Jin Sutra #32

Then let us speak again of Mahavira’s tirth. Such satpurushes must be remembered again and again. Thought over, and thought over, and thought over again. So that their flavor may slowly sink into our very breath—again and again. So that the same thirst may be kindled in us. The thirst that made them divine, let that very thirst make us divine too. For in the end, it is thirst that carries one across.
When thirst becomes so dense that the whole life-force is transformed into thirst, then Paramatma is not far. Nothing else is needed to attain Paramatma. What is needed is a supreme thirst—so total that everything drowns in it, is absorbed in it.
Then let us speak of Mahavira again. And in speaking of Mahavira once more, it is necessary first to understand this: Mahavira laid tremendous emphasis on hearing—shravan. Mahavira says: Man is asleep. How will he awaken? Someone must call him. Someone must shake him, stir him, wake him. Someone must bring the news that there is a realm of awakening. How will a sleeping man awaken by himself? The sleeper even begins to dream that he is awake. How will a sleeping man distinguish whether what he is seeing is a dream or truth? Someone awake must wake him. Someone awake must shake him. Hence Mahavira says: Only through hearing does the journey to truth begin.
Mahavira said: I have four tirths—of the shravak, the shravika; of the sadhu, the sadhvi. But first he said: of the shravak, the shravika. Shravak means one who reaches by hearing. Sadhu means one who cannot reach by hearing alone—he must do something more. Sadhus have inverted the situation. They say the sadhu is above the shravak. If he were above, Mahavira would have counted him first, placed him foremost. Mahavira says: There are some blessed ones for whom hearing is enough. Nothing else is required. Doing is needed for those who cannot understand by hearing. So the doer is second to the hearer—number two.
Understand this.
Buddha used to say: There are horses that move only when whipped. There are horses that move upon merely hearing the crack of the whip—no beating needed. And there are horses that move upon seeing only the shadow of the whip—no crack needed.
For a shravak, hearing is enough. That much awakens him. You call out to someone—some wake at once. Another you must shake. Another you must throw water on his face—yet he turns over and goes back to sleep. A shravak is one who heard the call and woke. A sadhu is one who turned over and slept again. The one you must shake, shout at, throw water into his eyes. Hearing—samyak-shravan—is sufficient for the discerning. A gesture is enough for the intelligent.
Today’s first sutra:
Sochcha jaanai kallyaanam, sochcha jaanai paavagam.
Ubhayam pi jaanae sochcha, jam cheyam tam samaayare.
'Only by hearing can the path of welfare—of self-benefit—be known.' Only by hearing. 'Only by hearing can the path of sin also be known. Therefore, knowing by hearing both the beneficial and the harmful, practice that which is for the highest good.'
Go to those who have awakened. Sit near those who have awakened. Breathe the air of those who have awakened. Let their waves awaken you. This is all that satsang means. Listen to those who have attained. There will be shunya in their words. There will be mantra in their voice. Even in their gesture the boat of your life will be shaped. Only by hearing. And truly, there is no other means.
Gurdjieff used to say—one of this century’s great Tirthankaras: Our condition is like this—some travelers make a night-camp in a wilderness, in a desert forest. There is danger. It is wild. Beasts may attack. Bandits may be hiding. Unknown country. No one of our own, no familiar face. Such is the world. What should the caravan do? They let one remain awake, at least one should remain awake while the rest sleep. Then by turn others keep watch. He who has stayed awake wakes another before he sleeps. At least one lamp must remain lit in the darkness. At least one must keep watch. If danger comes, let it not find us all asleep.
This alone is the meaning of sadguru—that when you are asleep, someone sits near you, awake. You will drown in dreams. You will wander through endless realms of desires and imaginings. You will get lost in uncounted plays of the mind. But the one who is awake continues to see reality. Listen to him. When one awake speaks, listen—understand.
With the awakened there is no question of argument, because his language is utterly different. By arguing with him you will gain nothing. By argument you will only remain closed. With the awakened, argument cannot be. With the awakened, only hearing can be. There can be no dispute—only listening. Drink what he says. What he says is not so much for you to think about as it is for you to drink. For only by drinking what he says will you know whether it is right or wrong. There is no other way.
But if it is rightly heard, then the glory of truth is such that it strikes the heart of the true listener at once. If what is said is untrue, then while listening rightly it is clear at once that it is untrue. There is no need to decide, no need to think. Untruth has no legs. Only truth has feet. Untruth cannot reach your heart—it is lame. It will fall outside. If you sit silently, ready to listen, do not be afraid that the untrue might enter within. Untruth enters only when you do not listen in peaceful, silent awareness. It enters through the doors of your sleep, through your unconsciousness.
If you sit alert and listening, the untrue will fall away outside. It cannot withstand the gaze of your eye. The life-breath of a silent listener is enough to topple untruth. What is true comes drawn like iron to a magnet. What is true pierces your being like an arrow. What is untrue remains outside. You are truth—you will draw truth.
But if you do not listen rightly, if you think, if you judge—'is this correct or not? does it fit my past beliefs or not?'—then it is possible that untruth may enter. Untruth is very logical. Not alive at all—but very full of logic.
Truth has no logic, no proof. Truth is existential—that itself is its proof. Hence scriptures say: Truth is self-evident. Untruth is self-refuting. Just listen rightly. In that very listening the choice happens.
' Sochcha jaanai kallyaanam'—by hearing one comes to know what welfare is. 'Sochcha jaanai paavagam'—by hearing one comes to know what sin is—what is wrong, what is harmful. And this is Mahavira’s great beauty: he says, I give no commandment. I do not say to you, do this. Mahavira says: Just listen.
