Jin Sutra #34

There is a Jewish folk tale.
A fakir was very pleased with the service of a certain wanderer, a banjara. He gifted the banjara a donkey. The banjara was overjoyed with the donkey; now he need not walk on foot. He need not carry his goods on his own shoulders. And the donkey was most loyal.
But on one journey the donkey suddenly fell ill and died. In grief he made a grave for him, and sitting beside that grave he was weeping, when a passer-by came along.
The passer-by thought surely some great soul had died. He too bowed by the grave. Before the banjara could say anything, the man placed a few rupees on the grave as an offering. The banjara felt like laughing. But it did not seem right to break the good man’s devotion. And then he also understood there might be great use in this—what a useful occupation it could become.
Thereafter he would sit by that same grave and weep; that became his trade. People came; the news spread from village to village that a great soul had died; and the donkey’s grave became the Samadhi of a realized fakir. Years passed—he became very rich.
Then one day the very Sufi who had gifted him the donkey happened to be traveling, and passed near that village. People told him, A great soul’s grave is here—do not leave without paying respects. He went. There he saw the same banjara sitting, and he asked, Aré! Whose grave is this? And why are you sitting here weeping? The banjara said, Now what is there to hide from you? It is the grave of the donkey you had given me. While alive he accompanied me greatly; in death he accompanies me even more. Hearing this, the fakir burst out laughing. The banjara asked, Why did you laugh? The fakir said, Do you know? In the village where I live, there is also the grave of a great Mahatma. That is how my living is made. Do you know whose grave that is? The banjara said, How would I know? You tell me. The fakir said, It is the grave of that donkey’s mother.
In the name of religion there is a vast spread of blind beliefs. In the name of religion there is a vast expanse of hollow, futile rituals, sacrifices, oblations. Once a thing starts moving, it becomes hard to remove it. Once something settles in people’s minds, it becomes hard to erase. And without erasing it, no birth of real religion is possible. Unless superstition is removed, the lamp of religion will not be lit. Superstition will not let it burn.
This was the greatest question before Mahavira. There were two alternatives. Both dangerous. This is the question before all wise ones. And there are only two options. One is that of atheism: it denies superstition—and along with superstition it denies religion too. For atheism sees that it is because of religion itself that superstitions arise. So it throws away the rubbish—and along with it, throws away the gold too. For it is because of this very gold that the rubbish gathers. If there is no bamboo, there will be no flute—that is the atheist’s logic.
There were many atheists in India when Mahavira was born. There was a profound tradition of Charvaka. The word Charvaka comes from charu-vak—words that sound pleasing to all. A doctrine that feels pleasing to the many. God does not exist—deep down this pleases everyone. Because if there is no God, you feel you are free. Then there is no one above you. If there is no God, then there is neither sin nor virtue. Then do as you please. Another name of the Charvakas is Lokayat—meaning, that which pleases the folk, the popular.
So though outwardly the majority may appear religious, if you inquire within you will find the majority are atheists. They may meet you in temples and mosques, doing worship and prayer, but in their innermost core they are atheists. They know that God and such do not exist. Because the existence of God implies a great responsibility. Then each step has to be carefully placed. Then one must consider sin and virtue. Then there is to be judgment over what you are doing. Every grain will have to be accounted for. The presence of God makes one nervous. No one wants anyone over their head. The moment God is removed, man becomes his own master. Everything comes into his own hands.
The Charvakas said—Even if you must take a loan, drink ghee. If you have to take debt to drink clarified butter, no worry. Take the loan. Who is there to settle accounts? Who survives? Who returns? After death there is no reckoning. Not of karma, not of sin or virtue; not of auspicious or inauspicious. Do whatever you want. Keep only one value before you—somehow enjoy. Suck out whatever you got in life. There will be no return. You won’t be spared either. Dust will fall into dust and be gone. So the atheist is saved from superstition, but along with it he is saved from religion too.
The other common option is that of the so-called religious man. He clutches at religion, but along with it he brings so much rubbish that because of that rubbish it becomes almost impossible to find the diamond of religion.
When Mahavira was born, both options stood there. On one side the theists. A net of religion, and people caught in that religion—caught in the hands of priests and pundits. They had no way to reach the Divine. The pundit kept looting them in between. And on the other side were the atheists, who denied the pundit and along with him threw away the Divine too.
The question before Mahavira was: let religion be saved and superstition be removed. So he gave birth to such a religion that contains both atheism and theism. This was his astonishing synthesis. Therefore he said, There is no God. Because along with God, superstitions begin to enter. God is not graspable. Not understandable. God is such a distant star that our eyes cannot even see him. Thus, naturally, for understanding something so far, brokers have to be placed in between. The journey is so long that way-stations must be made. Those way-stations become temples and mosques, gurdwaras. Those way-stations become pundits and priests.
Then the priest begins to say: You cannot see, but I have a direct connection. The priest begins to say: Don’t worry, I will pray on your behalf. You relax. This cannot be done by you. You are very helpless, very weak, very limited. Thus a business arises between man and the Divine. The Divine is not found; in the name of the Divine, deception comes into hand.
So Mahavira denied the Divine. Not because the Divine is not. But because because of the Divine the theist is unable to be truly theistic. Mahavira was supremely theistic—therefore he denied God. Because he saw: this medicine costs more than the disease. The moment you bring this medicine, the physician stands in between; the shopkeeper stands in between. He denied the Divine. But he did not deny God in the way Charvaka, Lokayat, the atheists deny.
He denied the Divine outside, and established it within. He said: Within man is Paramatma. For that which is within, no pundit or priest is needed. He is so close; where is there space that you could place a priest between yourself and the Divine? There is not even that much space. Not even that much room. You are yourself that Divine. Therefore there is no message from far away; no messenger is needed. No letter is to be written, so no postman is needed. Close your eyes, awaken—he is present.
