Jin Sutra #36

The first aphorism—

“Even the vast study of scriptures by a man without character is futile—like lighting millions of lamps before a blind man.”

Suvahum pi suyamhīyaṃ kiṃ kāhii caraṇavippahīṇassa.
Andhassa jaha palittā, dīvasaya-sahassa-koḍī vi ..

Mahavira made a great distinction between two kinds of character. One kind we impose from the outside. Another kind arises from within. One is practiced, cultivated. And one blossoms of its own accord. That spontaneous flowering alone he called charitra. That is religious. The imposed, the practiced, the tied-by-effort kind is merely moral.

In Mahavira’s language, the real, essential character he called nishchaya-charitra; the unreal, outward he called vyavahara-charitra. One is a face for others; the other is your original face. There is the behavior: you speak truth, live honestly—but it is still behavior. All the shopkeepers of the world say, “Honesty is the best policy.” But “policy” is cleverness, not Dharma. Honesty is not valuable in itself there; it is valued for profit.

If honesty is valuable because it profits, and one day dishonesty begins to profit, such a man will be dishonest. Because what he values is profit. If profit came through honesty, honesty was fine; if profit comes through dishonesty, dishonesty is fine. Such a man will have no difficulty becoming dishonest. His honesty is a tool, a means—not the end. Such character cannot be trusted.

If a man does good deeds in order to gain heaven, his character cannot be trusted. Tomorrow, if he discovers that the dishonest are bribing their way to heaven, and the honest are rotting in hell, he will drop honesty and adopt dishonesty. Naturally—because his end was never honesty.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was instructing his son in the shop. He had been teaching him everything gradually so the boy could take charge. One day he said, “Listen, this is a question of business ethics. That man who just left—he needed a ten-rupee note, but by mistake he gave two tens stuck together. Now the question of business policy is: should I tell my partner about this extra ten or not?” He is not saying, “Should I call back the customer who mistakenly gave twenty?” That is not even on the table. What concerns him is only: should I tell my partner, or not?

The businessman’s mind will find business even inside morality. And the one who won’t call back the customer will not tell the partner either.

A merely moral person is not unconditionally moral. A religious person is moral without conditions. He has no “ifs.” Morality is not a means to go somewhere; morality itself is his end. Righteous conduct is his joy.

Keep this in mind, for all these sutras turn around this point. One person behaves morally out of fear of hell. Another behaves morally out of fear of the policeman at the crossroads. Another out of fear of the court. How can morality be born of fear? Fear can give birth only to hollow behavior. Out of fear you can hold yourself together on the surface—but what about the inner fire? That is why you will often find that the so-called moral people are hypocrites.

Hypocrisy simply means: outwardly moral, inwardly waves of immorality. What they have restrained on the outside deepens inside the mind like a wound. That from which they have deprived themselves will rise again and again as dreams, as seduction. If the appetite is genuinely reduced, food does not come to mind. Sometimes it does lessen: you get so lost in music that the body is forgotten; you are so filled that there is no room for food; you are so immersed that the body and its hunger are forgotten. Then fasting has happened on its own. If you are immersed in meditation and the body is forgotten, fasting happens naturally. But if you fast by effort—because Paryushan has come, the vow-days have come—then day and night you will think only about food. That fast did not arise from the innermost; it is not upavasa, it is mere starvation.

Understand: the very word upavasa means to come near to the Atman, to abide near the Self. Nearer…and nearer…and nearer—so near to the Atman that the body falls far away, a thousand miles away; even its hunger and thirst are not remembered.

Mahavira fasted in this way. You too fast, but with so much thinking of food that your attention becomes stuck on food. Even while eating you never think so much of food as you do on a forced fast. When you have eaten twice, you forget. But on the day you impose a fast, you remember food for twenty-four hours. That is not fasting; it is the opposite of fasting.

There is a brahmacharya that is born from the realization of the futility of lust. It does not have to be hauled in by ropes. Your understanding, your experience brings you to the point where you stop wasting energy—without trying to stop it. Understanding reveals the vanity of the body, the momentary taste of the senses. Your awareness, your experience finds a new direction within; energy begins to flow in that direction. There is an upward surge, you become urdhvaretas. Then there is a brahmacharya with the softness of a flower—simple, effortless, tender.

And there is another brahmacharya you impose on yourself out of fright before the indomitable pull of lust. You throw it upon yourself. The life-breath was rushing toward desire, but you yanked the reins. You will not attain peace through this. Your mind will become more lustful. Your mind will fill with nothing but lust. You will be filled with pus. Your getting up, sitting down, sleeping, waking, meditation, worship, prayer—everything will be stamped with lust. This becomes disease, not health.

The brahmacharya Mahavira speaks of comes through the experiences of life. Let life’s bittersweet experiences carry you; once a hand is burned, who puts it back into the fire?

Psychologists say: if a small child is moving toward the fire, don’t forcibly stop him. Take him slowly near the fire; let him experience that as he goes closer, the body singes. It does no harm if once he sticks a finger into the flame and gets a blister; it will teach him for a lifetime. Don’t stop him—stopping increases attraction. Wherever we forbid the mind to go, there the mind becomes all the more eager to go.

Understand the law of the mind. Control becomes invitation. Prohibition becomes a call. Stop the mind from going somewhere, and it forgets everything else and goes only there. Have you seen—when a tooth breaks, the tongue keeps going there. Stop it: again you will forget and it will go there. You know the tooth has broken; there is nothing there for the tongue, but into the empty place the tongue goes. The more you restrain, the more it goes.

Psychologists say there is a deep law—the law of contrary results. Whatever you determine not to do, that is what happens. Watch a novice learning to ride a bicycle: on a sixty-foot wide road he still hits the single milestone at the edge. Why? He sees the post and panics, “I must not hit it!” He forgets the huge road. His eyes lock on the post. In trying to avoid it, he forgets the road; only the post and himself remain. Fear creates a magnetic pull. The post is not pulling him; his own inner prohibition is.