'Therefore, knowing by hearing both the way of good and the way of harm, act in accordance with what is for the highest good.'
Mahavira does not even say, renounce sin. There is no need to say it. The one who listens rightly is not caught by sin at all. Mahavira does not even say, follow truth. That would be a pointless statement. The one who has listened rightly gets engaged in following truth—begins the inquiry. The meaning is this—samyak-shravan is the key to the door of truth. Whosoever holds the key of samyak-shravan will arrive. None can prevent it.
Let us understand it a little in a scientific sense.
Man has eyes to see, ears to hear. When you look through the eyes, you can see only in one direction. The eye is not multi-dimensional. If you look one way, all other directions close. The eye is one-sided. The eye is solitary. Therefore Mahavira lays greater emphasis on the ear rather than the eye. The ear is multi-dimensional. Close your eyes and listen—you will hear from all around. The eye cannot take in the whole. The ear takes the whole within. This is the first thing to note.
Whenever you see with the eyes, it is in a single direction, in a single line. Apart from that line, all else closes. The eye is like a torch. The beam falls in one direction, but the rest is plunged in darkness.
Mahavira says: This will be one-sided; it will be isolated. You will know one facet, but remain ignorant of the others. It will be like the story of the five blind men who went to see the elephant. Each touched a part, and the perception of each was one-sided. The one who touched the leg thought, the elephant is like a pillar. The one who touched the ear thought, it is like a fan. Different. All were true—but all were partial truths.
And Mahavira says: A partial truth is worse than untruth. For untruth is not hard to recognize—it is lifeless, like a corpse; you can see that it is dead. Half-truth is dangerous, because in it there is a faint glimmer of life—breath still moves, the patient is not dead. It seems alive—the body is still warm, the blood still flows. It seems alive. Half-truth is worse than untruth. Therefore Mahavira’s whole struggle is against half-truths, not against untruth. He says: Untruth is recognized at once by listening rightly. But half-truths are very delusive.
Mahavira gave birth to a new philosophy of life. He called it syadvada. He called it anekantavada. He said: I wish to bring together all the one-sided truths. What these five blind men have said about the elephant—all of it is true. And truth is the harmonious sum of all of them, their synthesis.
The ear has this excellence—that it is more total than the eye. When you listen, you listen from the four directions. The ear is as if a lamp were lit and the light spread everywhere. The eye is like a torch—one direction—one-sided. Mahavira says: Philosophy of seeing is one-sided. Philosophy of hearing is many-sided. Therefore he gave a revolutionary wisdom: Listen. If you are to enter meditation, you will enter sooner by hearing than by seeing. Hence all meditators have wanted to close the eyes. All processes of meditation say: close the eyes.
This too is worth understanding: Paramatma has made the eyes so that if you wish you can open them, if you wish you can close them. The ears he has not made so. The ear remains open. There is no method to close it. The eye is in your hands. The ear is still in the hands of the divine. It is not in your power to open or close it. It is always open. Even in your deepest sleep the ear is open, the eyes are closed. If a waking man stands by a sleeping man, the sleeper will not be able to see—his eyes are closed. But if he calls his name, the sleeper will hear.
We are asleep. The path will be through hearing. The eyes are closed. And even if open, at most they can see a partial truth. The whole truth is not in the eye’s capacity. If I place a small pebble in your hand and ask you to see it completely, all at once, you will not be able. The eye is that weak. It sees one side, the other side is hidden. If you cannot see even a small pebble completely, how will you see the whole Paramatma, the whole truth? Those who have emphasized seeing have given the world incomplete philosophies. Mahavira’s philosophy is complete, total. The emphasis is utterly different: Listen! Truth is not to be seen, truth is to be heard. Truth is not an object that you may see it. Truth is someone’s experience. He will say it—you can hear it. Mahavira may stand before you—you may not see anything. Many saw Mahavira—and saw nothing. He was hounded from village to village. Stones were thrown. He was driven out. Where is the difficulty in seeing Mahavira?
Why did such a glorious man have to endure such contempt? People are blind. They cannot see. They can hear. Therefore learn the art of hearing—this is the first step in the world of religion.
What is the art of hearing? How will you hear? When you hear—do not think. If you think while listening, you will not hear what is being said; you will hear something else. Do not carry preconceived notions while listening. Otherwise they will act like veils. They will color what is being said. Have you ever noticed? At night you set an alarm—must rise at four, to catch a train. When the alarm rings, you dream that temple bells are ringing. The alarm is finished! You have manufactured a dream.
Now the clock may go on ringing—what can the clock do? You have found a trick—you heard something else. In the morning you are bewildered: What happened? The alarm was set, it must have rung—why did I miss? You had your own notion, your own dream. So if you listen with bias, you will hear something else.
I have heard: One night Mulla Nasruddin sat too long gossiping with a friend. It was very late. He got up suddenly, saying, It’s too late—I must go home. The friend said, Today sister-in-law will certainly shower plenty of attar on you! Mulla said, What do you take me for? If I do not get the very first word out of my wife’s mouth to be 'Beloved', change my name—or I will be your servant for life. The friend knew Mulla’s wife well—he said, No worries—I’ll walk the two miles in this dark night. The bet stands!
Nasruddin reached home. He knocked on the door and shouted: 'Beloved has come!' His wife shouted from inside: 'Beloved may go to hell!' He said to his friend: See? I made her say it! The first word was 'Beloved'!