Thus Mahavira raised the Atman to the status of Paramatma. This was a most unique vision. In this way, the virtue that was with the atheist—freedom from superstition—Mahavira fulfilled that too; and the virtue that was with the theist—religious feeling, shraddha—he fulfilled that too. Such an astonishing synthesis has never happened before, nor after.
I detest unbelief and heresy,
and I am also weary of religion.
I have hatred for atheism and irreligion, and I am tired of religion too. And what goes on in the name of religion pains the heart as well.
I detest unbelief and heresy,
and I am also weary of religion.
Here there is no talk of houris and ghilman—
I am a worshipper of the human being.
And here there is no talk of pleasures in heaven; I am only a devotee of man. Mahavira placed man, atta, the Atman, at the highest. The glory he bestowed upon man—no one ever had.
Keep this in mind and today’s sutras will be clear. For today’s sutras are spoken in praise of man. Today’s sutras are songs of the glory of man. If you begin to get even a slight glimpse of this glory, you will begin to be free from the petty of your own accord. If you remember even a little who you are—as if a beggar suddenly remembers, Ah! Where am I wandering? I am a prince! As if a beggar remembers forgotten treasure—that where he sits begging, right there his strongbox is buried. The moment the memory comes—even before the strongbox is dug up—his begging bowl will fall from his hand.
I have heard: An emperor was angry with his son and banished him outside the kingdom. The king’s son knew nothing else to do. He could not do labor. He had never learned any craft. So when a prince leaves the kingdom, there remains no other way but to become a beggar. It is no wonder that Mahavira and Buddha were both princes, and when they left their kingdoms, both began to beg. It is nothing surprising. A prince knows nothing else. Either he can be an emperor, or a beggar. He can go only from one extreme to the other. No middle place. That prince began begging in some far capital.
Years passed. He slowly forgot. Beg every day—how long and how can one remember that you are the king’s son? How far can you keep it in mind! Begging daily, even a look at yourself in a mirror would not be recognizable. Clothes tattered, feet bleeding, body darkened—no leisure remained to remember. And the remembering became painful. Touching that memory was like poking at a wound. What use? It brought no joy, only sorrow. What is the point of pressing thorns into oneself? So slowly we forget those things that bring pain. He forgot.
His father grew old. He had only one son. He began to repent. Death was approaching—who would be the lord of this empire? Whether good or ill, he sent his ministers to find him. The day the ministers reached the town where the beggar was begging, in front of a small eating house where gamblers were playing cards, he was begging with a broken shard.
The chariot from the palace stopped. The minister alighted. A golden chariot shining in the sun! It was as if years of beggarhood vanished in a moment. The minister got down and fell at his feet, and said, Please come, your father has remembered you. The few coins in his begging-bowl—pennies he was asking for one by one—he let the bowl drop right there. His voice changed. He said, Go, arrange proper clothes for me. Go, make ready a proper bathhouse for me. Just now he begged—his voice was pitiable. There was no comparison between that voice and this. No one could have recognized it as the same beggar’s voice. And when he sat in the chariot, the sparkle in his eyes—in a single instant all begging vanished.
So if even a slight remembrance of your glory arrives, a little glimpse of your true nature—even if only a dream—in the darkest of nights, if the dream of dawn descends, night has begun to break. Therefore Mahavira has spoken these sutras—
‘That by which the element is known, the citta comes to cessation, and the Atman is purified—only that is called knowledge by the Jina’s dispensation.’
Jeṇa tacchaṃ vivujjhejja, jeṇa cittaṃ ṇirujjhadi.
Jeṇa aṭṭā visu jjhejja, taṃ ṇāṇaṃ jiṇasāsaṇe.
That by which the Atman is purified, by which the citta is stilled, by which truth is realized—only that those who have known have called knowledge. Knowledge that comes from scripture is of no use. Only that which is gained by diving within the Atman is of use. Knowledge got from scripture remains very much on the surface. Through it you do not change, though you appear to be changing. It creates merely the illusion you are changing—a deception. A truth which has not been realized by you—if you keep practicing it in full, even then it has no resonance with your soul.
I have heard: One day people saw Mulla Nasruddin in the marketplace walking with a pillow strapped behind his head, holding it with both hands. Slowly a crowd gathered. Someone asked, Mulla, what is the matter? What are you doing? No one walks like this—with a pillow tied to the head, holding it—what are you doing? Mulla said, What can I do, brother! The doctor said I’ve had a heart attack—do not lift your head from the pillow. So I cannot lift my head from the pillow!
Those who borrow from scriptures take such instructions. They will tie the pillow to the head, but they will do only what they can do. They will still do only that which in their own experience feels right. From another’s experience we can at most be deceived and deceive others; but another’s experience does not become our living truth.
So Mahavira does not call scriptural knowledge knowledge. That which gives realization of the element, of truth—by what is truth realized? Truth is not written somewhere. The name of your being is truth. The name of your existence is truth. Truth is not lying outside to be found, to be uncovered. You carry it. You carry it within your very life-breath. And as long as your eyes go on wandering outward, you will remain deprived. The eyes have to be brought home. Eyes closed, one has to descend within—step by step, rung by rung. In your own depth, in your own inner abyss truth lies. Dive. This diamond is not to be sought anywhere else; it lies in the innermost ocean of your being. The very name of taking that dive is the cessation of citta.
