reached the lips remains a stain of the heart;
That drop which never became a river remains but dust’s sustenance.

Until the drop becomes ocean, it remains dust. Until the song hidden in the heart breaks forth, it remains a wound.

That stream in the chest which never reached the lips remains a stain of the heart;
That drop which never became a river remains but dust’s sustenance.

So much pain in our life—only because what is hidden within has not been expressed. The song pressed in our very life-breath has not been sung. The dance we are hiding has not been danced. The enjoyment that is our nature has not been enjoyed. We have not given expression to ourselves. Our veena lies there gathering dust; we never danced our fingers upon it. Vast music could have been born of it, but we never paid attention. Our eyes kept seeking the other; we wanted to drown in another’s music—and forgot our house, our music. We enjoyed everything else—and our hands remained empty; and we did not enjoy that which was ours—and by enjoying which life is fulfilled.

Many times we filled this hem with the beauty of both the worlds—
Yet the heart’s inner desolation would not leave.

How often we tried to rob both worlds to fill our heart!

Many times we filled this hem with the beauty of both the worlds—
Yet the heart’s inner desolation would not leave.

But the heart remains poor, destitute, a beggar, a ruin; a palace never arises there—it never will. Plunder the outer worlds—nothing will happen until you plunder the inner world. And the inner is such—so infinite—that as you enjoy, new doors open. Drink—and new streams flow. The streams grow larger, and that drop one day becomes a river; the droplet, the ocean.

Until you manifest in your full splendor, you will remain miserable—a wound. The song has to be sung—it is our destiny. Expression must happen—resonance must happen—in a supreme music, adorned with a divine aura.

Conceal not your glory—enjoy it!

In the Hindu scriptures a famous statement:

“Ahara shuddhau sattva shuddhih;
Sattva shuddhau dhruva smritih;
Smriti-labhe sarva-granthinam vipramokshah.”

With purity of food comes purity of sattva; with purity of sattva comes the gain of Smriti; and with the gain of Smriti, the untying of all knots—release.

Ordinarily people take it to mean: purity of food—pure diet; food cooked by a Brahmin hand. The deeper meaning is missed: the food of the pure—the nourishment of the supreme purity; the food of sattva; that which is hidden within you—its ahara.

Mahavira fasted for years, months, days. But he called his fasting upavasa—not “nirahara,” not starvation. Upavasa means: coming close to oneself—abiding near oneself. What “Upanishad” means, upavasa means—near, nearer, nearest—to one’s own being. He did not call it “nirahara”—that would be the wrong emphasis. Not eating is secondary; eating oneself is primary. Self-food. And by self-food he was so filled that ordinary food was no longer needed—that is secondary.

Have you noticed—at moments of deep love, hunger disappears. A woman once told me: her mother-in-law died at twilight—“anthau” time for Jains; after sunset, no food. The mother-in-law died at the wrong hour—mothers-in-law!—could have chosen a better time. Noon would be fine, or night—but she died at sunset—no food could be taken. The daughter-in-law loved her deeply—She wept, but as night advanced, her hunger grew. At midnight it grew so much she had to steal into the kitchen to eat. She carried guilt all her life. She, who could fast eight or ten days easily, was puzzled: “How strange! I can fast easily—but my mother-in-law’s death, whom I loved, and hunger like this!” She told no one—not even her husband. When she told me, she said, “Don’t tell anyone; it remains an unresolved knot.”

I asked, “Has the reverse happened? In joy, you felt no hunger?” She said, “Yes. When you come to our home, I cannot eat. I feel so happy those two days in a year that tea suffices—I feel full.”

When you are blissful, you will be surprised—the belly feels full! You are so full within that the emptiness of the belly is not felt. In deep love, hunger does not arise. In sorrow, hunger comes—sorrow empties you; not only the belly empties, the soul too feels emptied.

