Jin Sutra #31

First sutra: 'Right vision has eight limbs: fearlessness of doubt, freedom from craving, absence of aversion, un-deluded vision, concealing, stabilization, maternal fondness, and prabhavana.'
Each limb needs to be understood with great care.
'Nishanka.'
The first limb of Right Vision, the first step: fearlessness. No doubt in the mind, no fear in the heart.
Courage! For only the courageous can embark upon the search for truth. In the search for truth, courage is more valuable than even understanding. Courage means entering that which you have never entered before—uncharted, unknown, unknowable.
Truth is the unfamiliar. It is not yet known. What is known and familiar removes fear; we become acquainted with it. On the road you have walked many times, fear disappears. On a new path, for the first time, fear arises: who knows where it may lead, what may befall! And as for the path of truth—you have never trodden it. The path you have walked is the path of the world. Lacking courage, we go on circling the marketplace endlessly.
Psychologists say man is afraid even of unfamiliar happiness; he clings even to familiar suffering—at least it is familiar! At least it is known, it is ours! We have a longstanding relationship with it! The unfamiliar happiness too is frightening—who knows what may happen! And one who has set out in search of truth has set out toward the supremely unfamiliar.
People often do not search for truth; they clutch at the scriptures. Because with scripture there is nowhere to go—it is a play of words, an itch of the intellect. One can parrot, memorize, and imagine one has arrived. It is like hugging a map of the Himalayas to one’s chest and thinking one has reached. But when Hillary or Tenzing climbs Gaurishankar, it is not like sticking a map to one’s chest—it is staking one’s life. Courage is needed! Death may happen. What you have may be lost. And there is no guarantee about that which is to be found.
Only one who has a gambler’s heart—able to stake what is—can succeed in the search for what is not yet. Shopkeepers cannot succeed. Accountants cannot succeed. Hence Mahavira calls the first limb of Right Vision: nishanka. Only when there is not a trace of fear in the mind will you be able to go. It is a path of the fearless, of the brave—not of cowards, not of fugitives.
But here the contrary has happened. Those who accepted Jainism are not at all courageous. They have no connection with courage, and they have draped their cowardice in beautiful words—ahimsa! I have often seen that a man who is afraid that someone may do him violence becomes nonviolent. Out of fear that the other may harm him, he says: no one should be harmed. He himself does not harm, because in harming there is the risk of being harmed. He does not kill, because in the very act of killing there is the possibility that he may be killed. He talks of nonviolence.
Remember, ahimsa is the attire of the brave—not of those who are afraid, trembling, nervous. Their nonviolence is of no use. It is mere rhetoric. A superimposed cover. A hiding place, a security.
Mahavira says nishanka is the first step. And one who is frightened even of the world—how will he set out on the journey of truth? Where there was nothing at all to fear—for there was nothing to lose—there he was afraid; how will he dare the journey to truth? Keep this distinction in mind. In the name of searching for truth, perhaps you have only sat down out of fear of the world. When I look at Jain monks, this is what appears. In most cases they have not gone in search of truth; they have merely stopped searching the world. Stopping the search for the world is not necessarily the search for truth. Yes, a seeker of truth becomes free of worldly searching—that is true. But one who abandons the world’s search does not necessarily set out for truth.
Understand it this way: a man sets out to climb Gaurishankar—then Poona will be left behind. But if someone leaves Poona and simply sits down, Gaurishankar will not be reached thereby. There are a thousand ways to leave Poona and sit down: sit just outside the city limits; remain at the boundary where the corporation’s area begins. But this does not take you to Gaurishankar. Yes, one who has set out to climb Gaurishankar must certainly leave Poona; leaving Poona is inevitable.
Mahavira left the world because he went in search of truth; a great step of courage. But the Jain monk? He sat down out of fear of the world. One who is afraid of the familiar—how will he venture into the unfamiliar? One who is afraid of the visible—how will he step upon the journey of the invisible? If one is afraid even of walking on the royal road where there is a crowd—companions, family, friends—will he descend into trackless forests and footpaths? The search for truth demands going alone. There no companion will be, no associate. There even scripture must be left, words must be left. All that was borrowed from society must be dropped. Even language has to be left. Hence Mahavira called his renunciate a muni—one who renounces speech. For language is a gift of society. Look closely: language is society. When you speak, society is formed; when you are silent, society disappears. If you stand silently, you are alone; if you speak, you are connected.
Imagine for a moment: a village decides to renounce speech—complete silence falls; then only solitary people will remain in that village. Society will not remain, for the bridges collapse. The bridges between two people are words. If the whole village decides to be silent, the village vanishes; individuals remain, the group no longer does. The group lives upon language.
Mahavira said you will reach truth only when you drop language. Yes—after you have known truth, you may use language to help others understand. But in knowing, it has to be abandoned—you must be silent, empty. And whatever you have, you must stake it for that which neither you know nor anyone can assure you you will obtain. No one else can give you assurance. If I have attained something, even if I bang my head against the wall, I cannot make you certain that you too will get it. There is no way.
The realization of truth is inner. Truth is not a thing I can place in your hands and say, here it is—so you may trust. You cannot touch it, you cannot see it with eyes, you cannot hear it with ears. Trust will be needed. Mahavira calls that: nishanka—trust. A deep sraddha will be needed; such a faith in which not even a trace of doubt remains, because a trace of doubt pulls the feet backward. Doubt does not allow the feet to move forward. If you have even a little fear, and keep wondering—who knows whether it will be so or not—if you remain ringed by such apprehensions, the step will not rise.
So the first step, Mahavira says, is nishanka. But we are full of apprehensions. And our apprehensions are most strange! Our apprehensions are like a naked man saying, How shall I bathe? If I bathe, where will I wring my clothes, where will I dry them! He is naked; there are no clothes; yet he avoids bathing for fear the clothes may get wet. A beggar fears that robbers may appear. He has nothing. Even if robbers come, they will have to be robbed themselves and leave something behind. Yet the beggar fears robbers. Our condition is the same. We have nothing at all—and the apprehension is great lest something be lost.
