Jin Sutra #38

Today's sutras are profoundly original and revolutionary. To give voice to such sutras demands great courage. Only Mahavira could give such sutras.
The first sutra is: 'He who is lion-like in valor, elephant-like in self-respect, bull-like in gentleness, deer-like in simplicity, animal-like in innocence, wind-like in detachment, sun-like in radiance, ocean-like in depth, Meru-like in stillness, moon-like in coolness, jewel-like in luster, earth-like in forbearance, serpent-like in houselessness, and sky-like in non-reliance — such a sadhu alone is on the journey to the supreme state, Moksha.'
Each symbol needs to be understood rightly.
'Lion-like in valor.'
Mahavira's path is the path of ultimate resolve. Mahavira's path is not of surrender but of determination. On Mahavira's path one must seek no prop. All props are to be abandoned. One has to become utterly without support. In support there is fear. In becoming supportless there is fearlessness.
Mahavira's path is precisely the opposite of bhakti. Through both paths, people do arrive. Both paths are true. But if you are to understand Mahavira's path rightly, you will understand it only by placing it opposite to bhakti. On Mahavira's path there is no place for God, no place for bhakti — no worship, no adoration, no prayer. There is no place for surrender. Mahavira has said: Become without refuge. Do not take refuge anywhere.
'Lion-like in valor.' A lion roams alone. Lions do not move in herds; sadhus do not walk in congregations. A lion has no crowd. He roams solitary. A lion is not a member of any organization. A lion is not bound to any sect. A lion moves free. Neither scripture nor sect nor tradition — only then does a lion-like consciousness arise. On one's own feet, by one's own strength — and alone. Utterly alone. For twelve years Mahavira roamed like a lion. Alone. He spoke to none, made none a companion, became no one's companion. In forests and mountains — that silent roar of Mahavira was the lion's call.
'Lion-like in valor.' Everything will have to be staked. If you hold back even a little from staking, you will miss. If you think to save a little, if you stake only partially, you will miss. On Mahavira's path the work is the gambler's, not the shopkeeper's. And the misfortune is that on Mahavira's path all have become shopkeepers. Mahavira's religion itself has become the shopkeeper's. A follower of Mahavira does nothing but shopkeeping. This too does not happen without reason.
Behind it are deep psychological causes — the attraction of the opposite. A shopkeeper is always impressed by the gambler. What he cannot dare, the gambler dares. So even if he does not become a gambler himself, he nourishes an admiration for the gambler in his heart. The weak is always impressed by the brave. Not being brave himself, he is impressed. What he lacks within, he sees in the other. So the weak always worships the brave. The opposite carries a great attraction. Naturally, the poor man looks up towards the rich. In the minds and dreams of those who live in huts, the pictures of palaces arise. The unintelligent worships the intelligent. The ugly worships the beautiful. Man is drawn to woman; woman is drawn to man. All this is the attraction of the opposite. What I am not appears attractive. What I am loses all charm.
Mahavira was lion-like in valor. But the weak, lazy, fear-laden timid ones trailed behind. They corrupted Mahavira's path. Mahavira's path became the way of the vaishyas, the merchants. In its essence it is the path of the kshatriya.
To be non-violent, being a kshatriya is a basic condition. One who has not yet known violence — how can he become non-violent? One who has not yet lifted the sword — how will he lay it down? You can lay down only what you have first picked up. One who has never attacked another — how will he renounce attack? See then: all twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are sons of kshatriyas. And almost all Jains are merchants.
That all their twenty-four Tirthankaras are kshatriyas cannot be a coincidence. If one or two had been kshatriya, it could be considered coincidence. But all twenty-four are kshatriya — as if being a kshatriya is a basic condition for becoming non-violent. We can renounce only what we possess. If a beggar says, 'I have renounced everything,' what meaning does it have? What did he have to renounce? Before renunciation, one must have.
Mahavira, Rishabh, Nemi — all were born in kshatriya families. They were nourished amidst violence. They learned the art of violence. They knew nothing other than violence. From the deep experience of that very violence, ahimsa was born. They burned in the fire of violence and discovered that violence is not worth doing. Living in violence they realized that violence is to be abandoned. And then a new ahimsa was born.
Therefore I say there is a difference between the ahimsa of Gandhi and of Mahavira. Gandhi's ahimsa is the ahimsa of the bania; Mahavira's ahimsa is the ahimsa of the kshatriya. And there lies the fundamental distinction. Mahavira's ahimsa did not arise out of weakness; Gandhi's ahimsa arose out of weakness. Gandhi had no other means. Ahimsa offered him a convenience to hide his weakness. Gandhi's ahimsa is feminine. Women have always done the same. If anger comes to a man, he beats his wife. If anger comes to a wife, she beats herself. You have seen this? This is the whole gist of Gandhism. She hurts herself. When a man gets angry, he kills someone. When a woman gets angry, she thinks of committing suicide. The weak thinks of destroying himself. To destroy the other is difficult; to destroy oneself is easy. And self-destruction can be done in such a way that it appears courageous.
Mahavira's ahimsa arises from the valor of a lion. He was a kshatriya's son, a prince. He had learned nothing else; he had but one skill. So when he renounced violence, it was no concealment. Violence fell away. It fell knowingly. It fell because it had become futile. He recognized violence rightly and found nothing in it but poison.
In Mahavira's ahimsa, violence is absent. In Gandhi's ahimsa, violence is hidden. From the outside both appear similar. But between them there is a fundamental difference.
'Lion-like in valor.' Now, the lion indeed is violent — have you noticed? The lion is kshatriya. But if you are to learn valor, you must learn from the lion. If you are to learn courage, learn it from the kshatriya. Mahavira says: ahimsa is an even greater valor than himsa. Ahimsa is a courage greater than violence. Do not use ahimsa as a cover to hide your cowardice.