Often, when the one who deeply filled your life dies, you will feel sudden hunger. It will feel unseemly—because eating is festival, and in sorrow none eats. Neighbors have to bring food when someone dies—because lighting one’s hearth seems inauspicious. But when someone nearest dies, not only the body empties; he had occupied a portion of the soul, that too is emptied; a strange emptiness demands to be filled.

Yesterday a sannyasin told me: after ten days of Vipassana, on the last night, he felt the soul separate from the body—so distinctly he felt death near. The first thing he thought: “Eat something—quick!” He rummaged in the hotel at midnight for anything to fill his belly. “Was it wrong?” he asked. “After eating, that experience vanished. But the hunger was so intense—like never before.”

When the body feels separate from the soul, an emptiness is felt. We know only one way to fill—fill the belly. If, in that moment, he had filled himself with love or bliss, the experience would have risen to a higher peak. He filled with the body—bhoga of the body. Food means the body; food today becomes the body tomorrow—seed of the body. He filled with the body; that was the moment to fill with the soul—to dance, to sing, to be moved in bliss, to awaken love—to sevan the soul. The moment would have deepened; the experience could have become abiding. He missed.

Mahavira says, “Only by the soul should the soul be ‘sevaned.’”

By the soul’s food, the soul is nourished—by the soul’s bhoga, the soul is fulfilled.

Ahara shuddhau sattva shuddhih—
with pure food the sattva is purified.

Do not take this as food cooked by a Brahmin—but food prepared by Brahman—by the inner Atman with Brahman’s signature upon it.

Sattva shuddhau dhruva smritih—
when the soul is nourished, remembrance becomes steady; awareness becomes unwavering. That is what I told that sannyasin: had you eaten of the soul in that moment, Smriti would have become dhruva—fixed.

Smriti here is not memory; it is Remembrance of Paramatma—Self-remembering.

What Mahavira calls Samyak Darshan—that becomes steady; an indelible line is drawn—then it will not be forgotten; it cannot be erased.

Sattva shuddhau dhruva smritih—
And with the soul’s pure food, the inner sattva becomes pure and Remembrance becomes steadfast.

Smriti-labhe sarva-granthinam vipramokshah—
And with the gain of Smriti, all knots open—what Mahavira calls the nirgrantha state—the untying of all knots. What remains is moksha, solution, Samadhi, release. Nothing else remains to be done.

“He who, by Nischaya-naya, is absorbed in these three, and does nothing else, and abandons nothing—he alone is the path of liberation.”

णिच्छयणयेण भणिदो, तिहि तेहिं समाहिदो हु जो अप्पा।
ण कुणदि किंचि वि अन्नं, ण मुयदि सो मोक्खमग्गो त्ति।।

A wondrous thing Mahavira says! He whose Atman is absorbed—samahita—in these three—Right Knowledge, Right Vision, Right Conduct! Samahita means: these are not imposed from above—he has digested them—drunk them—till they have become flesh and marrow. He no longer tries to “hold” knowledge or vision, these have become him.

You eat food—two things can happen: either digestion, or indigestion. If indigestion, you must throw it out; vomit or excrete—but if undigested, you have to expel it as it went in—its essence cannot become your part. Samahita means: digestion. The rubbish is thrown out, the essence begins to flow in your blood; it beats in your heart; it sees through your eyes; it thinks through your brain. It becomes a part of your inner being.

Once food is digested, you do not worry what it is doing—whether blood flows well, whether the brain thinks, whether bones and marrow are forming—you simply swallow, and the matter ends. If it does not digest, there is trouble.

A pundit is one whose knowledge is not absorbed; a jnani is one whose knowledge is absorbed.

A pundit suffers from mental indigestion—he stuffs knowledge, but it lies like stones in the stream—it does not flow with life’s current.

Samahita means: even if you forget it, it remains with you; no effort is needed—spontaneous, self-born.

“He who is absorbed in these three—and does nothing else.”

