Jin Sutra #3

“The living being knows the sorrow born of decay, of birth and of death; he even thinks about it—yet he cannot grow dispassionate toward the objects of the senses. Ah, how firm is the knot of Maya!”
We all pass through life along the same road. Mahavira too moves along that very road. The road does not differ; the weave of life is the same. In its details there are small variations: one is born in this village, another in that; one in this body, another in that; one as woman, another as man; one poor, another rich—these are the differences of detail. But the warp and weft of life is one.
Birth, life, death—and through all of it, the hidden current of suffering. Where you were born makes no difference; where you die makes no difference. The taste of birth and the taste of death are the same.
All pass along the same path, yet each one draws a different experience and a different conclusion. The events are alike, but the conclusions diverge greatly. And until an event becomes experience, it is as if it never happened.
Suffering comes—it comes to all. Suffering is undergone. But suffering can be undergone in two ways: one endures it awake, another endures it in sleep. The one who suffers in sleep will suffer again and again, because the lesson to be learned was not learned. He will have to return again and again to the same school.
If one suffers awake, then experience is gained. And the experience is this: “I myself created this suffering; this is how I created it; I will not do so again.” No vow is needed for this, no resolution is needed; vows and resolutions belong to the realm of foolishness—they are the devices of the sleeping. The one who has seen, even once, that to put the hand into fire is to be burned, does not go to some temple or some saint’s discourse to swear he will not put his hand into the fire again. Understanding has dawned.
Understanding is enough. Understanding has no kinship with vows. The unintelligent take vows; the wise begin to live by their understanding. That itself is their vow, their resolution.
Once you have seen your hand burned, it will be difficult to burn it again—for it burns only if you yourself thrust it into the fire.
The nature of fire is to burn. But fire does not run after you; you burn only if you put your hand into it. It is your affair, your decision, your responsibility. Put it in—you will burn. Don’t put it in—you won’t. Yet life is not so simple. Today you thrust your hand in; perhaps tomorrow you discover it has been burned. The news may be delayed. Like a seed—what happens today may take time to become a tree. There can be a gap between action and fruit. You may not even be able to connect which cause yielded which suffering.
Those who do not understand, who do not awaken, who do not consciously go through their suffering—they think a lot, they ponder a lot that there should be no suffering. Is there anyone who desires suffering? Everyone wants that there be no suffering. But suffering does not cease by wanting. Those who have understood have found: suffering is born of wanting. Even the desire “let there be no suffering” sows the seeds of suffering. Desire itself sows the seeds; later one must reap the harvest. Desire is poison.
People reflect, they consider—many do.
Mahavira says: “Janijjai chintijjai!” People even know. It is not that they don’t. They know where suffering occurs—yet they still fall asleep. Perhaps, wherever suffering is, there is a great veil of delusion. From above it seems that if you put your hand in the fire you get burned; but within there is a strong vasana that repeatedly draws you near the fire, whispering, “Put your hand in—you will find great pleasure.” Then your knowing remains only on the surface. When the inner vasana is not intense, you become very wise; who is not wise in the absence of passion!
When there is no storm of anger upon you, you too are wise; you too can advise others that anger is futile, is poison, an invitation to suffering. But when the surge arises, when you are possessed, when you are caught in the storm and anger whirls all around you—then all understanding is lost. It seems your understanding is only on the surface, while the turbulence of anger is very deep; your knowing has not reached so far.
You think, you contemplate—but all at the surface, in the waves. You have not descended into the oceanic depths. That is possible only through awakening, for your nature is chaitanya—consciousness. The more you awaken, the more conscious you become, the deeper you go. Chaitanya is your nature; it is your depth, it is your height. So, the more you become aware, the deeper you descend. The day this truth—“if the hand is placed in fire, the hand burns”—sinks as deep as the pull of the vasana to place the hand in fire, that very day the vasana is cut.
Do not go on trimming the branches of the tree; that will not help. The roots must be cut. One has to go deep into the earth. One must take lamps into the darkness of one’s consciousness.
So Mahavira says: people think, people even seem to know—yet they cannot become dispassionate toward the senses. Ah, how sturdy is the knot of Maya!
Amazed, Mahavira exclaims: “Ah!” How astonishing is this knot of Maya! People who know, who think, who seem to understand—become blind. The eyed become sightless; the intelligent become deluded. What counsel you can give another in moments of peace does not serve you in your own moments of turmoil. You snuff out your own lamp. You go against your own counsel. Again and again you shatter your own understanding. It is astonishing indeed.
Mahavira’s utterance—“Ah! How firm is the knot of Maya”—is worth pondering, worth meditating upon. Mahavira grieves for you; he is full of karuna. And yet he laughs, seeing how deep the stupidity is.
Have you ever seen someone in a hypnotic state? Someone is hypnotized, induced into trance. It is not difficult; it is quite simple. Anyone who is willing—you too can do it.
Try a small experiment. Even your small child can hypnotize you—if only you agree. Let him repeat to you that you are going into deep drowsiness, into stupor, becoming unconscious—and you keep consenting. Do not resist; don’t say, “Come on! Will I go to sleep just because you say so?” Do not oppose. Cooperate; flow with his suggestion. Accept whatever he says. Soon you will find yourself lost in a deep trance. Then even if the child, putting an onion in your hand, tells you, “Here, a sweet mango,” you will taste it; it will be an onion, yet you will say, “What a delicious mango!” Your sense of taste, the stench of the onion—none of it will work. Because the suggestion has reached deeper than the sense of smell can reach. You accepted it calmly.