Often people are 'non-violent' and their inner logic is: Neither shall we kill anyone, nor will anyone kill us. In truth, the intention is that no one should kill us. So they say, 'We are non-violent. We do not believe in killing anyone.' They are saying: 'Have mercy on us; do not kill us. We do not kill you; do not kill us. We let you live; let us live.' This is lower than violence. This is trickery, diplomacy, politics.
Gandhi's ahimsa is politics. Mahavira's ahimsa is the most incandescent form of religion. Mahavira does not say: 'Do not kill me.' Mahavira says: 'If you feel like killing me, that is your indulgence, your ignorance. But I have experienced that there is no essence in killing, therefore I do not kill.' This is audacity! There is no greater audacity than leaving oneself in insecurity.
'Elephant-like in self-respect.' The elephant carries a certain self-respect. Hence the elephant became a symbol for emperors. The elephant ride became the noblest ride. But note well: the elephant has self-respect, not ego. He trusts his strength, but makes no proclamation of it. There the elephant differs from the lion. The lion has ego.
There is an old famous fable of Aesop: A lion entered a forest. He asked a jackal, 'Who is the king of the forest?' The jackal said, 'You are, great sir! Who else but you? You are the maharaja, the emperor.' He asked a fox, a rabbit, a cheetah. Everyone said, 'You alone are the emperor; why ask such a question?'
Then he came to the elephant and asked, 'Who is the emperor of this forest?' The elephant caught the lion in his trunk and flung him fifty feet away. The lion fell, dusted himself off, returned and said, 'If you did not know the answer, what need to get angry!'
But the elephant makes no proclamation. The lion proclaims. The elephant is silent. Psychologists say: those who proclaim their ego suffer inferiority complex; hence they proclaim. One who is truly content within himself does not proclaim his ego — what is the purpose of proclamation? To prove oneself — but to whom? Things must be proven only when one feels inside that one is not. Then one must gather proofs. When you already know within yourself, you do not proclaim. What you know, what is your experience, you do not proclaim.
If some man were to stand in the marketplace and shout, 'I am a man, and I can prove it,' people would suspect there is doubt about his manhood. If you are a man, you are a man. There is no need to declare. To whom will you go to say it? Who is asking?
They say Lao Tzu was passing with a friend through mountains. Morning came, the sun rose, birds began to sing — a lovely morning, a very sweet morning. The friend said, 'What a beautiful morning.' Lao Tzu said, 'Who is denying it?' The friend said, 'So delightful a morning.' Lao Tzu looked at him with surprise and said, 'Who is denying it? Where is the need to say it?'
What is, is. It needs no proclamation. What is not, must be proclaimed. Perhaps the friend had doubt: Is it really so? Out of that doubt he spoke — perhaps if Lao Tzu also affirmed, his trust would arise. We go around asking others, 'Am I beautiful? Am I intelligent? Am I a renunciate?' You ask others! You yourself have no trust. And we go on persuading others that we are renunciates. When the other believes, then we believe.
Mulla Nasruddin wanted to sell a house. He called an agent. His house stood in solitude by a river. Sometimes in summer he would stay there. He said, 'I want to sell it.' The agent advertised in the papers. Next morning when Mulla read the ad, he was amazed. There was a description of the beautiful river, of the scenery that surrounds the house. Such praise of the house that he said, 'Ah, this is the very house I have searched for all my life!' He phoned the agent and said, 'Do not sell it — never sell it.' The agent asked, 'So quickly you changed? Yesterday you told me to sell. Why the change?' Mulla said, 'Your advertisement has convinced me. This is the very house I have been seeking all my life. I had no idea until now.'
Until we gain assurance from another, we do not trust ourselves. And such trust is worth two pennies — trust that comes from another. Did you see the elephant? Did you see the lion? In the lion there is a swagger — an overt swagger. When he walks, when he rises, when he sits — it is a proclamation. The elephant makes no proclamation. Hence the saying: The elephant walks on, dogs keep barking. He does not even deny them, 'Why are you barking?' He does not get angry. He knows: dogs bark — they will bark. He moves silently in his slow majesty. Mahavira says: elephant-like self-respect.
'Bull-like in gentleness.' There is no creature more gentlemanly than the bull. Oscar Wilde has written somewhere that if bulls were to discover how much strength they have, they would uproot the entire human race. But upon the bull's strength the human race has blossomed and flourished. Hence the Hindu worship of the cow. From it comes cultivation, from it milk, from it fuel, from it manure. And the bullock pulls carts, bears loads, turns the oil-press. The whole history of humanity until a hundred years ago — before machines were invented and took the bull's place — whatever civilization man has erected stands upon the bull's shoulders. Remove the bull and man's entire civilization collapses. Even today a large portion of humanity lives supported by bulls.
'Bull-like in gentleness.' The bull's gentleness is wonderful. He has never rebelled. He has never made a revolution. He has served silently. His conduct is gentlemanly. Mahavira says: bull-like in gentleness.
'Like the deer — simple.' Look sometime into a deer's eyes. You will not find such simple eyes anywhere else. Such trust, such innocence as in the deer's eyes — nowhere else. Hence for the eyes of a maiden utterly simple we say: deer-eyed. Eyes that have known no sin. No line of sin upon them. Eyes virgin and pure as the deer. Nothing but trust.