Nothing else is needed—these three suffice. In them all is done. “And he abandons nothing”—this will trouble Jain monks: neither does he “do,” nor does he “abandon”—for abandoning too is doing; in abandoning, the doer and the ego arise. Neither clinging nor rejecting—he lives in silent witnessing.

“He alone, by Nischaya-naya, is the path of liberation.”

He is the way to freedom.

One stuck in holding and dropping will be stuck—wandering from here to there—

Now in the temple, now in the Kaaba—
Where all does the longing drag me to that Door?

He will seek that Door in the temple, in the mosque—here and there—while the one Door where He truly hides—his own self—remains unopened.

What brilliance will remain in the sun,
If it is disgusted with its own rays?

He who gets busy condemning—dropping this, dropping that—becomes disgusted with his own energies: condemning the body, wealth, sex. But these are your rays. If you become disgusted with your own rays and rush to drop them, you will only break yourself. Beatitude does not come that way. It comes when you become skillful in transforming, in absorbing.

Sex absorbed becomes brahmacharya. Anger absorbed becomes compassion. Attachment absorbed becomes love. Violence absorbed becomes non-violence. Digest! Do not become disgusted. Do not get into the trouble of dropping. For whatever you drop, its transformation becomes impossible. If you drop anger, you may become non-angry, but you will not become compassionate. If you drop sex, you may become sexless, but brahmacharya will not be available—that would be like making a bull into an ox by cutting off his organs.

Do not think my example is far-fetched. It is not. Ascetics have done this. In Russia there was a sect that cut off the genitals. By cutting, in one sense the problem is solved—no means left. But brahmacharya is not attained that way. Brahmacharya is attained when the living energy of sex is absorbed; when you do not throw it out but digest it; when it becomes an upward movement within.

By swearing off anger, you may repress—it may reach a point where no one notices—but you will keep knowing; you are sitting on a volcano that can erupt anytime.

No—compassion will not arise that way; for compassion is manufactured from the same energy as anger. Not suppression of energy—its transformation.

“In this vision, the Atman dissolved in the Atman alone is Right Vision.”

So Mahavira says: what is the definition of Samyak Drishti—what the Gita calls sthitaprajna—Mahavira calls Samyak Drishti. Sthitaprajna—whose prajna is established; Samyak Drishti—whose seeing is established. The same thing.

“He who knows the Atman as it is—that is Right Knowledge; and abiding in that is Right Conduct.”

Amazing! Mahavira does not call character what you do—character is not in doing; it is in being. Ordinarily we think character means: what we do. If we did not get angry, we are virtuous; if we did, we are without character. If we had sexual relations, we are characterless; if not, we are virtuous. Mahavira will not agree. He will say: whether you did anger or not is not the point—does anger exist or not? It may be that you never expressed anger to anyone, and yet anger is within—then you have not attained Samyak Charitra.

“Abiding in the Atman—that alone is Right Conduct.” Remaining established in oneself—so established that no one can drag you out—neither anger nor sex—“appa appammi rao”—rejoice in yourself; abide in yourself. Do not go elsewhere—do not wander.

सम्माइट्ठी हवेइ फुडु जीवो।

Thus Right Vision dawns.

जाणइ तं सण्णाणं, चरदिह चारित्तमग्गु त्ति।

This is knowing; this is seeing; this is vision; this is conduct.

Appa appammi rao—
“Rejoice in yourself.”

Our word “svasthya”—health—means precisely this: “appa appammi rao.” Health means: being established in oneself. When you are ill, you are unseated from yourself—headache shifts consciousness to the head; a thorn in the foot shifts it to the foot. When there is no shaking—neither head calls, nor foot, nor belly—when you forget the body utterly, as if bodiless—then you are healthy. This is the very state of Self-establishment: so absorbed in yourself that even if someone insults, you do not come out. You hear from within; nothing happens to your state—you remain the same as before the insult; the same after. Whether insulted or not—it is the same. No line is drawn upon you, no scratch. If someone honors you, you do not puff up. The balloon of ego does not swell. You remain as you are—no difference.