Have you ever thought what you have that can be lost? Your hands are empty, your heart is vacant, and the few shards gathered under the name of property—death will snatch them anyway. Struggle as you may—in the end you will lose to death. Hide here, hide there—one day death will seize your throat.
In the end death will win; you will not. This much is certain. For how long you deceive death in the meantime—what difference does it make to death? Ultimately death will seize your throat and make you disgorge your shards. What you saved from the income-tax office you will not be able to save from death. What you saved from thieves and bandits you will not be able to save from death.
First, there is nothing you truly have; and what you do have, death will take. Then what is there to lose? What is there to fear? And yet you tremble so much.
Mahavira says: understand your situation rightly, and there remains no reason for apprehension—no basis at all. Apprehension is imagined. And when apprehension falls, and you see with open eyes there is nothing at all to fear—nothing is in my hands—
I have heard: a beggar came to Mulla Nasruddin’s door. Seeing him, Mulla immediately said, It seems you have newly arrived in this town.
The beggar said, How did you recognize it? You are exactly right. I have just come from the station. But how did you know? Are you an astrologer?
He said, I am no astrologer. But the town’s beggars know: from here nothing is got!
We have nothing even to give a beggar! Where do we have anything? But we go on believing we have, and we derive much sweetness from the belief. We never lift the lid of belief to see the empty pot within. We are afraid the pot might actually be empty! We keep our fists tightly closed; we do not open them—for what if it is revealed that they are empty? We go on convincing ourselves that we have, much have we. We hum little songs that we have much. Then the apprehension arises that it may be snatched.
When Mahavira says to you: no apprehension is needed—nishanka is needed—he is not saying: impose fearlessness upon yourself. He is only saying: unfold your apprehension, lay it before your eyes and look carefully: is there any ground there? There is none! The day this vision dawns—that there is not the slightest reason to fear, there is no way to lose because there is nothing—that very moment a new energy will be born in your life. Call that new energy: sraddha, trust. Call it nishanka. Then you will set out in search of truth without a backward glance, with an unambiguous heart. When this realization descends—that there is nothing in my possession, it is a nothing I stake; if I attain, good—if not, nothing is lost—then you will not hesitate to stake. You will stake all that you have.
I have heard: a man went into a car showroom in America. The car he wanted was hard to get. The dealer said, You will have to wait at least a year. The queue is long. There is no other way. The man was furious. A year! In his anger he pulled bundles of notes from his pocket and flung them into the wastebasket and walked out the door. The dealer was astonished. He had seen wealthy men, but this was strange! Thousands of dollars tossed into the trash. He quickly retrieved the notes, had them counted; they were twice the price of the car. He immediately sent the car to the man’s house. The next day he was stunned. He rushed to the man’s house and said, Sir! All those notes were counterfeit. The man said, If they were not counterfeit, would I have thrown them in the trash?
Once you see the notes are fake, it is easy to throw them away. Where is the difficulty? In fact, carrying them becomes the difficulty. Why carry that burden? For what?
Mahavira does not tell you to generate trust. This is Mahavira’s difference from other teachers. He says: simply recognize your apprehension rightly—it will drop. What remains is trust. Hence Mahavira does not use the word sraddha here. Notice each word. He could have said sraddha, but he did not; he could have said courage, but did not. He used a negative word: nishanka—without doubt. He used no positive term, because no positive doing is needed. Simply understand that apprehension is futile, hollow, baseless—when apprehension drops, the doubtless state of consciousness that remains is sraddha, is courage, is fearlessness. A unique energy will be born within you. It is already there, dammed up. Your rock of apprehension has prevented the spring from bursting forth. Remove the rock—the spring will flow of itself. The spring has not been lost.
Therefore Mahavira does not say: seek the spring. He does not say: impose trust. He says: only expose your apprehension.
The second step is: nishkanksha—freedom from desire. Whatever you do in the search for truth, harbor no craving within it. Desire itself is the world. If you carry desire even into the search for truth, you are deceiving yourself; you are still running in the world. You are mistaken that you are searching for truth. Only he seeks truth whose desire has fallen.
Let us understand desire. Again, a negative term—nishkanksha. What is desire? We are not content as we are. There is a deep restlessness—to become something, to possess something, to be somewhere else, to go someplace else. Where we are—discontent! As we are—discontent! With what we are—discontent! Something else should have been—some other body, some other house, some other village! Some other husband, some other wife! Some other sons! Some other safe—always something else! The race for ‘something else’ is desire.
Think a little: wherever you were, would the race of desire have stopped? You think there is someone living in the palace where you should have been living—ask him! He is preparing to go elsewhere. The post you do not hold and think you should have held—someone holds it; ask him! He is readying to go elsewhere. The village you want to reach—someone lives there; ask him! He has already packed his bedroll, waiting for a train to go somewhere else.
There is a Jewish story. A poor rabbi one night dreamt that under a streetlamp at the end of the bridge in the capital, a great treasure lay buried. He saw the jewels glittering! In the morning he thought: just a dream. The second night the same dream came, exactly so. In the morning he could not dismiss it—dreams do not repeat like that. Still he hesitated. On the third night the dream came again; then it was difficult to resist. He said, the capital is not so far—let me see what this is! He had never even been to the capital. When he arrived, he was astonished. The bridge was exactly as in his dream. His enthusiasm rose. He hurried to the far side. The streetlamp stood exactly where it had in the dream. His trust increased. But there was a problem—he had not seen in the dream that a policeman stood guard there, to prevent suicides. He waited for the policeman to leave so he could dig. But the policeman only left when another came to replace him. For two three days he loitered. The policeman too saw him circling and called him: What is the matter? Want to jump? The rabbi said, What is there to hide—I am entangled in a dream. The policeman laughed and said, Wait! Before you tell me your dream, let me tell you mine. For three days I too have had a dream. I dream that in such-and-such village—he named the village; the rabbi was startled—it was his own village!—in such-and-such house, there is a rabbi—he named him.