If you have seen a hypnotist, a street performer, you would be astonished: whatever he says, people behave accordingly. A robust young man, broad-chested, strong-armed, whose stride shakes the stage—he is put to sleep, and told, “You have become a slender, delicate, beautiful young woman. Walk from this end of the stage to the other.” You will be amazed—he begins to walk like a woman, which is extremely difficult for a man. A man does not have those hips. A woman’s body has space for pregnancy; because of that space, her skeletal structure is different; her gait is different. Yet the man walks like a woman, as he has never walked in life. He is seated before a chair, and told, “A cow stands here—milk her.” He squats before the chair—in the very posture in which Mahavira came to Jina-knowledge, in the go-dugdha-āsana, who knows what he was doing, he sat squatting—and he begins to milk. He will perform exactly as if a cow stood before him. You will laugh that he is acting like a madman. But hypnosis has planted the thought so deep that it penetrates deeper than the thought of the eye. To the eye, the chair is visible—but the suggestion has gone even deeper than the seeing of the chair. Now the cow is superimposed upon the chair.
It is essential to understand the truth of hypnosis, because human life is almost a life under hypnosis. For births upon births you have auto-hypnotized yourselves. For births upon births you have told yourselves, “Woman is beautiful”—and woman has become beautiful. For births upon births you have repeated, “Woman is beautiful”—and she has become so. It is your hypnosis. Many times you come close to the ugliness of woman; many times you come close to the ugliness of man; many times in life you see nothing but futility. Yet the hypnosis of lifetimes persists. You have explained to yourselves, “Life is very precious. Living has great value. At any cost, we must live; keep on living.” Jīveṣaṇā! Even if you are in hell, keep on living—as if life has value in itself. Even if nothing happens—your hands and feet have rotted with leprosy, you crawl on the road—some hope, some deep craving clings: keep on living, keep on living.
This craving to live—re-think it, re-meditate upon it; it will awaken you. It will show you that you yourself built this notion in your mind; once the notion is built, it becomes strong. In different tribes, in different times, different notions become paramount. Whatever notion becomes paramount becomes the truth of your life. In central Africa, for centuries, women shave their heads. You have never seen beauty in a shaven-headed woman. No woman here would agree to shave her head. We have assumed hair is beautiful. In Africa they have assumed a shaved head is beautiful. What will you do? There, a woman with hair will hardly find a husband; just as here a shaven-headed woman would hardly find one—people would shrink away. A shaven head reminds us of a corpse. That is why sannyasins shave their heads: they declare, “We are dead to the world; consider us corpses.” Not only that—in Africa, they do not stop there—crisscross scars are made upon the body, face, eyes, head with hot irons; they adorn themselves so. You would see them as wounds. But that is beauty. For centuries, that is what beauty has been for them; that has become their hypnosis.
What you assume becomes the truth. The truths of this life are assumed truths. A ten-rupee note is a piece of paper, but we believe it is worth ten; you keep it safe. Show a child a ten-rupee note and a one-paisa coin—he will choose the coin. His belief extends only to the paisa; he knows nothing of the ten.
I have heard: on an American beach there was a man who had become old; people would bring coins and notes before him, and he would always choose the coin. Sometimes they would put a hundred-dollar bill in one hand, and a coin in the other, and say, “Choose whichever you like.” He would pick the coin. This had been happening for years. One day someone asked him, “For twenty years I have watched you—haven’t you got any sense yet? When people present you a hundred-dollar bill and a coin, you pick the coin.” He said, “I too have sense. But the day I choose the bill, the game will be over. The game is going on. By choosing the coin, slowly I have collected thousands of dollars. I am no fool. They enjoy thinking I am a fool; in that joy they keep bringing me money.”
A little child will pick the coin; the coin has value for him. This man too picks the coin—because he knows, the day he picks the note, the game ends. In truth he is picking the note; only, he is more clever than you. You think he is a simpleton; you enjoy his foolishness. He enjoys yours.
Beliefs! What we assume is beautiful becomes beautiful; what we assume is ugly becomes ugly; what we assume is valuable becomes valuable.
In Africa, bones are made into ornaments—so they are valuable.
A young renunciate returned from the Himalayas with a mala given by a Tibetan lama. He put it in my hand. I said, “Madman! Where did you pick this up?” It was a mala strung from an animal’s teeth—filthy and grotesque. But he said, “A Tibetan lama gave it to me, saying it is very precious.” In Tibet it is considered precious. Bone malas—little bone beads—they keep them with care; if someone handed it to you, you would wash your hands; they preserve it.
Your beliefs are the same. What we assume for centuries becomes samskara.
Therefore Mahavira says: people seem to know—and yet they behave as if ignorant; because their knowing is superficial. Deep within lies vasana, the craving for sense-enjoyment, the jīveṣaṇā.
He thinks, he reflects, he seems to know—and yet he does not become dispassionate. What is the worth of such thinking which does not bring vairagya! For Mahavira this is the touchstone: thought is that from which vairagya arises. This is his measure; this is how he tests. That from which dispassion arises—that alone is thought. That from which dispassion does not arise—why call it thought! That is avichara. Patanjali says the same: viveka is that from which vairagya arises. Thought is that from which vairagya arises. The tree is known by its fruit: if mangoes ripen, it is mango; if bitter fruit like neem, it is neem. A tree is not known by its trunk but by its fruit. Vairagya is the fruit of thought.
So whether you are truly thoughtful will be known by the dispassion in your life. You may churn endlessly; your head may swarm with thoughts; you may be able to write great scriptures—nothing will be resolved. The real proof is: has dispassion borne fruit in your life; have sweet fruits of vairagya appeared? Have you harvested a crop of dispassion? Have things revealed themselves as futile? Has your knowing penetrated deeper than your vasana? So deep that the arising of vasana becomes impossible—not that you had to control it. All control is hollow; all discipline is superficial. Such a deep bodha that bodha itself becomes liberation—that is vairagya.
Understand then: to think does not mean a logical debate; to think means samyak-vicharana. To think is the capacity to see truth as it is.