A famous story: a young man pestered a sage for miraculous powers. He massaged his feet, served him, begged for a mantra. The sage, harried, finally said, “All right! Here is a small mantra. Recite it five times; you will attain siddhi. You can do whatever you intend. But remember one thing: while chanting it, do not think of a monkey.” The man said, “Don’t worry, I have never thought of a monkey; why would I now?” And that is where the trouble began! Before he could even descend the temple steps: monkeys, monkeys everywhere! He scolded himself, tried to remember the mantra, but the moment he brought it to mind—monkey! All night he tried to say it five times without a monkey, but could not. Half-mad, he returned at dawn: “Master, you are too much! After years of service you gave me the mantra—with a monkey tied to it! If the condition was a monkey, you should have kept silent. I had never remembered monkeys in my life, and tonight I cannot say it even once!” The guru said, “What can I do? That is the condition. Only then does the mantra work.”

Know for sure—that mantra never worked. The more the effort, the stronger the monkey becomes.

The mind obeys a law: whatever you suppress will surface. No one is liberated by suppression. Freedom comes through understanding, through insight. And once understanding dawns, an inner lamp is lit for life.

I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin quarreled with his wife. She screamed and shouted. Mulla trembled. Finally the wife said, “Coward! Why are you shaking? Are you a man or a mouse?” Mulla replied, “Devi, I must be a man, because if I were a mouse—you would be shaking!” The racket drew the neighbors; by coincidence a thief in the house was caught.

In court, the magistrate asked the thief, “Do you have anything to say?” He answered, “Only this, Your Honor—I will never marry. Give me any punishment you please, but do not allow me to marry. I have seen enough. Last night I had a vision! I too am a man, not a mouse. What I saw that poor Mulla endure—I don’t want it to be my fate.”

Walk through life with open eyes. What is happening all around—that is scripture. What passes over all—that is scripture. What is passing through you—watch it closely. Let no experience pass without being distilled. Only then, slowly, maturity comes. Then a moment arrives when character arises from within. Such character has no demands, no ambition, no goal. It is beautiful in itself—swantah sukhaya—its taste is within.

Such a person does not even say, “I am virtuous, I should be honored.” He does not complain, “The characterless are being honored; what injustice!” He does not say, “The characterless are succeeding and the virtuous are failing—O Lord, what injustice!” No complaint. He knows: however successful the characterless may become, in the sum total their success turns into failure. He knows: whether the virtuous succeed or fail, their joy remains untouched. Even their failure is success. Success is success anyway. Even if he stands on the road like a beggar, within he has the feeling of an emperor. And the characterless—even if seated on a throne—are filled with the feeling of a criminal.

The real decision is within. Character carries a native ease, a coolness—but only the character that comes from oneself.

Mahavira says: “Even a vast study of scriptures by a man without character is futile—like lighting millions of lamps before a blind man.”

Before a blind man, whether you light one lamp or a million, it makes no difference.

I have heard: a blind man was leaving a friend’s house at night. The friend said, “It’s the new moon night; it’s very dark. Take this lantern, or you might have an accident on the road.” The blind man said, “Are you crazy? What difference does a lantern make? Darkness is darkness. I am blind—have you forgotten? What will a lantern do?” The friend argued, “Granted your lantern won’t help you see, but it will help the other not to collide with you.” The logic convinced even the blind man. He took the lantern, and after a few steps someone crashed into him. He said, “What’s the matter with you? Are you blind too? Can’t you see the lantern in my hand?” The other man replied, “Great sir, your lantern is out.”

How would the blind know that the lantern has gone out? He could not tell when it was lit—how could he tell when it went out? They say he returned to his friend and said, “I have walked for years, and no one ever collided with me—because I walked carefully, tapping my stick, announcing myself: ‘I am blind.’ Your lantern gave me assurance that today no caution was needed. I could walk carelessly—after all I carried a light; no one would collide. For the first time in my life someone ran into me—because of your lantern. It gave me false confidence. Otherwise a blind man arranges his steps according to his blindness.”

If you know you are ignorant, you will walk by feeling your way, tapping, announcing yourself—you will not strut. But if your ignorance is covered by book-learning, you feel a lantern is in your hand—you strut. When the ignorant borrow knowledge, knowledge does not arrive; only arrogance arrives. No light—only ego grows dense.

From such ego how will character arise? Ego is the greatest obstacle, because the foundation of character is egolessness. Only one who is willing to see his faults is ready to change. Ego is unwilling to see faults, so where is the question of changing?

The ignorant man without the burden of pedantry sees his ignorance and is always ready to learn. The scholar is not ready to learn—he already “knows.”

Thus centuries have passed; scriptures have multiplied; man’s learnedness has swelled; mosques, temples, gurudwaras have been built—but the temple of character has not been born.

In the mosques the mullahs kept giving sermons;
In the temples the brahmins kept chanting verses;
Man kept begging favors from gods—
But the pain of man remained without remedy.

They kept going on like this. The mullahs kept explaining the Quran; in the temples the brahmins kept preaching.

In the mosques the mullahs kept giving sermons;
In the temples the brahmins kept chanting verses;
Man kept pleading before the lords of gnosis—
But the basic human ailment remained untreated.

Man kept standing as a beggar before the gods. He never stood on his own feet, never became self-reliant, remained a mendicant before the gods—never became himself a god.

And the basic illness of man remained without cure. Man’s ego is his basic illness. That core ache of stiffness stood where it was—and grew. Temples and mosques propped it up. Man filled with deep arrogance. From that arrogance, learning is impossible; from that arrogance, bowing is impossible; from that arrogance, humility is impossible.

“The vast study of scriptures is futile for the characterless.” Mahavira says: not by words, not by study, but by swadhyaya—the study of oneself—the journey begins.

“For one endowed with charitra, even the slightest knowledge is enough.”

Know a little, but know. Know from your own experience. Even a little, but let it be the distillate of your life. A pinch is enough—if you have put your very life into learning it. Not borrowed, not on the surface, not hearsay. Let your prana have hummed it within; let your eyes have known it; let your hands have touched it—then the least knowledge is much.