The rabbi said, Stop! That is my name and my village. I am that rabbi!
The policeman laughed heartily. For three days I have dreamt that under the bed where this rabbi sleeps a treasure is buried. The first day I thought it’s only a dream; the second day—how could it be only a dream! I saw the jewels clearly. And last night again I dreamt. And your face, it seems to me, is the face I saw in the dream. What is going on? You too have been circling here three days.
The rabbi said, Now there is nothing to tell you further. I have dreamt something else. But I won’t say it. I am going back to my village.
He ran. He dug beneath his cot—there was the treasure!
The Hasidim savor this story greatly—it is the story of life. You are thinking the treasure is buried elsewhere, near some bridge in some capital. The one standing there is thinking the treasure is buried in your home.
Have you seen? Sometimes, seeing a vagabond on the road, envy arises even in the heart of the rich. Sometimes even emperors feel envy. For the gait with which a beggar walks—an emperor cannot. The burden is heavy, worries are many. He cannot sleep at night. What emperor can sleep like a beggar? Not to speak of the roadside—even in the most luxurious chambers, on the softest beds, sleep will not come. Anxieties abound; the mind is in turmoil. The beggar spreads a newspaper by the road and sleeps—and snores. Sometimes envy arises in emperors’ hearts: such health, such carefreeness, such peace, such rest—if only it were ours! The beggar passes the palace daily and thinks, if only I had such a palace!
Desire means: you are not content where you are. No one is content where he is. The dream of life seems to be fulfilled somewhere else. Yet those there are also unfulfilled. Here beggars are defeated; here Alexander too is defeated. Here beggars are empty-handed; here Alexander too is empty-handed. The day you see the futility of desire, that day nishkanksha arises—the desireless state is born.
You cannot enter the realm of truth through desire. All desire brings you back to the world. Mahavira says if you seek truth out of desire for heaven, you will miss. For the search for heaven is again the search for the world. A refined, improved edition of the world. The pleasures not found here—only an inflated, expanded version there. The wine not drunk here—its streams flow in paradise—this is your projection. The women not gained here—apsaras sit there awaiting you! Not only that—if you meditate beneath some tree, Urvashi and Menaka will come to tempt you. They are waiting just for the day you begin austerities—so they may arrive. It is the same unfulfilled desire creating new distractions; an expansion of unfulfilled craving.
So Mahavira says any desire for profit—even if it be heavenly profit—will return you to the world; Right Vision will not arise.
Nishkanksha! How does it arise? By understanding desire; by seeing its futility. As if a man were pressing oil from sand; it does not come, he is distressed; and someone tells him, Fool, there is no oil in sand. No matter how you try—the problem is not your method—oil will not come. You may bang your head—your head will break; oil will not come from sand.
Truth has never been squeezed from desire, because desire is the mother of dreams. One who leans on desire gets lost in dreams; he constructs a world of his own fantasies. But from desire, truth never emerges. Sand—it has no oil.
Remember, this is essential in Mahavira’s process: he asks you to see what is. If there is desire, look at desire, recognize it, examine it, observe it from all sides, analyze it. Investigate whether that which you want can come from it. If it cannot, desire will fall. The state of consciousness that remains—nishkanksha—is the second limb of Right Vision.
Third: nirvichikitsa—absence of disgust. The name of hiding one’s own faults and hiding the virtues of others is jugupsa (aversion, guile). Every person is entangled in it. We hide our faults and suppress others’ virtues.
If someone says to you, Have you seen that man? How sweetly he plays the flute!—you instantly say: What flute! He’s a thief, a lout, a debauchee! Now being a thief or a lout has nothing to do with flute-playing. He may be a thief—still he can play the flute. But you immediately crush his virtue by stamping him a thief—what flute will he play!
And we go on hiding our own faults. If you get angry, you say you did it for the other’s good, for his improvement—a kind of service, you know. If you beat the child, it is for his future. Though no future is ever built by beating; it only gets ruined. If a mother beats the boy for dirtying his clothes, for playing in the dust, or for playing with the wrong kids—if she probes inside, she will find she was boiling with anger. There was some quarrel with the husband. She could not throw the anger at him—he is God! This husbands have themselves taught—so you cannot be angry at him; that door is closed.
Just as water flows downward, anger too flows toward the weaker. What is weaker than a child? What is more tender? If the husband is angry at his boss in the office, he vents it on the wife at home. The wife vents it on the child. Watch the child—he will go to his room and tear a book, or break his doll’s legs—where else can he vent?
The whole world ends there.
We also decorate our faults with beautiful explanations. We do not accept others’ virtues; we deny them. And we protect our faults.
Mulla Nasruddin’s son asked him: A man who was a Muslim became a Hindu—what shall we call him? Mulla said, Call it treason! A man who changed from Muslim to Hindu—it is betrayal. But the son said: Only a few days ago a man changed from Hindu to Muslim; you did not say that then. Mulla said: That was conversion—he had come to his senses; wisdom dawned.
If a Hindu becomes Muslim, the Muslim calls it wisdom; if a Muslim becomes Hindu, the Hindu calls him a traitor! Such are our values.
I knew a Jain saint. He had been a Hindu; he became a Jain. The Jains were delighted with him; the Hindus were angry. The Hindus would not even mention him. But the Jains gave him great respect—more than they gave their own saints. Because a Hindu becoming Jain was proof that Jainism is right. Otherwise why would a Hindu become a Jain? So among Jains he was more honored than Jains themselves; among Hindus he was despised as a traitor who had dishonored Hinduism.
Observe this. We live by double standards. We gild our own errors with gold, and we smear others’ beauty with mud. Mahavira calls this jugupsa.
