Jin Sutra #42

Ordinarily, a human being remains absorbed in brooding over the pleasures of the senses. There are five senses; therefore Mahavira says, there are only five subjects for man's broodings.

'Leaving aside the objects of the senses and the five types of mental occupation, become absorbed only in the act of walking; giving that the primary importance, walk usefully, wakefully.'

Rarely do we do what we do, with our whole mind. We do what we do, mechanically. The mind is doing a thousand other things. You are walking on the road—the body is on the road, the mind, who knows where. Maybe at home, maybe at the shop, maybe in the temple, but one thing is certain: it will not be where you are. The day the mind is where you are, that very day the dawn of self-knowing begins. Mind and body being together—at one place, in one time—this is meditation. Mind and body go on moving separately. And until the two meet, you will not come to know that which is beyond both.

Mahavira puts the emphasis on walking—because his monk is a wanderer, a parivrajaka. He moves from one village to another. Mahavira said, let the monk not stop. This was a symbol. People clutched at the symbol in a very dead way. The symbol was: as the river flows on, so too the monk should flow on—do not stop anywhere, do not fix the mind anywhere, do not make a pool, do not break the current—keep the current alive.

The point was very deep; it was caught at very superficially. A Jain monk still walks, changes one village for another. But where is the inner flow? Inside, everything is inert, congealed. Where is the inner movement? And Mahavira has said: movement is dharma; stagnation is adharma.

No one more revolutionary than Mahavira has appeared in the world of religion. No one else has said: stagnation is adharma and movement is dharma. Keep moving. Do not stop. To stop is to create attachment, to form bondage. To stop is to give an object great importance—so great that it builds a prison for you. You are no longer free—you are fettered. This did not mean a monk should never rest his body; it meant a monk's consciousness should not halt anywhere. So the Jain monk still walks—but the mind? Long since bound, in a thousand chains.

Therefore Mahavira tells his monks—while walking, walk usefully. Walking alone is not enough. Movement alone is not enough. If there is sheer movement without discernment behind it, movement will scatter you. Look—In the East, ponds of consciousness have formed. Tradition, convention, the past—like stones—sit heavily upon the chest. Ponds... no flow toward the ocean.

Yet in one sense people in the East look more quiet than in the West. Poor, deprived, humiliated, suffering—and still more quiet. No conveniences, little comfort—perhaps not enough food, clothing, shelter—and yet compared to the West, less restless.

In the West the emphasis is on speed. On progress. Run, compete—life is running away. Do not stop. Keep racing. Speed gathers new developments day by day. The result is that the West is on the verge of madness. There is wealth, there is convenience—speed brings comforts, brings wealth, brings prosperity, brings science; in every direction, abundance has grown—yet inwardly man, running and running, is exhausted, shattered. Running, he has even forgotten who he is. Running, he has forgotten where he is going. Only running remains—destination is lost in the race. In the scramble, the remembrance of the soul is gone.

There is much running. But is this what Mahavira means by movement? The East is becoming dead; the West, deranged. Mahavira says: do not become a stagnant puddle. But do not become a crazed storm either. Move, with discernment. Movement + discernment. Movement + usefulness. Movement + consciousness. Then you will neither rot like a puddle nor go insane like the racer. You will become neither a corpse nor a whirlwind. Between the two, the glory of your life will descend. To attain that balance is restraint.

Mahavira says: there are five objects of the senses, therefore there are five kinds of thought in the mind. You must discover which sense you brood upon excessively. Some brood only upon food; some upon form; some savor voice, music, sound—they brood upon that. Some brood upon touch, upon embrace, upon kissing.

If you watch carefully, you will catch which sense dominates your brooding. Walking, sitting, rising, sleeping—you circle back again and again to that one sense. The food-addict keeps thinking only of food.

It is said of Nero that he was so mad about food that he would fall asleep at night while eating—and upon waking would demand food again. One cannot eat that much; food has a limit, a need. So he kept physicians at hand: he would eat, they would promptly induce vomiting, so he could eat again. If the stomach is full, how will you eat? So—vomit! No man has been as mad as Nero. And yet, you will find a little Nero hidden within you. When the belly is full and still you go on eating—a little Nero is alive in you. Nero is an exaggeration; you too are moving in the same direction.

When the belly is full, and still you sit brooding on food—on past feasts or future possibilities—you too are unwell. Food is the work of the belly. If so much shadow of food falls upon your stream of thought, something is diseased. Somewhere you have missed the natural balance; your axle has loosened, your wheel has begun to wobble. Thought beyond what is needed is harmful. Thought then becomes a wound.

And look at the irony: the body's need can be fulfilled, but the wound that thought makes is never fulfilled. Food can be satisfied; taste never is. Food fills the body in a certain measure; taste never reaches a measure that can satisfy the mind.