Mahavira says: simple as a deer. Take note — Mahavira's symbols provoke deep thought. He is taking symbols from animals. Even when man appears simple, his simplicity carries complication. Even in simplicity there is hypocrisy. Even in simplicity there is display, pretense. Even in simplicity there are calculations. Whom you call a sadhu, Mahavira will not call a sadhu — because his simplicity is not deer-like. His simplicity is much contrived, cultivated by practice. It is rehearsed. Mahavira says: unpracticed simplicity. The simplicity of a deer means — unpracticed. Not attained by training. Natural. You can practice.
We have practiced many things.
On the road if someone meets you, you smile — even though within, tears are welling; though clouds of sorrow have gathered; though a pain that flashes through the very life-breath is striking; though every fiber longs to weep — yet on the road, someone meets, and you smile. Practice. The practice of lips. The smile does not come from the heart. How can it? But you have practiced the stretching of the lips — it is not difficult. Stretching the lips creates the illusion that you smiled. What kind of smile is this? A smile whose roots do not reach the heart is false. Superimposed. The simple smile you will find in a small child — one who has not learned any tricks.
Therefore Mahavira says: forget the tricks, and you will be simple. And your so-called sadhu is more full of tricks than you. To call him simple is impossible. Only the simple is a sadhu. Straight, like a small child. One who lives by his nature — he alone is a sadhu. If you practice, you can practice fasting. If you practice, you can stay awake at night. If you practice, you can stand in the sun, sleep upon thorns. But there will be no simplicity in this. Behind it all will be practice. You are not becoming a sadhu — you are becoming fit for a circus. The sadhu's mark, Mahavira says, is: deer-like simplicity; spontaneity. Kabir said the same — 'O seeker, effortless Samadhi is best.'
There is one kind of Samadhi that is brought by contrivance and effort. And there is another Samadhi that comes when all effort is dropped. Be like a small child. Let the inside be the outside. Whatever the price, be willing to pay it. Whatever be the cost demanded — but let the inner be the outer. Let there be no division between inner and outer, no conflict. Let the outer not sit upon the chest of the inner. Let the outer be informed only by the inner. Let only the tone of the inner resound. Let only the waves of the inner come. What is within — let that be without. Only then is one simple. But such simplicity is not found among the so-called sadhus.
My experience of late is this: people come from the West — they are more simple than people of the East. It should not have been so. For Eastern people pride themselves: we are religious. But the man of the East is very complex. One who comes from the West is simple. His simplicity is animal-like. Your sadhu will say: this is animal behavior. Ask Mahavira: his simplicity is child-like. You can easily cheat a Westerner. To cheat an Easterner is not so easy. Before you pick his pocket, his hand will be in yours.
Even the questions the Eastern man asks are complex. Not simple. In his questions there are tricks, scriptures, tradition. They are not straight from the heart.
When a Westerner comes, he asks a straight question — and the West is materialistic, the East spiritual. But this spiritualism has not made the East simple; it has made him more complex. Complexity takes on subtle forms — so subtle you may not even notice.
Then there is another of my experiences: when sadhus come to meet me, I find the ordinary householder simpler than they. The sadhu seems very complex. Sometimes when a sadhu comes to meet me, first his lay-devotees arrive and ask: 'Where will Maharaj-ji be seated?' What is that to you? Let him come; he and I will settle it between us — where to seat him, where not. But they say: 'Maharaj-ji has himself asked — where will he sit?' If you fold your hands and bow to a Jain muni, he does not return the bow — because he may not fold his hands before anyone. What a great sainthood! What a great simplicity! What profound complexity! How can he fold his hands to a lay-devotee? Impossible.
There was a grand conference — some three hundred sadhus were invited from all over the country. The organizers had made a great stage so that the three hundred sadhus could be seated together. But it could not be done. Each had to sit alone and give discourse. For no one agreed to sit with another. The Shankaracharya wanted to sit only upon his throne. When the Shankaracharya sits upon a throne, others too cannot sit below — they too want thrones. It might be possible to seat all together — but then the Shankaracharya will not agree to sit. He must be above. He will not sit below anyone — indeed, not even with anyone.
These are the people who say, 'We are Atman, not body! We are Atman, not mind!' These cannot sit below. These cannot sit with others. Great complexity!
Remember Mahavira's words — 'deer-like in simplicity.'
'Animal-like in innocence.' In animals there is an innocence. A helplessness. A state of being without defense. The sadhu will be similarly defenseless amidst the tumult of this vast cosmos. What he does seems to bring nothing about. Whatever he does turns out to be wrong. Life has so many subtle lanes of entanglement — one goes astray again and again.
'Animal-like in innocence.' Mahavira has bestowed great honor upon animals. All his symbols are drawn from animals. I also tell you: there is much to learn from animals. And one who cannot become as simple as an animal — abandon the thought of becoming as simple as Paramatma. The animal's simplicity is the first step toward the simplicity of Paramatma. Animal-like simplicity, innocence, helplessness are of great value. Civilization is dangerous. Civilization has harmed man. Civilization is a great disease. Better the animal. Generally, we use animals only when we want to condemn a man. Mahavira uses animals to praise.
Understand the subtle difference. When we want to condemn someone, we say, 'Why are you behaving like an animal? Become a man!' Mahavira says: 'Why are you behaving like a man? Become an animal.' Therefore I say, these sutras are revolutionary. And Mahavira is right — a hundred percent. Man has fallen below the animal. No animal is so full of animality as man is. The lion hunts, he is violent — but for food. Not for sport.
I have heard a story: a lion and a rabbit went to a hotel. The rabbit called the waiter and said, 'Bring breakfast.' The waiter asked, 'And your companion — what will he take?' The rabbit said, 'Forget him — if he were hungry do you think I would be sitting here? He would have had his breakfast already! But he is with a full belly.'