The absence of jugupsa is nirvichikitsa.
This is a precious sutra. Only if you remember it will you attain self-transformation; otherwise not. One who hides his own mistakes and suppresses others’ virtues will never become virtuous. See, recognize, accept the virtues in others; only by seeing them in others will the seed of them sprout in you. Hearing the sweetness of someone’s voice, a thought will arise: my voice too can be sweet. Listening to the cuckoo’s cooing, a juice begins to flow within you.
But if you say, What cooing! Mere noise! Some nuisance! Is this music?—if you deny the cuckoo’s cooing, you have denied the possibility of cooing within yourself.
So when any glory appears in another, accept it with respect and wonder, with an ah-ha! In that very acceptance the first sowing of glory will happen within you. And when any fault appears in you, do not hide it—for hiding does not remove faults; it only hides them, and they continue to grow inside. What you hide increases. If it is your fault, reveal it; accept it.
Have you noticed? The very act of confessing a fault triggers a revolution within—you are no longer in its grip.
Among Christians, confession is valued. Mahavira points in the same direction. Confession means accepting even one’s greatest mistake. The moment you accept, you are light. By revealing, you become without stain. If you hide and suppress, what you hide today you will have to hide again tomorrow. And the fun is—what you hide, others will try to expose. Because what you do to them, they do to you. You suppress their virtues and expose their vices—they suppress your virtues and expose your vices. What you hide, people will expose. If you hide and fail to hide and people expose—then pain, hurt, anger will arise—and darkness will increase, light will diminish. Whatever mistake has happened—accept it.
The fourth step is amuddha-drishti—un-deluded vision. This is a very revolutionary step.
Mahavira says there are three kinds of delusions in the world, three perverted visions. One he calls lokamudhta—crowd-delusion. People do many things because they say: society does this; others do it. Because everyone does it, we do it. There is no account of truth—only of the crowd; a sheep-walk.
In a school, a teacher asked a small child: Your family keeps sheep; suppose there are ten sheep in your pen and one jumps out—how many remain? The child said: Not even one. The teacher said, Do you know any arithmetic? I am saying ten are inside, one jumps—how many remain? The boy said, You may know arithmetic; I know sheep. If one goes, all go. Arithmetic I may not know, but I know sheep.
Sheep-walk! Trailing behind the crowd! Trusting that where all are going must be right! And the fun is—everyone else trusts in the same way. The one walking beside you is walking because of you—since you are going, it must be right; and you are going because he is going—it must be right. Mahavira calls this lokamudhta.
Only he can move toward truth who rises above the sheep-walk; who little by little awakens himself, and tries to see: Is what I am doing to be done? Or do I do it only because others do it?
You are often heard saying: In our house this has always been done. My father did it, his father did it; therefore I do it. Have you asked whether there is any purpose in it, any benefit? Does any treasure, peace, joy descend in life by doing it? No. Your father had the Satyanarayana katha recited; you do too—because it has always been done! In that katha there is nothing of truth; yet it goes on—because if you do not, you will be alone, separated from the crowd.
We remain joined to the crowd—out of fear. Aloneness frightens. You bow before a stone image because all say it is God’s image. You never ask yourself: Can there be an image of God? For all the wise say he is formless, attributeless, infinite—can there be his image? If you feel from your inner sense that yes, there can be—if your heart says yes—then bow. Then even if the whole world says no, do not worry. Mahavira is not giving you directives—go to mosque, or temple, or gurudwara, or church. That is not the point. Do what your inner intelligence attests to. Otherwise it is crowd-delusion.
The second delusion he calls devamudhta—god-delusion. People worship deities. Someone worships Indra so he will send rain; someone worships Kali so she will remove disease. People worship gods.
Mahavira says: these gods are like you. The same desires, the same nets and snares bind them. The same greed for wealth, for position, the same politics. By worshipping your likes, where will you reach? What they have not attained—how can they give you?
Mahavira says: a deva means—perhaps they are in heaven, in pleasure; they have more pleasure than you; but they are not free of desire yet.
Mahavira and Buddha lifted the dignity of man above gods. They left gods behind man. They said: the one who has become without stain, who is filled with desirelessness, who is nishkama—even gods should touch his feet, even gods should bow at his feet. Hindus were offended, because Jain and Buddhist stories make Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh bow to Buddha and Mahavira. When Buddha attained enlightenment, Brahma himself came and touched his feet. Hindus are pained—What is this? Making Brahma touch feet! Brahma is the creator; he made the world—and you make him touch feet!
But the Jains and Buddhists have their reason.
They say: look at Brahma’s life. The story says: he created the earth, and then became enamored of the earth—lust arose. Blinded by passion, he ran after his daughter. The daughter was terrified: how to escape from this father! She began to hide in many forms—she became a cow; Brahma became a bull. And in this way the whole creation happened.
Jains and Buddhists say: these are lustful gods! Read Hindu stories of the gods. If a sage’s wife is beautiful, some god becomes lustful, and by some trick gratifies his lust with her.
Mahavira and Buddha say: this is god-delusion. If you must bow, bow to those whose life is free of desire. If you must worship, worship those in whom all stains, all flaws have ended.
Look at these gods’ character, Mahavira says! We never examine the character of our gods carefully; otherwise we would be astonished—what is the reason for calling them gods? There seems no divinity.
About Indra there are so many tales: whenever some radiant person, some tapasvin is ascending the heights of consciousness, when his energy approaches the crown center, Indra’s throne begins to shake.
Why? He fears: a rival has arisen. Rivalry! This is the mind of a politician—a president, a prime minister—and another begins to gain reputation in the people; panic arises: he will snatch the chair!
What sort of god is this Indra, so worried that his seat may be taken away—and to save it he uses all means, right and wrong—sending Menaka to corrupt Vishvamitra! It is like sending a prostitute to a politician, then publishing the pictures in newspapers—destroying his reputation. This is not even proper politics; it is the most base form of politics. Such devices belong to highly lustful minds.