Eyes grow tired of sipping honey—
yet the heart still thirsts!
There is a thirst that never ends—not by drinking, not by eating, not by indulging...
Eyes grow tired of sipping honey—
yet the heart still thirsts!
In life there is honey; in honey, song;
in song, notes; in notes, vibration;
in vibration, breath; in breath, flavor;
in flavor, poison; in poison, burning;
in burning, fire; in fire, heat;
in heat, love; in love, pain;
in pain, life; in life, thirst;
in thirst, satiation; a water of contentment—
and that contentment, only momentary—
a sweet, sweet fatigue of the world...
yet the heart still thirsts!

One step leads to the next; the second leads to the third; the circle grows wider and wider.

But the original thirst remains untouched—because it no longer belongs to the body's need; it has tied itself to the mind's endless hunger, endless longing. The moment a thirst is yoked to the horizon of mind, it moves outside the limits of satiation. It becomes insatiable.

So Mahavira tells his monk: leaving aside all the objects of the senses, their brooding, their pondering—if you are walking, just walk. Keep only this in your awareness—usefully. Upayoga is Mahavira's own technical word. Upayoga means: consciously, yoked, joined to yoga. Upayoga means: walk yoked to yoga—let the inner lamp not flicker. Let there be an effortless remembrance within: I am walking, I am walking.

Mahavira gives walking only as an example. Gradually, join the same remembrance to all actions. Join the inner lamp to every act. While eating, let the awareness remain: I am eating. Then you will not be able to overeat. You will be astonished—one only overeats when one is not aware. Friends arrive; in their merriment, in talk, your unconsciousness increases—you eat more. You put on the radio and sit to eat—you eat more. Because the remembrance of eating is lost; the mind is with the radio, the body, like a machine, keeps stuffing food within. Wherever you bring awareness, you will find the moment the need is met, the action stops. It does not go even a fraction beyond need. Not only is this spiritually significant; it is vital for health.

Many come to me and say: we overeat—what to do? I tell them: eat with awareness. No dieting will truly work. For a day or two you can force a diet—and then what? You will pounce back upon food with double force. Unless the fundamental mechanism of mind changes, what difference that you fast a few days? You will slip back into the old groove. Change the root. The root means: when you eat, eat with awareness—you have changed the root.

Many outcomes will follow. First, you will not be able to overeat. Awareness will inform you—the body is full. The body is already giving signals—you are asleep, therefore you do not receive them. The body keeps sending telegrams: enough, stop. But the one who could stop is unconscious. He does not get the message. Gradually the degree of unconsciousness becomes so great that even the tap of the body's signals is not felt.

Eat with awareness. While eating—only eat. In that time, do not think of the market, of business, politics—or even religion. Do not think at all. Let your entire upayoga, your entire sensing, be wholly engaged in the simple act of eating. Then, first, as the body signals the moment to stop—you will hear it. Second, if you eat with awareness, you will chew more. In unconsciousness, one just shoves things in. When you do not chew properly, dissatisfaction remains. Flavor does not arise. The body gets filled, but the life-breath does not. Food enters the body, but is not digested; it will not become flesh and marrow. So even the body's need remains unmet: you fill in excess, and yet the body's need is not fulfilled—you miss in two ways.

Hence all the scriptures say: while eating, do not talk—speech distracts and depletes you. While eating, only eat. While eating, regard food as Brahman.

Therefore the Upanishads say: 'Annam Brahma.' And at least show this much reverence to Brahman—that you allow it to enter your being with awareness.

So all religions say: before eating, pray; remember the Lord. Bathe, meditate, then go to food—so that you remain awake. Awake, you will not overeat. Awake, what you eat will satisfy. Awake, what you eat will be chewed, digested, become blood, flesh, marrow; the body's need fulfilled. And food is the body's need, not the mind's.

Eating awake, you will witness a revolution: slowly, desire uproots itself from taste. Value shifts from taste to health. The life-giving quality of food becomes more precious than taste. Then you will eat that which is required by the body's nature, by its demand. You will avoid the artificial and turn toward the natural.

Mahavira says: join the act of upayoga to every action. Bathe—usefully. Listen—usefully. As you are listening to me now. There is only one right way to listen; there are many wrong ways. The right way is only this: when you are listening—only listen, do not think. When you are listening—become only ears. Let your whole body become a receiving instrument. Think later. Do not attempt two acts at once. Now—when awareness is not yet settled in one, how will you settle it in two? Gain it in one—then it can be extended to two, even to three; then more intricate upayoga can be given.