“...And for the characterless, a great deal of heard-and-remembered ‘knowledge’ is fruitless.”

We “know” much without knowing. When Ouspensky first went to Gurdjieff—his foremost disciple—Gurdjieff said, “Do one thing. Take a sheet of paper; divide it into two columns. On one side, write what you know; on the other, what you do not know. Be honest. If you are to learn anything from me, honesty is the beginning. It costs me nothing if you remain dishonest; but whatever you list under ‘I know,’ I shall never discuss with you. That is finished—you ‘know.’ And for what you write under ‘I do not know,’ I will help you fully to know. Now go inside and write.”

Ouspensky was famous, a great mathematician. When he came to Gurdjieff, nobody knew Gurdjieff, while Ouspensky’s name was internationally renowned. He had written a rare book, Tertium Organum—such books appear only once in centuries. They say humanity has only three of that caliber. Aristotle wrote the first: Organon. Bacon wrote the second: Novum Organum. Ouspensky wrote the third: Tertium Organum. There is no comparison to these three.

Naturally Ouspensky carried pride. You can smell it from the first page: “Aristotle wrote the first organon, Bacon the second, I write the third—but the third was before the first.” My third is earlier than the first! The book is indeed valuable, no doubt.

Gurdjieff was unknown. People came to know him through Ouspensky, because Ouspensky became his disciple—then surely there was something in this fakir. Gurdjieff said, “Write it. I have seen your book. You are in danger. You don’t know, but you think you know. Let this be clear on the first day; then we can begin.”

Ouspensky must have been essentially honest—he put everything at stake. He sat for an hour in that room. It was a cold night; he was sweating. Pen in hand, paper before him, striving to write—but nothing came that he truly knew by himself, through direct seeing. Not God, not the Atman—nothing. He had not yet known meditation, not even love. God is far—he had not known love. He wept, drenched in sweat. After an hour he returned, fell at Gurdjieff’s feet, handed a blank paper: “I know nothing. I am ready to be a disciple.” From that moment he never again claimed knowledge before Gurdjieff.

Gurdjieff poured into him—if such an empty vessel is found, the master dances! And to be ready to say “I am empty”—for everyone is empty, but the stopper is clamped down lest anyone look inside!

Have you ever considered what you truly know? Have you ever answered honestly? Your little child asks, “Is there God?” You say, “Yes.” He says, “Show me.” You reply, “When you grow up you will see.” Did you see when you grew up? Why lie? At least regarding God, do not lie. What are you giving the child? You think you are giving God; you are giving a lie of the first order. Through it the child will not get God—and you will lose yourself.

Children grow up and begin to despise their parents—because one day they discover they were deceived. Little ones are full of reverence; they accept whatever you say. They do not yet know irreverence—but how long will it last? Soon thought arises, doubts awaken, questions bloom; then they see you are in the same boat they are. You know neither Paramatman nor Atman—you were babbling. The day they see this, reverence falls. When reverence for parents falls, reverence everywhere falls.

This is what you call religious education. All religions—Christian, Hindu, Jain, Muslim—try to impart religion. What will you teach? Does the teacher know? He does not. You put legs under the lie, make it walk. Religious instruction is dangerous; it stuffs the head with “knowledge,” and deprives forever of character.

The only real religious education is to teach the art of extracting the essence from life. To say: learn from experience. If you are angry, then be angry with total awareness—so you see what happens in anger. Then it is your choice. Do whatever is truly beneficial. If you find anger is right, your joy—do it. Yet it has never happened that anyone found joy in anger. If lust is your joy—fine, go that way. But no one has found joy there either. Joy is within man—neither in anger, nor in lust, nor in greed.

Millions of gems may be found—yet not the treasure of the heart;
Pain was always found, but never a moment’s peace.
Searching, searching, the sun of life set—
But childhood never returned a second time.

Religion means the returning of childhood a second time—becoming dvija, twice-born. Religion is the search for the jewel hidden within, buried under inner layers.

It cannot be obtained from someone else; it cannot be transferred from another’s hand. You must descend within to find it.

Make every life experience a step. Do not be frightened of any experience. Nothing here is bad. If you learn, all is auspicious; if you don’t learn, all is inauspicious. Even thorns are for learning. In insult there is also a hidden royalty. In pain and sorrow the seeds of prayer lie concealed.

The Sufi Hasan used to pray: “O God, do whatever you will—but keep a little pain for me, give me a little sorrow.” Someone overheard: “What kind of prayer is this? People pray for happiness—what are you praying?” Hasan said, “You did not hear wrong. In sorrow, prayer is easy. So I pray for a little sorrow—because only in its shadow am I able to pray. I am not yet so worthy as to pray in happiness. In happiness I forget. In sorrow I remember. So give me a little sorrow—lest you give me so much happiness that I forget you. If I forget you, of what use is happiness? With your remembrance, even sorrow is fine. Without your remembrance, to descend into happiness is dangerous. Even heaven becomes hell if the remembrance of God is lost; even hell can be heaven if remembrance remains. In truth, heaven is remembrance—awareness, meditation.”

Character has been blocked, dammed up. The rubbish of false knowledge has clogged the spring. The first work of a religious man is to throw away the so-called knowledge—separate this junk from yourself. Immediately you will become light. The burden will fall. You will be neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Jain nor Christian—these you became through borrowed knowledge. You will remain simply a pure human being. Simple, natural. Your eyes will become limpid like a child’s—for it is knowledge that made you old. Remove it, and a second childhood begins.

Millions of jewels you may find—but not the heart’s treasure.
How could it be found? The treasure of the heart is within. Whatever you find outside—whatever it is—it cannot be the heart’s treasure. And what is not the treasure of the heart—what kind of treasure is that! If not today, tomorrow it will be taken away.

Pain was always found, never a moment’s peace.
Peace is found within—by one who has come under his own shade; who has gone so deep within that the waves of the world cannot reach there. Only such a one finds peace.