Understand the difference between vasana and thought. Vasana is projection. You project what you want. You do not see what is—as Krishnamurti says, that which is. You see what you want to see. Your eye is not only a receptor; it is a projector.
A rupee lies on the road, or a diamond lies on the road. A diamond is a stone like other stones. If there were no humans, there would be no difference of value between diamonds and other stones. Diamonds would lie there; pebbles would lie there. The diamond could not say, “Move aside, pebbles! I am the Koh-i-noor! Make way! Prepare a throne!” The Koh-i-noor too is an ordinary stone—if there is no man. When man comes, the trouble begins. Man says, “Move, pebbles! You are lowly; this is the emperor—this is the Koh-i-noor! Seat it upon a throne!”
Man brings value. There is no inherent value in the Koh-i-noor—there cannot be. It lay for centuries in the earth. Stones did not care; insects did not care; snakes and scorpions did not pay it respect; animals and birds took no heed—no one cared. Then it fell into human hands. The man whose hands first found it was a simple man. He brought it home and gave it to his children to play with. What else could he do—it was a stone!
There is a lovely story: a sannyasi became a guest in that house. Seeing the poor farmer, he felt compassion and said, “How long will you waste your labor upon the dry land of Golconda? I have seen such places where, with little effort, you can gather diamonds and jewels. With all this digging here, what do you produce? Not even enough to fill your stomach; your children are wasting away.”
The sannyasi left the next day on his travels, but desire caught hold of the farmer; he was hypnotized. He sold his fields. A small river ran along his field—he sold it, he sold his house. He set out to find diamonds. They say he roamed for years—no diamonds anywhere—then returned home. But in this wandering, he got to know what diamonds are; he fell under the spell. He met jewelers; he saw diamonds. Whatever money he had, he lost. When he returned home he was astonished: his child was playing with the very diamond he had sought—the Koh-i-noor! He wept and beat his chest, for he had sold the field. That very field later became the greatest diamond mine of Golconda. The diamonds in the Nizam’s palace in Hyderabad came from that poor man’s field. He had sold it.
Until then there was no hypnosis; no layer upon the mind—he was a simple, natural man, uncivilized by refinement, no jeweler yet.
A diamond is also a stone. Without man, there would be no special respect for the diamond. When you pay special respect to it—if you find a diamond on the road you pounce upon it; you do not pick up a pebble—then you have not seen what is; you have seen what you wanted to see. You have imposed your vasana. Your eyes have not remained pure receivers; they have thrown out something upon the screen of the diamond—some desire. Even an ordinary pebble, imbued with desire, becomes glorious. Wherever you place desire, there glory appears.
This world seems so important because you have invested your desires in many places. Someone places desire in wealth—then wealth becomes supremely valuable. He wastes his life but piles up money. He will die; the safe will remain, filled. He will not eat properly; he will not wear clothes; he must accumulate! When desire is lodged in wealth, it becomes more valuable than life. If you place desire in status, status becomes valuable.
Do you never feel astonished? Politicians are crazy; they are mad for posts; they go begging: support me, vote for me, stand with me! They go around with folded hands. Have you not wondered what madness this is? And those who attain position—what do they get? Abuses, accusations. Respect too—but all false; the moment they step down, it is gone. No one asks after them; no one considers them; no one even comes to greet them. Why such madness? Desire has been placed in the post. If you have not placed it, you will laugh at the madness.
You have seen: some are mad for football, some for cricket. I know a gentleman who, when cricket is on, sits by the radio and gives up everything else. Once, when the team that should have won lost, he flung the radio to the ground in anger. Such rage! Riots break out. Your team loses—riots ensue; looting happens; people are killed. One who is outside that world laughs: what is this all about? What is football, after all? Some people take the ball there; some bring it here; again there—what is the matter? And yet thousands come to watch; what are they watching? All are highly excited, becoming mad.
Yes—one outside desire will laugh; one within desire is in stupor.
Mulla Nasruddin returned home one night drunk. He tried hard—the key was in his hand—but he could not find the lock. His wife looked down from above. She said, “Enough! If you have lost the key, say so; I will throw down the other key.” He said, “The key is here; I have lost the lock—throw down another lock.”
But if you have been unconscious, you will know—it is not to be laughed at. The state is like that. The one who is unconscious is in another world—the world of avichara. Where it is not your desire, there you appear thoughtful. Old people become thoughtful; they begin to lecture the young: all this is madness, youth is a two-day intoxication. Their elders told them the same; they did not listen. No one listens to anyone.
So long as intoxication lasts, thought does not arise—or if thought arises, intoxication begins to break. Understand this well: in vasana you see only what you want to see. Have you seen chess players? There is nothing—wooden, bone or plastic elephants and horses, king and queen—and yet swords are drawn upon the board, people are slain. One who is not in the game laughs; he passes by laughing: “You have gone mad—what elephants and horses?” One whose understanding is deep does not see elephants and horses even in the real elephants and horses; he does not see kings and queens even in the real ones. But where there is desire…
I have heard: a cat went to England—on a cultural mission. The Queen of England summoned her. When she returned, the cats of Delhi held a great gathering. They asked, “Tell us—what did you see? Did you meet the Queen?”
She said, “I did.”
“What did you see?”
She said, “Something astonishing! Beneath the chair, a mouse sat.”