Begin with small acts. Walking is a very small act. You are walking on the road—nothing much to do. In that moment, keep just this awareness: walking is happening. When I say this, I do not mean you should repeat inside, 'I am walking, I am walking.' If you do that, you will be caught by words and miss again. By 'walk awake' I mean only this: let no thinking run inside. Let the mind be a clear mirror—only the shadow of walking reflected; just the sense of walking—do not walk in a swoon.

Stand sometime by the roadside and watch how unconsciously people walk. As if in sleep—drowsy, sluggish. Some move their lips—no one beside them, yet they are talking. Some make gestures with their hands; nod 'yes' to some invisible companion, shake the head 'no.' They are not walking alone—they are doing many things. Catch yourself again and again. Let this thief—the swoon—be caught. And install in its place a sentinel of upayoga. Then all becomes possible. This is the beginning.

'Become absorbed in the act of walking; giving it the primary importance, walk usefully.'

When we walk, we are doing something else. When we are doing something else, we may begin thinking about walking. Our mind is in great disarray.

Sometimes, standing on the shore, we long to clash with the storms—
sometimes, amidst the storm, we fret that the shore is not found.

Where you are, you are not; where you are not, you are. Catch it now. Are you here? Entirely here? Immersed in this very moment? Or is the mind also going elsewhere? If you begin to think about what I am saying—you have missed. Thinking means you have gone either into the past—you have heard, read, thought before; you begin matching my words with your store of ideas: Is he right? Does it fit me? Or you jump ahead. I say—walk awake; you think—good, from tomorrow morning I will walk awake. You have missed again. You have not heard awake—how will you walk awake?

Watch how the mind slips away like quicksilver. Catch it. If you follow it silently, lovingly, a moment comes when the mind halts in the moment—still. The Gita calls that the supreme state. When, bit by bit, a moment comes and not even a quiver remains—sthitaprajña—intelligence is at rest. Mahavira calls that upayoga.

'Keeping equal regard for straw and gold, for foe and friend—that is Samayik.'

When the art of upayoga is learned, then shift its application from outer small things to the inner.

'In straw and gold'—do not sway. Do not say, gold is valuable, clay is nothing. Do not tremble before gold and clay. Say simply—this is gold, this is earth. In the ultimate sense, earth or gold—both are equal. We shall depart; all will remain. It was there before us; it will be there after us. Why form attachment to that which will be left behind? To relate to what will be lost is to sow the seeds of sorrow—when it goes, there will be pain. Let there be equal regard in straw and gold, in dirt and gold, in refuse and gold.

'In enemy and friend'—who is one's own, who is other? We came alone, we go alone. Empty-handed we came, empty-handed we go. We brought no companions, we will take none. Two days' fair. A chance meeting of river and boat. Someone you named 'friend'; another, 'enemy.' Someone 'mine,' someone 'not mine.' All were strangers. All are strangers. You do not know yourself—how will you know another? When self-recognition has not happened yet—forget others. Some strangers you call known; some you call unknown—but all are strangers. Who do you really know?

How then do we decide who is friend, who is foe? The one whose cravings match ours—friend. The one who obstructs our cravings—foe. The one who aids us in our run after wealth—friend. The one who hinders our ambition—enemy. The one who supports us—friend; the one who does not—enemy. But all this support is for cravings. The cravings themselves are futile; their race is futile.

So Mahavira says: 'Equal regard in straw and gold, in enemy and friend—that is Samayik.' A profound definition of meditation—the ultimate definition: equanimity is Samayik. Symmetry, balance, restraint; not swinging between two extremes—standing in the middle. Neither left nor right—established in the center—that is Samayik. Let neither love nor hate possess you; neither birth nor death bind you. Do not say to anyone 'come,' do not say to anyone 'go.' Let there be neither welcome nor insult—such a state Mahavira calls Samayik.

Useless excuses, all delaying is vain—
The time to leave has come—leave you must.
Cry, scream if you will—
I must strike my tent today.
Yesterday I played in the lanes of buds and bees—
Today let me revel in the cremation ground.
Yesterday I smiled upon someone's eyelids—
Today let me smile seated upon the pyre.

In a life where death is hiding; where the stakes cannot be firmly fixed—one side barely hammered when the other side begins to loosen. The marketplace not yet full and evening descends. Where is union possible? The journey of separation begins even before meeting happens.

Useless excuses, all delaying is vain—
The time to leave has come—leave you must.
Cry, scream if you will—
I must strike my tent today.

Not a single moment of abiding here! Build, unbuild; set, uproot; open, close. In this little, fleeting arrangement we make friends and enemies; we attach and detach; we hoard money and throw out trash. And then one day we fall—and what we guarded also lies there. Mahavira says: keep this awareness—then you will not be caught, not ensnared, not construct prisons—you will remain free. Awareness is freedom. To see things as they are—is freedom.