If there is a notion, a bias, you will hear something else. You will mold truth to suit yourself. You will make it untrue. Thus people missed Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Zarathustra, Jesus. One thing was said—another was heard. The listener had his own mind—strong mind—and listened through the mind. Put the mind aside, then Mahavira’s shravan will be understood. Leave the mind outside—where you left your shoes, leave the mind there too. Even if you bring your shoes into the temple, it is not so impure—do not bring the mind into the temple. Otherwise you will never be able to enter the temple at all.
'Only by hearing can the path of welfare, of self-benefit, be known. Only by hearing can the path of sin be known.'
The moment the art of hearing arises, you become skilled in separating milk from water. Vivek is born. You become a hansa. That is why we have called the wise—Paramhansas. Paramhansa means: they separate the false and the true in an instant. Their eyes, their vision, their state of feeling is utterly clear, pure. They see things as they are. They add nothing. Then no delusion arises.
The guides point out the goal right where it is
I have passed a thousand times by that very place
You too have passed. The circumambulation is going on right around the temple. For Paramatma is present everywhere. Wherever you go, you are circling only around him. Whatever you see—you have seen only him. Whatever you hear—you have heard only him. Whether the cuckoo calls, or the sound of the waterfall, or streams, or the winds pass through the trees—only he has passed. But you do not recognize him.
The guides point out the goal right where it is
I have passed a thousand times by that very place
The goal is within you; even to say 'passed' is not accurate. Where you have always been—there is the goal. You lack the touchstone. Heaps of gold lie all around—but you have no stone to test gold. Diamonds and jewels rain all around—but you lack the jeweler’s eye.
And Mahavira says: Shravan is the first sutra. Listen. It has never happened on this earth that no awakened ones were present. It cannot happen. Their lineage is unbroken—threaded together. In existence, at every moment someone awakened is present. If you are ready to listen, Paramatma is calling you even now—sometimes through Mahavira, sometimes through Krishna, sometimes through Mohammed. He calls you in a thousand ways, in a thousand tongues. He waves a thousand kinds of hands at you. But you do not listen.
Grace kept shining for centuries upon the heavens
Yet night kept thick upon man’s perception
In the field of reason, darkness kept its camp
In hearts—gloom; in minds—night remained
And grace kept shining for centuries upon the heavens—yet night kept settling upon human understanding. The sun has been shining since the ages, forever. The sun is an essential part of existence. But man lives in darkness. Man is shut within himself. Imagine the sun has risen, and you sit inside the house with all doors closed. What can the sun do then? Open the doors, become a little receptive. This is the meaning of the ear. The ear is the symbol of receptivity.
Understand this too.
The eye is aggressive; the ear is receptive. And Mahavira’s ahimsa is so deep that he will not employ the eye. Because in the eye there is aggression. When I look at you, my gaze goes out to you. When I listen to you, I take you within. In looking there is an attack. That is why if someone stares at you, you do not like it. But if someone listens to you attentively, you like it very much—have you noticed? You love those who listen with care. People are always searching for someone who will listen.
In the West, where listeners became fewer and fewer, the psychoanalyst appeared. He is the professional listener—businesslike. You pay him and he listens for an hour very attentively. Who knows whether he truly listens or not—but he demonstrates that he listens.
People return very pleased from the psychologist. He does nothing. He simply says—You speak; I will listen.
A listener feels so good—so receptive! He accepts you. But if someone stares at you, it creates difficulty. Psychologists say: It can be tolerated for three seconds—that is the limit. Beyond that a person turns lecherous. Luchcha—meaning one who stares. The critic is the same. Both words, in Hindi, derive from 'lochan'—eye. A luchcha is one who ogles. Alochak—critic—is one who peers and pokes, looking for faults.
But you give great respect to the one who listens attentively. Great disrespect to the one who stares. Yes—if someone loves you, you may forgive it; he may look intently, it will do. But if there is no relationship, the eyes should not rest on anyone for more than three seconds—beyond that etiquette ends. Thereafter it becomes uncouth. So we walk the road avoiding eyes. We look and yet we do not look. We do not look back again. Even if we feel like looking, we let the eyes wander here and there.
Have you noticed? People do not speak while looking into each other’s eyes—because it seems indecent. They look here and there. They speak to one another while watching elsewhere. If someone looks straight into your eyes as he speaks, you feel uneasy, you begin to sweat, you get anxious—What is this? Is he a spy? A government man? What is the matter—why is he staring so? Or is he mad? He must have some purpose. He is searching, probing for something.
The ear is receptive. The eye is active. The ear is passive acceptance. The ear is like someone opening the door in wait for a guest. Truth is to be invited. Truth is to be called. Truth must be told: The doors are open—come. I have spread my eyes—come. I am ready—come. Do not find me asleep—come. The doors will not be closed—you will not even need to knock—come.
The eye goes out in search. The ear waits. See it so. The eye is male. The ear is female. The male is active, aggressive. The female is receptive. A man cannot give birth to a child. The woman gives birth. She has a womb. She is willing to take within. Truth too must enter your womb—only then can it be born. You will have to give birth to truth. It is not stored somewhere so that you go and pick it up and bring it back—or buy it in the marketplace, paying the price. You will have to give birth—and pass through the pain of labor. You will have to become woman-like. All seekers of religion have greatly emphasized this: To attain truth, a feminine receptivity is needed. The mood of acceptance is needed.
Shraddha is acceptance. Tarka is search. Science searches. Religion waits. Science goes into nooks and corners, unveils, forces as well. Science is a kind of violation. If nature is not willing to lift her veils, not willing to remove her ghunghat, science is like Duryodhana—he attempts to strip Draupadi naked. There is a coercive effort—an assault.