Citta means that which takes you outward. Citta means outflow. Citta means those thoughts which ripple you toward the outside. You sit—and begin to think of wealth—If only I had lots of money… Thought begins. You sit and think—If only I got some high position… The journey starts. How many times have you not thought you became President in your mind! How many times have you not thought you became Kubera! How many plans have you not made! Then you suddenly catch yourself and laugh inside—What am I doing? What sense is there? Yet the citta again and again revolves in such schemes.
Citta means the relation of consciousness with objects. And as long as citta is there, relations will go on forming. You are walking on the road. A car passes by. Mahavira is walking just behind you; the same car passes him as well. But in you the car will generate citta; in Mahavira nothing arises. The car passed both. In your case not only did it pass—your citta arose, you got connected, you got attached to the car. The car went on, your citta began to follow. You thought, May such a car be mine! How can I buy one? What means can I find? The same car passed Mahavira; citta did not arise. The car went by; Mahavira went by—no relation formed between them. Citta means: to get bound to objects. Moment to moment you bind yourself to objects. You are multi-citta-ed.
Mahavira is the first sage who used this word—bahu-cittavān, “multi-citta-ed.” Then the word was lost. Even before him it had not been. No one had said man has many cittas. Before, the assumption was that man has one citta.
Mahavira said: One will not suffice—man is a crowd. In man’s mind, as many loves of relation toward things as there are, that many cittas are. A relation with the car—one citta arises. A relation with the house—another citta. With money—a third.
We are producing infinite cittas. Cittas are rising moment to moment like waves; as waves rise in the ocean. As in the ocean waves rise under the buffeting of winds, so the waves of objects raise cittas in our mind.
Mahavira said: Man is multi-cittavān. For twenty-five hundred years no one thought further about this word. Only recently Western psychologists have rediscovered it—without any knowledge of Mahavira. The West is largely unfamiliar with Mahavira. They have heard a few words of Patanjali, quite a few of Buddha. The Upanishads and Vedas have reached there. But Mahavira is utterly unknown to the West. They do not know that long before, a sage had used this term. Western psychologists use a term exactly a transformation of Mahavira’s bahu-cittavān—they say man is “polypsychic.” Multi-cittavān.
Whoever has searched the mind deeply will inevitably find this truth—that you are producing thousands of cittas. Citta means waves. Waves upon waves. Because of those waves you are running outward. Because of those waves you cannot return home. Sometimes at night if many cittas are rising, many waves are rising, even sleep becomes impossible. If you have bought a lottery ticket, that night you cannot sleep. Waves begin rising in the citta. The lottery has not even come yet.
I have heard: In court there was a case—two men had broken each other’s heads. The magistrate asked, What happened? Why did you fight? And you are old friends! They said, That is true—we are old friends, but the matter came to such a point. Both felt embarrassed to tell it. The magistrate said, Speak, do not be shy. The first man said, The matter is a bit shameful. Now it has happened. I said to him, I am buying a field. He said, I too am buying a buffalo. I said, Look, do not buy the buffalo—our friendship will not survive. If she ever strays into my field, anything could happen. If you must buy, then do so thoughtfully. What did he say? He said, Oh come on—buffalo is a buffalo. I can’t stick to her twenty-four hours a day. If she accidentally gets into your field sometime, she can get in. I said, Don’t buy the buffalo, I have made up my mind to buy the field. He said, Then you don’t buy the field—my buffalo is already booked. The matter escalated.
So I said, If you must buy, then buy, but remember—she must not enter my field. And I drew on the sand, This is my field. Never let your buffalo enter this. What did he do? With a stick he made a mark in the sand and said, There—she has entered. Now do what you can! And in that, in that… the head-breaking began.
No one has yet bought a field! The buffalo has yet to be bought! This state is called citta. Just watch how much citta is within you! What has passed, you are still collecting; now it is nowhere. And what has not happened, you are planning; that too is nowhere yet. Between these two you are crushed—your Atman is crushed. Between the two millstones no one remains whole.
One is your past—gone. Someone abused you twenty years ago; it is still fresh within. Perhaps that man has gone. The abuse surely is gone. Perhaps that man has even apologized.
Mulla Nasruddin and his friend had had some quarrel. Years went by, but whenever they met Mulla would remind him, Keep it in mind! At last the friend said, Look Mulla—how many times I have asked forgiveness, how many times you have forgiven, how many times you have said, All right, I forget, I forgive—then why do you remind me? Mulla said, I have forgotten, that is true—but you must not forget, that is why I remind you.
But if you must remind the other, then you have to remember too. How will you forget? There is the past—we hold it. It is nowhere now—only stains left in memory, a few lines scratched upon memory. In existence those lines have no place now. Existence keeps no record of the past. Existence has no history. Existence is forever fresh and new. It does not carry the past at all. What went by yesterday, it knows nothing of it.
Ask the flowers, ask the trees, ask the clouds, ask little children who are still so close to existence. The child was annoyed just now, saying he would never speak to you—and a moment later he is in your lap. He has forgotten! He does not remember! The child is still pure. His citta is not yet dense. So either your citta is full of past—gone, nowhere now, only you are carrying it—or of future—what has not yet happened anywhere, only you are planning it. Between these two millstones, under their pressure, citta arises.
Citta-nirodha, cessation, means removing these two millstones. Let the past go; what has gone, has gone. And what has not come, has not come. You remain only in the present. In the present there is no citta. In this moment where is citta? A slight wave rises toward the future—it comes. A slight memory stirs of the past—it comes. So citta is in memory and imagination. Exactly in the present instant, citta is not. Exactly in the present, citta is ceased. Mahavira says, Where there is citta-nirodha, there the Atman is purified. When citta is no more, no impurity remains in the soul. Citta is the dirt of the soul. Citta is the impurity of the soul.