Gold is gold, clay is clay—but neither is yours. Friend, enemy—who is yours? Let friendship drop from friends; let enmity drop from enemies. Know this truth: if you become your own, that is enough. If you become your own friend, that suffices. Do not remain your own enemy—that suffices.

Mahavira said: the Atman alone is its own friend; the Atman alone is its own enemy. If it is ascending—friend; if descending—enemy. If it lifts you to the sky—friend; if it throws you into nether, into dark lanes, into hells—enemy. Do not seek friend and enemy outside. Within—make friendship with the Atman. Only that friendship will serve—for only that will go with you. It has always been with you; it will always be with you. That which is always-with—that alone is the Atman.

Therefore, do not be tormented by the momentary—remember the eternal. For the one whose remembrance rests upon the eternal, Samayik settles by itself. Those things that created tensions will become meaningless. If someone told you—this evening you will die; then, if someone abuses you, you would perhaps not even reply. You would say—what use is reply; I go. You might even ask forgiveness: forgive my faults; something in me has erred, that you abuse me. My time is up; this evening I leave—what court to set up now! But you do not know evening is death—you live as if you will remain forever. You fight over inches of land, over pennies of wealth, over petty posts, create a thousand disturbances—forgetting you stand in a fair, in a dharmashala, not a home; you stay the night, you go in the morning. Mahavira says: when this understanding becomes rooted—Samayik.

Krishna has said: equanimity is yoga—samatvam yoga ucyate. Mahavira says: equanimity is Samayik. The same thing—Samayik means meditation, immersion in the Atman.

Consider—
As long as you are entangled without, you cannot dive within. Make a friend outside—you are entangled outside. Make an enemy outside—you are entangled outside. Think of gaining status outside—you are entangled. Think of gaining wealth—you are entangled. For the one who wishes to go within, outside entanglements must be kept to a minimum. One who clings to the shore—how will he drift into midstream? One who will not leave this shore—how will he reach the other? If the outward is held too tightly, the attempt to go within becomes futile.

Many come to me and say—they want to meditate, they even try—but nothing happens. They want to dive into midstream, to take the plunge—but I see them clinging to chains on the banks. There is a desire to enter midstream, but no courage and understanding to leave the shore. How will meditation happen? Meditation is the inner journey. It is Samayik.

So Mahavira says: loosen your hands a little from the outside—empty them. Close the eyes a little to the outside. If there is a friend outside, he will be remembered; if there is an enemy, he will be remembered. Note well: friends do not bind alone, foes bind too. Often more than friends, enemies are remembered. One you love, you may forget; one you hate—you cannot forget. Flowers may be forgotten; how to forget thorns? They prick. One's own you can forget; how to forget the enemy? Wealth and position pull the mind outward. And you wish to go within.

People say they are very restless, they want peace. They never think: unless the causes of restlessness are removed, peace does not rain down from heaven. Peace comes to one who has withdrawn his hands from the causes of unrest. Those causes lie in choosing between outer opposites.

Krishnamurti says: choiceless awareness. That is Mahavira's Samayik—awareness without choice, nirvikalpa awakenedness. Neither this is mine, nor that is mine—neither this, nor that. Then the hands loosen from the outside; then you move within; then you slide within. Then, even if you wished to stop—you could not. Like slipping down a smooth slope. Once the chains drop from your hands... But you have taken the chains as ornaments; you take pride in them. You believe chains are the very essence of life—How big the house! What heaps of gold! What a high chair! You have taken the prison for a palace—how will you let go? First, empty your hands of the outer a little.

'Equal regard in straw and gold, in enemy and friend—that is Samayik.'

'Equanimity is Samayik—regarding straw and gold, enemy and friend alike; a mind without attachment, abandoning improper tendencies—that is Samayik.'

'A mind devoid of raga-dvesha and abhishvanga, established in right tendency—that mind is Samayik.'

'Free of raga and dvesha'—no 'mine' and 'not-mine'; no enchantment for anyone, no anger toward anyone.

'A mind free of raga and dvesha, free of clinging, established in right tendency—that is Samayik.' Not a mind going outward—but inward—that is Samayik. Note—Mahavira's very significant word here: pravritti-pradhana chitta. There is a tendency outward—worldward; that is also pravritti. Mahavira says: the coming within is also pravritti—a journey requiring energy, a creative force.

Hence Mahavira does not call the inward movement nivritti; he also calls it pravritti. Outward is pravritti; inward too. The one who has reached—he alone attains nivritti. The sannyasin is not nivritta—he is pravritta, newly so. The direction differs; the goal differs, but the arrow is still upon the bowstring. The Siddha is nivritta—who has arrived, who goes nowhere, who has found his center.