Religion is waiting. Religion too unveils the world. Religion too unveils truth—but as a lover. Your beloved drops her garments before you. You need not tear them away. The beloved herself is willing to unveil—eager. Truth is eager to unveil itself—but it will unveil to love. Not to aggression. Paramatma is ready to lift the veil—indeed he is not only ready, he is waiting—but not by force. In the eye there is a little violence. In the ear there is none. The ear cannot go anywhere—sound swims to the ear.
The ear is empty. The eye is full. In the eye there are layers upon layers of thoughts, layers of clouds. There are great curtains. The ear is utterly empty. The ear has nothing—just a network of tendrils. A touch happens—the ear becomes alert, accepts.
Mahavira says: He who listens—listens rightly—samyak-shravan, right listening—as Krishnamurti calls it 'right listening'—the one who listens rightly, in him truth separates itself from untruth of its own accord. Milk becomes milk, water water. By right listening you become a Paramhansa.
Grace kept shining for centuries upon the heavens
Yet night kept thick upon man’s perception
And darkness lay upon man’s awareness, while the sun continued to blaze.
In the field of mind, darkness pitched its tent
In hearts, dusk; in brains, night remained
Then, sometimes, near some Mahavira, a small glimpse is got.
If nothing else, at least a dream of dawn has been seen
Toward which I had never looked till now—at least I looked that way
Near some Mahavira, listening to the voice of some Mahavira—toward which we had never looked, had even forgotten to think that such a dimension exists—toward that side we have looked. Granted, it is yet a dream. The first time Mahavira’s voice enters someone’s heart—dancing, anklets ringing, sweet like music, sweet as honey—when it enters the heart-pore by pore, a new dream arises: the dream of truth. For the first time, a remembrance begins of that which we have forgotten and which is ours—our very nature—toward which we have turned our back, toward which we have stopped lifting our eyes, toward which we have ceased to journey. We have forgotten that we must return home. We go on and on in the world.
But this dream—
If nothing else, at least a dawn-dream has been seen
This morning-dream it may still be—yet through someone’s voice the first ripples have arisen, and a feel of morning, a sense of dawn is awakened.
Toward which I had never looked till now—at least I have looked that way
But this will be possible only when your heart is empty and quiet, silent.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was walking by a river. Evening was descending. The sun had set. A man was drowning—he shouted: Help! Help! I am drowning! Mulla stood on the bank and said, This is sheer limit! To drown—what help is needed? Just drown! What help is needed in that?
You can hear something entirely different. Beware of this. Unless you have put the mind completely aside, you will hear something else.
Therefore meditation creates the way for hearing. Meditation means: cleansing of the mind. Meditation means: a journey toward no-mind. Meditation means: for a few moments clearing the mirror of consciousness of the dust of mind completely. People would come to Mahavira; Mahavira would say—A little meditation first, then listening.
Therefore I insist so much on meditation. You cannot listen to me straight away. Many intelligent ones come. They say: We have nothing to do with meditation and all that; we simply enjoy listening to you. As you wish! But that enjoyment will take you nowhere. It is an itch of the intellect. Scratching feels nice, a sweet sweetness; soon you will be bleeding. No—mere listening like this will not be fruitful. For the truth is, you cannot listen at all without meditation. Meditation will prepare you to listen.
Then Mahavira says: 'Ubhayam pi jaanae sochcha'—both are seen. What is true, what is untrue. What is auspicious, what inauspicious.
'Jam cheyam tam samaayare'—this is his most unique statement. He does not wish to impose himself even a little on anyone. He says: Then it is your own wish. Whatever you feel is for the highest good. He does not say: Follow truth. That statement would be wrong. Has it ever happened that after knowing truth someone did not follow it? He does not say: Renounce untruth. It has never happened that after knowing untruth one did not drop it. Having taken pebbles and stones for diamonds, we put them in the safe; but once recognized as pebbles and rubbish, who keeps them in the treasury? Yes, while there was the illusion of diamonds, you guarded them. The day recognition comes—this is garbage—we throw it outside the house. It does not require renunciation, nor any proclamation that 'Behold, today I am doing great renunciation—throwing all garbage into the trash!' If it is garbage—what renunciation!
Therefore remember—Mahavira does not tell you to renounce. He says: Just wakefully see; what is right will become your path; what is wrong—no one has ever walked it knowingly. Has anyone ever tried to pass through the wall knowingly? Once a door is seen, people go through the door—who breaks his head against the wall?
'Then practice what is for the highest good.' So strongly Mahavira says: Then whatsoever seems the highest to you—because he knows that truth is the highest. What is lacking is only recognition. What is lacking is only knowing.
People often come to me and say: We know what is right—but what to do? The wrong keeps happening. Your knowing is dubious. They say: We know anger is bad—but it happens. We have sworn often, taken vows—yet it happens. This means simply that you have not yet known anger to be bad. The fire of anger has not yet become your own experience. The poison of anger has not yet burned your own throat. Someone else must have said it—you must have heard it, read it in scriptures—but it has not yet become your lived experience. Borrowed from the scriptures. All scriptures say: Anger is bad. Hearing and hearing, you have also begun to believe anger is bad. But your own life-breath has not yet testified. And until you yourself become the witness, there is no revolution in life. No revolution happens through borrowed knowledge.
Knowledge must be yours. That others have awakened—what of that? Awakening must be yours. Listen to them—let their call wake you—but the moment the eyes open you will see instantly: dream is dream, truth is truth. Then who will choose the dream?