When Rabindranath received the Nobel and returned to Calcutta, there was a crisis—many were hurt that he got it. A newspaper editor arrived with a garland of shoes to welcome him. He thought Rabindranath would be upset. But in Rabindranath’s “poet” there was a touch of the “rishi.” That is why the Upanishadic fragrance in his Gitanjali. He saw the man, shy in the crowd, with the garland. The poet left the flowers and went to him: “You have brought it—then put it on.” The man, full of shame, threw the garland and fled. Rabindranath picked a pair fitting his feet, put them on, and walked home. “Well done,” he said, “I had lost my shoes on the way; the man arrived in time—saved me a trip to the shoe-shop! He brought enough shoes—two fit me.”

When outer honor or dishonor makes no difference—when your smile neither pales nor deepens—you remain as you are—established in your nature—appa appammi rao—then you are healthy. Then you have attained Self-knowledge. That is Samyak Drishti; and abiding in it is Samyak Charitra.

Character has to do with others; Charitra has to do with yourself. If Charitra depended on others, in a Himalayan cave you could not be virtuous. Therefore understand the difference between character and Charitra. Character is relation to the other: you abused me—I grew angry—character; you praised me—I thanked you—character. You abused or praised me—and I remained as I am—Charitra.

If you go to a Himalayan cave, character ends—for character cannot exist without the other—but Charitra shines forth—even in solitude—as a flower blooms even if no one passes by; its fragrance spreads into the winds. At night when all sleep, a star shines in the sky. That is Charitra—unrelated to others.

You sit alone in your room. A knock—immediately you change—put on coat and tie—that’s character. You are in the bath, making faces in the mirror; you suddenly notice your child peeking through the keyhole—you understand this is not befitting a father—character! Changing when seen by others.

That which has no relation to others—but only with you—that is Charitra.

Appa appammi rao.

“My Atman is my Knowledge. My Atman is my Vision. My Atman is my Conduct. My Atman is my renunciation. My Atman is my restraint and yoga. Thus all these are Atman-form.”

आया हु महं नाणे—
“My Atman is my knowledge.”

आया हु महं नाणे, आया में दंसणे चरित्ते य।

“And my Atman is Vision and Conduct.”

आया पच्चक्खाणे, आया में संजमे जोगे।

“And my Atman is renunciation; my Atman is vows, restraint and yoga—thus all are Atman-form.”

For Mahavira the word Atman is supreme. He who finds his stillness there—has found all.

If you renounce to show others, it is character, not Charitra. If you renounce out of inner bliss, Charitra. If your knowledge comes from others—it is not knowledge. If it arises fresh from within—it is knowledge. A song sung in imitation is not a song. A song that rises, fresh-bathed, from your inner being—unique, ever-new, though eternal—that is song. That becomes the Veda; those become the richas; those become the Upanishads.

Mahavira’s whole emphasis is one: somehow return home. Come to yourself. Be in yourself. The “other” is the world. Whatever you did for the other, thinking of the other, hoping from the other—that is samsara. Drop hope and expectation from the other. Remove your gaze from the other. Immerse where you are. That is restraint, that is yoga.

If beauty be veiled and love be veiled—
Either Thou be unveiled, or unveil me.

Two ways. Either we say to Paramatma: reveal Thyself—or unveil me. Mahavira chose the second. He says: reveal yourself. He left no room for prayer; he did not put even that much trust in the other—for even Paramatma would be the “other”—then even He would be samsara. Do not depend at all on the other; dependence cannot lead to moksha—to supreme freedom.

Thy prayer cannot change my destiny—
But one thing is possible: that you change.