So Mahavira says: first delusion—lokamudhta; second—devamudhta.
Be alert about deities!
Worship divinity—not deities. Divinity sometimes happens in those seers within whom consciousness has become utterly pure and stainless. The last height of meditation—Samadhi—worship that! Hence the Jains worshiped Mahavira, Rishabh, Nemi; the Tirthankaras—did not worship gods. They worshiped men who became supremely pure. The Buddhists worshiped the Buddha—called him Bhagavan—but did not worship the gods. This was revolutionary, a deep vision. A new form of religion was born.
And the third delusion, Mahavira says, is gurumudhta. People make anyone a guru! As if it is improper to remain without a guru—there must be a guru! So they make anyone a guru. They get their ears initiated by anyone. Without even considering whether the one blowing into your ears has anything worthy to blow.
People come to me and say: We already have a guru; will there be any difficulty in doing your meditation? I say: If you have found a guru, there is no need to come here. They say: Found? Where! It is just that the village Brahmin—we made him our guru.
He has nothing himself. Could you not think a little—that the one you are about to make your guru is at least one step ahead of you! But you must have a guru. How to be without! So you make anyone a guru—whoever comes along. Your father’s guru becomes yours; the husband’s guru becomes the wife’s—without any sense that this is a most sacred affair, the supreme quest of life—to find the guru!
To find the guru means to find a heart with which you can beat in unison, and with whom you can go upon that endless journey.
Mahavira says these three delusions prevent one from moving toward truth: either one follows the crowd, or goes on worshiping deities. There are countless deities! Temples everywhere. Anywhere, place a stone under a bush and smear it with vermilion; after a while you will find someone comes and begins to worship. Try it! Just sit at a distance and watch. You yourself set the stone and smeared vermilion; after some time someone will come and worship. Great delusion.
I have heard: the man who opened the first bank in America was later asked how he started it. He said: I had no work. Nothing else occurred to me, so I hung a signboard in front of my house—Bank. Shortly, a man came and deposited two hundred and fifty dollars. I was amazed. I had not thought this would happen. The next day another came and deposited a hundred. Then I became so confident that I too deposited my own twenty-five dollars. The bank began to run!
If you smear vermilion on a stone and sit there for a while, by evening you yourself will worship—because you will see so many worshiping; all cannot be wrong! Granted you yourself smeared the stone, yet surely there must be something in it, some secret. Perhaps you picked the right stone, unknowingly. You placed vermilion on an image of God—so many are worshiping!
This delusion must go.
Then Mahavira says: amuddha-drishti arises—un-deluded vision.
Amuddha-drishti is the fourth limb of Right Vision.
The fifth is upaguhan.
Upaguhan means: do not reveal your own virtues nor others’ faults. This is the exact opposite of jugupsa. Do not reveal your own virtues; do not reveal others’ faults. We do the reverse: we reveal our virtues—even those we do not have; and we reveal others’ faults—even those they do not have. As for the real ones—leave them aside!
Mahavira says: one who wants to set out upon the search for truth must cultivate these restraints, these disciplines, these dignities in his life. Do not talk of your virtues; do not talk of others’ faults. What is your purpose? The fault is another’s—let him manage. And how can you know? You cannot stand in his place. You do not know his circumstances. In what situation he committed such a fault—you know nothing. If exactly the same situation had arisen in your life, perhaps you too would not have been able to resist.
Someone is hungry and steals; someone’s mother is dying and there is no medicine, and he picks a pocket—put yourself in his place, you might have done the same.
But we wrench the fact from its context. We say: he is a thief! And we forget circumstances. In what circumstances was he a thief?
In the West psychologists have studied crime deeply. Their conclusions are disturbing. In the coming century, if their conclusions are accepted, courts will have to close shop. The days of courts are over—because courts rest on a fundamental mistake. The magistrate judges as if thievery were a fact separate from circumstances. In the same circumstances this magistrate would steal.
Psychologists say: as understanding of crime grows, we see that people commit crimes out of compulsion.
There are two kinds. One is compelled by circumstances; society’s whole setup pushes him to a place where he cannot live without crime; crime becomes the only way to survive. If he is not to commit crime, then only death is left to him. And the fun is—even dying is a crime. Suicide is a crime; if attempted and caught, you will be punished. Here living is difficult, dying is difficult. You are not allowed to live rightly, and you are not allowed to die.
So some people commit crime under compulsion. Then there is another class—those who commit crimes due to mental disease. Circumstances do not compel them. For example, kleptomania: some people have a disease of stealing. It is not a crime—it is a disease. They are millionaires and may steal things that have no value—like slipping a matchbox into the pocket. There is no reason—they have plenty; a matchbox has no value. But they have a mental disorder.
I knew a professor with such a disorder. His wife said to me: Please do something. He does not steal anything that would be a crime. At a friend’s house, he sees a pencil—slips it into his pocket. He goes for dinner—he pockets a spoon. The wife is worried—today or tomorrow there will be trouble. She asked me because her husband liked me.
I spoke to him gently. I praised him greatly, for I saw he lacked nothing: from a wealthy family, a good job; the wife too had a job. Everything. So there was no situational cause to steal a spoon—so there must be some inner cause. I never opposed his stealing. I enticed him in a way that he would feel perhaps I suffered from the same disease. I spoke as though I too lifted spoons. He said: Ah! Good—you understand; I can open my heart to you. Come home—I will show you. He had arranged all the things he had stolen in a cupboard, with labels—whose house, when taken. He showed them with great delight.
He had to be treated. He was mentally ill. Through stealing he was proving he was more skillful than others. Others could not catch him; he could do it. The theft was not for stealing—rather to prove his own cleverness.