What has the Queen to do with a cat! What the cat saw was the mouse. Where desire is, there is vision. You would see the Queen, not the mouse—because your desire is not that of a cat. You would see the Queen only if you had the desire for rank and rule; otherwise what is there to see in a queen—an ordinary woman. However much you place a peacock-feathered crown upon the head—what does it change? However great a throne you sit upon—what does it change? If a person like Mahavira goes—neither mouse nor queen will be seen. You would see the queen; the cat saw the mouse. Each saw according to the desire. If a connoisseur of diamonds were to go, he would not see the queen; he would see the diamonds in her crown. If a cobbler went, he would see the queen’s shoes—nothing else. A cobbler sees only shoes; he has looked at them all his life. There his desire is entangled. As he walks along he watches people’s shoes. From shoes he judges people. Reading the story of the shoes, the tale of the person is revealed. If there is shine upon the shoes, he knows the pocket is warm. If the shoes are withered and battered, he knows—move on, do not bring him in.
Vasana means: we see the world according to our hypnosis. Thought means: we set aside hypnosis and see what is as it is. We see mango as mango, neem as neem; we see poison as poison, amrita as amrita—we do not look through the lens of our desire.
Therefore Mahavira says: people seem to be thinking and reflecting—yet they cannot become dispassionate. Somewhere there is a deception. Because if one were to look at life rightly, dispassion would surely arise. There is nothing here worth entangling oneself in—nothing here that could truly hold you.
“These twin-colored fashions of the age are alive while living—
I have seen shrouds that do not change even upon the dead.”
All these revelries, these changes, these fashions…
“These twin-colored fashions of the age are alive while living—
I have seen shrouds that do not change even upon the dead.”
One who looks at life closely, removing the twin-colored coatings, will find: all here is already dead; it is only a matter of time.
The Rishis have said: ksharati iti shariram—the body is that which continually decays. Ksharati iti shariram: that which wastes away moment to moment—that is the body. This is not a house; that which is turning into ruins—that is the body. It is already dead; only time is in question; it is standing in the queue—when its number comes, it will fall.
If one looks at the body closely—what will one find? The form of death. He will find death in its womb. In every hair and pore of the body he will find death concealed, waiting to reveal itself. Today or tomorrow it will appear. One who looks closely at the body sees death. How then will you be attached to the body? No one ties himself to a corpse. No one keeps relations with a corpse.
I have heard: to a Muslim fakir there came a youth who said, “I too want to embark on the journey of sannyas. I love the ways of the Sufis. But what can I do—there is my wife, and her love for me is great! There are my children and their attachment to me is deep. Without me they cannot live; to speak truth, they will die. When I speak of sannyas to my wife, she says she will hang herself.”
The fakir said, “Do this: I will come tomorrow morning. For tonight I give you a small experiment—practice it through the night, and in the morning, as soon as you rise, fall down.” He gave him a breath-control—“Practice it at night; in the morning suspend your breath and lie still. People will think you are dead. After that, I will take care.”
He said, “Why not! Let us see. What will it do?”
“You will see who among them dies with you. Does your wife die; your children, your father, your mother, brothers, friends—who? Hold your breath for ten minutes; all will become clear. You will be present—watch. Then breathe and do what you will.”
He “died” in the morning—suspended his breath. The wife beat her breast, the children cried, the parents howled, the neighbors gathered. The fakir came with the crowd. Seeing him, the family said, “Your grace that you have come in such a moment! Pray to God—we will all die; somehow save him! He was the support of all of us.”
The fakir said, “Do not be afraid—he can be saved. But when death has come, someone must go in his place. Whoever among you is ready to go—raise a hand. He will go; he will be saved. There is no time—decide quickly.”
He asked one by one. The father said, “It is very difficult now. I have other children; not only this son. Some are still unmarried; some are still in school. My being is very necessary—how can I go?”
The mother too offered some excuse; the sons said, “We have not yet seen life.” The wife’s tears stopped at once; she said, “Now he has died, and we will somehow manage—do not make further fuss.”
The fakir said, “Now rise!” The man opened his eyes and sat up. “What is your intention now?”
“What intention can there be—I will go with you. As for them—they are already dead; they will somehow manage. I have seen the secret. I have understood—these were just words.”
Who stays for whom! Who has ever stayed! Who could stop whom!
When vision comes, vairagya arises. In that moment the youth saw. Before that he had thought much; in that moment darshan happened. Earlier there was much thinking, but it was not thought; it was not viveka—since it did not yield dispassion; it yielded attachment instead.
So the touchstone is: that which brings attachment is not thought; it is a crowd of thoughts—hollow, unsubstantial, ash. There is no ember in it. Where the flame of dispassion leaps—there is the ember, there is life, there is thought, there is viveka.
“Life is an accident—and what an accident—
Even death does not end its chain.”
That which we call “life” is our jīveṣaṇā. That which we call life is the accumulated hypnosis of births upon births.
“Life is an accident—and what an accident—
Even death does not end its chain.”
Death comes and goes, but the hypnosis continues. Jīveṣaṇā does not die with death. The body falls; we take another body. You are not in the body because the body chose you; you are in the body because you chose the body. You are not in suffering because suffering came upon you; you are in suffering because you invited it.
Mahavira’s radical sutra is: your responsibility is ultimate. No fate, no God—you are responsible. The essence is: take your reins into your own hands. If there is suffering—you are the cause. If there is darkness—you have hidden the lamp. If you walk among thorns—it is you who sowed them.
Mahavira threw man straight back upon himself; he gave no crutch, no consolation. He did not say, “God exists, he plays; do not fear; pray and you will find support.” No consolation.
Mahavira’s religion is without consolation. It appears very harsh. But only such harshness can turn one homeward.
“If I do not change the dark history of my imprisonment in existence—
You think my entry into life is but a game?”
If I have come to the prison, I must change the very tone of the prison; otherwise, what is the point of my coming?
“If I do not change the dark history of the prison of existence!” This life—and the net of life, and life’s bondage—I must change their history too. “You think my entry into life is but a game?” Having come into prison, I will transform it into freedom.