If a lion is full, he does not attack. Man attacks with a full belly. People go hunting in the jungle — ask them, 'Why?' Sport! Game!! The game of killing! A lion's case can be understood — he is hungry; therefore he attacks. But you — full-bellied — why do you attack? You say, 'We are enjoying a sport.' Have you noticed: if the lion attacks the hunter, we do not call it a 'sport'. And if the hunter pierces lions with his guns, we call it 'sport'. What can be a greater decadence! The hunter hangs lion-heads in his home to show how many lions he has killed — for sport!
Sometimes I have had the chance to visit the palaces of kings and princes — when some king invited me, he would show me how many lions his father had killed. I am amazed. If the lion had killed your father, it would not be so surprising — but why did your father kill so many lions? For display. And he killed them with means the lion does not possess. Is that any sport? The lion has no gun in his hand, no sword; if you wished to kill — to prove bravery — you should have fought the lion with bare hands. At least give the lion that much advantage! At least honor this much rule of the game — if it is a game at all. Let one man stand naked, with not even a stick, no means of defense — and you stand with a gun. And you call this a game! Give him also the same facility — then it will be a game. At least in a game there should be no partiality. Both should be equal. And then you boast of courage? With guns, with platforms tied upon trees, with a thousand men in a party, you surround one poor lion and kill him.
A certain maharaja took me to his palace. I asked him, 'Was your father mad? What happened to him?' He said, 'Not mad — a great hunter.' I said, 'He seems mad to me. What had these poor lions done to him? And by killing them what did he accomplish? This exhibition! And the way he killed — utterly unjust. Go and fight — an open, hand-to-hand fight. Then bring one or two lions down — we would think there was something to it.'
But man commits injustice — and thinks himself 'man'! In the animal world there is no injustice. If hunger arises, the lion attacks — for nature has provided him no other means of food. But if there is no hunger, he does not attack. When you wish to condemn a man, you say: 'Do not be an animal.' Mahavira says: 'First become an animal. To become Paramatma is far away yet. You have become a man.'
Man — that is, untruth. Man — that is, hypocrisy. Civilization — that is, a forced imposition from above. Inside a fire is burning; above, flowers have been pasted. Inside, poison spreads; above, there is talk of nectar. Inside is one thing; outside another. The animal at least is what he is — within and without the same. However deep you pierce a lion, you will find a lion. At every layer a lion. From circumference to center — a lion. Pierce a man — you will find a thousand thousand things. Man you will not find. On the surface something; a little deeper, something else; deeper still, something else. That is why people do not go within. Because going within they are frightened: What am I? They do not wish to see themselves. People talk of the Atman, of self-knowledge — none wants to know himself. Because to behold oneself means all these layers of derangement will be exposed; one will have to know them. Only by passing through them will you arrive somewhere near that which is your true nature. Mahavira says: 'animal-like in innocence.'
'Wind-like — unattached.' The wind keeps blowing; yet unattached. It ties no companionship with anyone. When passing by flowers, it does not linger there, 'So much fragrance — let us stop here, make our home here!' Passing over cool rivers, it does not stop. In beautiful valleys, it does not stop. It flows unattached. Alone — taking no companion.
Mahavira says: non-attachment is the ultimate mark of a sadhu. He holds friendliness towards all, but he makes no one his 'friend'. Note this well.
Mahavira has given great majesty to maitri — friendliness. But he has said: do not make friends. To make friends means you have stopped; the river has stagnated and become a pond. Keep friendliness. Hold love toward all. But do not dam love into a pond anywhere. Remain free like the wind. Who can bind the wind? Where does the wind stay? Journey — endless journey — and alone...
'Like the sun — radiant.' These are not just symbols. When a person like Mahavira uses words, he does not use them idly. He uses them for deep reasons. As soon as a person becomes simple, unattached, gentle, innocent, solitary — a profound light begins to blaze within him. For in deceit your light is snuffed out. The smoke of hypocrisy surrounds your lamp. In pretense your flame dies. In simplicity the smoke disperses, becomes separate — the lamp begins to burn. One becomes radiant like the sun. Blood-red — an aura surrounds him.
'Ocean-like in depth.' Vast — with no limit, no shore. Unfathomable. So deep, so grave.
'Like Meru — unmoving.' Meru is a symbol in the Jain puranas. Meru is that mountain which is the center of the world — and around whose center all things revolve. As a cartwheel revolves upon its axle. Meru is the axle of the whole existence. And just as the wheel revolves, but the axle remains still — the wheel can revolve only because the axle remains still. If the axle also revolves, the cart will collapse. The axle must not move — then the wheel can turn. This whole world is moving because at its center there is something still. Eternally still. The Jain puranas call it Meru. It is a symbolic word.
Scientists too accept that there must be some point in existence — a center — though we have not yet found where. We have not yet discovered the whole of existence — how then could we find the center! Existence is so vast. We have not touched even the circumference; how then reach the center! But scientists accept as a hypothesis that there must be an axle somewhere upon which all existence revolves. The moon and stars revolve, the sun revolves, the earth revolves, planets and constellations revolve. Such a vast wheel is revolving; there must be some axle. Without an axle the wheel could not revolve. That axle the Jain scriptures call Meru.
'Like Meru — unmoving.' And the sadhu is he who has found the inner axle. The body moves — the sadhu does not move. The body eats — the sadhu does not eat. The body speaks — the sadhu is speechless. The body grows young and grows old — the sadhu is neither young nor old. The body is born and dies — the sadhu has neither birth nor death. Amid every action, amid all movement, amid every whirlpool — he who has caught hold of the Meru within himself — he alone is a sadhu. Walk upon the road, but walk remembering one thing: you have never walked, nor can you walk. The wheel moves; you are still — kutastha, eternally still. You have never moved. If you were to move, then the body could not move. It would stagger and fall right there.
