Jin Sutra #43

Certainly it is the mind (chitta) that has brought you this far, brought you to me. Yet the mind is an obstacle. Because of the mind you will come close, but union will not happen. You may draw near, but you will not become one. It will bring you up to here; physically it can bring you close, but spiritually it will keep you far away.

If it were only a matter of bodies meeting, the mind would not be an obstacle. Mind brings bodies near; souls remain distant. Unless you put the mind aside, that inner union cannot happen. What appears to join at a lower plane, at a higher plane divides.

Understand this well. What is a means at the first step becomes an obstacle at the last. You sit in a boat; it carries you across. If you keep clinging to the boat, you cannot disembark. The boat has brought you to the other shore, but now you must leave it too. If you say, “It is this very boat that brought me here—how can I leave it? Had it not been for this boat, I would never have arrived!” You are right; and yet if you keep sitting in it now, then even after arriving you will remain deprived of the shore. Where have you really reached? One has to take up means—and one has to drop them as well.

Therefore, what is a practice and a means at the beginning becomes a hindrance at the end. It is your mind that brought you here—there can be no two opinions about that. Without the mind, how would you have come? How would you have traveled? How would my attraction have pulled you? How would you have heard my call? You came holding the thread of the mind, riding in the mind’s boat. But will you go on sitting in that boat now? Get down now; leave the boat. The shore has come. Thank the boat, express your gratitude—she has brought you this far—but will you now carry her on your head? Will you sit in the boat forever just to show your gratitude? That would be a mistake—that would be madness.

The question is meaningful; it is worth everyone’s contemplation. Ladders have to be left. Ultimately, only when all means are dropped does attainment happen. Only when all paths are let go is the goal found. Yes, the goal is found by walking the path—only by walking—but then leaving it becomes essential. You kept walking and walking, and you clutched the path so tightly that even when the goal stood before you, you said, “How can I leave the path now!” Then it is not you who are holding the path; the path is holding you. You have not used the path; the path has become your master. Then you will remain stuck on the path. And it may be that the path has brought you exactly to the door of the destination—what difference does it make! Whether you stand a thousand miles away from the temple or on its steps, you are not inside. You have not entered. A thousand miles, a thousand feet, a thousand inches—what does it matter? You are still outside. Only when you come within does anything happen. Coming up to the temple does not suffice. Come inside—because the moment you enter, you are lost. Up to the door you still remain; up to the door the ego still remains. Only upon crossing the threshold do you become formless.

You have come up to me—now come into me. For only when you come into me can I come into you. There is no other way. Only when you lose yourself in me can I lose myself in you. There is no other path.

“You said the state of the mind is the obstacle, and it is my state of mind that has drawn me to you.”
You are a hundred percent right. But now do not stop there. Having come this far, take one step more. You came so that you would understand what I say and do it. Do not fight unnecessarily now. I am telling you: drop this mind; its work is over. It has brought you as far as it could. Its utility is exhausted. Do not carry this spent cartridge. Otherwise this very thing will become the obstacle. The mind brings—and then the mind ensnares.

“You also said that the intellect is the obstacle.”
Certainly. The intellect (buddhi) is an obstacle, because it does not let you enter meditation; it leads you into thinking.

Thought and meditation move in opposite directions. Thought means waves; meditation means becoming waveless. Thought means thinking; meditation means simply sinking into pure being. As when a lake falls asleep—no wave, no ripple, not even a breath of wind; it becomes a mirror. In that mirror-like lake the moon is reflected. Let the wind rise, the waves ripple, the lake tremble and wrinkle—and the moon breaks and scatters into a thousand fragments. Silver spreads across the water—but where will you find the moon?