Such is Mahavira’s feeling—and he did so. He took no support, begged for nothing. None has walked so utterly alone upon life’s path as Mahavira. We always find some support; by support, the world enters again; by support the whole chain unrolls.
“My pride has enmity with borrowed ecstasies—
Even if the frenzy of love be available from without, I will not beg for spring.”
It is against self-respect. Even if the lover’s madness or the devotee’s ecstasy comes from outside, I will not beg—it is against swabhiman.
Mahavira says: do not beg. For whatever comes by begging remains a beggar’s thing; it does not give lordship.
Therefore in Mahavira’s vision there is no place for prayer; vichara is enough. Vichara, in its right form, becomes dhyana. Dhyana, in its right form, becomes Samadhi. Samadhi means solution. See life rightly—and there is liberation.
“Ah, how firm is the knot of Maya!” All seem to know; all seem to think. It is difficult to find someone without intellect—everyone is intelligent. Yet when Maya seizes, all are caught in her grip; the knot appears so sturdy. And the knot lies so deep—far deeper than where you are now. Only when you go deeper than the knot will it open. The real question is an inner journey—finding deeper and deeper within. Whatever you go deeper than—that, you are freed from.
“Birth is suffering; age is suffering; disease is suffering; death is suffering. Ah! This world is suffering, wherein beings are in anguish.”
“Janma duhkha, jara duhkha, roga ya maranani ya—
Aho dukkho hu samsaro, jattha ki santi jantavo.”
It is a wonder, says Mahavira: all is suffering—and yet people cling to it. Suffering and only suffering—and yet people do not let go. The stupor must be very deep. Hence he says “wonder.” People walk into prison by their own feet—wonder! People forge their chains with their own hands—wonder! And they weep, they cry that they want liberation, they want bliss—yet all they do constructs bondage.
So do not pay attention to what people say; attend to what they do. What people say—set it aside. Often it is the opposite. Understand also why. People say the opposite to console themselves. With their hands they construct the prison; with their words they sing of freedom. This talk of freedom does not erase the prison; rather, it makes the prison easier to build. The prison rises; the talk of freedom continues.
You see this everywhere in the world. Politicians talk peace and prepare for war. They release doves of peace; meanwhile every state spends sixty, seventy, eighty percent of its wealth upon war preparations. Doves fly; atom bombs are made. Which to believe? The talk of peace aids the making of war; it is not the opposite. Were it the opposite, and the doves genuine, there would be no reason to prepare for war.
Have you seen anyone preparing for peace? Nowhere. People only talk of peace: “We want peace”—while preparing for war. Attend: that which they prepare for is that which they desire. If peace were wanted, something would be spent upon peace; armies for peace would be raised; people would be trained in peace. But nothing of the sort happens. All training is for war—to fight, to die, to kill. And there is a race: America, Russia, China—below, heaps of bombs; above, peace conferences. The peace conference is a tent to hide the stockpiles beneath; under that tent, bombs can be hidden and none will know. Man is so deceptive! And this is true not only of nations, but of individuals.
Notice: what you say and how you live are utterly opposite. If it must go on like this, then please stop saying it. What is the use of saying? Why waste the energy? Do not fly useless doves; spend that money on making bombs—at least there will be honesty: straightforwardness.
In three thousand years, five thousand wars have been fought—not a few. All wars were fought for peace. Better then that this babble about peace cease—if for peace five thousand wars must be fought in three thousand years, then abandon such peace; it is dangerous, it is costly. Every state calls its war arrangements “defense”—Ministry of Defense! All attack, yet all say defense. Even Hitler’s war ministry was “defense.” “We prepare for our protection.” If all prepare for protection—who attacks? Where is the fear if everyone wants security?
But these are lies. Defense is on the surface—talk, display. That is why till today it cannot be decided who attacked first. Who did? Hitler says “Not I—others did.” Others say “Hitler did.” Whoever wins writes the history—so he records that the other attacked. The defeated do not write history. It may be that the defeated were defending; the victor the aggressor. Aggressors are skillful; before they attack, they arrange things so it appears they are defending.
So it is with society, nations, and individuals. Consider your own strategies; see your inner diplomacy.
You beat your son and say, “For your own good.” This is politics.
Anger arose; your son broke the clock; or you wanted him to sit quietly and he would not; or you did not want him to go to a film and he went—your ego has been hurt. But you say, “For your improvement.” Strange! Every father is improving, yet no son seems improved. There must be some mistake in the improvement—otherwise some would improve. Such a grand enterprise!
No—no one wants to improve anyone; people want to have their own way. The father has an ego: you broke his command—that is intolerable. Going to a film is not the issue; that is an excuse—he too goes.
I know a gentleman who forbade his son to see a certain indecent American film. Forbidding, he aroused the boy’s curiosity; the boy went. When he returned, the father was very angry—because he himself had been there. The real pain was that the boy found him there. I asked the boy, “What did he say then?” The boy laughed: “He said, ‘I had only gone to see whether you would come!’ For that he sat through a three-hour film!”
So it goes. Begin to see yourself. Begin to awaken. The journey is long and arduous. Supports and consolations will not do; worship and prayer will not do. Inch by inch your life must be transformed. A certain authenticity is needed.
“Birth is suffering; old age is suffering; disease is suffering; death is suffering.” What else is there in life? If you fail here—there is suffering; if you succeed—there is suffering still. If you remain poor—there is suffering; if you become rich—even then there is no joy. If you are defeated—there is suffering; if you win—nothing comes to the hand. Here, defeat and victory are equal; success and failure are alike.
“Ah! The world is suffering, wherein beings are in anguish.” “Aho dukkho hu samsaro”—Mahavira exclaims in wonder. So much suffering—and yet people are diving into it, taking this current of suffering as the Ganges and plunging in.
“Here, even under the shade of trees, there is sunshine—
Let us leave this place for the rest of our lives.”