‘Jeṇa tacchaṃ vivujjhejja’—He who has known the element. Or who wants to know the element. ‘Jeṇa cittaṃ ṇirujjhadi’—he has had to bring citta to cessation. He had to drop citta. If you desire truth, stake the citta. This will not happen by reading scriptures. On the contrary, scriptures will only increase citta. Scriptures will start creating waves in you too. The world will create waves anyway—scriptures too will begin to stir waves. ‘Jeṇa aṭṭā visu jjhejja’—and he who has known the purification of the soul through the cessation of citta, ‘taṃ ṇāṇaṃ jiṇasāsaṇe’—this alone is what the Jinas have called knowledge.
This is a most extraordinary definition of knowledge. Knowledge—as you call it—has nothing to do with this. That which is got in the university is not knowledge. That which arises at the altar of the soul—that is knowledge. That which is found outside is mere information. That which awakens within—that alone is knowledge. What is gotten from another is borrowed, leftover, stale. What is refined in your own soul—that is knowledge.
Mahavira has in every way directed going within, the inner journey. Until this happens you will not be outside superstition.
At one door or another the forehead of longing kept being scraped,
Humanity kept being ground in the mill of oppression.
You tried many doors.
At one door or another the forehead of longing kept being scraped.
And you have scraped your forehead—your love—on how many doors! You have entangled your love in how many cittas. Sometimes temple, sometimes mosque—when will you come to your own home?
At one door or another the forehead of longing kept being scraped,
Humanity kept being ground in the mill of oppression.
Man will keep being ground—you are preparing only for grinding.
The people of esoteric talk kept heating hearts with words,
The dark shadows of ignorance kept stretching out their hands.
—And the so-called brahmagnanis, with words, kept warming people’s hearts.
The people of esoteric talk kept heating hearts with words—
But that warmth does not last long. It does not come from your fuel.
The people of esoteric talk kept heating hearts with words—
So many talks went on about Brahman-knowledge. Is there any shortage of Vedas? Of scriptures? How many people kept repeating the Veda like parrots! And a little warmth does come from repetition, but it does not last. Until the fire within you is lit, until your soul is aflame, this borrowed warmth is not going to serve.
The people of esoteric talk kept heating hearts with words,
The dark shadows of ignorance kept stretching out their hands.
And the darkness kept increasing, ignorance kept increasing. The Vedas increased, the scriptures increased—and ignorance increased. A miracle! The more man knew, the more ignorant he became. A marvel! Never was ignorance as deep as today. And when was knowledge ever so much? Each day new knowledge is born, new scriptures are written, new information descends; but man’s darkness does not lift. Surely somewhere we are making a mistake.
What we take to be knowledge is not knowledge. It is only information. If you take it as information, there is no danger. If you take it as knowledge, danger will arise. I am speaking to you—the words I am saying are knowledge for me. The moment I utter, for you they become information. What I am saying, I have known—but what I am saying, you have heard. Do not take this to be all. Take hints from it, certainly—encouragement, inspiration, thirst—but do not take it to be the whole. These indications are like the arrow sign painted on a milestone—“onward.”
Do not clasp the milestone to your chest and sit there. The milestone is to move you along the journey; it is only information. It is not the goal. However lovely a milestone, do not sit hugging it; the warmth from it will not serve. That warmth will become deception.
‘That by which the jiva becomes dispassionate toward raga, becomes enamored of the shreyas, and by which the feeling of maitri grows—only that is called knowledge by the Jina’s dispensation.’
Jeṇa rāgā virajjjejja, jeṇa se’e su rajjdi.
Jeṇa mittī pabhāvejja, taṃ ṇāṇaṃ jiṇasāsaṇe.
Take each word inward with great attentiveness.
‘That by which the jiva becomes dispassionate toward raga…’
Mahavira gives the touchstone of knowledge. Keep testing by it. If you have learned much, and that learning does not dispassion you from raga, then Mahavira says: that learning is hollow, a delusion, borrowed, stale—drop it. Better the honesty of knowing that you do not know. What is the touchstone of knowledge? That which gives rise to dispassion from raga.
Let us understand raga.
Raga means the binding of “mine-ness” toward any thing, any person—the feeling of “my.” My house—raga has arisen. There is no obstacle in living in a house—do not live in the “mine.” Live in the house, fully—no harm. But let the house remain a house; you remain you—do not build a bridge of “mine” between the two.
Citta means the urge to make yours that which is not yours. And raga means the state of taking as one’s own that which has come to you. You say, my house, my wife, my husband, my brother, my sister. Where “mine” has come, where mama—mamatva—has come, raga is created.
Raga is bondage. Those who know will not say even “my body.” They will say: The body belongs to earth, water, air, space—what is mine? It was there when I was not; it will be there when I am gone. What is mine?
The constant breeze of time kept proving effective,
Life grew shorter, moment by moment.
Within the veils of breath the instrument of life kept playing;
The sound of death’s footsteps grew ever sharper.
This body will remain for some time, this breath will go on; you will remain filled with the illusion of life—and death keeps coming closer each day.
Within the veils of breath the instrument of life kept playing—
And death?
The sound of death’s footsteps grew ever sharper.
Even your breath is not yours. Your body is not yours. The deeper you go, the more you will find—nothing is mine, except “I” itself. Even mind is not mine—it too comes from outer waves. The body is not mine—it is built from the outside and will dissolve outside. In the end what remains is witnessing—only that is mine.
In raga you will flow saying, The body is mine; those linked to it by blood are mine; those linked by love and desire are mine; those linked by work are mine—my servant, my master; those linked otherwise—my doctor, my engineer. As you expand this “mine,” it grows. This whole world can appear to you as “mine.” The more your spread of “mine,” the deeper the darkness in which you descend. The lamp is lost in that darkness. Understand: clouds are of “mine”; the sun is of sakshibhava, witnessing. The more clouds of “mine” surround you, the more the sun is veiled. Remove the clouds. Mahavira says this is the touchstone of knowledge—‘jeṇa rāgā virajjjejja’—that by which raga begins to fall. By which the delusion of “my-ness” begins to break.