Thoughts are waves. In those very waves the divine is lost. Because of those waves, the divine cannot be reflected in you; no shadow of it is formed in you. Through thought the world functions; through no-thought, religion. Thought is a means in the world. There, if you do not think, you will be robbed and cheated; you will be deceived. Without thinking, you will be in trouble. That is why there are schools and universities to send you into the world—they teach you how to think correctly: how, by logical sequence and by calculation, to be cautious; how to doubt so that no one can cheat you. Outside, the world is full of deceivers; the whole world is steeped in struggle. There innocence will not do; there you have to be a bit crooked. There is a saying: ghee does not come out with a straight finger; the finger has to be bent. In the outer world one has to become adept, little by little, in doubt. Trust is allowed outside only when there is no reason left to doubt—only after you have doubted to the very end and no grounds remain.

In truth, no one really trusts outside at all; even within trust, doubt stands lurking. In a friend we keep inspecting the possibility of an enemy. Even within oneself the stranger stands. We may postpone doubt for a while, but it is never destroyed. We remain afraid even of our own, because who is truly one’s own there? All are engaged in struggle, in competition, playing tricks upon each other. Miss a little and you fall; miss a little and someone climbs upon your chest; miss a little and someone makes you a means and exploits you.

Naturally, in the outer world doubt and thought have great utility. In the inner world it is you and your God; ultimately, only God is—even you are not. Who will deceive, and who will be deceived there? It is the world of the One. There is no other there. You reach there only by leaving the other behind. What will you do with the intellect there? The scripture of the intellect is of no use there; it becomes a burden. As doubt serves outside, trust serves inside. As thought serves outside, no-thought serves inside. It is a reverse journey.

Go outward, away from yourself, and you must hold on to thought. Come toward yourself, and you must drop thought. Come exactly into yourself, and all thought falls away. Call it nirvichara samadhi, nirvikalpa samadhi, trust—give it any name you like. One thing is certain: whatever the name, there are no thoughts there. Mahavira called that state samayik. There is only pure consciousness. There is no opposite there to create friction and raise waves of thought.

So I say the intellect is also an obstacle. Perhaps it is indeed the intellect that has brought you this far—you must have read or heard about me, and that is why you came—but now that you are here, listen to what I am saying: set the intellect aside. Be a little no-mind with me. Let the waves subside. Become waveless for a while. The moment there are no waves, all distance between you and me disappears. In wavelessness only One remains. There I am not, and you are not—there only That is. Raso vai sah—the essence is He. Only His nectar showers. There is only the One—the same deathless elixir, the same unstruck sound, which the Zen mystics call the sound of one hand clapping. There is not even a second hand to clap. Which the Hindus call the sound of Om—there, there is no one producing the sound; the sound is. The sound is eternal. There the music does not arise by plucking a string or by clapping hands; it is not struck—it is unstruck, the music of the Alone. There the singer, the song, and the listener are all one.

Put the intellect aside. Try a small experiment; gather a little courage. You have tried thinking enough. Whatever could be gained by thought has been gained. Wealth could be gathered—you gathered it. But having gained wealth, where did wealth really happen to you? Whatever could be obtained by thought has been obtained: the body, relationships between bodies. But relationships of bodies never bring fulfillment until there is a meeting of souls. Whatever could be had has been had: you built houses, arranged shops, filled your safes—but death will snatch all of it away.

Death snatches away only what is gained by thought; whatever is gained by meditation, death cannot take. For what thought gives is outside, and death takes everything that is outside. Death throws you back to your center. By meditation you yourself arrive at the very place to which death brings you.

Therefore the meditator has no death. The meditator never dies—cannot die. You, too, do not die—but you writhe unnecessarily under the idea that you are dying. Because you tied all your bonds outside. Death comes and drops all the curtains; it severs all outer bonds. Suddenly you are left alone. And you have never known what it is to be alone; you never took a dip into aloneness. So you do not know what aloneness is. You panic and say, “I am dying!” All your identifications were outside—money taken, house taken, wife or husband taken, sons and daughters taken, friends and loved ones taken; the outer sun, the outer moon, the outer flowers—all taken; the eyes begin to close, you begin to sink within, you panic and say, “I am dying!” Because you took the outer aggregation to be your very being.