Here, near the shade of trees, even there stands the sun. Here, even in shade, there is sunlight. Here, even near peace, unrest stands encircling.
“Here, even under the shade of trees, there is sunshine—
Let us leave this place and forever.”
Those who look at life, who open their eyes and look, who think and see with viveka—they will say, “Come—let us go from here, and for all time.”
That is vairagya.
“To the one who blesses me with a long life—
I cannot help but laugh at your simplicity.”
People bless: live long, live for ages! Ask them, for what do you bless? What did you gain by living long? “Live for ages”—means “suffer for ages.” Say it plainly—why hide it?
When I returned home from the university, my mother, father, the family were anxious: marriage! marriage! They feared to ask me outright—they always knew that if I said yes it would be yes; if I said no it would be no—and turning a “no” into “yes” would be hard. So they sent news by this relative and that friend. One friend of my father’s, a lawyer, thought a lawyer would be right to persuade me. “I will explain,” he said, “I have won great cases—this is nothing.” He came prepared and argued the benefits of marriage. I listened and said, “Listen—if you prove the benefits of marriage, I will marry. If you cannot, what stake do you put up? Will you leave your wife and children if it is proved marriage is not right? Do not make it one-sided.”
He was startled; he was an honest man. “I had not thought my own neck would be on the line. Let me think.” I said, “Think first—if I lose, I will agree at once and not worry about whom I marry; marry me to anyone. But if you cannot defeat me, I will not let you return home—take leave first.” He never came again. If he saw me on the road he would avoid me; twice I went to his house—his wife said, “Why do you come again and again?” I said, “You should know—you seem annoyed—there is a wager.” She said, “We have small children—why make trouble? Since he has met you, he is anxious and gloomy.”
My mother spoke to me. I said, “Do this: think for fifteen days. If in your life—in your marriage and children—you have found some joy such that you would wish your son to have it, if there is something that would pain you were your son not to have it—then say so after fifteen days and I will marry. But if there is nothing—if only suffering—then at least be gracious and warn me, so that I do not become entangled by some mistake.”
My mother—simple-hearted—after fifteen days said, “This is a troublesome matter. Do what you want; only do not ask us to think—thinking only creates more fear; truly, I have found nothing. I cannot tell you to marry, for I have found nothing of worth.”
If we look closely we will be astonished: people live in suffering, and we push others into suffering too.
“To the one who blesses me with a long life—
I cannot help but laugh at your simplicity!”
Length of life has no value. The expanse of life has no value. Only depth has value. By vasana, life becomes long; by thought, life becomes deep. By length, the world is gained; by depth, one’s own being—divinity—is found.
“Ah, alas! Not knowing the path of auspicious going, in my foolishness I wandered for a long time in the dreadful forest of becoming.”
Whenever someone awakens—whenever anyone reaches the state of Jina like Mahavira—this indeed he feels: Alas! Why did I not awaken before! How did I sleep so long! How, crushed under nightmare upon nightmare, did I not open my eyes!
“Ah, alas! Not knowing the path of auspicious going, in my foolishness I wandered for a long time in the dreadful forest of becoming.”
Here the basic differences between the Shramana and Brahmin traditions become clear. The Brahmin tradition says: Rama incarnated, Krishna incarnated—they are avatars of God—descending from above. They are not men; they are God.
Mahavira did not come down from above; he rose from below. He passed through exactly where you pass. He endured the same suffering you endure; he knew the same pains you know. You are not unfamiliar to him. What is your present was his past; what is his present is your future. His link is tied to you.
Therefore, if the language of the Jain Tirthankaras rests close to the human heart, and if there is no gulf between them and human beings, the reason is clear: they come from where you come. They have known your sufferings, your hardships. Your experience is their experience. Therefore, when Krishna speaks, between Arjuna and Krishna there is a great interval; it seems Krishna speaks of another world and Arjuna of another—dialogue hardly happens. Rama’s character is glorious—but there is no glory, for it is God’s character.
Mahavira’s character is glorious because it is the character of a man. Rama is God becoming man; how can he know man? Mahavira is man become God; he knows man to the very grain—his suffering, his pain, his crisis, his stupidity, ignorance, delusions, Maya, his wanderings—he knows them completely.
Therefore Mahavira’s words have a scientific quality. Krishna’s words are philosophical—high, airy, of the sky. Mahavira’s feet are planted in the earth; his head is in the sky, but his feet stand on the ground. It is very real, saturated with experience, accessible to experience. There is no mysticism in Mahavira’s words; he is not a mystic of mist. He is not speaking of some hazy realm or sky; he is speaking of you. And when he speaks to you, there is no feeling in him that you are petty; he knows he too was this. He is astonished at you, yet he is not angry. This is to be understood.
In him there is no condemnation of you—there is karuna, deep compassion. He is full of wonder, but not only at you—even at himself. Therefore, just as he says, “Ah! There is suffering and only suffering in the world—and yet beings are in anguish,” immediately after he says, “Ah, alas! Not knowing the path of auspicious going, in my foolishness I wandered for long in the dreadful forest of becoming.” He does not say, “I am above you, holier, superior”—he says, “I am of you. I come from among you; I am not unfamiliar, not unknown. I am no foreigner. I am a resident of your own land. And what you suffer, I too have suffered. Your stupidity was also mine; your ignorance was also mine.”
“Because I did not know the path of auspicious going…”
The path of auspicious going is: dhyana, viveka, vichara, wakefulness, non-stupor, apramada. Not knowing, therefore—
“The dewdrop weeps; the bud’s heart is tight; the flower’s breast is torn—
Is this collection of grief to be called a garden?”