Now this is a paradoxical statement, but of supreme value. As the feeling of “mine” falls, you will begin to experience “I—who am I.” Of this you know nothing yet. You know very well who are “mine.” Who “I” am—you know nothing.
If someone asks, Who are you? you say, I am so-and-so’s son. Is that any answer? He asks, Who are you?—you tell of your father. He asks, Who are you?—you say, I am a doctor. Doctoring may be your trade—you cannot be a doctor. He asks, Who are you?—you say, I am Brahmin, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain. That is an accident of birth—not you. Say something of your own. It will be difficult. Because we know nothing.
Whenever we define “I,” we define it through “mine.” We know “mine.” We do not know “I.” And he who knows not “I”—what trust can there be in his “mine”? He who knows not his own, how can he know anything else! The very primary is unknown—everything else is secondary. If the first foundation is false, the entire building is false. Mahavira says: Leaving “mine, mine”—when only “I” remains, pure “I”—that Mahavira has called Atman. The purest “I.” Where not a trace of “mine” remains. No soot of “mine.” No cloud in the sky. Blue, empty, clean sky! Then the sun is revealed, radiant, clear.
‘And by which one becomes enamored of the shreyas.’
Jeṇa se’e su rajjdi.
In the world there are two journeys—preyas and shreyas. Ordinarily, one immersed in ignorance is enamored of the preyas. He says: What is pleasant, I will do. The one in whom the first ray of knowing begins says: What is the good, the auspicious, I will do. What is the difference? The preyas is the subject of mind; the shreyas, of consciousness. What is right, that I will do. What is true, that I will do. Shreyas will be my life. This is the mark of sannyas.
Sannyas does not mean run away from home. Sannyas means: aim at shreyas. Put shreyas above preyas.
Yesterday a young man came to me. He said, I have come to meditate. But meditation does not feel pleasing. The mind never feels like doing it. It doesn’t feel good. Now the question is: if you listen to the mind, meditation will never happen. The mind says, What are you doing? All this while you could have played cards—you’d have had some relish. All this while you could have sat in the cinema—you’d have had some relish. All this while you could have chatted with friends. What is this! Why are you wasting time? Life is running away. Enjoy. Mind always excites toward the preyas. It says: Do what is pleasing. But what is pleasing to the mind proves to be hell for the soul. What is pleasing to the mind proves to be poison for the soul. By honoring the preyas we have wandered through so many births.
Mahavira says: When the ray of knowledge arrives, its proof will be that shreyas starts coming to the top. You no longer say: I will do what the mind says. You say: I will do what should be done. At first there will be a great struggle. The mind’s old habits are strong. It doesn’t let go easily. Old sanskaras of the mind will repeatedly pull you back into the old notions. But you must struggle. Rise above the mind. Blessed are those who rise a little above the mind. For above the mind lies life’s supreme treasure. Above the mind is good fortune. Above the mind the rain of supreme grace begins. With the mind there is a curse. At first, with the mind, everything feels sweet; in the end, all turns bitter.
Mahavira has said: What is sweet at the beginning is not necessarily sweet at the end. And what is bitter at the beginning is not necessarily bitter at the end. Many medicines are bitter but bring health. Many sweets are sweet but only make you sick. Therefore choose shreyas—with discernment, with understanding. Do not do according to the mind. The mind entangles.
Jeṇa rāgā virajjjejja, jeṇa se’e su rajjdi.
By which shreyas is established—that is knowledge. ‘Jeṇa mittī pabhāvejja’—and by which maitri, friendship, grows—that is knowledge. Surely the pundit’s knowledge does not grow love. The mulla-maulvi’s knowledge does not grow love. It decreases it. Hindus hate Muslims; Muslims hate Hindus. Jains hate Hindus; Hindus hate Jains. This cannot be knowledge. This is scripture. Scripture creates quarrels. Knowledge creates joining. Knowledge is the supreme yoga. In scriptures there is conflict. Your beliefs, your convictions, fragment you from others.
Have you seen—you sit near a man, very close. You ask, Your religion? He says, Muslim. You slide a little away. Just now you were sitting close. You are Jain or Hindu—you slide a bit. If he says, Hindu, Jain—you move a bit closer. The man is the same. Just now you sat close, but if he says Muslim, Hindu, Christian—immediately a wall is raised. A wall of truth!
You separate. You settle that this man is wrong. How can a Christian be right? How can a Muslim be right? I am a Jain—only Jains are right.
Your belief is breaking you from the other. Such belief cannot be knowledge. Your concept is not joining. Mahavira says: This is the touchstone—knowledge will join. It will increase the impact of love. It will thicken friendship. You will descend into unconditional friendship. You will have no condition about who the other is. Here in my sannyasins there are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Parsis, Jains, Buddhists, Sikhs; there is no religion in the world from which there are not sannyasins with me. Perhaps nowhere else is this happening today. It is unprecedented. But this should happen everywhere. Because if the ray of knowledge descends and cannot even do this—cannot bring down the walls of superstitions and beliefs—then what use is such knowledge? Worth two pennies. If a lamp is lit and the darkness does not recede, what will you do with such a lamp? It is extinguished. Throw it away. Do not carry it needlessly.
‘If friendship grows—only that is called knowledge by the Jina’s dispensation.’
‘He who sees the Atman as unbound, untouched, incomparable, unspecialized, and without beginning, middle, or end—who sees without alternatives—he alone sees the entire Jina’s dispensation.’