'Practice what is for the highest good.' Mahavira has said: I give no commandment. What I say is only upadesh, not aadesh. Who am I to say to you: Do this? In saying so, violence begins—I begin to dominate you, to mold you. Mahavira says: You are utterly free. From your freedom let your discipline arise. From your experience let your conduct be formed. Only then is it meaningful. Otherwise, for births upon births, deception continues. As soon as a small glimmer of understanding arises—
In a moment I hoist once more the flag of a new life
Wagering the stake of life for the honor of the heart
I will go, I will go, I am going, I am going
For one day I must leave your assembly of glamor at last
As understanding begins, the journey changes. I will go, I will go, I am going, I am going; one day I must leave your court of pride at last. If one day I must go, what is the meaning of staying? If death is certain, what is the sense of clinging to life? A life in which death must happen—that life is only the preparation for death. A life in which death comes—that life is already dead; it is not real life. What is the point of trying to hold what will be taken away from me? To build a kingdom that will be snatched away—this madness is only madness. I will go, I will go, I am going, I am going; for one day I must leave your court of pride at last. As awakening begins, revolution begins in life.
Sannyas is the shadow of awakening. Sannyas is the depth of understanding. Sannyas is samyak-bodh—only samyak-bodh. Pure and essential understanding. Not effort. If you achieve something by effort, you will coerce yourself. Achieve something by effort—you will be fragmented. Achieve something by effort—you will split into two pieces: one that is coerced, and one that coerces. A great self-violence will begin within you.
The second sutra—
'And then, under the ordinance of knowing, established in tapas, in discipline, in restraint—rooted in right vision—he lives life through in purity, wandering utterly unwavering, with a steady mind.'
And the one who has known what truth is, in his life a new energy arises. The mind becomes unmoving—nishkampa. It trembles only until we do not know truth and untruth. Until then, it wavers: Shall I do this or that? Shall I go here or there? To the temple or the brothel? It vacillates. Wealth—or meditation? Body—or soul? Until there is clear recognition of truth and untruth within, there remains confusion—taking untruth for truth, taking truth for untruth. The mind remains wavering. Because of this wavering mind are restlessness and disquiet. Mahavira says:
Naanayaa-nattie punao, dansana-tava-niyama-sayame thichchaa.
Viharai visujjhamani, jaavajjeevam pi nivakampo.
The one who has known truth becomes unmoving. The one whom Krishna in the Gita calls sthitaprajna. His wisdom comes to rest. It rests as a lamp burns in a closed house where no wind enters—the flame becomes motionless. Thus the inner flame of awareness becomes motionless. There is nothing left to choose—choice is done. Knowing truth—choice is done. Knowing truth—decision has come. The direction of life is available—the meaning, the intent has arrived. Now there is nothing to choose. Now the person flows toward truth like rivers flow toward the ocean.
Ordinarily, we try to swim against the current. Our effort is to make the impossible possible. We labor against nature. We attempt to make this life—which is only momentary—into the eternal. We try to hold mud and stone to our chest as diamonds and jewels. We try to make a home of bone, flesh and marrow into an eternal house. Our effort is that somehow two and two should not be four but five. It cannot be. In the world one meets failure because the worldly mind tries to accomplish the impossible.
In the life of one to whom truth and untruth begin to appear—pure and clear—tapas, discipline, restraint, descend of their own accord. They need not be brought in. They need not be pulled and arranged. Remember this as a sutra: Whatever must be dragged in will never arrive. In this world nothing happens by force. Truth is effortless. Therefore until sadhana is effortless, you are merely giving yourself needless pain.
Countless people are unnecessarily engaged in self-torture. One fasts. One stands in the sun. One does not sleep at night. One stands day and night—standing for years. One lies on thorns. All these people are sick. This is not tapas. It is a kind of self-violence. They are masochists. They relish giving pain to themselves. Some people have a taste for inserting fingers into their own wounds, creating pain. These are diseased minds. They are not tapasvins. This tapas is full of anger, soaked in violence. No one has ever attained truth by such tapas. One does not attain truth by tapas; by attaining truth, tapas happens.
Tapas, restraint, discipline must come out of your naturalness. Out of your experience. So I will say to you: If anger happens, do not swear vows against anger. If anger happens, try to understand it attentively—what is it? Do anger with awareness. Enter into anger. Let the fire burn—for without being scorched you will not awaken. Do not extinguish the fire—do not throw water over it—vows and rules, oaths—do not pour their water over the embers to quench them. Let the fire blaze—let it burn fully, so that it can scorch you—so that you can experience what a fire anger is! That very experience will prevent you from moving toward anger again. Then a discipline arises in life—not from oath, but from understanding.
'Established in restraint, the purified seeker wanders through life unmoved, with steady mind.'
Because of Mahavira and Buddha the regions of India where they lived came to be called vihara. But understand the word vihara. Vihara means a state of great joy—mahasukh—when the mind is utterly steady, when nothing causes a sway, when no alternatives remain in the mind and the mind becomes nirvikalpa; when your direction towards truth becomes straight and clear; when you stop changing roads day after day; when your flow becomes self-possessed, then a great joy arises in your life. Wherever such a joyous one moves, that land too becomes filled with joy; that land too—the particles of air, trees, mountains—stream and rivulets begin to reflect his inner aura.