Ordinarily we call sannyasins 'nivritta'—that is wrong. A sannyasin is not nivritta. He has discovered a new pravritti—a new flow of energy, a new pilgrimage, a new goal for the feet, a new horizon. No longer a longing for wealth or position—now the longing is to find oneself. But longing it still is. Therefore Mahavira says: until you become a Siddha—do not stop, keep moving. A moment must come when the outer drops, and the inner too—because outer and inner are two faces of one coin. When the outer drops completely, the inner too drops completely; as long as something inner remains, something outer will linger, hidden. When both drop—the coin falls from the hand.

Mahavira spoke of three forms of the self: bahiratma—pravritti toward the world; antaratma—pravritti toward oneself; and Paramatma—absence of pravritti, nivritti. Only the Paramatma is nivritta. Mahavira's devotees called him Bhagwan. In Mahavira's philosophy there is no place for a Creator-God. The universe is beginningless; none made it. No owner, no Lord, no controller. Then how did his devotees call him Bhagwan—and how did he not deny them? Because in Mahavira's vision, Bhagwan means the supreme state of nivritti. All pravritti gone—wealth dropped—and meditation too dropped; position dropped—the outer race dropped—and the inner race too—race itself gone. One fully merged in his own nature—Siddhahood. Nowhere to go, nothing to gain—what had to be gained is gained; one has dissolved in his own swabhava. This supreme state Mahavira called Bhagavatta. That is nivritti.

Ordinarily we only brood upon the outer; we have not even begun to brood upon the inner—so it will seem beyond understanding that a state comes where even the inner is dropped. We have not dropped the outer yet—how will meditation drop? We still cannot leave stones and clay—how will we leave dhyana? Dhyana has not even come—how to speak of leaving it? But the perfection of dhyana is when dhyana itself becomes useless.

Dhyana is meaningful only as long as pravritti remains. Dhyana is medicine. The English word meditation shares its root with medicine. Dhyana is medicine. As long as one is ill, medicine is needed. When healthy—medicine drops. If after health medicine continues, medicine becomes the illness. It must be left. Dhyana is to help you drop the outer race. When the outer is wholly dropped—why continue the inner journey? When the illness is gone, the medicine goes.

So remember: the final state of dhyana, which Patanjali calls Samadhi—that ultimate state includes the abandonment of dhyana. The final state of sannyas includes the abandonment of sannyas. The final state of non-attachment includes the abandonment of non-attachment. All these are means; with the arrival of the end, means are dropped.

There are two kinds of people. Some say—if one must drop dhyana, why practice it? Others say—having practiced with such effort across births, we will not drop it. Both are wrong. Like saying—we will climb the ladder and never leave it. But the ladder is to be left. Climb—and leave. And if you stop on the ladder, you never reach the roof. Even on the last rung, if you stop—you still fail to reach. You must leave the ladder. It is to be passed through. Others, full of argument, say—if it must be left, why bother climbing? We will stay below—we have already left!

Krishnamurti has continually said: meditation is useless. He is perfectly right. But perhaps those to whom he says it—are not ready. First, give them meditation; first, make them taste it—free them from the outer—set them upon the inward journey—give them inward pravritti. Then, one day, when inward pravritti ripens—when the taste of the inner comes, the outer forgotten—then tell them, shock them: now leave this too. For this too is still outer—though inner, still outer. You are beyond even this. You are only the witness. The one who knows the delight of meditation—that one you are. Meditation is not you.

One takes pleasure in sex—his error? He takes the witness to be the enjoyer. Another takes pleasure in Samadhi—his error? The same. He too takes the witness to be the enjoyer. Whether sex or Samadhi—you are beyond both. Your very being is transcendence. Whether wealth or meditation, position or Paramatma—you are ever beyond. Your being is transcendent—bhavatita, vicharatita. You are the sakshi, the witness. Whatever you see—you are other than it. Whatever becomes the seen is your object—you are the seer.

Hence no experience is your nature. All experiences are scenes for you. Lightning flashing in the sky—or the inner lightnings of deep meditation—equal. Flowers outside—or the thousand-petalled lotus blooming at Sahasrara inside—one and the same. I am not saying, do not attain Sahasrara. I am saying: compared to outer flowers, the inner flower is far more precious—leave the outer for the hope of the inner. The day the inner blooms, the last thing can also be said: drop this too. There is yet one more—beyond even this—and that you are: the one who is always beyond; whose nature is beyondness—that you are.