Searching, searching, the sun of life set—
Childhood did not return a second time.

If a second childhood has not come, know life has been wasted. When it arrives, life is fulfilled. That second childhood is what we call sainthood. The first childhood is valuable, but it will be lost—it is unknowing. It must be lost; there is no way to preserve it. A child is simple, a sadhu—but his saintliness is so naive it cannot withstand the struggle of life. It will be crushed. There is another childhood that you bring by your own hands. You drop all the junk of information; you become unknown again, like a small child. Your eyes are no longer filled with thoughts—they become clear. There is no load in the skull. You open your eyes and see the world again, as you saw it after the womb—when you first opened your eyes. With that same guilelessness you see again. This is saintliness—kevala-jnana.

This second childhood is priceless—it will never be lost, for you earned it. The first was given free; the second is achieved. The first was unknowing; the second is full of knowing—Buddhahood. The first did not know difficulties; entering them, it wandered lost. The second has crossed all difficulties, knowing them. It has seen all experience: tasted the dust of every road, drunk from every ghat, recognized sin and virtue, sweet and bitter, and has come through the assay. This second childhood no one can take. It is your treasure—your heart’s wealth.

“For one endowed with charitra, even the least knowledge is much.”

This least knowledge arises from character. It comes from living life, wrestling with it, accepting its challenge, surmounting its hurdles. Knowledge is the distillate of charitra—like attar distilled from a thousand flowers. You become angry once, twice, a thousand times—when you distill these angers, you see it was futile; nothing worth doing was there; you were troubled for nothing.

Remember, you cannot hurry this. Everything ripens in its season. Flowers open by themselves; they are not to be pried open. Patience is essential.

If you have heard that anger is bad and accepted it beforehand—then say, “Now let me verify through experience”—you will not be able to verify, for your conclusion is already fixed.

No conclusion is needed. Look at anger without conclusion—as though no one has told you anything about anger—good or bad, sin or virtue. Look at lust without any conclusion—as if no one has ever taught you anything. You have arrived on earth for the first time; watch with fresh eyes—then the essence will come quickly. It is only because we keep repeating the same that we are stuck. The obstacle is that before experience our conclusions are ready.

The child does not even know what lying is, and we begin to teach him: “Speak truth, don’t lie.” From our words he first learns that there is such a thing as lying.

I have heard: A new mullah came to a village. He was eager to know how his sermons were landing. He asked Mulla Nasruddin—who attended daily in the front row—“How am I doing?” Nasruddin said, “We are blessed that you came! Until you came, we did not even know what sin is.”

From the religious teacher we learn what “sin” is—mere words. From him we learn what “virtue” is—mere words. Life alone is your guru. There is no other way but to learn from life. No cheap shortcut. Without passing through the arduous struggle, no one ever arrives.

Paramatman is the last station on life’s journey. It is not attained cheaply. Those who try to get it cheap receive only theories in the name of God—not truth.

“For one endowed with charitra, even the least knowledge is much.” Because his slight knowledge is the distillate of his life. Even if the whole world says, “You are wrong,” it does not touch him.

Vivekananda asked Ramakrishna, “Is there God? Do you have any proof?” Ramakrishna laughed, “I am the proof. I have no other proof—my experience is the proof. Even if the whole world says, ‘There is no God,’ it makes no difference. I have known.”

You—if someone makes you a little doubtful, you wobble. People fear talking to atheists—lest they arouse their doubt and shake their faith. Such faith is worth two pennies, if anyone can shake it. It is borrowed; being from outside, a doubt from outside can break it.

In the Hindu scriptures it is written: do not enter a Jain temple—even if a mad elephant is about to trample you to death. Better to die than to take refuge in a Jain temple. And in the Jain scriptures it is written: do not take refuge in a Hindu temple. Hindu or Jain, Muslim or Christian—the panic is the same. Why such fear? Lest Jain doctrines enter your ears, lest Hindu scriptures be heard—lest your doubts arise, your faith shake. These frightened people have not awakened anyone—they have put them to sleep. They gave no courage—only weakness; no strength—only impotence.

No. If something has come by your experience—if you have seen the peaks of Gaurishankar sparkling in the sun—let the world say “No,” and it will not matter. You will say, “As you please; I have seen. I know for myself.”

Mahavira says: even a little knowledge of your own is better than the vast borrowed knowledge of the characterless. Borrowed knowledge is a great deception.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s spiritual teacher urged him to give up wine. One day he even took an oath. But as he was returning home in the evening and came to the tavern, his hands and feet began to shake. The tavern pulled him more strongly than ever—because earlier it was only the tavern; now inside he had an oath too—taken on another’s say-so. The mind became frantic. It searched for excuses: “Forget it—who is watching? Who knows of heaven and hell? Why listen to others? Under whose influence did you agree?” But the villagers would see; the news would reach the teacher; reputation was at stake. Then his pride said, “Am I so weak that I cannot win over such a small thing?” The ego took strength. Somehow he dragged himself fifty steps past the tavern. After fifty steps he slapped his own back: “Nasruddin, amazing! Now, come—I will treat you to a full drink. In celebration that you passed the tavern by fifty steps—bravo, your resolve! Come, I will drink you well.” And he drank doubly.

If we have borrowed character, this is what happens. We will find some excuse, some way. From this hypocrisy is born.

We make one face for the world; another face lives within. The face within is before Existence. The outer face may be good before men; you can deceive others—but you cannot deceive existence. Before existence you will have to stand naked.

Thovammi sikkhide jiṇai, bahusudaṃ jo caritta-sampuṇṇo.
For one complete in charitra, even a little truly known is enough.

Jo puṇa caritta-hīṇo, kiṃ tassa sudeṇa bahueṇa ..
And what use is much heard-and-remembered to one without charitra?

“According to the nishchayanaya, the immersion of the Atman in the Atman for the Atman’s own sake is samyak-charitra.”