There are lovely tales—that wherever Mahavira passed, withered trees turned green. Wherever he passed, untimely blossoms appeared on trees. Did it happen? I do not say so. I say: It should happen. Those who created those tales gave expression to a deep poetry. They gave a deep language to the truth of life. I do not insist that trees did this—men do not blossom, what of trees? If men do not bloom, what can trees do? But it should be so. And even if flowers did not bloom on trees, the fault is not with the poets—the fault would be with the trees. They missed. What can the poet do? The poet said rightly: It should have been so. If it was not, the trees were foolish. If flowers did not bloom out of season, the mistake is the flowers’. What can Mahavira do? Mahavira created the situation. If trees had the slightest understanding, they should have flowered. The climate was present—and what season do you need? Mahavira was present! What more did you await? What other spring did you desire? Spring was present. Has a greater spring ever come upon earth? If they bloomed—good; if not—the error is of the flowers, not of Mahavira.
Many of you too must have passed by Mahavira, for no one here is new. All are very ancient travelers—worn by age. For centuries you have wandered. Some of you surely must have passed by Mahavira. If not Mahavira—by Mohammed. If not Mohammed—by Krishna. It is impossible in this vast and endless journey that you have never met a Mahavira-like man. If your flowers did not bloom, the fault is yours. The season had arrived, it was at your door. Spring knocked. You lay asleep. When the attunement meets, flowers bloom.
Some people come to me and say: We cannot believe why others rejoice so much coming to you! When the tuning fits, their flowers bloom. Where it does not fit, one remains entangled in argument—thinking, 'What is right? What is wrong?' His argument does not allow a meeting with spring. The season arrives—and the tree stands sad, thinking, 'Is this spring or not?' And how long does it take for spring to come—and go! Spring arrives. Spring has gone! In that much time. Lost in doubt and reasoning, what was there is gone.
'As the muni, filled to overflowing with the superabundance of rasa, enters the unheard-of—so he exults with ever-new faith made of detachment.'
The Vedas say—'Raso vai sah.' That—Paramatma—is rasa, essence, delight. In Mahavira’s language there is no place for the word Paramatma—but can you be saved from rasa? Leave Paramatma aside—but can you leave rasa? The Vedas say: Paramatma is rasa; Mahavira says: Becoming rasa-filled is becoming Paramatma-like. This is only a difference of language.
'As the muni, with the superabundance of rasa'—what else will Narada say! Only a slight difference of phrasing. Mahavira says: As the muni is soaked in the superabundance of rasa—such showers of essence descend. As soon as the mind becomes steady, the door opens. A flood comes. The stream of consciousness breaks the banks and flows. 'The superabundance of rasa.' An overflowing occurs. Hyperbole becomes real. Your vessel cannot contain it—so it spills. You have to give—you have to share. You must find someone to partake. While you have not found, you can remain alone; but once found, you must search for someone, some worthy one ready to receive.
Mahavira stood in silence in forests and mountains for twelve years. When the superabundance of rasa happened, he ran back. He returned to the very village from which he had fled; he began to search for people, to call, to distribute. Now the cloud had formed—how could it be held? As the hour comes after nine months when the mother’s womb ripens—then the child will be born. He cannot be kept in the womb now. Until now he was held; now he cannot be contained. He must be given.
The scriptures tell much of Mahavira, Buddha and such men forsaking the world and going to mountains and forests. But that tale is incomplete. The second part—which is more important—they left out. The more important is their return among the people. One day they went to the forest—then they had nothing. They went as Vardhaman—empty—and that is why they went, to be filled—amidst the uproar, the sorrow, the quarrels—perhaps they could not meet the divine. So they went to solitude, to silence, to peace—so that the mind becomes steady, the vessel gets made. But once filled—they ran back.
The second part is more important—for in that part they truly became Mahavira. In the first part he had gone as Vardhaman. On returning he came as Mahavira. When Buddha went, he went as Gautama Siddhartha. When he came back, he came as Buddha. Someone else returned. Something new.
'As the muni, filled with the superabundance of rasa, enters the unheard-of.' And he hears what has never been heard. Truth is such—it has never been heard or seen—so unknown, so unfamiliar, so unknowable.
'He plunges into that unheard-of.' When the mind is steady, even silence begins to speak. Even the void becomes vocal. When within all is emptiness, from the outside the emptiness begins to ripple inward. When you reach the final state of meditation, existence speaks to you. Paramatma speaks to you. In the supreme state of meditation, messages begin to come from the side of existence toward you.
Note this.
In prayer, the devotee sends his leaves to God. In meditation, God sends them to the devotee. In prayer, the devotee speaks to God. In meditation, God speaks to the seeker. Mahavira’s path is the path of meditation.
Jah jah suya-bhogahai,
And as he is drenched in that supreme happiness—as he descends into that superabundant rasa—
Aisaya-rasa-parasa-sanjuyama-puvvam.
And as he bathes in that unheard-of. As he hears the sound of shunya which the Zen fakirs call 'the soundless sound'—the sound of emptiness, the clap of one hand—no one is speaking, there is no speaker—existence itself gives the message. When Paramatma begins to vibrate from all sides—'the plunge into the unheard-of'—'so, with ever-new detachment, he is jubilant with faith.'
Know this as the sign of a sadhu. Know this as the sign of a sannyasi. If there is no elation, know that somewhere a mistake has occurred. If you do not find the sannyasi dancing, know: somewhere a mistake has occurred. Go now into Jain ashrams, Jain temples, Jain prayer-halls—look at Jain munis—will you find any sign of this sutra? Dry and barren, like a desert—where no greenery ever is. Somewhere a blunder has happened. They have taken dryness to be sadhana. Even worldly people sometimes look more joyous. Here the cure has become costlier than the disease. The medicine has proved more dangerous than the illness.