Psychologists say such a patient needs therapy. And one who steals under compulsion from circumstances—his circumstances need transformation. Crime would end. Either someone is a thief because of compulsion—then change circumstances; or because of mental illness—then treat the illness. Jails would become empty. Jails are filled with these two types.
Mahavira says: do not reveal others’ faults. What do you know—what compulsion, what hardship led him? What do you know of the long story of his many lives? The long journey—where he may have acquired some fault unknowingly.
And who are you to judge?
Jesus said the same: Judge not. Do not become the other’s judge. He is himself responsible for his acts; he will reap the fruit. You do not enter in between with condemnation or commentary. And remember: just as seeing the virtues of others is necessary, seeing their vices is not; seeing your own vices is necessary, seeing your virtues is not. One who keeps looking much at his own virtues begins to puff up like a balloon. His ego strengthens. Go on pricking the balloon of your ego by looking at your faults, so that it does not become big. And do not talk of your virtues. If they exist, their fragrance will spread of its own. If they do not, talk is useless.
After upaguhan, the sixth is sthirikarana—stabilization. Mahavira says: in the journey of life and truth, many slips will occur; feet will often go astray; you will wander. Do not be unnecessarily disturbed by it; do not take on guilt. It is natural. Whenever remembrance returns, re-mount yourself upon the path. That is called sthirikarana—again making yourself steady.
You resolved not to be angry. You understood: I will not be angry. You saw by repeated anger that it brings only suffering; you saw that by anger you create hell for yourself and the other. You decided: I will not be angry. Such a state arose. Yet slips will happen. In some moment of passion, anger will again happen. Habits are long. Imprints of many lives—they do not drop so fast. Again and again they will catch you. So whenever you remember—even in the middle of anger—stabilize yourself in non-anger. If half the abuse has escaped your mouth, do not complete it. Do not say: Now that I have started, let me finish. Stop mid-way. Ask forgiveness right there. Fold your hands there. Say: Forgive me, I erred. Return. Be steady again.
Sthirikarana is a very useful sutra. Those who would discipline life will use it continuously, for mistakes will happen. Do not sit brooding over mistakes; do not savor them with guilt. That too is wrong—needlessly scratching your wounds. If a mistake happened and you remember, return immediately.
You sit to meditate, steadiness breaks; you run after some thought. Sometimes thoughts you had nothing to do with—your meditation has begun, a dog barks; the dog’s barking has nothing to do with you, but it reminds you of your friend’s dog; that reminds you of your friend; that reminds you of a lovely day two years ago in the mountains—you are gone!
The moment you remember—Ah!—become steady right then. Come back. Do not be troubled thinking: What have I done! That trouble will hinder meditation. The moment remembrance arises, silently become steady. Otherwise, people first make a mistake, then repent, then weep—guilt. Then the mistake becomes greater than the mistake. The mistake happened once and ended; then begins a chain—repent, weep, say: I erred; I fell; I am a sinner.
Mahavira says: do not waste so much energy in all that. If remembrance comes that you wandered onto the wrong path, return quietly at once. As such stabilization happens again and again, the state Krishna called sthiti—sthitaprajna—will happen. A moment comes when no mistake occurs. Your steadiness becomes eternal. Your flame becomes unwavering.
Seventh: vatsalya—understand this.
The path of bhakti values prayer. Understand three words—then vatsalya will be understood: prayer, love, and vatsalya. Prayer is toward one greater than oneself—God. Prayer contains a request. The very word ‘prayer’ hides a petition. Hence the one who asks is called a ‘prarthi’—a supplicant. One asks only from one who has more than we—who is infinite. So prayer can be only to God. But in Mahavira’s vision, there is no place for God—no place for prayer.
The second word is love. Love happens between equals—between man and woman, two friends, mother and child, brother and brother—an equality of level. God is above, the supplicant below. Lovers stand side by side. One can only ask from God; what can one give? We have nothing. Before him we are utter beggars, absolutely beggars. What can we give? Even if we give ourselves, it is not giving—since we are his already. We can only ask. Therefore Mahavira says: there is no need of God—for God makes the whole world into beggars.
In love, we give and we take, for both are equal. The one you love, you give to; but you give in order to receive. The one who loves you also gives; but gives in order to receive. In love there is exchange. With God it is one-way—we only receive; we have nothing to give. Lovers give and take.
Vatsalya is the exact opposite of prayer. Vatsalya means: you give. That is why we speak of a mother’s vatsalya toward her child. What can the child give? A tiny infant—cannot walk, cannot talk, has brought nothing, has come naked and empty-handed. What will he give? He is not equal with the mother. He cannot even ask—for he has no intellect yet to ask. Therefore the mother’s love is vatsalya—the love of only giving. The mother gives; the child cannot return it. He has no consciousness yet to return it.
Vatsalya means: give as a mother gives.
So Mahavira says: not prayer, not love—vatsalya. You go on pouring out; give whatever you have. Do not bother whom you are giving to. Only care that you gave. Whatever you have, go on giving. If you have nothing outward to give, give the inner. If you have no objects, share your life-breath, share your very being—but give, and keep giving!
As on the path of bhakti the sutra is prayer, just the opposite on the path of meditation the sutra is vatsalya. On the bhakti path you go to the temple of God as a beggar; on the path of meditation you go as an emperor—distributing, giving. You do not ask—because asking is desire—and desire ended at the first step.
Now you have something—you share it. And as you share, more comes. Infinite energy begins to well up. All your springs open. The more water you draw from your well, the more new water flows. The ocean begins to pour itself into you.
So lavish! Pour with both hands—that is the work of a noble one. Kabir said: Pour! Mahavira’s vatsalya is that very pouring Kabir speaks of.
And prabhavana!
The eighth limb of Right Vision is prabhavana. This is Mahavira’s own word; you will not find a synonym elsewhere. Prabhavana means: live in such a way that through your living, dharma is glorified. Sit and stand in such a way that dharma drips from your sitting and standing. And in those whose lives have no light of dharma, a thirst arises. Let your walking, your conduct, your style of living—all become prabhavana. Prabhavana of dharma, of truth.