This sutra is precious—the Kohinoor among these sutras. The Atman immersed in the Atman for the Atman—this is charitra, says Mahavira. To dive within—that is the essence. Whoever dives within cannot remain outwardly the same; everything on the outside is transformed. Yet that transformation is not contrived, not imposed, not practiced. It is spontaneous; it springs from understanding.

Like a blind man given eyes: now he passes through the doorway; he no longer knocks into the wall. It is not that he restrains himself from colliding—there is no need to restrain. Or a lamp is lit in the dark: a moment ago you were groping; as soon as the lamp is lit, groping ceases—no vow is needed: “From now on I will not grope.” When darkness is gone, who will grope?

When you have eyes, you do not think, “Where is the door?” Eyes open, the door is seen, and you slip through—without thought. Do you notice? You do not think, “This is the door—let me pass. That is the wall—let me avoid it.” No such thought is needed. One with eyes passes through the door without thought.

“According to the nishchayanaya: the Atman immersed in the Atman for the Atman.”

Nothing else to attain, nowhere else to go. Atman is both gaṃtavya and gaman—the goal and the path. The Atman is the pilgrim, the pilgrimage, and the destination. To drown in one’s own nature is all—this is Dharma.

Niṭṭhayaṇayassa evaṃ, appā appami appaṇe surado.
So hoti hu sucaritto, joi so lahai nivvāṇaṃ ..

“And such a charitra-endowed yogi alone attains Nirvana.”

So the gist is one: do not go outward—come within. Shut the doors by which energy rushes out; let it fall back within. Do not go even into thoughts, for they too go outward. In a moment of no-thought—no doing, thoughtless, inactive—you just sit still; you neither act nor think; only awareness remains. What flowers in that awareness is charitra.

Thus character has nothing to do with truth/lie, honesty/dishonesty. Consider it: character based on honest/dishonest, truth/falsehood is social, not spiritual. If you go to the forest, how will you speak truth? To whom? How will you be honest? There is no way to be dishonest—so how will you be honest? That would mean one can be virtuous only in society; outside society he becomes characterless—or rather character-empty, for even to be characterless requires society.

Mahavira defines character differently. According to him, a yogi sitting in a Himalayan cave can be virtuous—if he is absorbed in the Atman. If he strays from the Self, if dreams arise, thoughts arise—he becomes characterless. Mahavira ties virtue and vice to inwardness. Character that depends on society—what kind of character is that? What is your ownership over what depends on the outer? Mahavira says: become master of yourself.

Therefore his definition is unique: you can be virtuous alone. Sitting in your room with no one around, you can be virtuous—or characterless. Virtuous, if you are quiet, pure—no ripple on the lake of the mind; all silent—then you are virtuous.

Mahavira gave meditation a new word: samayik. A very sweet word—sweeter than “meditation.” He called the Atman samaya—Time itself; to be immersed in Time, samayik. To drown in pure time—samayik. “Appa appami appane surado”—the Atman immersed in the Atman for the Atman. Let only you remain—nothing else. Only the purest you remain; no foreign element. Your very nature alone remains—that is where charitra begins.

Then such a person is also outwardly virtuous: one who has tasted the joy of the Self cannot do anything that increases distance from the Self. Whenever you lie, you move away from yourself—feel it.

In the West, courts now use lie-detectors. A man cannot lie easily. They stand him on the machine; the instant he lies, a bell rings. How does the machine work? Very simply: when you speak truth, you are in one tone; asked, “What time is it?” you say, “Nine o’clock”—you remain in one rhythm; no inner split. The heartbeat is in one cadence.

Then someone asks, “Did you steal?” You know you did. In the heart you say, “Yes,” but out loud you say, “No.” A split appears; the heartbeat skips a beat. The machine below catches the skip. Its only work is to register whether your heart’s rhythm remains steady or breaks. The moment it breaks, the bell rings—caught! You cannot lie without breaking your rhythm. You know the truth—how will you deny it? You can tell others, “I didn’t steal,” and the louder you say it, inside your heart keeps saying, “You did.” The more the heart says, “Did,” the louder you say, “Did not.” Your loudness betrays that inside you know you did. Two voices fill the heart; the machine catches the split. Your string vibrates off-key.

You cannot lie and remain at peace. Unrest arises at once. One who keeps lying—imagine his restlessness! He must remember whom he told what—today, tomorrow—a thousand lies to keep track of. A liar needs a very good memory; otherwise, great trouble.

A great scientist remained unmarried all his life; he was forgetful. Someone asked why he did not marry. He said, “I was in love with a girl. I proposed; she accepted.” “Then what happened?” “Trouble—I proposed again three days later. I forgot.” She was offended.

The truth-teller needs no memory. He speaks what is. Straight and simple. The truthful one is undivided; not split into fragments. Whole.

One who has once dived within and tasted the joy of wholeness cannot lie—for immediately he will feel himself flung far from inner peace. He cannot be dishonest—for at once he feels far from himself. He cannot hurt another—for the moment he hurts, he loses the way home.

He does not speak truth for heaven, nor for merit. Not out of fear or temptation. But because the joy within makes being “wrong” impossible.

“Having known that by which the yogi abandons both sin and merit—that is called karma-free, nirvikalpa charitra.”

Mahavira says: in the supreme state not only sin is abandoned—merit too is abandoned. Such a person does not do evil—and he does not do “good” either. This is a subtle height. At first, evil falls away—hurting the other stops. But as one goes deeper, one understands: no one can give happiness to another. Tell me, who has ever given joy to another? Fathers say, “I give joy to the son.” The son says, “I give joy to the father.” Husbands, wives—everyone tries to give joy, but life yields only sorrow. If so many are giving joy, the world should brim with joy—where is it?

Mahavira says: joy cannot be given. It is an inner state. Then a stage comes when, seeing deeper, a man not only stops giving sorrow—he even stops trying to “give” joy. Yes—if someone takes joy from him, that is the other’s business. If someone takes sorrow—that too is his business.