Thoughts move. The vortex of thought keeps circling — like a whirlwind. Have you seen dust-whirlwinds? In the hot days when they rise — a great whirlwind lifts, great clouds of dust rise — soaring to the sky; roofs are blown off; tin-sheets fly; sometimes even small children are lifted up. But when the windstorm passes, when the gale takes leave, when the dust-whirlwind subsides — then go and look upon the ground where the whirlwind rose. You will be amazed — in the middle there is a center; its mark remains. Around, the marks of the whirlwind; but in the middle — a perfectly clean place where no whirlwind was. The whirlwind too has an axle. Without an axle even a whirlwind cannot be.
Man is a whirlwind of dust and earth — but within is the axle of the Atman.
Mahavira says: 'Like Meru — unmoving.' While walking, remember that which never walked. While eating, remember that which never eats. In hunger, remember that which is never hungry. If sorrow comes, remember that upon which sorrow never alights — neither sorrow nor joy; neither liking nor disliking; neither success nor failure. All the dualities are on the wheel; the axle stands outside.
To catch hold of that transcendent axle — this is the entire endeavor of the sadhu. In dhyan, in Samadhi, the endeavor is just this — somehow catch hold of your axle.
Kabir has a famous saying — 'Between the two grinding stones, none remained intact.'
Kabir saw a millstone turning — some woman turning the mill at dawn. Kabir must have been returning from his morning walk; he saw everything being ground to flour. Returning home he composed this verse. His son Kamal sat listening. He said, 'Wait — you are right: between the two stones none remains intact. But in the middle there is an axle — have you ever noticed? The grains that stick to the axle are not ground.'
Have you turned a hand-mill? Now the hand-mill has vanished; perhaps you do not know — but the grains that stick to the central axle are not ground. They have to be poured in again. He who clung to the axle is saved.
The world grinds like two stones. But there is also the axle of Meru in it. The two stones of body and mind grind you, but between them too is the axle of the Atman. Catch hold of it. Take its support. Become supported by it. Then none can grind you. Birth may come — let it come; death may come — let it come; sorrow, joy — let them come. You remain untouched, beyond, distant. Nothing can touch you.
'Like the moon — cool.' The moon has light, but not the heat of the sun's light. The sun has light — abundant — but heat as well. It burns. You cannot go too near the sun; it will scorch you. The moon has no heat — only light. In the moon's light there is nectar. Humanity has always been eager to go to the moon. From birth small children extend their hands towards the moon. The attempt to catch 'Chandamama' begins. For centuries man has thought of going to the moon, and now he has reached. But this is not the real moon. The search is for another moon. You reached the outer moon; you had to reach the inner moon.
Mahavira says: 'Like the moon — cool.' The sadhu is luminous, but his light is cool. It does not scorch. It does not burn. It is like balm upon wounds. It heals the wound. It nourishes the life-breath. You will be astonished: those whom you ordinarily call sadhus are always condemning you. Wounding you is their business. Insulting you is their trade. Their discourses are nothing but abuses for you. Their total preaching is to declare you a thief, a sinner. But from such wounds will you come upon the path of life? Only one result arises from this — that you become filled with self-condemnation. You become filled with hostility towards yourself. A 'guilt' arises within you.
And the person in whose life guilt arises — that person begins to live in hell. Because whatever he does, appears wrong. Love your wife — sin. Love your son — sin. Build a beautiful house — sin. Make a garden — sin. Wear fine clothes and go out — sin. Taste flavor in food — sin. Will you let the man live or not? Everything is sin! This is not the moon's coolness. This is a burning fire.
If you go to sadhus — those you call sadhus — you will not return light-hearted. You will return heavy, dejected. As if their task is to magnify your diseases.
Psychologists say that in the name of religion, people have done great violence, outrage. They have made people guilty. Whatever you do is an error. When every doing is error, naturally there arises within you a condemnation of life — 'What kind of life is this! I am despicable, vile, hellish!' Gloom spreads over your life.
Mahavira says: 'Like the moon — cool.' You have wounds — granted. You are ill — granted. But one does not condemn the ill. When you go to a physician, his work is to treat the ill — not to condemn. A physician who begins to condemn — you go with tuberculosis, and he starts to abuse TB, and to abuse you, 'Why did you produce TB? Leave it, renounce it!' To leave it is what you also want — but how to leave it? That is what you do not know. You did not catch it knowingly. You caught it unawares. Someone has fever and you say, 'Drop the fever!' What will the one with fever say? He will say, 'Sir, I too want to drop it — but let the fever drop! Do you think I want to remain feverish? I do not know what to do — help me with some medicine.'
A sadhu is a medicine. Near him you should find coolness; near him assurance — not guilt. Near him trust — not despair. Near him the sunrise of your life; you should feel, 'Granted I have many mistakes — no worry; bigger than my mistakes is the treasure hidden within me. I have erred — no harm; everyone errs. But the Paramatma is hidden within me.' Near a sadhu your future should deepen — become bright, clear; near a sadhu you should receive a vision of your future, assurance, strength, courage, hope — that it may be possible. In me also it may be possible. However bad I am — it may be possible. However far I have strayed — there is a way back. Near a sadhu even a sinner should feel his own saintliness. As it is now with your so-called sadhus — if even a saint goes to them, he begins to feel his sinfulness!