Become a luminous presence so that those who have no light feel they too must have light; and the thought arises: what kind of life is this darkness! Wherever you pass, let a ripple run through people’s hearts. Let people’s lives turn toward truth.
Mahavira says the eighth limb of this search for truth is prabhavana. For when you set out to seek truth, do not go alone. Do not be miserly in this either—otherwise that too becomes selfishness. Set others too on the search for that which you seek and are beginning to gain. But notice—Mahavira uses a very unique word. He does not say: give people sermons. He does not say: give them commands. He says: prabhavana!
Let your very manner of being become the sermon for them. Let your way of being become the command. Let your being itself seize them, plunge them into a new dance, fill them with a new ecstasy. Your mere presence, your passing by—let a new world enter their lives. Your coming near, your satsang, your being there—let it transform them. Let their eyes be raised to where they have never looked before. But the word he uses is prabhavana—do not even try to influence them. Let your being be prabhavana. Let them be influenced—not by you—but by dharma; not by you—but by truth; by that which has happened in you; by that which is otherworldly that has descended into you.
If these eight limbs are remembered, Right Vision is formed.
This is the first sutra:
Nissankiya, nikkankhiya, nibbvitigiccha, amuddhaditthi ya;
Uvabuhu thirikarane, vachchhala, pabhavana attha.
These eight are the limbs of Right Vision.
Second sutra: 'Whenever you notice a tendency toward misuse arising in yourself, immediately gather yourself back with mind, speech and body—like a well-bred horse who, through the reins, quickly returns to the straight path.'
Mahavira repeats this again and again: never imagine that you are a siddha. On this path of the infinite, many halting places come where the illusion arises that one has become a siddha—arrived. This illusion is very easy, because it delights the ego.
Remember: whenever the feeling comes that you have arrived, you will immediately find a distortion has occurred—some misuse, some mistake.
So remember: mistakes will go on happening until the last moment—until the final moment of nirvana; until the supreme flower of Samadhi opens.
Mistake is human nature. And mistakes have a history of many lives. Therefore whenever you see a tendency to misuse arising somewhere, the steady man at once gathers himself back with mind, speech and body—like a well-bred horse who, through the reins, quickly returns to the straight path.
Never let go of your reins. As long as the horse exists, keep the reins in hand. The horse means the mind. As long as the mind is, do not release the reins. Do not trust the mind. Many times the horse walks perfectly—hours on end—and you feel, What need of the reins now? Put them aside; everything is going well—what need of awareness, what need of constant remembrance? The horse is walking by itself! Do not trust this. The moment you set aside the reins, the horse will behave according to his nature. Keep the reins in hand as long as the horse is. Until the mind dies, until total freedom from mind happens, until thought-waves cease to arise—keep the reins. And as soon as you feel the horse veering, leaving the path, turning to misuse—as soon as a tendency arises: the eye falls on the wrong, the ear hears the wrong, the hand reaches toward the wrong, a shadow of wrong touches the thought—instantly gather yourself back with mind, speech, and body. Withdraw the body from there at once.
Understand what it means to withdraw the body. Whenever a wave arises in your mind, a parallel wave arises instantly in the body. If lust arises in the mind, at once the body becomes ready for lust; a wave arises. And whenever a wave arises in the mind and the body, language and speech are formed within—you shape the image of the distortion; dreams arise.
By speech is meant: thought—the web of imagination. The wave arises simultaneously in mind, body, and speech. Pull all three back together. Pulling back just one will not do. You may shut the door and sit, withdrawing the body—nothing will change. Many Jain monks have withdrawn their bodies and sit, but waves go on rising in mind and speech. Withdrawing the body is easy; the body is gross. Deeper than it is speech. Let no wave arise in thought either.
But many withdraw thought too. Still waves arise in the mind—the unconscious. By day you remember nothing; but at night, in dreams, all returns. By day you managed—no thoughts. But in dream thoughts arise. Even there, misuse has occurred. You have strayed. From all these the steady man keeps withdrawing himself.
'Though you have crossed the ocean, why do you stand near the shore? Cross quickly, O Gautam—do not be negligent even for a moment!'
This is the third sutra for today. Mahavira uttered it just a moment before his great nirvana. He said it for his chief disciple, Gautam.
Gautam is Mahavira’s first ganadhar—his closest disciple. But fate’s irony: he came first, yet could not taste liberation. He stayed near Mahavira for years, and still did not reach that ultimate state we call kevalya, Samadhi. The mind did not dissolve. And it was not that he failed to do anything—he did all that Mahavira said. But a tiny attachment arose—an attachment to Mahavira’s feet. Just that attachment held him back. A love arose for Mahavira. Without Mahavira he felt in pain. Even by day, if he went anywhere, he would remember only Mahavira. Mahavira told him many times: You have left everything; now why have you clung to me? The real issue is not leaving— the real issue is dropping the very habit of clinging.
One clings to something—someone else clings to something else. But clinging continues. One clings to wealth, another to religion. One clings to wife, another to guru. But clinging persists.
Mahavira is ruthless in this vision. He is against all attachment. His whole path is of vitaraga—beyond passion. Gautam left everything—wife, children, house and home, friends and relatives, wealth, position. He was a great scholar, a Brahmin—he left the Vedas, the Upanishads. But having left all, he clung to Mahavira’s feet—he became mad for Mahavira. Mahavira kept saying: Leave me too. The very idea gave him pain. The notion was beyond imagination: Leave Mahavira! Everything had been left for Mahavira. Now this was too much—to leave Mahavira too. Then why leave anything? All had been left for him. He could not be liberated.