One established in himself lives in his nature. Then it is your choice. Many took “sorrow” from Mahavira—he did not give it. Some were angered that he stood naked—what had that to do with them? If you find it troublesome, close your eyes and pass by. Your problem. Mahavira has nothing to do with it. Some will be pained, some pleased—that is their affair. One who is absorbed in himself no longer “gives” joy or sorrow. He does not do sin or merit. Properly understood, he stops “doing.” He simply “is”—pure existence. Doing fades away.

“That by knowing which the yogi abandons both sin and merit—that is nirvikalpa charitra.” This is the ultimate tier of character; beyond this it cannot go. Sin is like iron chains; merit is like golden chains. Sin brings suffering; merit brings pleasure—but in pleasure is hidden pain. Sin brings humiliation; merit brings honor—but in honor the ego arises. Thus, both must be transcended. A chain of gold set with diamonds is still a chain; a gilded prison is still a prison. Free of both—not good, not bad. One who goes beyond both attains the pure nature—Nirvana. This is the ultimate conception—the Everest of consciousness. Here even “good” is seen as bound to “bad.” The whole world of duality is left behind—this is the non-dual state.

Mahavira says: let the yogi, step by step, ascend to this supreme state of meditation; this is Samadhi, this is Nirvana.

Do not be frightened by this lofty vision. Sometimes, seeing such peaks, you may think, “How can I reach? Let Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna go—these are unique, incarnate beings; we are ordinary.” No—remember, they too were as ordinary as you. That is why Mahavira rejected the doctrine of avatar. He said the concept of avatar is dangerous: if someone descends as God, then what glory if he attains height? He came with it. Mahavira said—there are no avatars. None.

The Jain idea of Tirthankara is the opposite. Tirthankara means one who has climbed from below to above. Avatar means one who has come down from above. Hindus say Krishna and Rama are avatars. Mahavira is not an avatar; he is a Tirthankara. He ascended step by step from where you stand. Therefore, with Mahavira the journey is easier, because he is like you. If you are impure, he too was impure. If you are human, weak, limited—so was he. If he could, hope blooms—you can. And those “sins” that seem such heavy burdens—are nothing but dreams seen in sleep.

That which is made to fly always flies—the fragrance rises.
That which is made to climb always climbs—the incense ascends.
Do not lament a crease in your white kurta—
Cloth is cloth; creases come in cloth.

All these creases are in the cloth—in the body, in the mind. But at your innermost core there is a point, a center—Mahavira calls it the Atman. No sin ever reaches there. There you are already roaming the Everest. There you already abide in Paramatman. The circumference has become dusty—the journey of births; the garments are filled with dust. Take off the garments. Know yourself—you are not the garments. You are not the body, not the mind. You are the witness—chaitanya. You are the state of supreme awareness. There you are as pure as Mahavira, as Buddha, as Krishna. There Paramatman abides.

So do not be disheartened by the height. It is mere information of a fact. Let it fill you with enthusiasm: “Ah—such a possibility is within me too!” What happened for Mahavira can happen for all.

Mahavira gave man great assurance in two ways. First, he declared there is none above man—no God above. Man in his pure state is Paramatman. He said the Atman has three modes: bahir-atma—when consciousness flows outward; antar-atma—when consciousness turns inward; and Paramatman—when consciousness goes nowhere, neither outward nor inward. Bahir-atma—when consciousness does sin. Antar-atma—when consciousness does merit. Paramatman—when consciousness does neither. Bahir-atma—when related to the inauspicious; antar-atma—when related to the auspicious; Paramatman—when all relations are severed. Non-attachment is born; the nirvikalpa is born—Nirvana.

Do not rest until you attain it. However difficult, it is your birthright. It has been attained—and what has flowered in one human being can flower in all. It is everyone’s destiny—but it depends on you. Only if you claim it will you have it. If you sit like a beggar—you will lose it.

Secondly: having said no God above, Mahavira bestowed upon man both supreme freedom and supreme responsibility. Supreme freedom—no God overhead. Supreme responsibility—your life is in your hands. Whatever the result—you alone are responsible. One who understands Mahavira’s freedom and responsibility—that one is Jina. Being born in a Jain house does not make you Jain. Jina is a state: the combined feeling of supreme responsibility and supreme freedom—that is Jinahood.

Wherever anyone attains this state, he is in the company of Mahavira. Do not assume you are Jain because born in a Jain home. It is not so cheap. It is earned—by shrama, effort.

The treasure of the heart can be found—and it is already with you. Only open your inner eyes.

Now the definition continues: “When there is inner purity, outer purity follows as a rule. Out of inner defect alone does man commit outer defects.”

Remember this sutra: “Abbhantara-sodhiye, bahira-sodhi vi hodi niyameṇa”—outer purification happens by law when the inner is purified. “Abbhantara-doseṇa hu, kuṇai naro bahire dose”—and from inner fault alone does man create outer fault.

Therefore do not worry about changing outer faults—seek the roots within. To change the outside is like trimming leaves while watering the roots—the leaves will keep coming. Cutting leaves does not kill a tree; it grows thicker; one leaf’s place becomes three.

If you want to fell the tree, cut the root. The root is hidden within, in darkness. So it is in life: anger, greed, lust appear on the surface; you fight with them. They are leaves. Where is the root? Mahavira says: unawareness. The root is stupor, sleep. Cut the root. Fill yourself with wakefulness. Wake up. If awakening comes, anger, illusion, greed, attachment disappear on their own—like leaves when the roots are cut. You will not need to pluck them; they will wither and fall.

“As inner purity happens, outer purity follows as a rule. From inner defect the outer defect is done.”

As soon as the inner revolution happens, the lamp is lit—you are astonished that the outside is transformed. Everything is the same—and yet not the same.

Raqs-e-tarab kidhar gaya—where have the dances of pleasure gone?
Naghma-taraz kya hue—what happened to those sweet songs?
Gamza-o-naz kya hue, aswa-e-fann ko kya hua—
Those glances and coquetries—gone.