'Like the moon — cool; like a jewel — lustrous.' Lustrous. Luster is a rain delightful and enchanting. Near a sadhu something begins to rain upon you — very gently, very softly. There is no footfall. There is no sound. The life-breath of the sadhu begins to surround you. The aura of the sadhu begins to encircle you too. Your eyes remain transfixed. You remain spellbound, fixed upon the sadhu. As upon beholding a jewel you become mesmerized — then you do not wish to look anywhere else; the eyes remain anchored in the jewel; the whole stream of your seeing turns there.
'Like the earth — forbearing.' Whatever happens, the sadhu's forbearance does not break. Whatever may befall, the sadhu does not stagger. You will find him the same in sorrow and in joy; the same in success and failure; the same in honor and in insult.
'Like a serpent — houseless.' A serpent does not build a house. Houseless. Wherever a place is found, he sleeps there. Wherever a place is found, he rests there. He does not build a house. This is a very subtle point. It does not merely imply that one should not live in a house — it implies that one should not build houses of security. One should not place too much trust in bank balances. All that will be taken away. Do not put too much of your life into houses of clay — they all will perish. Remain free. Even in houses, do not become 'of' the houses. Stand in the marketplace — yet remain outside the marketplace. Let the remembrance remain that this is not the place to build a home. The home is Paramatma. Here we are in a foreign land. Here is a journey. Here, if we are tired, we stop at a halting place; but the halt is not the destination.
'Like the sky — unsupported.' Seek no support. Become as supportless as the sky. The sky has no basis, no foundation, no pillars upon which it is held. It simply is. Become like the sky.
Mahavira remained digambar, naked. That was a sky-like conduct. Digambar means one who has made the sky his garment. Digambar does not mean merely naked. Nakedness is easy. Anyone may drop his clothes and be naked. But one who has made the sky his garment — he is digambar. He will be naked, but in his nakedness there is not just nakedness — something far greater has happened. He has made the whole sky his home, his garment. Now separate garments are not needed. Now he has revealed himself as he is. Naked — then naked.
Such a sadhu is upon the journey to the supreme state, Moksha.
सीह गय-वसह-मिय-पसु, मारूद-सुरूवहि-मंदरिदुं-मणी।
खिदि-उरगंवरसरिसा, परम-पय-विमग्गया साहू।।
Upon the journey to the supreme state such a one can walk. The road has great difficulties. To conquer those difficulties you must cultivate great virtues.
जवानी की अंधेरी रात है जुल्मत का तूफां है
मेरी राहों से नूरे-माहो-अंजुम तक कुरेजां है
खुदा सोया है ऐ हरमन महशर बदामा है
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
The dark night of youth, the storm of gloom —
from the light of the moon and stars my paths are turned away;
God sleeps, O heart — the world's court is in confusion —
yet I go on moving toward my destination.
The moon and stars are lost; there is no sign of Paramatma — who knows where He sleeps; the devil is awake; upon the path there is deep darkness —
खुदा सोया है ऐ हरमन महशर बदामा है
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
गमो-हिर्मा युरुश है मसाइब की घटाएं हैं
जुनूं की फितनाखेजी हुस्न की खूनी अदाएं हैं
बड़ी पुरजोर आंधी है बड़ी काफिर बलाएं हैं
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
Sorrows and grief encircle, clouds of calamities gather;
madness incites, beauty's deadly charms allure;
a powerful storm, seductive perils —
yet I go on moving toward my destination.
The world's attractions are strong. The frenzy of youth, the pull of beauty, the call of loveliness.
बड़ी पुरजोर आंधी है बड़ी काफिर बलाएं हैं
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
अफक पर जिंदगी के लश्करे-जुल्मत का डेरा है
हवादिस के कयामतखेज तूफानों ने घेरा है
जहां तक देख सकता हूं अंधेरा ही अंधेरा है
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
On the horizons of life the armies of darkness are camped;
apocalyptic storms of events surround;
as far as I can see — darkness and only darkness —
yet I go on moving toward my destination.
तलातुमखेज दरिया आग के मैदान हाइल हैं
गरजती आंधियां बिखरे हुए तूफान हाइल हैं
तबाही के फरिश्ते जब्र के शैतान हाइल हैं
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
Tempestuous seas, fields of fire stand in the way;
thundering winds, scattered storms stand in the way;
angels of ruin, devils of compulsion stand in the way —
yet I go on moving toward my destination.
If there is resolve and a sense of direction, darkness will not break you. Darkness itself will give you the chance to discover your own light. Then youth will not destroy you — youth itself will become your sannyas. Energy will not lead you astray — riding energy you will reach the supreme energy, the supreme state. One who has even a little sense of direction, a glimpse of the goal — one who has threaded the needle — then however dark, he goes on moving toward his destination. And however many obstacles and stones lie upon the path, he makes stairs out of them. He takes every situation as a challenge. He turns every defeat into a new learning. He makes of every loss a means toward victory — and goes on moving.
मगर मैं अपनी मंजिल की तरफ बढ़ता ही जाता हूं
These virtues Mahavira has named will accompany you upon the road. Ponder each virtue attentively — contemplate, reflect, assimilate.
'Awakened and pacified, move with restraint through villages and towns; increase peace, spread the way of peace. O Gautam, be not negligent even for a moment.'
Gautam is Mahavira's chief disciple. Just as Krishna addressed Arjuna and spoke the Gita, Mahavira's words are all addressed to Gautam. Addressed to Gautam — and meant for all.
बुद्धे परिनिव्वुडे चरे, गाम गए नगरे व संजए।
संतिमग्गं च बूहए, समयं गोयम! मा पमायए।।
'Awakened and pacified.' Two things must be remembered. Awakening and pacification. If you become only silent and not awakened, you will fall asleep. In sleep we are all silent — but sleep is not the goal. If you become awakened, wide awake, but cannot become silent, you will go mad — for you will get no rest. One who cannot sleep for seven days begins to become deranged. They say, one who does not sleep for three weeks will certainly go insane. Rest is needed.