If only you had embarked upon this inner journey once or twice before death arrived, and had known that even if everything outer is taken away, still I am. In fact, when all that is outer is taken away, then I am at my purest—because then there is nothing alien mixed in; no outer shadow falls. The mirror is utterly empty—utterly clear, pure.

Had you known this, even death would come to you as meditation, as samadhi. The error lies in your identification. To correct that identification I keep telling you again and again: drop thinking.

I do not say that nothing is gained by cleverness. By cleverness the world is gained. If you want to be an Alexander, then by all means hold on to cleverness. But when you set out on the journey toward God, do not cling to cleverness. There, those whom the world calls fools will reach before those whom the world calls intelligent. There, the non-argumentative reach before the arguers. There, the intoxicated reach before the prudent. There, the gait is of the mad.

Jesus has said: Only those who are simple like little children will enter the kingdom of my Father. Certainly, in the kingdoms of this world what place is there for little children? What chance is there? That is why we are in such a hurry to rescue children from their childhood. We tell them, “Grow up; behave like elders. You are old enough now—stop talking like a child. Simplicity will not work now. Become crooked. Learn the logic of life. Become skilled in the arts of grabbing and looting. Being straight, simple, authentic will not do; such foolishness will not work.” Jesus said: Those who are first in this world will be last in my Father’s kingdom, and those who are last in this world will be first in my Father’s kingdom.

The arithmetic is completely reversed. Those who stand in front here fall to the very end of the line there, because the journey is different. It is not a journey of logic but of love; not of doubt but of trust. The simple-hearted trust naturally; their trust has a natural fragrance. Even when the doubter trusts, a stench of doubt hides somewhere in a corner. Even in the doubter’s temple the smell of the marketplace lingers. Even in the doubter’s prayer, desire remains. Even when the doubter folds his hands to God, he is ready to separate them at the slightest trouble, to pull them back. He cannot be total in prayer. Doubt never allows totality. Doubt whispers, “Who knows whether what I am doing is right?” Trust takes you in totally. Therefore I say: the intellect is an obstacle.
Someone has asked, “And I see that around you it is only intelligent people who are gathered.”
That is true as well. But unless they drop their intellect, they may fill the space around me, they will not be filled with me. Their intellect itself will become the obstacle. Their intellect has brought them this far. They must have pondered; my words must have seemed logical; they must have felt in my words the strength of mathematics and logic; they must have seen the stamp of proof—so they came.

But logic!

Certainly I speak the language of logic too, because there are some who can come only that way. But logic is like the dough a fisherman puts on the hook. That’s all. He hangs a lump of dough on the hook; he is not feeding the fish with the dough. The dough is only a lure, because the fish will come near seeing the dough. I surely speak logic, but that’s the dough. Think before you swallow. Because the moment it goes down your throat, you will find there is something else here. Logic is only on the surface; inside, there is trust.

I call you through logic, because this is the age of logic; here no one is willing to listen to trust. I call you with mathematics, because the language you understand is mathematics. I have to call you in your language. When you begin to come close to me, I will teach you my language too—but that is secondary. First I must call you in your language. If I am to call you, I must call you by your very name. Then, when you come to me, I will change your name. But first—come close! Once you are near, then slowly, slowly I will melt you.
So the ones who have asked have asked well; they are right that around me you see a crowd of the intelligent. It’s true. They came to me after hearing my arguments. Now they are in a great dilemma. They cannot leave, because what I say appears logical. Nor can they wholly plunge, because behind the logic something illogical is hidden. Behind the logic they have begun to hear the note of trust. They neither come nor go. Now they are stuck. Now where should they go! For the very logic that impressed them is now very hard to drop. And they have also begun to see that logic was only a net. Beyond logic there is a leap into the illogical. Beyond logic there is a leap into trust. I have explained to their intellect, appeased it, convinced it; now they see—this is about descending into no-mind. Now they are hesitating—standing right on the edge of the abyss. But even if you stand on the edge for lifetimes, nothing will happen. Only if you jump into the abyss, if you are effaced, will anything happen. Only in dying will anything happen. If you fear, nothing will happen.
Give thanks to the intellect. Great its kindness—it has brought you this far. Now also bid it farewell. Now bow to it. Say, goodbye!