They had meaning because you were asleep. Understand: your sleep is the bridge between you and the world; awakening is the bridge between you and Paramatman—or you and your own true being. As long as you sleep, the world continues—it is the dream of the sleeping man. If you awaken, the world, as dream, ends. Not that trees vanish, houses disappear, wife and children evaporate—but something does vanish: “mine” and “thine.” Greed vanishes. If someone abuses you, the words arrive from outside, but you suddenly see the problem is his.

I have heard: a Zen fakir was walking; a man ran up and struck him with a stick and fled. The companion said, “Do something! You stand there!” The fakir said, “What am I to do? It is his problem, not mine. Some fire is burning within him—that fire made him rage. If he had not met me—good that he met me—he would have exploded on someone else. If on someone else, that person would have pounced on him—he would be in trouble. He is already in trouble—so much rage burns within him. Why add punishment? He has had enough.”

If someone abuses you, it is his problem. What of yours? Will you change the whole world? This world is such.

A famous tale: Shiva and Parvati went out on a full-moon night. Naturally, Shiva sat on Nandi; Parvati walked beside. Two men said, “Look—the lout rides, the woman walks—what manners!” Shiva said, “All right, I will get down; you sit.” They walked, Parvati on Nandi. Others came: “See this wife making her husband walk while she rides—what love!” Shiva said, “What now? Let’s both sit.” They both mounted. People came: “Fools! You will kill the bull. Where is compassion for animals?” Shiva said, “Only one way left.” They both dismounted, tied Nandi to poles, and carried him on their shoulders. On a bridge, people laughed: “Idiots! They could have ridden—and instead they carry the bull!” Shiva and Parvati stopped: “What shall we do now? We have done everything people say.” Nandi, dangling, panicked and kicked; he fell into the river.

The meaning: do not pay much heed to what people say. They will always say something; they cannot keep quiet. The real question is within. What they say is their vision, their problem; do not make it yours. Do not follow people—else you will be nowhere; you will fall like Nandi.

A meditator walks by the music of his own heart. He does not let go his inner thread. Who says what, who does what—secondary, of no value.

“As inner purity comes, outer purity follows.” He polishes his inner shrine; he cleans his inner deity. When that purity comes, its fragrance and light appear outside. The whole endeavor is within. Religion has nothing to do with the outside; its whole concern is within. Religion is between you and you—utterly personal. “Appa appane surado”—the Atman immersed in the Atman for the Atman.

“Therefore it is said: as by the auspicious charitra the inauspicious tendency is restrained, so by the pure usage even the auspicious tendency is restrained. Thus, by this sequence the yogi should contemplate the Atman.”

Mahavira says: first, auspicious character arises. As you go within and become quiet, a goodness blossoms. By auspicious, the inauspicious is restrained—like darkness by light. Then beyond auspicious is the pure—because the auspicious is still tied to the inauspicious, as its opposite. A man is greedy—he gives in charity. Greed is inauspicious; charity is auspicious—but charity is joined to greed. Without hoarding, how would he donate? First he gathered wealth, then he gives. A man becomes angry—then repents, asks forgiveness. Anger was inauspicious; forgiveness is auspicious—but it arose because of anger; it is linked. It is not pure; the impurity is needed for it to be. Auspicious and inauspicious are two sides of one coin: one bright, one dark—but tied.

Mahavira says: the supreme state arises when the pure Atman is revealed—where neither auspicious nor inauspicious remains. Neither lust nor brahmacharya; neither anger nor compassion. For even brahmacharya is tied to lust—its opposite flow; the energy is the same. In the supreme, there is neither lust nor brahmacharya; neither violence nor non-violence. Mahavira calls this the pure state.

Jaha va niruddhaṃ asuhaṃ, suheṇa suham iva taheva suddheṇa.
Tasmā eṇa kameṇa ya, joi jhāeu niya ādaṃ ..

Just as by the auspicious the inauspicious is restrained, so by the pure the auspicious itself is restrained. When both are restrained, what remains is Nirvana. This is the ultimate peak—no dream has gone beyond it. The highest purity conceivable. Here even the “good” is seen as still bound to the “bad.” The entire duality is behind; this is the non-dual state.

Let the yogi, by such gradual steps, attain this supreme meditation—this is Samadhi, this is Nirvana.

Do not be dismayed by the loftiness. Sometimes one is intimidated by the summit: “We ordinary folk cannot.” Remember—they were ordinary too. Hence Mahavira refused the avatar idea. The Tirthankara climbs from where you stand.

An old gentleman came to me—his young son had taken sannyas. He was angry: “What have you done—giving sannyas to a youth? Sannyas is for old age—the last thing.” Sannyas—the last thing! To be postponed to the final moment—when hands and feet have no strength and breath falters? When legs cannot move—till then to go to the prostitute’s house; and when they will not move, be carried on others’ shoulders to the temple! One must ride the horse of energy. As long as energy remains, one is immersed in the world. “Religion is fine,” he said, “but not now.”

I said, “All right, I will persuade your son to return to the world. What about you?” He had not expected that. “Your son will return on one condition: your age is seventy-five—when will you be old?” He said, “True—but there are responsibilities.” The son too will have responsibilities at seventy-five. Responsibilities do not shrink—they grow. Life accumulates them daily.

So let the son go—at least he says he has none yet. He is not married; he has no home. You say, “Not now—old age.” You are old—you say, “Responsibilities.”

What we accept as “right” by hearsay—we do not accept with the heart. We accept to avoid argument. “Sannyas is right—but later.” If it is right, then now. If not right, then never. Be clear. If something is true, not a moment’s delay is warranted; who knows if tomorrow will come? One can die before old age—or be so crippled in old age one cannot sit, cannot rise.

But man is clever: he accepts some things by argument—why fight tradition? Or he accepts because all accept—so it must be right.