So Mahavira calls even dhyana and Samayik 'pravritti.' Nivritti is when even dhyana is renounced. Which means—the worldly is pravritta, and the sannyasin too is pravritta. Directions differ, goals differ—but both ride the horse of energy; both are going somewhere; both have a goal; the arrow is upon the string, not yet back in the quiver. We burn ourselves brooding on the outer. Mahavira says—one day give up even brooding on the inner. We burn thinking of the pleasures of the senses—

Only this night remains—
Tomorrow I must set out on the journey.
Life waits with mouth agape—
Life is drenched in dust and blood.
Flame in the eyes, a harsh hot wind—
Let me make myself happy for a moment—
Only this night remains—
Tomorrow I must set out on the journey.

Even while dying man thinks—tomorrow I must go.

Let me be happy for a few moments more—
A little more taste, a little more pleasure—
A little longer drowned in dreams—
A little longer seduced by this illusion of flavor—
A little longer let maya's song and dance continue—

Only this night remains—
Tomorrow I must set out on the journey.

One more cup of maddening wine—
The joy of talk, the warmth of embrace—
Kisses so fiery—
They burn the harvest of my awareness—
The soul lies cold—let me warm it a little—
Only this night remains—
Tomorrow I must set out on the journey.

Till the last breath such brooding goes on.

Seeing life as momentary, man does not awaken; he clutches it tighter. He says: tomorrow it will be snatched; today let me enjoy. Tomorrow it will be taken; today let me indulge. He does not consider: what is to be snatched is already snatched. It is already gone—it was never gained. It was only a dream. That which breaks in the morning is a dream. Close your eyes a little longer—you will see—is there any substance? Those with a touch of intelligence say: what will break by morning, I leave now. What will be lost tomorrow, I drop today. Therefore the wise die while alive. They say: if death must happen tomorrow, we die today. Let the pride of 'I am' dissolve now. That is the meaning of sannyas—dying while alive. Knowing: if death will be, let it be—we will now live as if we are not. We will get up, sit, walk—but the boast of being will not be maintained. Death would remove it anyway—why not remove it ourselves?

And know: the one who removes that arrogance himself—before him death is defeated. Then there remains nothing for death to remove. Death kills the worldly, not the sannyasin. The worldly dies a thousand deaths. The sannyasin dies once. The worldly is killed by force; the sannyasin dies voluntarily—he lays life aside once and for all: what must be snatched tomorrow, I drop today. Sannyas is a death willingly embraced.

'He who, abandoning the act of utterance, contemplates the soul in vitaraga, to him the supreme Samadhi, the Samayik, happens.'

This aphorism is very important.

'Abandoning the act of utterance...'

Mahavira emphasized silence as no one else has. All emphasize it, for silence is so vital none can ignore it; but none placed it at the very center as Mahavira did. Therefore he called his renunciate 'muni'—one who has become silent. Buddha called his renunciate 'bhikshu.' The Hindus called theirs 'swami.' Different emphases. The Hindus said: swami—the knower of the self is his own master. Buddha said: bhikshu—the one who has dropped ego utterly—so utterly he stands with a begging bowl—how can he be swami? He withdrew all proclamations, said: I am nothing. That is bhikshu.

Mahavira called his renunciate 'muni'—one who has become silent; who has abandoned the act of utterance. Why such emphasis on silence? Because man's most significant faculty is speech—language, the capacity to speak. Animals, birds, plants—they are—but have no language. They cannot speak. Therefore they are solitary, they have no society. Society requires language. Man has society because man can speak. Without speaking how will you connect? When you speak, bridges arise. Language is the bridge between individuals; it builds society, community.

Mahavira said: be silent. Meaning—break all bridges to others. Speech is the bridge. Through speech you are linked—break it—be alone. The moment speech is dropped, man becomes alone, even if he stands in the marketplace. If speech continues, even on a mountain you are not alone. You will talk to imaginary friends, to imaginary foes—society continues, imagined or not. Man is not alone. In the midst of the marketplace—fall silent—and society disappears in that very instant. Not crowd, but speech creates society.

So Mahavira said: why run to the jungle? Run into yourself. Cease going to the other—language is the way we go to the other. Break language—be absorbed in your own being. Mahavira remained silent for twelve years. What did he do? He severed every thread that tied him to society. He was a supreme rebel. In every way he separated himself from society, for he saw—as you are linked to society, you are severed from yourself.

Simple arithmetic: sever from society—you link with yourself. Then Mahavira returned to society, to speak, to explain—but only after twelve years of silence. By then, no possibility remained of being re-bound. He had gained absolute aloneness, kevalya—recognition of his solitude. Then he spoke. No danger now. Language remained only an instrument. For you, language is not an instrument; it is your occupation. Without talking you grow nervous. If no one will listen, you become restless.

Psychologists say: if a man is kept solitary for three weeks, in the first week he talks within; in the second week he begins to talk aloud—alone; by the third, he forgets he is alone—he raises figures of imagination and becomes engaged in conversations.