The dewdrop weeps—tears lie in the dew; the dew is tears. The bud’s heart is tight—she cannot open. The flower’s heart is split; its petals are scattered. “Is this collection of grief to be called a garden?” To call this gulistan? Where birth is sorrow, life is sorrow, death is sorrow—where after one sorrow comes another in a chain—is this to be called life, a garden? No, there is nothing lifelike in it. It is a deep dream—not a sweet one, but a nightmare.
Mahavira says: what to do? Infinite births have gone thus—because the path of auspicious going was unknown.
Think a little: was the path unknown? Were there not people who showed it? Before Mahavira there had been twenty-three Tirthankaras—glorious beings. The path existed; those who pointed it out existed—Mahavira did not listen. Hence today he laments. The path existed, but he did not walk it. Because this path is such that it is made by walking; it is not ready-made. There is no PWD in the sky making roads for you to drive upon when the mood takes you. The road is not ready-made; it comes into being by walking. It is like a footpath, not a highway. As you walk, so it forms.
Listen to those who have attained; digest their words; drink the presence of those who have attained. And then—whatever morsel reaches your throat—do not leave it as mere knowledge; digest it. To digest means: walk. That which you have heard and understood—experiment with it in life. Then a stretch of the path forms. One step makes the second easier; the second step eases the third. Step by step one travels a thousand miles.
“Ah, alas! Not knowing the path of auspicious going, in my foolishness I wandered for long in the dreadful forest of becoming.”
“One who is afflicted with mithyatva—false vision—his seeing becomes inverted. Even dharma does not appeal to him—just as to a feverish man, even sweet juice seems distasteful.”
Mahavira says: it is not that I had not heard; not that there were no true gurus—but the intellect was inverted. Something was said; something else I understood. What was indicated—I heard the opposite.
In a lawyer’s office it happened: a great lawyer tried to improve the office-boy. One day, tossing his cap, the boy burst into the room and said, “Mishraji, there’s a very good play today—I want to go.” Mishraji wanted him to see the play, but also to teach manners. He said, “This is no way to ask—tossing your cap and bursting into the office. Sit in my chair; I’ll show you the right way.”
The boy sat; the lawyer stepped out. Then he opened the door gently and said, “Sir, there is a very good play this afternoon; if you grant me leave, I shall go see it.”
“Why not!” said the boy on the chair. “And here are five rupees for the ticket.”
It is difficult to teach—because the one you want to teach is already a teacher. It is difficult to find a disciple in this world, because the disciple is already a guru. People “know” already. And due to that knowing, if even one who knows appears, you miss him.
People come to me and say, “In our scripture it is written such-and-such; you say otherwise.” I say, “If you find the scripture right—follow it. Walk! If you find me right—follow me. Please do not get into the tangle of whether the scripture is right or I. You cannot decide that by thinking; you can decide only by walking. I tell you, ‘Go east—you will reach the river.’ Someone else says, ‘Go west—you will reach the river.’ How will you decide standing here? Walk in the direction you trust. If you do not find the river, have the courage to accept that the scripture was wrong. If you walk by my word and do not find the river, have the courage to accept that the one you took for a guru was wrong. Do not do this: once you believe the river is to the east, then whether you find it or not—even if you wander for lives—you keep searching in the east, because ‘we have believed—so we shall stick to it.’”
Such stubbornness is useless. People sit believing; they do not walk; they never experiment. Theoretical babble echoes in their minds. Because of it, even if one who could show, who could awaken, who could help your flame—comes, you do not let him help. You say, “Wait—is it in accord with our belief?” You treat beliefs as a possession; then you cannot learn.
Mahavira says: the one afflicted with mithyatva sees inversely. It is not that there were no sages, no luminous beings—but “I, foolish-minded, whatever they said, I took the opposite. What they pointed to, I did not hear; I heard something else. What they asked me to do I never did; I made it a theoretical burden.”
“To him even dharma does not appeal.” If he were to listen with relish, revolution would be certain; but revolution frightens him. He has many vested interests. He is building a big house; someone says, “All this will be ruins”—he thinks, “Do not listen to such talk; let me finish building. If I listen now, the construction will stop.”
I was a guest with a friend in Mandu near Indore. Mandu’s population once was nine lakhs—not long ago, seven hundred years; today not even nine hundred. Vast mosques lie in ruins where ten thousand could pray; guest-houses where ten thousand could lodge; it was a great city—the Bombay of those days. Camels plied and Mandu was central; the whole land passed through it, even travelers from Afghanistan, Kabul, Iran. Thousands of travelers abode; hundreds of mosques, temples, sarais. Places vast enough for thousands of camels. Then suddenly all was lost. Today nine hundred souls; colossal ruins spanning miles.
The friend with whom I stayed was building a big house in Indore, so possessed with it that morning to night he spoke of it: new ideas, new enthusiasms—how to make the swimming pool, which stone to use. After two or three days I said, “Look at Mandu too.” He said, “What is there to see?” I said, “Look around: such great palaces—all in ruins.” He said, “Let it be! First let me build—if it becomes a ruin, that will be later. Do not bring this in between.” He said that being with me sometimes frightened him: “Let the house be finished—you talk of ruin already! Do not speak inauspicious words in a sacred work.” He was afraid—naturally. Tell a builder of palaces about ruins—he will be annoyed. He will understand—what is there not to understand? Ruins everywhere—your house too will be a ruin. You will build and die; you will waste yourself laying bricks; then you will repent. But man has vested interests.
Therefore Mahavira says:
“Micchattam vedanto jivo vivariyadansano hoi;
Na ya dhamma rochedu hu, mahuram pi rasam jaha jarido.”
As to a feverish man, even sweet juice is unappealing, so to one burning with the fever of vasana, the word of dharma is unappealing; it is heard upside down.
A small boy was caught stealing mangoes in a garden. The gardener took him to the police station. The boy was innocent-looking; seeing this, the officer said, “Son, you must keep away from bad company.” The boy replied, “I tried hard to keep away from the gardener—but he caught me.”