The great psychologist Myers wrote in his memoirs: he was researching people’s beliefs about life after death. He asked whoever he met, “What do you think happens after death?” He asked a woman whose young daughter had just died: “What do you think happened to your daughter?” She glared: “What would have happened? She is enjoying the pleasures of heaven! But I beg you—do not speak such painful things to me.” Think: in one breath two contradictions! If she is enjoying heaven—why is the talk painful? If it is painful—then “heaven’s joy” is only a thought to console.

Ek do aur sāgar-e-sarshār—
“Bring one or two more brimming goblets.”
Phir to hona hi hai mujhe hoshyār—
“Then I must, after all, become alert.”
Chhednā hi hai sāj-e-zīst mujhe—
“Soon I must tune the instrument of life;”
Āg barsāyenge lab-e-guftār—
“Words will rain fire.”
Kuchh tabiyat to hum ravān kar leñ—
“Let me set my mood flowing.”
Āj ki rāt aur bāqī hai—
“This night still remains.”
Phir kahāñ ye hasīn suhānī rāt—
“Where will such a lovely night return?”
Ye farāghat ye kaif ke lamhāt—
“These idle, intoxicating moments?”
Kuchh to āsūdagi-e-zauq-e-nihan—
“Let me appease some hidden desires;”
Kuchh to taskīn-e-shorish-e-jazbāt—
“Let me soothe some turmoil of passions.”
Āj ki rāt jāvidān kar leñ—
“Let me make this night immortal—”
Āj ki rāt, aur āj ki rāt.

This is how man thinks: he postpones religion to tomorrow; does irreligion tonight. Meditation—tomorrow; anger—today. If I say, “Meditate,” you say, “We will—when the time comes.” That time never comes. If I say, “Pray,” you say, “Where is the leisure!” But there is leisure to be angry, to be greedy. And when anger comes, you never say, “I will do it tomorrow.” You do it now.

Gurdjieff wrote: his father was dying. He called his nine-year-old son: “I have nothing to give. But my father gave me one thing—it supported me; I give it to you. Remember, though you are young, it will serve you. If ever you are provoked to anger, tell the one who insulted you: ‘I will answer you after twenty-four hours.’”

Gurdjieff wrote: anger never came again—for whenever someone provoked him, he remembered his dying father’s words: “After twenty-four hours.” Has anyone been angry after twenty-four hours? After twenty-four minutes? After twenty-four seconds? Anger is immediate. In twenty-four hours you will think so much that it will be clear: either the man was right—or he was wrong. If wrong—why anger? If right—why anger? With twenty-four hours’ distance, anger is impossible.

But we keep such distance for meditation—not for anger. So meditation never happens; we keep postponing.

“By inner purity, outer purity follows as a rule. From inner defect alone are outer defects done.”

Do not worry about the outer—seek the root within. Cutting leaves does not kill a tree; the root is inside, in darkness. In man, the visible angers, greeds, lusts are leaves. The root is unawareness. Cut the root by filling yourself with awareness. When awakening comes, lust, illusion, greed fall away themselves.

“As inner purity comes, outer purity follows.”

When the lamp is lit within, you are amazed—the outside has changed. All is as it was—and yet not the same.

Where have the dances of delight gone? Where the sweet songs?
The coquetries, the arts—all vanished.

They had meaning because you were asleep. Your sleep connects you to the world; awakening connects you to Paramatman—to your own being.

If you are asleep, the world goes on. It is the dream of the sleeping man. If awake, the dream-world ends—not that trees and houses vanish; but “mine” and “thine” vanish. If someone abuses you, the words still come—but the problem is his.

I have heard: a Zen fakir was struck by a passer-by. His companion said, “Do something!” The fakir said, “What? The problem is his. Fire burns inside him; good that he met me—otherwise he would have burned someone who would have burned him back.”

Someone will always say something. Shiva and Parvati learned—people cannot be satisfied. Do not live by others’ tongues; otherwise you will drop your Nandi.

The meditator listens to his own heart. He holds to his inner thread. What others say or do is secondary.

“As inner purity comes, outer purity follows.” He builds the temple within; cleans the inner idol. When incense and lamp burn there, fragrance and light appear outside. But his whole endeavor is within.

Religion has nothing to do with the outside. It is wholly inner—a matter between you and you. “Appa appane surado”—the Atman immersed in the Atman for the Atman.

“Therefore it is said: just as by auspicious charitra the inauspicious tendency is restrained, so by pure usage even the auspicious is restrained. Thus by this order the yogi should contemplate the Atman.”

First the auspicious arises; by it the inauspicious is cut—darkness by light. Then beyond auspicious is the pure. Because the auspicious is tied to the inauspicious—as its opposite. Charity to cut greed; forgiveness to cut anger; love to cut lust; compassion to cut cruelty. All these are auspicious, but linked to their opposites.

Mahavira says: the supreme is when the pure Atman remains—neither auspicious nor inauspicious; neither lust nor brahmacharya; neither anger nor compassion; neither violence nor non-violence. This he calls the pure state.

Thus, when both auspicious and inauspicious are restrained, what remains is Nirvana—the non-dual.

Mahavira says: let the yogi, step by step, arrive at this—this is Samadhi, this is Nirvana.

Do not be afraid of the height. Mahavira rejected avatars; he is a Tirthankara—one who climbed from where you are.

An elder came, angry that his young son took sannyas. “Sannyas is for old age.” Sannyas is postponed to the end? When breath is faltering? When legs cannot move? While they could, go to brothels; when they cannot, be carried to temples? One must ride the horse of energy. Mahavira joined Dharma with youth—energy is needed for the journey, for tapas, for restraint, for discernment, for awakening. Do not postpone to tomorrow.

Mahavira gave man supreme freedom—and supreme responsibility. No God overhead—supreme freedom. Your life is in your hands—supreme responsibility. Whoever understands this becomes Jina. Birth in a Jain home does not make one Jain. Jina is a state—of absolute responsibility and absolute freedom. Whoever attains it is in Mahavira’s fellowship.

It can be obtained—the heart’s treasure is within. Only open the inner eyes.

Enough for today.