So Mahavira's sutra is: 'Awakened and pacified' — together. Become silent and awakened together. Let both grow together, not separately. If you do not awaken, you will lose yourself in sleep. Sleep is good, pleasant — but pleasure is not the destination. The supreme bliss will not be found; Moksha will not be found. Moksha is for the awakened. But if you only keep waking, and you think insomnia is sadhana, and silence is lost — you will become tense. Tension will break you. The proportion of the two must be together. The ratio must be balanced, half and half. One who goes rightly into sadhana should constantly remember that in these two, neither should exceed the proportion. Even nectar beyond measure becomes poison; and poison, measured rightly, becomes medicine. Therefore on one side increase peace; on the other side, awakening.
'O Gautam, increase the way of peace. O Gautam, be not negligent even for a moment.' Do not waste even a single moment in unconsciousness.
Awaken once again.
Beloved, all the stars have failed in waking you —
rosy-winged young rays stand knocking at your door —
awaken once again!
Are your eyes, like bees,
caught in the lanes of which honey?
With folded wings drinking silent nectar?
Or asleep in the lotus buds?
Even the humming is fading —
Awaken! Awaken once again.
Beloved, all the stars have failed in waking you —
Awaken! Awaken once again.
All of Mahavira's words culminate finally in non-negligence — apramad. He says —
Awaken once again!
And the next sutra is worth deep pondering. Ponder it.
'In the times to come, people will say: today the Jina is not seen.'
In the times to come people will say: Mahavira is lost.
'In the times to come people will say: today the Jina is not seen, and the guides are not of one mind. But today, Gautam, a just path is available to you. Gautam, be not negligent even for a moment.'
Mahavira says: for centuries people will ask, 'Where to find a Shasta like the Jina? A Satguru like Mahavira?' And now — I am present. Mahavira says to Gautam: I stand before you, Gautam — and still you sleep. For centuries people will weep and repent. And you — I stand before you. The path lies spread before your eyes. Why are you sitting? Rise!
'In the times to come people will say: today the Jina is not seen.'
ण हु जिणे अज्ज दिस्सई, बहुमए दिस्सई मग्गदेसिए।
And Mahavira says: and the guides upon the path will not be of one mind. Mahavira is speaking of the branches that will sprout on his own path. He says: now the path is utterly one. No footpaths have yet broken off. Now the path is like a royal road: walk! In the future people will ask, 'Where is the Jina? Where can we have the sight of one who shows the path?' And those who will show the path — one will be Terapanthi, one Digambar, one Shvetambar. Insects of sects — and smaller sects within sects — and a thousand opinions. Great conflict. And today the path is clear, Gautam! Why do you sit? Rise!
Awaken once again!
Beloved, all the stars have failed in waking you.
Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ — how many stars have tried to wake you!
Beloved, all the stars have failed in waking you.
'A just path is available to you. Gautam, be not negligent even for a moment.'
A day will come when people will say —
छुप गये वो साजे-हस्ती छेड़कर
अब तो बस आवाज ही आवाज है
Those who played the instrument of existence have withdrawn it;
now there is only echo upon echo.
One day the vina will break. Nothing in this world is forever. Mahavira will be gone. Buddha will be gone.
छुप गये वो साजे-हस्ती छेड़कर
अब तो बस आवाज ही आवाज है
Then the sound echoes on for centuries. People are so unconscious that when the music plays, they sit insensate. When the vina is lost and only reverberation remains; when the Shasta is lost and only shastra remains — then people labor their heads, argue and debate, think and ponder greatly.
सारी महफिल जिसपे झूम उठी 'मज़ाज़'
वो तो आवाजे-शिकस्ते-साज है
When the vina breaks, then do the sleepers startle and rise. Mazaz's lines are lovely —
सारी महफिल जिसपे झूम उठी 'मज़ाज़'
वो तो आवाजे-शिकस्ते-साज है
It is the sound of the broken instrument, O mad ones, over which the whole gathering has swayed! When Mahavira dies, then you awaken. When Mahavira departs, then you shout. It has been so with all Mahaviras. It is the same even today. There is not much difference in man. Clothes have changed. The style of houses has changed. On roads, bullock-carts have become cars. In the sky, instead of birds, airplanes fly. Man's feet do not touch earth — he walks upon the moon and stars. But in man, no difference. The same will continue.
I tell you the same: In the times to come people will say, 'Today the Jina is not seen; and the guides are not of one mind.' But today, a just path is available to you. Gautam, be not negligent even for a moment.
'In truth, bhava — inner feeling — is the first or primary linga. Material linga is not the ultimate. For bhava alone, says the Jina, is the cause of virtue and of fault.'
Mahavira says: bhava is the real matter. Action is only its shadow. What happens in bhava will inevitably come into action. The reverse is not necessarily true: what happens in action may not come into bhava. But what comes into bhava will certainly come into action — this is inescapable. Therefore bhava is primary, first, fundamental. People worry little about bhava; they worry too much about dravya — the outer. Understand —
If giving arises in the heart, you will be able to give things to people; but if the capacity to give arises within, if the joy of sharing arises, the rasa of distributing — then things are secondary; you will give. There is no other necessity. That will follow of itself. But it can happen that you go on distributing things and the feeling to give is not there at all. Do not take the distribution of things as everything. It is secondary. Second-rate.
जिसमें खुलूसे-फिक्र न हो, वह सुखन फिजूल
जिसमें न दिल हो शरीक उस लय में कुछ भी नहीं
The speech in which there is no purity of thought is empty.