He who has seen the Atman has seen the whole scripture of Mahavira. Listen to this a little.
‘Je passadi appāṇaṃ’—he who has seen himself.
Je passadi appāṇaṃ, abaddhapuṭṭhaṃ aṇannamavisesaṃ.
Apadesasuttamajjaṃ, passadi jiṇasāsaṇaṃ savvaṃ.
He has seen the whole Jaina-shastra who has seen himself. Who else has said so directly, so clearly! Mahavira is very explicit. Do not sit wracking your head in Jaina scriptures. Enter yourself. Mahavira says there is only one scripture worth reading—the consciousness of oneself. One universe worthy of entry, one temple to go into—the Atman.
‘He who knows the Atman as unbound, untouched, beyond body and karma, incomparable. Ananyam—knows: Only my purity, the pure witness is my nature, my swabhava. “Adi, madhya, antheen”—I have no beginning, no end, no middle. I am eternal. “Avisesa”—who experiences this as your ordinary, natural state—not anything special, but the attribute of the Atman. “Nirvikalpa”—sees without alternatives. In his eyes there are no clouds of options. No clouds of thought. He alone sees the Jina’s dispensation in its entirety.’ We are entangled in very small things. We have made tiny way-stations and are taking them as the goal.
I must one day depart your assembly of grace, at last.
Again pain will drip from my voice, at last;
Again fire will rise from the broken lute, at last—
I must one day depart your assembly of grace, at last.
Where you must depart, do not cling too much.
I must one day depart your assembly of grace, at last—
This gathering will not last forever. It is like a dream. One must rise from here. Everyone has had to rise. One day or another—if not today then tomorrow, if not tomorrow then the day after—one has had to bid farewell. Do not spread too many roots of raga here. Live here as one stays in a guesthouse. One stops in a rest-house. Do not make too many bonds of attachment here. Otherwise departure will be hard. If you cannot depart, you will be thrown back and back. The bonds of attachment themselves will pull you back.
I have heard—Reading the life of a Christian fakir—I remember: He was seeking a cave in the mountains for solitary practice. Near one cave he was astonished to see a fakir who had chained himself with iron chains to the cave. He asked, I have seen many kinds of seekers—what have you done? Did you chain yourself, or did someone bind you? He said, I bound myself. Why? He said, Out of fear—lest in some weak moment I return to the world. These chains will not let me go. I have nailed them to the wall; there is no way to open them.
But is this any liberation from the world? If you lie in a cave because of iron chains, is that liberation from the world? It is a new kind of bondage. Not moksha. Liberation comes from understanding. Understanding means—From where one must go, one has already gone. Where one must leave, why build a house? Where departure is certain, why spread roots? A little rest is fine—but when the time to go comes, do not look back.
Again pain will drip from my voice, at last—
Just now you laugh—soon you will weep. If weeping is assured, then laughter loses meaning.
Again fire will rise from the broken lute, at last—
Soon my instrument will break; soon the veena will lie shattered; soon the pyre will burn.
I must one day depart your assembly of grace, at last.
This assembly of yours is very lovely—but we must go. We will have to go. Live here as the lotus lives in water. Live, but do not let the water touch you. Live in water, and remain untouched by water.
‘He who knows the Atman to be, in essence, different from this impure body—and as of the nature of the knower—he alone knows all the scriptures.’
Jo appāṇaṃ jāṇadi, asui-sarīrādu taccado bhinnaṃ.
Jāṇaga-rūva-sarūvaṃ, so satthaṃ jāṇade savvaṃ.
‘He who knows the Atman to be essentially different from this body, and as the very form of knowing.’
This is the deepest sutra of meditation. Whatever you can see, that is other than you. You can see your body—therefore the body is other than you. You can see your thoughts—therefore thoughts are other than you. Only your witnessing itself you cannot see—that witnessing is not other than you. You cannot separate from it. Cutting and cutting, removing and removing, knowing all that is other—man arrives at the last station where only that remains which cannot be separated from oneself. That pure knower is your true form. To live in that purity is called religion. And to be established there is called moksha. Those who have known that purity alone are free. And Mahavira says, He who has known that knower-nature knows all scriptures. He has known the Koran, the Bible, the Veda, the Gita. Then there is nothing more to know.
Understand this a little.
All mystics—Mahavira, Krishna, Buddha—have emphasized one thing: By knowing scriptures you will not know yourself; but if you know yourself, you will know all the scriptures. One who goes from scripture toward the self already begins the wrong journey at the very start. He will get lost in words—there are great forests of words. Hard to return. There is a great crowd of theories. You will get lost in it. There is a vast web of argument. Hard to escape. Then, what you know from scripture, you will know by intellect—not by experience, not by heart. Your intellect will be filled, your heart left empty. Your balance will wobble. Whether you become a theist or an atheist—no difference.
In the West there was a great atheist—Voltaire. All his life he refuted God, soul, religion. Then he fell ill—a heart attack. He panicked. He told his wife, his friends: Quickly call some religious priest. They said, A priest! Have you forgotten your doctrines? He said, Forget the doctrines. I am dying here—and you worry about doctrine! While I lived I never thought—but who knows, these priests may be right! Let me make arrangements for what lies ahead. The priest was called. By coincidence he recovered.
When he was fit again he resumed his old song—atheism again! Again refutations of God and soul. Friends asked, What are you doing? He said, That was only due to fear of death—not my real position. It was an emotional lapse. He returned to his intellect—he was a very intelligent man, very rational. He found an argument even for that—It was fear, I trembled a little; do not give it weight.