The officer says, “Avoid bad company—so you do not learn theft.” The boy hears: “The gardener is bad; I was trying to run away from him; he caught me.”
You hear based on your vasana. Therefore do not trust too much in what you have heard. Listen very carefully. Even after hearing, ponder again and again: was it really what was said? Did you mix something? Did you add or subtract? A single word subtracted makes a great difference; a single word added makes a great difference. Place a little extra stress upon one word, and the meaning changes.
“And one filled with mithyatva—his vision is inverted.”
“Mithyatva” is Mahavira’s special word, as “Maya” is Shankara’s. Mithyatva is a precious word—understand it. It means: not seeing what is as it is. Seeing what is as it is—samyaktva. Seeing what is not as what is—mithyatva. Taking something for something else.
You walk in the dark—afar you see a thief standing; you approach and find a lamp-post. The thief you “saw”—that was mithyatva. There was no thief—you saw one.
A rope lies. In the dark you jump aside—there is a snake! You bring light and see: no snake, a rope. Why did the rope appear as snake? Your inner fear seems to have created it. A rope has a slight resemblance to a snake; with wave-like coils it lies. Because of that resemblance, your inner fear rose in storm, and your fear “saw” a snake. Understand this: the fear of snake lies within you; that is why you saw a snake in the rope. One who has never seen or heard of a snake—could he see a snake in a rope? How?
A psychologist took his students to the temple of Vishwanath in Kashi. By Shiva’s lingam he placed his hat, then at the door he asked the students: “What lies by the lingam?” They looked carefully and all said: “Shiva’s bell.” Because hat and Shiva do not connect—the hat appeared like a bell.
Have you seen clouds forming in the sky—what you want to see, you see. Sometimes rain-streaks draw pictures on walls—you see what you want to see. There is nothing there. Faces appear; water lines have flowed—there is nothing; you superimpose.
Mithyatva means: you have seen what is not, and missed what is. If you see what is not, you will surely miss what is.
Vision must be trained; it must be made pure. Slowly, be patient in drawing conclusions. Listen, see—but do not conclude quickly. When you come to me, you listen—while listening, you take conclusions alongside. Many of you nod—you say, “Exactly right.” Inside, my words fit your beliefs. Some shake their heads “no”—they may not even know they are doing it; I see they are saying “no—this does not suit.” Do not hurry. First, only hear me. Pure listening is enough. After hearing and understanding, then match things. If you run two processes together—listening to me while you think and argue and reconcile—then you will not hear me. Your inner noise will be so much—how will you hear me? Then your conclusions will be mithyatva.
“The mithya-drishti jiva, seized by intense kashaya—passions—identifies the jiva with the body. He is bahiratman.”
Mahavira says the Atman has three states: bahiratman—when you flow outward into vasana; antaratman—when by dhyana you turn inward; and Paramatman—when both inner and outer are gone.
You are, in truth, that—Paramatman. But when the Paramatman flows outward, it is bahiratman. When interest is in matter, in objects, in the other, in the senses—when you have forgotten yourself so much that only matter seems all—mad for wealth, for position—then you are bahiratman: the Atman flowing outward. Then thought begins; burned enough—so much that once burned, even the milk-drinker blows upon buttermilk—viveka arises, the inward journey begins—you become antaratman.
You are the same—you have changed direction and dimension; once you moved outside the home, now you return; once your face was toward the world, now your back; once the world was before you, now you are self-facing; then you arrive home—then you are absorbed in your own nature—then Paramatman.
Now there is neither inner nor outer. Duality is gone; two-ness has disappeared. The dual has vanished; you are without conflict—nirgrantha. This Mahavira calls the state of moksha.
The bahiratman must become antaratman; the antaratman must become Paramatman. Paramatman you already are—only the direction must change. You can only become what you are. But if you go the opposite way, lost in mithyatva—you remain Paramatman yet think yourself a worm—insect: man, woman, Hindu, Muslim, Brahmin, Shudra. You remain Paramatman and tie yourself to some small thing: “This I am, this I am!”
Return within! Become meditative! Gradually your vision will slip out of the petty. As you turn toward yourself you will suddenly find: I am not the body, not the mind; not Hindu, not Muslim; not Brahmin, not Shudra; not Jain, not Christian; not woman, not man; not poor, not rich; not happy, not unhappy. As you come inward, dualities fall away—vanish into the distant sky—remain like dreams, as memory only. Then one day suddenly you enter home—you settle in your own swarupa.
To be established in swarupa is to be healthy—swastha: established in oneself. Paramatman is revealed.
In Mahavira’s stream of thought, Paramatman is not at the beginning of nature; Paramatman is when the full flowering and development of prakriti has happened. And Paramatman is not one—there are as many Paramatmans as there are points of life. Every point becomes the ocean; as many oceans as points.
Therefore, in Mahavira’s vision, Paramatman is not a tyrant’s concept; it is deeply democratic. Each person is Paramatman. Each person’s destiny is Paramatman; his swabhava is Paramatman.
Mahavira has called to the Paramatman within you—not to worship some God, not to adore some God, but to find your own Paramatman. Until one attains the state of Paramatman—remember, Paramatman is a state, not a person—life remains full of suffering; the dark night does not break.
Rise! Let us go in search of that sun hidden within you! Awake! Move a little—stir! Seek that which lies within you always, which you have always kept concealed yet never looked toward. As soon as you turn your gaze inward, mithyatva begins to slide away, to disappear.
As when a lamp is lit, darkness dissolves—samyaktva is born. And when you arrive, there is neither mithyatva nor samyaktva—both dualities vanish. There is only kevala-jnana—onlyness, aloneness, kaivalya.
Enough for today.