The rhythm in which the heart does not participate is nothing at all.
You can sing a song — but if the heart does not join, that rhythm is nothing.
जिसमें खुलूसे-फिक्र न हो, वह सुखन फिजूल
And in which there is no depth of reflection, of meditation — that poetry has no worth. You can compose verse. It will be rhyming — but until you pour life into it, it will have no life. Poetry is not made of words, nor of syllables, nor of the rules of meter. Poetry is made by pouring life into it. Hence sometimes those who poured their life in, though knowing nothing of poetic rules — they became eternal.
Kabir knew nothing of poetic rules. Yet his voice will remain eternal. He poured his heart. He poured the essence. Why worry about the secondary? Whether the syllables were perfect or not; whether the meter's rules were fulfilled or not — life was poured. Bhava is first. Bhava, says the Jina — Mahavira — is the cause of virtue and fault.
'For the purification of bhavas, external possessions are renounced. One in whose within the craving for possession remains — his outer renunciation is futile.'
Even if outer renunciation is undertaken, do it only with this remembrance — that it becomes a means for inner renunciation.
भावविसुद्धिणिमित्तं, बाहिरगंथस्स कीरए चाओ।
बाहिरचाओ विहलो, अब्भंतरगंथजुत्तस्स।।
Let it become a means — that is all. Let it be a pretext. But let the inner remain the essential. People renounce outwardly but do not renounce inwardly. They even clutch the renunciation. Even renunciation becomes a pride — 'I renounced millions.'
'He who is free of attachment to body and suchlike, who is entirely free of the kashayas of pride and the rest, and who abides in his own Atman — he alone is sadhu in the sense of bhava-lingi.'
Mahavira has spoken of two forms of sadhu — dravya-lingi and bhava-lingi. Dravya-lingi is one who has left wealth — but has not left grasping. Bhava-lingi is one who has left wealth because he has left grasping. He has left the very clutch. Otherwise the mind is very cunning. It drops one thing and catches another — the grasp remains. Drop wealth, grasp religion. Leave the house, grasp sannyas. Drop the household, grasp the temple.
One thing dropped, another picked up — the fist remains clenched. Pebbles of one color dropped — of another color picked up. Money dropped — knowledge grasped. Mahavira says: drop the grasp. Keep the fist open. Truth is like the sky. If you clench your fist, it is outside. Open the fist — it is within. The whole sky rests upon the open hand. The closed hand is empty — nothing in it.
There is a proverb: people say, 'A closed fist is worth a lakh.' A closed fist is worth dust — forget a lakh! Not even dust. But people say 'a closed fist is worth a lakh' for a reason. They mean: as long as it remains closed, people can remain under the illusion that there is something inside. Hence the clever keep a closed fist. They themselves fear to open it — lest they find there is nothing. So long as it remains closed, they themselves keep faith: 'There is much.' As long as it is not seen, it is there! Hence people do not open their eyes — otherwise dreams will break. The world of dreams will shatter.
देहादिसंगहिओ, माणकसाएहिं सयलपरिचत्तो।
अप्पा अप्पमि रओ, स भावलिंगी हवे साहू।।
The bhava-lingi alone is the sadhu. The dravya-lingi is not a sadhu — he only appears like one. And what is the difference between dravya-linga and bhava-linga? It is only this: the bhava-lingi has transformed the inner — by awakening. The dravya-lingi has changed the outer — while asleep.
इक दीया जला कि जल उठी सुबह
इक दीया बुझा कि रात हो गयी
एक शह लगी कि ढह गया किला
एक शह लगी कि मात हो गयी
इक हवा चली कि खिल उठा चमन
इक हवा चली कि सब उजड़ गया
एक पग उठा कि राह मिल गयी
एक पग उठा कि पथ बिछुड़ गया
The difference is very slight — a single step!
इक दीया जला कि जल उठी सुबह
If the lamp of awakening is lit, morning happens. Just light one lamp of awakening — in Mahavira's language, of apramad, of awareness, of discrimination. Light one lamp, that is all. Let consciousness arise within; let your sitting and rising become suffused with wakefulness — everything will change. And if that one lamp is extinguished, then however many means you adopt — leave home and go to the Himalayas, drop clothes and become naked, leave wealth and stand as a beggar on the street — nothing will change. You will remain you. There is only one revolution in life — the revolution of the inner light being lit. All other revolutions are deceits.
इक दीया जला कि जल उठी सुबह
इक दीया बुझा कि रात हो गयी
Just one lamp is the difference between you and Mahavira. Therefore do not be frightened. Only one lamp is the difference between a dark room and a radiant room. Between night and morning — only one lamp.
एक शह लगी कि ढह गया किला
एक शह लगी कि मात हो गयी
इक हवा चली कि खिल उठा चमन
इक हवा चली कि सब उजड़ गया
एक पग उठा कि राह मिल गयी
एक पग उठा कि पथ बिछुड़ गया
Light that one lamp! Pour all your energy into that one lamp! Pour your whole life into that one lamp! If that one lamp is lit — all is attained. If that one lamp is not lit, even if you gain the empire of the whole world, you will leave as a beggar, empty-handed. You will die empty.
If you are to go full, flowering, blossoming — light that one lamp. I call it the lamp of meditation; Mahavira calls it the lamp of apramad. It is the same. Buddha calls it samyak-smriti. Patanjali calls it Samadhi. Krishnamurti calls it awareness. Call it alertness, call it mindfulness. Kabir calls it surati, smriti. Call it what you will — you choose the name — just keep one thing in mind: that there is flame in the lamp. The name can be anything.
इक दीया जला कि जल उठी सुबह
इक दीया बुझा कि रात हो गयी।
Enough for today.