Even worldly people sometimes laugh—have you seen Jain munis laugh? They will not be able to laugh. It will be difficult. To laugh will seem worldly. Have you seen them radiant with joy? Have you seen them filled with deep music? Have you seen them playing the flute, the veena? Have you seen them dance? No. Impossible. Somewhere a mistake. And the mistake—at the first step—they took sannyas by vow, not by knowing truth. They took sannyas by believing the scripture, not by experience. They imposed vows and discipline—violated themselves—and dried up.
'As the muni, filled with the superabundance of rasa, plunges into the unheard-of—so, with ever-new detachment, he is jubilant with faith.'
No—here note one thing. You have seen the cheerful among the attached—do not make the mistake that the detached cannot be cheerful. Vairagya has its own joy—far higher, far deeper than the joy of attachment. What joy can attachment have? It is only convincing the mind. Vairagya too has bliss. What have you done? Because the attached man looks a little cheerful, you have fashioned the image of a renunciate in the opposite mold: if the attached laughs and sings, then the detached cannot laugh, cannot sing. Your renunciate is only the headstand of the attached—you have stood him upside down. But real detachment is the supreme raga. How can the attached compete with that? How can they reach that dance, that jubilation—the lotus-blossoms that only a perfectly pure mind can touch? Such a smile can arise only out of utter serenity.
My thirst-parched lips are grateful today to the river of heaven
The beloved’s red lips have come upon my lips at last
The thirst is gratified by the nectar-stream of heaven. The beloved’s lips have touched mine—
My thirst-parched lips are grateful today to the river of heaven
The beloved’s red lips have come upon my lips at last
It is as if Paramatma has embraced. The elation of supreme detachment is as if the lips of the divine have touched your lips. The attached is engaged in an impossible effort—as if squeezing oil from sand; watering neem trees and hoping for mangoes.
Who has not wished to make fire a garden?
Many Abrahams were saved, yet fire never became a rose-garden
The attached tries to make fire into a flower-bed—to turn embers into flowers.
Who has not wished to make fire a garden?
Many Abrahams were saved, yet fire never became a rose-garden
Has fire ever become a garden? Have embers ever become flowers? From the ordinary man up to Alexanders—all try—and all fail. Hence we have called Mahavira 'Jina'—one who has conquered. Jina means: one who has attained. The truly successful—and not only successful—fruitful: in whose life fruit has grown.
'As he plunges into the unheard-of, so ever-new—' And detachment too blossoms each day with new flowers. Do not think detachment is a fixed routine. Do not think the detachment lives in rigid molds day after day. In fact, it is the attached who live in molds. The detached enters the new at every moment. He has no past—he does not carry the past. Nor has he any desire to repeat it. Therefore nothing is repetitive. The morning of the detached is fresh each day. His evening is new each evening. His every moon is new, his every sun is new. He does not preserve dust—therefore he is fresh every moment, pure.
My nature holds blasphemy for mourning broken instruments
I am the minstrel of tomorrow, Sagar, not among the mourners of yesterday
To mourn the instruments that are broken—what is gone is gone; to raise it is sin to me. Better not even mention it. What has gone, has gone.
My nature holds blasphemy for mourning broken instruments
I am the minstrel of tomorrow—singer of the future—
Not among the mourners of the past
The dispassionate, serene sannyasi carries no dust. He carries no hoard. What has passed has passed. What is passing is passing. He is always new—fresh like the dew of morning. Ever clean. For the hoards of the mind defile, make impure, make stale.
Have you noticed? What you have experienced again and again becomes stale. Watch a small child chasing butterflies—you cannot. You say: Butterflies—I’ve seen many. Watch a child marveling at tiny things—small things fill him with wonder. A grass-flower stirs him so deeply with rasa that he stands, gazing—he cannot trust his eyes that such a miracle can be! At the shore he gathers pebbles and shells as if they are diamonds, the Koh-i-noor! What is this matter? The child has a fresh mind. He has no memories of the past. He cannot say: This is old. He has no means of measurement to say: Old.
Vairagya is a new birth—becoming again like a small child. Jesus said: Those who are like little children alone shall enter my Father’s kingdom. Hindus say: One must be dvija—twice-born. One birth one gets from parents—the bodily birth. The other birth you yourself must give yourself—self-creation—that is sadhana. Then one remains ever fresh, filled with elation every day.
There is a tale: Ramakrishna relished small things. Sometimes even his devotees would stop him—Paramahansadev, it does not look good. What will people say? His wife too would caution him—do not do this. Discussion of Brahman is going on—suddenly he would get up and go to the kitchen—What has been cooked today? This does not sit right. Others would feel embarrassed. Disciples would feel: What will people say? Then he would return and begin the discourse on Brahman again. But a great simplicity appears—like an exegesis through life on the Upanishadic phrase 'Annam Brahma'. Between the discourse on Brahman and talk of food there is no difference. If in between he went and inquired—what is the harm? A childlike simplicity. A little child often runs to the kitchen, holds his mother’s hem—What’s cooking?
The dispassionate becomes simple-hearted. So simple that rules, formality, order, discipline—all become pointless. He lives by inner naturalness.
Not the covenant of yesterday’s age
Not the tale of today and tomorrow
Life is, Sagar, at each step
New reality—new story
For him life is new each moment—new reality, new story. The dispassionate is the singer of life’s new note, the musician of life’s veena, the dancer of life’s great dance. And moment to moment—exuberance, ever new.