My understanding has grown.
At first I thought that by speaking simply and directly the matter would be resolved. But people are very oblique. I learned their language. I still say what I used to say then. But earlier I spoke my own language. Then I saw that people get startled; they do not awaken. Mere startle is not enough for awakening. Startled, a man turns over and goes back to sleep. Startled, he may even get annoyed, thinking, “Who made this racket?”
I saw that people would hear me, but from that hearing no revolution happened in their lives, because I was speaking my language which they did not understand. They have to be explained to in their own language. Back then I kept humming my own song, without worrying whether the listener even understood or not.
As I came into contact with more and more people, one thing became clear: they will not be able to see me directly. They have lost the very eye that sees directly. Their eyes have become slanted.
So now I speak of Mahavira, of Buddha; of Krishna, Christ, Nanak, Kabir, Farid. These are languages they remember. They are steeped in these languages. By hearing them again and again they have become familiar with these words. Into those words I pour exactly what I have to pour. Nanak cannot catch hold of my hand. I will say what I have to say. But the Sikh understands. Mahavira cannot file a case against me. I say what I have to say, but seeing Mahavira’s stamp on it, the Jains come close. That’s all—hence I have stopped talking straight.
I am saying the same thing, and I can only say that; there is no other way. I can only say what I am. If some day I see that people have again begun to understand direct talk, I will drop the screens. Then I will speak directly. It depends on you. I am speaking to you, so it is necessary to take you into account. If I were speaking in solitude, alone, into the void, there would be no reason to take the names of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. Even now, when I sit alone, neither Buddha nor Mahavira nor Krishna nor Christ comes to my mind. When I look at you—then. Then I have to drag in these names, to give you a handhold, for your sake. You recognize only through a screen—so be it. If you don’t understand when a rose is called a rose, but you do when it is called jasmine, all right, let it be jasmine. A rose is a rose. Call it jasmine, champa, juhi, bela—what difference do names make? A rose is a rose. I am I. My wine is my wine. Pour it into Mahavira’s cup or into Buddha’s cup—my taste does not change. Because of you I have to drag these names in unnecessarily.
If I speak on Farid, a Muslim becomes curious. Devotees of Ram come to me and say, “You spoke on Krishna; why don’t you speak on Ram?” I receive letters. Friends from Lucknow wrote: “When will you speak on Raidas?” They must be devotees of Raidas. “So when will you speak on Raidas?” As if what I am speaking is not about Raidas! Taranpanthi Jains come and say, “When will you speak on Taran?” As if what I am speaking is not about Taran! I will speak what I am speaking. Place the Gita, or the Quran, or the Bible—I will say what I have to say. Only now and then I have to repeat the names of Mahavira, Buddha and Krishna; there isn’t much other difference. As you wish. You want it that way—so be it. What I have to sell, I will sell.
I remember my childhood. When I was small, my father’s father ran a shop; some of his sayings stayed with me. He used to tell customers: whether the watermelon falls on the knife or the knife falls on the watermelon, in every case the watermelon will be cut. He was right. What difference does it make! Put the knife below and drop the watermelon from above, or put the watermelon below and drop the knife from above—every time the watermelon will be cut. How can the knife be cut? The knife cuts.
As you wish. But it is you who will be cut. If you find pleasure in being cut through a screen, fine—so be it. I have no difficulty with that. Because Mahavira has said what I am saying; Buddha has said what I am saying. Only the centuries differ, only the language differs. Otherwise there is no other way of saying it. Because the moment you become silent, sink into yourself, reach that place which is eternal, the timeless.