This is right. When you pray, your prayer does not change death or destiny; but the one who prays changes. Nothing else changes; the one who prays changes. Mahavira grasped this essence deeply. He said: then why pray? If the real change is to happen in me, why indirect? Why not direct? If God is to appear in the devotee’s own heart, why search outside? Why grope for someone else’s feet? Let me return home—let me be absorbed in myself.

Appa appammi rao!

And this Atman of which Mahavira speaks—you may have forgotten, but not altogether. Some layers of dust have gathered; beneath them your life is still alive—the stream still fresh. Algae covers the surface; beneath is flowing water. You have not utterly forgotten—for how can one forget oneself? It is only as if forgotten—but not totally. In that lies the possibility. A slight thread remains—hold it, and you will remember.

For a long age we did not even remember you—
And yet to say we forgot you would not be right.

Ages may have passed and you did not remember yourself—but to say you forgot is not true. Understand this rightly. If utterly forgotten, there is no way to remember. If fully remembered, there is no need to remember. Between the two is our state: a faint remembrance—dim—neither bright noon, nor dark night—early dawn’s faint glow. The sun is about to rise; there is mist; you cannot see your own hand, yet visibility is not wholly lost. Strengthen that little visibility. Upon that little remembrance, the inner journey will happen. To strengthen that faint remembrance is meditation, is viveka.

Walk a little wakefully. Hold onto the slight clue you can sense—and move in that direction. Be a little courageous. That faint remembrance will deepen; the fog will thin; remembrance will grow dense.

And the day one returns home, a unique event happens—so much suffering, pain, complaint—all dissolve. So many demands, wishes, cravings—all at once fulfilled.

All my laments of not-getting were about You—
When You arrived, every complaint vanished.

Then you understand: those countless demands were fragments of one single demand—the desire to meet oneself. Not recognizing it, the same demand split into a thousand shards. The post you sought was the inner Self-post; the wealth you sought was the eternal treasure which is your nature; the fame and prestige you sought—there you were searching your own glory—on a wrong path, in a wrong direction.

Mahavira’s whole yoga is Self-establishment. Krishna says in the Gita: samatvam yoga uchyate—equanimity is called yoga. Mahavira too says: Samyak Drishti—samatva—right balance. Samyaktva—arriving at evenness. The mind not wavering—becoming equanimous; not going here and there—becoming steady. Let steadiness be trained; let the flame be like a lamp in a windless house—unflickering. Samatvam yoga uchyate—this is the state of yoga. Mahavira says this very state—

आया हु महं नाणे—
this is knowledge; आया में दंसणे चरित्ते य—this is vision and this is conduct.

आया पच्चक्खाणे, आया में संजमे जोगे—
“And this is renunciation, vows, discipline—and this is restraint and yoga.”

No one has sung the glory of the Atman like Mahavira. He poured the whole of Paramatma into the Atman. No one has given man such majesty.

Mahavira placed man supreme, at the very summit.

This rare moment you have received—of being human—do not waste it. Do not fritter it away in forgetfulness. Do not squander it by knocking at others’ doors. It is attained with great difficulty and is lost very easily. A rare flower—blooms at dawn, withers by dusk. Then perhaps ages upon ages may pass in waiting.

Therefore to be human is not only glory—it is a great responsibility. Existence wants to fulfill some vast work through you. Cooperate! Collaborate!

Existence intends to bring about a great happening through you. Cooperate! Collaborate! Until you bloom, your destiny will not be fulfilled.

Hence the wise say you will be sent back. The wheel of birth and death goes on. Only those step out who—while moving in this wheel—stop the inner wheel of thoughts; who, while living in the cycle of birth and death, become witnesses—and in a deep sense, step out.

He who stands as a witness—outside the world—need not return again. And one who does not return alone has fulfilled his destiny—the seed within him has reached the flower.

Mahavira calls this state: Paramatma-state.

You are meant to be Paramatma. Do not settle for less. He who settles for less is unwise. Do not be satisfied with pebbles and stones. Inexhaustible heaps of diamonds await you.

Enough for today.