'Tah tah palhaai muni'—a very lovely saying. Mahavira says: 'Jah jah suya-bhogahai'—as the great bliss begins to fill, as rasa showers—'tah tah palhaai muni'—there the muni becomes fresh-leafed, delighted; new sap rises, inner dance and song arise, like when clouds gather in Ashadha and the peacocks dance—so, when clouds of light gather within—when the first days of Ashadha come—then the inner peacock dances.
Jah jah suya-bhogahai,
Tah tah palhaai muni, nava-nava sevega-saddhao.
And moment to moment, new leaves, new flowers, new faith—ever-new.
People think faith is a fixed mold. They think faith is being Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, Christian. Faith sprouts so many new flowers that it cannot be contained in the Jain mold, nor the Buddhist, nor the Hindu or Muslim mold. Who has ever contained faith? This great sky is itself small before the sky of faith. Who has ever bound faith in lines? Who has ever defined faith?
And while understanding Mahavira, note: Religions say, Have faith in God—without faith you will not reach God. Mahavira says: Leave worrying about God—whether he is or not—have faith, because faith itself is God. Others say: Have faith in God. Mahavira says: Have faith in faith. Nava-nava sevega saddhao.
In my intoxication now sobriety is the very mode, O Saki
In your ocean, this wine is not wine at all—something else it is, O Saki
In my intoxication now sobriety itself is the style—now even my intoxication carries the color and manner of awareness. This swoon is no longer a swoon—now in it the lamp of consciousness burns. This intoxication is no madness—this very intoxication is supreme intelligence, prajna, brilliance.
In my intoxication now sobriety is the very mode, O Saki
In your ocean, this wine is not wine at all—something else it is, O Saki
And in your ocean there is no grape-wine—
Something else it is, O Saki.
As your meditation climbs new steps and terraces, one day you find: Paramatma has poured from his own flask something into you.
In your ocean, this wine is not wine at all—something else it is, O Saki
And this wine is such, this intoxication such, that it awakens—it does not put to sleep. It raises—it does not make you fall. It supports—it does not stagger. It brings awareness—cuts drunkenness. 'Tah tah palhaai muni.' And as this grape-less wine, this amrit, begins to descend within, the muni becomes leaf-fresh, blossomed, jubilant. 'Nava-nava sevega saddhao.'
'As a threaded needle, even if lost, is not lost'—a very lovely sutra—'As a threaded needle, even if dropped, is not lost—so a threaded jiva is not destroyed in the world.'
Sui jaha sasutta, na nassai kaya-vammim padiya vi.
Jeevo vi taha sasutto, na nassai gao vi samsare.
If a needle falls without being threaded, it is hard to find. Our life too is unthreaded. The thread of meditation has not yet been stitched through. Our life is a scattered heap—like flowers piled by someone. Our life has not yet become a garland—where flowers are strung on a thread. When life becomes a garland, only then does meaning enter. We live moment by moment, like heaps—but there is no continuous thread joining our moments. We have lived uncounted births—but all are lying like heaps—without a chain within. Without the chain our river cannot reach the ocean.
You are the one for whom
This spinning wheel turns day and night
If I do not find you, then all is
Vain spinning—true or false
Do not delay now—
Come in any form you please—
Only a thread’s breadth of distance remains
Between my hem and my shroud
The thread of meditation—and life becomes the great-life. And death becomes Samadhi. The thread of meditation—and in matter the glimmer of Paramatma begins to show. The thread of meditation—and the smallest limb of life is suffused with the aura of the vast. Only a life lived in meditation is life. The rest is wandering—journeying without knowing why, where to, for what! Not even knowing who you are.
'As a threaded needle, even if dropped, is not lost—so the threaded jiva is not destroyed in the world.' Here let me remind you: Jain scholars, when they translate this sutra, take 'sasutta' to mean 'equipped with scriptural knowledge'—which is wholly wrong—fundamentally wrong. In the original words of Mahavira there is no mention of scripture. 'Sui jaha sasutta'—where the needle is with the sutra—the thread—'na nassai kaya-vammim padiya vi'—even if it falls, it is not lost. 'Jeevo vi taha sasutto'—and so the jiva that is with the sutra—with the thread—'na nassai gao vi samsare'—even though it goes into the world, it is never destroyed. Death may come—a thousand times—it brings the threaded being only to further life. Even poison becomes nectar for the threaded being. There is no hint of scriptural knowledge here.
But the Jain monks translate: 'As a threaded needle, even if dropped, is not lost—so the scripturally-knowing jiva is not destroyed in the world.' They have added their own! There is no pointer to scriptural knowledge; otherwise Mahavira would have said it himself—not left it for the monks.
Sasutrata—threadedness. A sequence, a chain—let life be one—do not be fragmented. Look into your life—one foot goes left, the other right. Half the mind is going to the temple, half sits in the brothel. You sit in the shop and chant 'Ram, Ram'—as you chant, the shop runs within. Threadless like this it will not do. Life needs a direction, a destination, a quest, an inquiry. And a chain—otherwise energy is little, the search vast; time is small, the search immense; going left, then right—here, then there—you will lose all.
Do not waste this opportunity. It is rarely attained. Mahavira has said again and again: To be born as human is a difficult event. Do not squander it. Bring a threading into life—a sense of direction.
As direction comes, you will find blessings begin to shower even in difficulties. In sorrow there begins to be a glimpse of joy. In storms there begins to come a quiet, a silence.
I began to relish even the cruelties
Lest he, somewhere, become compassionate
Enough for today.