First understand clearly why you are breaking; from there the way will open. The causes of your breaking are already clear in your question—
“I was born in a Jain family.”
You have to be born in some family or other. And the moment you are, that family’s age-old structure—its conditionings, habits, notions, beliefs—will be imposed upon you. As yet there are hardly any parents conscious enough to leave a child free, to tell him, “Grow up, become aware, and choose for yourself. Choose the religion that truly delights you. If your heart feels drawn to the mosque, go to the mosque. If the gurdwara calls you, go to the gurdwara. If you feel meditative in a temple, go to the temple. If atheism gives you the taste of truth, that too is right. But you must choose. We will impose nothing on you.” Parents like this do not exist yet on the earth. There are too few awakened people for such parents to be possible at all!

So every father and mother imposes on the child exactly what was imposed upon them by their own parents. Centuries of junk pile up on the mind. That is the cause of the inner scattering. Because of it you never become free. You remain bound—chained. You long to cross to the other shore, but your boat is tethered by chains to this shore. And the chains look very precious, because you have known them since childhood. You may think the chains are an essential part of the boat. Or perhaps you think they are its ornaments, its decoration. Or you fear: “If I break the chains I may fail to reach the far shore and lose this shore as well!” So you remain bound; you unfurl flags, raise the sail, row hard—and do not untie the chains! You do not break them. The boat stays where it is, heaving and straining. From this the panic arises.

Born in a Jain family, your first task is to become free of Jain notions. Not because they are wrong, but because they were handed to you by others—that is the obstacle. The day you awaken and see for yourself, you may find them right. But as of now they are borrowed. Truth is not available on loan. If born in a Hindu home, your first act is to become free of Hindu conditioning. If in a Muslim home, your first act of freedom is to slip out of Islam. Empty yourself of the past. Set out on your own quest. Dare. It needs courage, even a kind of audacity. Do not cling to the shore like a coward.

“I was born in a Jain family.”
There lie the seeds of your madness. You will be born in some family—Jain, Sikh, Muslim, Hindu, it makes no difference. Wherever you are born, conditioning will be thrust upon you. The first act of a religious seeker is to cut through that web and set himself free. When a child is born in the mother’s womb, he is attached to her. The moment he comes out, the doctor’s first act is to sever that attachment. If the umbilical cord remains connected, the child will never grow. True, he lived thus far through that cord, but now it will become the cause of death.

So the doctor cuts the child’s connection with the mother; the bridge is broken. Then the journey of independence begins. For a while the child still depends on the mother—her milk, her care. Gradually he leaves even her milk—another strand breaks. At first he trails only after the mother, clutching her hem; slowly he begins to play in the neighborhood—another tie loosens. As the connection with the mother thins, the child matures. Then one day he falls in love with a woman—and that day he turns his back completely on his mother. This is why a mother can never truly forgive the daughter-in-law. Between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law a basic conflict remains. You may hide it, suppress it, but it does not disappear. Consciously or unconsciously the mother knows: “It is this woman who has taken my son from me forever.”

Exactly the same happens in the inner world. Born into a Jain line, Jainism is your mother. When you are a little intelligent, begin to free yourself. This does not mean become anti-Jain. If you understand me so, you have misunderstood me. What I am telling you is precisely the way to be truly a Jina. Becoming free of Jain conditioning is not opposition to Jainism; it is the real way of being a Jina. Withdraw—slowly, slowly. There is no enmity in this. You are simply seeking your freedom. This does not make Jainism wrong. You are only removing whatever obstructs your freedom.

If you free yourself from the conditionings poured into you in childhood, you will suddenly find yourself integrated. Your fragments will gather. A music is born within—because freedom is born. You are no longer bound, no longer dependent. This is the first step of liberation. Without taking this step, forget about moksha, the ultimate goal. Don’t even dream; it is futile. Here is your difficulty: coming to me, the dream of moksha has arisen in you, but you refuse to take the first step.