But then ten or fifteen years later he had another attack. He panicked again. He said, Call the priest. But his friends said, We will not be deceived by your fear now. It is said that friends encircled him. They said, We will not let the priest in, nor let you out. No more trickery. Voltaire wept, beat his chest: What are you doing? I am dying! Death stands here— and you cling to doctrines! Leave aside what I said—listen to what I say now! But the friends said, No. This time he did not recover—he died. Consider his state.
Intellect leads nowhere. When all goes well, perhaps you don’t even remember God. Then you don’t remember religion. You pass by the temple as if it were not there. When things go awry—hands and feet wobble, death draws near—then you remember religion.
But such remembrance has little value. If you recover, you will again go on with your old swagger.
If one is a theist by intellect—of no use. If one is an atheist by intellect—of no use. The intellect is only a mechanism—not your soul. Until the soul itself becomes drenched, absorbed—until every pore of the soul is soaked—there is no essence. Having doctrines in the intellect is like a hungry man reading a cookbook. Beautiful descriptions of food, of taste. How to cook—also written. One delicacy after another, with all details. The hungry man reads the cookbook. Will his hunger be appeased? At most it may increase. It cannot be satisfied. And one who takes a cookbook to be food—what to say of such a wretch? He is mad. The Vedas are cookbooks.
You have to enter the alchemy of your own soul, to be dyed there. You have to cook the food in your own soul. Enter that deepest laboratory. Mahavira says: If you have known yourself, you become a witness to all the scriptures. You can say—Yes, they are all true. Keep one more thing in mind: One who knows himself will say—all are true. He will not say, The Koran is right, the Bible is wrong. He will not say, The Vedas are true and Buddha is false. He has seen the experience. Now the differences in words, forms, colors will remain—but he understands the inner life. He has grasped the root-thread. Now all are true. Therefore Mahavira gave birth to a doctrine called anekantavada.
Anekantavada means—all viewpoints are true. None is false. Mahavira gave a unique meaning to philosophy: Philosophy means such a seeing where all seeings are true. Philosophy means: Accepting all viewpoints as right, rising above all viewpoints. Let no one remain bound in any one view. So too the meaning of religion becomes: a religious person remains bound in no religion. A religious person cannot be Hindu, cannot be Muslim, cannot be Jain. To be religious is enough—more than enough. These adjectives are unnecessary.
‘Therefore, O bhavya—’ The final sutra—‘Remain immersed forever in this knowledge; remain ever satisfied in this, be fulfilled in this; through this you will attain the supreme bliss.’
‘Edamhi rado niccaṃ.’ O bhavya, drown in this knowledge.
‘Santuṭṭho hohi niccam edamhi.’ Be ever satisfied in this.
‘Edeṇa hohi titto.’ Be fulfilled in this.
‘Hohidi tuha uttamaṃ sokkhaṃ.’ And the supreme bliss will surely be yours. You will become the supreme bliss yourself.
You will become the great bliss itself.
What we take to be the world—the place where we seek happiness—has anyone ever found happiness there? There are only mirages, illusions, toys. The one who is mature is the one to whom it is revealed: In the world there are only toys. The little child plays. He performs the marriage of dolls and feels just as excited as you do in your real marriages. You say—he is a child, playing with toys. But the marriage you enact—is it any more than play? It is play too—only on a bigger scale. Little children take out a procession for their doll; you take out the procession for Rama. You stage a Ramlila and participate. But all is play. When will you awaken from the play?
Intoxications of life, the cup and the lute—
I can no longer soothe myself with these toys.
When will that moment come when you will say—life’s joys and sorrows, wine and music…
Intoxications of life, the cup and the lute—
I can no longer soothe myself with these toys.
When will that time come when you will say: The time to be soothed by these toys is over. Now I cannot lull myself with these toys. That very day you will become mature. That day awareness is born within you. That day, truly, you are born. Before that there was only a dream.
Farewell, O fellow travelers! My beloved city has at last arrived.
That abode for which even paradise is sacrificed has at last arrived.
Mahavira says: The one who awakens from toys—the thing happens. The moment toys slip from the hand, truth comes into the hand. The moment the dream breaks, the eyes open there. The opening of the eyes and the breaking of the dream are simultaneous. Together. Not that first ignorance goes, then knowledge comes. Ignorance gone—knowledge happens. Knowledge happens—ignorance is gone. In one instant.
Farewell, O fellow travelers!—he begins to say to his companions—Now the time of parting has come. You continue on the road you are on; but I am departing—
Farewell, O fellow travelers! My beloved city has at last arrived.
My destination has arrived.
That abode for which even paradise is sacrificed has at last arrived.
And that city of joy, for which even paradise is offered—has arrived.
We have given another name to Atman in this country: Purusha. Purusha comes from the same root as pur—city. Purusha means the indweller of the inner city.
Farewell, O fellow travelers! My beloved city has at last arrived.
That abode for which even paradise is sacrificed has at last arrived.
No sooner do the toys fall from your hands—no sooner are you emptied of the world’s uproar—than you are filled with the supreme peace of the Divine.
‘O bhavya, remain ever immersed in this knowledge.’
In which knowledge? Not of scripture, not of words. Of yourself—of meditation—drown in the inner music of your own experience.
‘Remain ever satisfied in this. Be fulfilled in this. Through this you will attain the supreme bliss.’
Mahavira says: Supreme bliss. Bliss that can never be snatched away—that is supreme. That which, once it arrives, does not depart—that is supreme. That which, once it comes, comes forever—eternal. That which, once attained, never again is one separated from—that is supreme. Any happiness from which one has to be separated is but a face of sorrow. Any laughter in which tears are hidden is but a mode of weeping. Where one must depart, there living is but preparation for leaving. A union in which separation is possible is not union. It is only a counterfeit of union. It is intoxication, a drug. Not awakening. Not awareness. Dive—into yourself.