In certain regimes, to extract confession they do not torture—they isolate prisoners in dark cells—leave them alone. Tapes record whatever they utter in solitude. Three, four weeks—and they themselves begin to spill. There is a limit.

Have you noticed? If someone tells you a secret and says, do not tell—then you are in trouble. His warning becomes a provocation to tell. Man takes in and gives out through language. To hold within is difficult. You speak what has entered from outside. It grows heavy. You read the morning paper—then you must tell others what you read. Until you tell someone, you do not feel at ease. This alien element—what comes from outside—has to be thrown out again. It distorts your nature. The moment it is thrown out—you feel light. That is why a man feels relief after pouring out his heart. In the West, no one is ready to listen; who has time? Professional listeners have arisen—the psychologists. Their business is to listen, or at least to give the impression they are listening. A man pours out his nonsense for an hour and feels lighter—and pays good money for it. Many remain in therapy for years. One therapist left, another caught—because the relief of a listening ear is such a delight.

Mahavira said—if language has become the basis of your busyness, then it is a disease. Be silent.

'He who, abandoning the act of utterance, contemplates the soul in vitaraga—that one attains supreme Samadhi, or Samayik.'

Keep this in mind.

At least two to four hours a day live in silence. Make it a rule. Give twenty hours to the world; keep four for yourself. If four seems much, begin with one. In that one hour—be utterly silent. At first the lips are easy to still; the inner waves are not. But with witnessing—watch the waves, watch, watch. Slowly the movement of thought slows. At times, gaps arise—empty spaces. From those gaps, the juice begins to flow. From those gaps you receive your first glimpse of the self. The glimpse will be like this: clouds everywhere in rain—and sometimes the sun peeks out for a moment, a shower of rays—and hides again. But once the glimpse begins, once the inner flute is heard, the most important in life has happened.

Ornaments, adornment?
Drop and run from all the trinkets—
The flute of rasa calls.
By what savor moistened so suddenly—
The koel’s note in the bakul grove?
In moonlight, swelling on all sides—
What sweet intoxication rises?
The moon longs to fall to earth—
Night grows slack in loosened veils;
Feet tremble, cannot be steadied—
Even blind Cupid dances upon buds!
Sulking, the kohl-wand near the eye—
All at once the core begins to dance—
The flute of rasa has called.
Ornaments, adornment?
Drop and run from all the trinkets—
The flute of rasa calls.
Open your arms for the embrace—
He stands at the confluence, your very life—
You cling to bangles and vermilion—
And the flute still calls.
In the eternal great bliss today—
Flute and bangles become one.
The unconscious world is swept away—
The flute of rasa calls.
Ornaments, adornment?
Drop and run from all the trinkets—
The flute of rasa calls.

Once the ray of the inner is felt—once the flute is heard—the invitation to the rasa has arrived. The remembrance of the Beloved has come. He sits within you—calling forever. But you are so busy with others—in speech, in quarrel, in making friends and enemies; so busy outside—that the call of the inner flute is not heard.

Mahavira said: become silent—and you will taste your own music for the first time. Be quiet. In that quiet, the anahata begins—the soundless sound. A tone without tone rises from within you—from the deepest depths of your consciousness it reaches you. Silence is the essential condition. Silence of the lips, of the throat, and slowly—silence of thought at every layer. Then you become muni. Muni has nothing to do with outer behavior; it is an inner state—silence. And only he who has attained silence has the right to speak. One who has not known silence only takes in outer garbage and throws it back out—his speaking is like vomiting. One who has attained silence has something to give. Something full—seeking to overflow. A wealth of bliss—to pour into your lap.

Mahavira was silent twelve years. Jesus—whenever he spoke, afterward he would retreat to the mountain, to be silent. Whenever he uttered something vital, he would immediately go. He would leave even his friends and say—do not come yet. Let me go alone. What did Jesus do in that aloneness? When the first ayah of the Quran descended upon Mohammed—he had been silent for forty days. In that silence, the first descent happened.

Whatever has descended in silence—that alone is scripture. What is not born of silence—is not scripture; it is only a book. Words that have been uttered out of silence—steeped in silence—only those are true teaching. Words not steeped in silence are sickly. Healthy are those soaked in silence. And if you listen attentively, you will instantly know—has this word arisen soaked in silence or not? Your heart will testify. For the more shunyata a word carries, if you listen quietly, the word may be forgotten—but shunyata will remain yours. The emptiness spreads over your life and renews you.

In dhyana there is vision. In silence there is vision. In quietude there is realization.

What I can see with my own eyes is enough, says Majaz—
I do not care for the favors of the philosophers.