On the day Mahavira left the body, he sent Gautam in the morning to the next village to teach—probably knowingly. If he remained near, he would suffer greatly. Death in his presence might unhinge him; his attachment was too strong. If the news comes later, the shock will not be so direct. He will settle slowly. The direct sight of death—seeing Mahavira there, the body go—that might break his life. So he sent him away. In the evening, as he returned, travelers told him: Gautam, do you know? Mahavira has gone. Where are you going now? The blessed one is no more.
He began to weep on the spot, beating his chest. With overflowing eyes, he asked them: One thing—what happened? What injustice is this? All my life I remained with him. At least today he should not have sent me away. Why this revenge? Just one thing I want to know: Did he remember me as he died? Did he leave any hint for me? For I still wander in darkness. What will happen to me? The lamp is out—what will become of me? They told him—this sutra Mahavira had left for him; hence Gautam’s name appears in it. They said: Mahavira remembered you. He left these words for you: 'You have crossed the great ocean; why do you stand near the shore? Cross quickly, O Gautam—do not be negligent even for a moment!'
Tinnahu si annavam maha, ki pun chittthasi tiramagao;
Abhitura param gamittae, samayam Goiyam! ma pamayae.
'O Gautam! You have crossed the ocean of becoming—you have abandoned the world, uprooted the roots of attachment from all sides. Now why do you cling to the bank?'
The bank means Mahavira. Imagine you crossed the river to reach the far shore; certainly you crossed for the sake of that bank. You bore all the hardships—storms, tempests, the torrents, the fear of death, of drowning—you passed through all this. Then you grasp the bank and stop—still standing in the river, clinging to the bank. You say: For this bank I crossed the river; I left that bank, I left the river, I struggled so much—now I will not leave this bank!
Mahavira says: this is no gain. You are still in the river. Now leave this bank also—come out! Now that the river is crossed, leave the bank too.
The guru is to be used like the far bank—as a means to cross the river. But when you have crossed, do not cling to the guru and stop. Mahavira says: do not be negligent even for a moment; do not delay—time passes, it will not return.
What could not happen while Mahavira lived happened because of his death. Gautam was struck hard. He did not leave the bank; the bank left him. There was nothing left to hold. What did not happen in a lifetime near Mahavira happened a day after Mahavira’s death—Gautam attained Samadhi. He understood: not only is the world unsubstantial, even the Master’s feet pass away. Not only wealth is lost here—the Master is lost too. Everything is unsubstantial. The only substance is returning to oneself.
With this understanding—he had left all else; the attachment to Mahavira dropped; and such attachment is human, understandable. How can one not be attached to so sweet a man? Gautam’s hurdle is understandable; Mahavira seems harsh. Gautam’s feeling is natural. Such a lovely man appears rarely. Who would not want to cling to his feet? And suddenly the feeling arises: forget moksha, forget heaven—these feet are enough! This happened to Gautam. He had the courage to leave the world—but not these feet. But one day these feet passed. Whatever is outside will pass.
Therefore Mahavira says: abide in the Self. Return only and wholly to yourself. Be absorbed in yourself. That absorption in the Self Mahavira has called moksha—liberation.
This invitation to Gautam is the same invitation to you.
Uncounted boats
these waves have drowned—I admit;
Many have reached the farther shore—
this too I know.
Yet if the truth were this:
all vessels drown—
still today I would resolve
to cross to the far side.
I drown, but rising
forever does my essence;
Let youths drown, but never
has youth itself drowned.
How can I linger on the shore,
when in the waves there is a summons!
Mahavira is the invitation of the far, infinite ocean’s waves. And not only an invitation—he has made clear each step to that distant sea. In the science of the inner, Mahavira has not left anything incomplete; there are no gaps. The map is complete. He has measured each inch of the land and planted milestones everywhere.
If these eight sutras of Right Vision are mastered, all is mastered. If these eight are mastered, Samadhi is attained—for as these eight mature, all problems vanish. What remains is the solution.
Feel Mahavira’s invitation! Hear his call! Sitting as nominal Jains will not do. In such impotent states there is no benefit. Arise! Awaken your own. A vast possibility awaits you. There is danger—therefore Mahavira says: fearlessness, courage are needed.
The danger is this:
Uncounted boats
these waves have drowned—I admit
—great is the ocean! Who knows how many ships have sunk!
Uncounted boats
these waves have drowned—I admit;
Many have reached the farther shore—
this too I know.
But some have reached—some Mahavira, some Buddha, some Krishna, some Christ, some Mohammed have reached. Many have been lost—innumerable.
They say, of a thousand who are called, a hundred arrive; of those hundred, ten walk; of those ten, one attains.
Yet even if the truth were this:
all vessels drown—
still today I would resolve
to cross to the far side;
—because on this bank there is nothing. Even if you are saved here—there is nothing to be saved. And in the ocean, if you drown, even drowning you gain something.
I drown, but my essence rises—
you will drown, but the Atman will arise. Only if you drown will the Atman rise. You are like a stone upon the Atman. Because of you, the Atman cannot float.
Let youths drown, but youth itself has never drowned.
How can I remain on the shore,
when in the waves is an invitation!
Hear this invitation. Be brave. Walk a few steps with Mahavira. After just a few steps you will find the stream of life begins to flow. After a few steps, the treasure draws nearer—the cool breezes begin to come—of peace, of freedom. Then you will not be able to stop. Then no one can stop you. But the taste is needed. Take two steps—let the taste come; then you will walk on the strength of your own taste.
Lao Tzu said: Take one step—and then there is no worry. Only if you do not take the first step is there great worry. Take the first—then you yourself will take the second; for in taking the first so much juice descends—what madman would not take the second! And step by step, even a journey of a thousand miles ends. No one can take two steps at once—one step! A small step! Only as big as your strength allows—but take it! Sitting, sitting you have lost many lives—lose no more!
In the Dhammapada Buddha has said: Uttittha! Arise! Na pamajjeyya! Do not be negligent! Do not sleep! Do not be lazy! He who arises—attains. He who sleeps—loses everything.
Enough for today.