If you wish to see God within man—
Look upon man with the eyes of man.
See those who are walking by walking the path yourself.
Do not look at the swimmer from the shore—see him from the waves.
You must drown. These are the words of those who have drowned. Words of those who have been lost in the supreme ocean.
See those who are walking by walking the path yourself.
Do not go on watching from the shore. You will not know their joy. How can the joy of the runner be known to one who sits? Have you ever run in the morning sun, in the fresh airs of dawn, when the Malaya breeze surrounds from all sides, the new fragrance of morning? Have you run in the winds—faced the struggle? If not, you will not know that thrill, that freshness which envelops the runner. From the bank you may watch—the runner is visible, the gusts of wind visible—his clothes fly, his hair flies—and you see that he is bright and happy. But what is happening within—how can you know, how can you see?
See those who are walking by walking the path yourself.
Do not look at the swimmer from the shore—see him from the waves.
There is a certain joy of swimming. Only the swimmer knows it. Even if he wishes to tell you, he cannot. The sugar of the dumb. He has tasted—but how to say? There is no way to say. At most, the dumb can pull your hand—Come, taste it yourself. Ask the swimmer: What is the joy? This entangling with the slap of water, this dance with the waves—what is the joy? He will say, Come—he will pull your hand. That is what Mahavira is doing. That is what the sages have always done. They pull your hand—Come. You say, First explain. First give us a firm guarantee there is some essence—then we will enter. There the obstacle lies.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to the river to learn swimming. His foot slipped—there was moss on the ghat—and he fell. He ran away from there. The one who brought him to teach said, Where are you going? Nasruddin said, Enough! Until I learn to swim, I will not come near the river. This is dangerous. My foot slipped just now—if I had gone into the water, I’d be gone. I won’t come now. I will learn to swim first—then I will come. But the man said, Where will you learn to swim? People don’t learn to swim on mattresses and pillows. Flailing arms and legs on cushions will not bring swimming. It is comfortable—that kind of swimming—no danger—on your cushions who can do anything? No fear of drowning. But where there is no fear of drowning, there swimming never comes. The greater the risk, the greater the birth of the soul. It is by the possibility of drowning that the truth of swimming is grasped.
Otherwise you will remain on the surface. You will watch the runner from the side; you will watch the swimmer from the bank. This is how you have watched Mahavira. This is how you are watching me too.
Look at the garden—then do not bother with the individual flowers and leaves.
Look at the garden—then do not look at the separate flowers and leaves—
Recognize the player; do not stare at the board.
You who laugh at the poverty of my palanquin—
Look at my bride; do not look at the returning procession.
But the bride is very inner. Only the palanquin is seen, the procession is seen. The bride is hidden in the palanquin. Even a richly decorated palanquin, the palanquin of the rich—does not guarantee the bride is inside. A poor palanquin—its paint worn—can still contain the bride.
Look at the garden—then do not look at the flowers and leaves.
If you choose my words word by word—you have chosen the flowers and leaves. You have not seen the garden. Then this spring which came to you—passed by just so. You chose fragments; you did not see the whole.
Look at the garden—then do not look at the flowers and leaves!
He who has seen the spring does not go around counting one bud and one flower. The spring has come. One who has seen the spring fully—everything is included in it. Remember: The whole is not the sum of parts. It is far more than the sum of parts. Spring is not the sum of buds and flowers; spring is more than the sum. Spring is vast. In buds and flowers there is only a little glimmer, a little afterimage. In buds and flowers there is a small reflection, a faint resonance.
Look at the garden—then do not look at the flowers and leaves—
Recognize the player; do not stare at the board.
Mahavira is there, Buddha is there—their chessboard is vast. They have spread the chessmen. Do not keep looking at the pieces—look at the player. Their words are chess pieces. Their doctrines pieces too. Do not get entangled in them.
Recognize the player; do not stare at the board.
You who laugh at the poverty of my palanquin—
Look at my bride; do not look at the returning procession.
Very few have seen Mahavira’s bride. They saw the returning procession. In Jaina scriptures there are lengthy descriptions of how much he renounced—how many horses, elephants, diamonds, jewels. Long numbers—zeros upon zeros. They saw the renunciation—described it at length. But that is the returning procession. He left it behind. He saw nothing in it.
What Mahavira left behind—Jains have written about that in great detail. Surely something in it speaks to them—else why waste paper? This is the returning procession—they are watching who all attended—Prime Minister, President, Governor. They are watching the returning procession, forgot the groom! The bride is far inside, hidden behind the veil in the palanquin. They saw Mahavira’s renunciation—did they see his enjoyment? Did they see his bride? What he left—you counted. What he attained—did you count? That is completely missed.
So in people’s hands is a very incomplete picture of Mahavira—and not only incomplete, a wrong picture. People say, Mahavira the great renunciate. I tell you—such great enjoyers happen only rarely. He enjoyed the supreme truth. He enjoyed the supreme reality.
Jo appāṇaṃ jāṇadi, asui-sarīrādu taccado bhinnaṃ.
Jāṇaga-rūva-sarūvaṃ, so satthaṃ jāṇade savvaṃ.
Edamhi rado niccaṃ, santuṭṭho hohi niccam edamhi.
Edeṇa hohi titto, hohidi tuha uttamaṃ sokkhaṃ.
Who has seen his supreme bliss? Who has seen his heaven? But that cannot be seen from the outside. From outside only the returning procession is seen. Only the chess pieces are seen. The player is hidden within. The bride is in the palanquin.
See those who are walking by walking the path yourself.
Do not look at the swimmer from the shore—see him from the waves.
Enough for today.