Rightly said. I have no wish to be served by philosophers; none to sit in their company.

What I can see with my own eyes is enough—
Why ask another? Your eyes are there—but they are so layered with words and thoughts—like dust upon a mirror—the mirror itself seems lost. Dust it—and the mirror will reflect. Dust thoughts from your eyes; dust the mind. You will reflect the Divine. Your mirror is not lost; only covered. Dust cannot destroy a mirror—only conceal it. The problem remains only until you wipe it. Wipe—and you will be amazed: the darkness of many births can be cleared in a moment. The dust of many births can be swept in a moment. It is not that you need lifetimes to clean; a single instant can suffice—if there is urgency, if there is inward pravritti.

'Absorbed in dhyana, the monk abandons all faults. Therefore dhyana alone is the repentance for, the undoing of, all offenses and defects.'

Mahavira says: all else is fine—but the real revolution happens in meditation. The abandonment of all transgressions, of all faults—happens only in dhyana. Why? Mahavira does not say, cultivate compassion; he does not say, cultivate charity or renunciation. He says—cultivate dhyana. Why? Because if you give, firstly the doer-ego that had wealth will become the doer-ego that has renunciation: 'I am charitable.' When there is anger, there is one ego; when there is compassion, there is another—golden, but ego still. Mahavira says—dhyana. Dhyana reveals you are not the doer at all—neither of anger nor of compassion, neither of greed nor of charity. You are non-doer—the witness.

'Absorbed in dhyana, the monk abandons all faults. Therefore dhyana alone is the repentance for all transgressions.'

Dhyana is the essence. One who sees the self in its own nature—

'He who does not abandon his own-nature, who does not take up the alien-nature, and who is the knower and seer of all—this supreme principle am I.' So contemplates, so experiences, the monk absorbed in self-meditation.

'Who does not abandon the own-nature'—dhyana means returning to your ownness; coming home. Dropping all outer ties. You need not flee from your house—this is inner. To cling to or to flee from the house is still outer. Wealth is outer—neither clutch nor throw away. Only remember one thing—this is not I. This body is not I. This house is not I. This wealth is not I. This mind is not I. Remember only this much—only this: I am the witness, the seer, the one who sees.

Not leaving the own-nature—not taking up the alien-nature; knowing and seeing all—'I am That'—thus contemplates the knower.

When, leaving the alien, one does not leave the own; when the current of knowing flows thus—then the monk absorbed in self-meditation attains an impossible happening—ananda descends—sat-chit-ananda manifests. What we cannot even imagine comes to pass. That whose taste we have never known—though for it we thirst and run, searching in many directions for that which abides within; we seek in ten directions that which resides in the eleventh—within the seeker himself; the musk-deer races in search of fragrance that arises from his own navel.

The bliss you seek, the flute whose call drives you—you are hearing it within. But you are lost in dreams. The outer search is a dream. Therefore, when your outer dreams break, you grow sad. You quickly replace one dream with another. And the day all dreams begin to fall from the hands, you think of suicide. Without truth there is no life. In dreams there is only a semblance.

Life has fled from us like a swift steed—
We have spent our years on the prop of dreams.
Dreams of tresses, of lips, of body—
Dreams of art, dreams of poetry—
Dreams of culture, dreams of nation—
Dreams of life, dreams of gallows and noose—
These dreams were all we had in youth—
These dreams were the foundation of our acts—
Now these dreams have died—and life is colorless—
As if our hand were crushed between two stones.

These dreams were the foundation of our conduct—dreams of gaining somewhere.

When dreams die—life seems colorless; as if the hand were crushed between stones. Hence the misery of old age—not of old age, but of dead dreams, of crushed rainbows.

The youth is drunk. The old man's intoxication breaks—but no awareness comes. The moment his intoxication breaks he panics. He does not remember to ask: what if that which I sought without—is hidden at home? Eyes open outward—we see outward. Ears open outward—we hear outward. Hands reach outward—we seek outward. Within—no eye opens, nor hand, nor ear. No sense enters within. Therefore the inner is not remembered.

The art of entering within is called meditation. The arts of going out are the senses. The senses are gates that go out; meditation is the gate that goes in. If you remain lost in the senses, you will not find the essence of life; you will come empty and go empty, weeping as you came.

Awaken meditation—only it can move within. Eyes cannot go within; ears cannot; hands cannot. Only dhyana can. One who has awakened dhyana attains the essence of life. In him flows a steady current. Amid all work and busyness a remembrance does not fade; a lamp does not go out—the lamp keeps shining: I am the witness, I am the witness, I am the witness. No words need be repeated—remember—rather, a sensing, a flavor: I am the witness. This is equanimity; this is Samadhi; this is Samayik.

Enough for today.