“I have been reading you for three years.”
That has itself become the hitch. Now you cannot go back. You cannot return to where you were three years ago. There is no way back. And you cannot be fully with me either. The one who has asked—I know him. When he comes here he puts on the mala and the ochre. Returning home he hides both. At home he tells people he is Jain; here he says he is a sannyasin. Of course there will be conflict. At home he cannot declare, “I am a sannyasin. I have chosen a path—by my own will.”

“I have even taken sannyas.”
From the very phrasing it is clear that sannyas has not happened to you as a joy; it sounds like something done under compulsion—“I’ve even taken sannyas!” As if forced, or, “I didn’t mean to, and yet I did. What have I done!” Either drop sannyas, or drop your conditioning. If you can go back, forget me. You won’t be liberated by that, but at least you will be comfortable inside your bondage. You will take the prison to be a palace—that much will happen. And the man who takes the prison for a palace sleeps soundly. The day you come to know that this is not a palace but a prison, your trouble begins. For you, that trouble has begun.

I know—return is not possible. Once a prisoner realizes, “This is a prison; I had taken it to be a palace,” there is no way to un-know it. Paint the prison walls, drape them with flowers, decorate as you like—nothing helps; you will remember it is a prison. In fact, the more you try to cover it, the more intensely you remember it is a prison.

Mulla Nasruddin was walking with his wife. A beautiful young woman passed by; startled, Mulla looked at her. His wife said, “See! Let a pretty woman pass and you forget you are married.” Nasruddin replied, “Good fortune! In fact, only when I see a beautiful woman do I remember all the more—ah, I’m married!” Of course, Mulla is right. If your wife is beside you and a beautiful woman passes, you remember acutely—ah! I’m married! The sting is sharper.

If, after knowing, you try to dress up the prison—to forget—you cannot forget by knowing. The very attempt to forget keeps the memory alive. The more you try to forget, the more intense the memory. So you cannot return. Yet I say: if you can, do return. If it can be managed, go back; if not, then be totally with me. If you wobble half-and-half between the two, you will break. Hence: “I am becoming many-minded, deranged, falling apart.” It will happen. Now you must choose. If you are to be with me, be totally with me.

This does not mean you become an enemy of Mahavira. Becoming totally mine, one day you will find Mahavira himself. But that will not be Jainism in the ordinary sense. I call it being a Jina, not a Jain. Jain is by tradition, by family; to be a Jina is to be a conqueror of oneself. But for this you will have to be courageous. Only then is it possible.

“I have even taken sannyas.” There is not yet any joy, any celebration, any awe in your sannyas. It is still very hollow. It is not right to say you have taken it. It is right only to say: I have given it to you. I could not say no, so I gave it. Take that as my kindness. You have not yet taken it. You have not desired it in wakefulness, with awareness. You have not longed for it with your whole life-breath. You have not offered your resolve. You have not surrendered. Had you taken it, the whole matter would have been resolved in that very moment. For in the very taking, you would have been gathered together. In that act your fragments would have harmonized; your tones would have fallen into rhythm—how could such a great resolve fail to unite you?

No, the reverse has happened. Taking sannyas has fractured you more—because you took it half-heartedly. That resolve did not arise from your soul. You probably took it seeing others take it. You moved with the crowd. Seeing others joyous, you took it out of greed—“Perhaps sannyas brings joy, brings bliss.” So you took it. Or, “Perhaps, with Osho’s blessings, my life will be blessed.” So you took it. You took it like a beggar. You did not take it like an emperor. It did not arise from your own spontaneous being. Perhaps it happened in some emotional moment—you came here, listened, understood, were moved, a wave passed through; in that moment you plunged. Later you are repenting: “What have I done!” Hence you say, “I have even taken sannyas.” Not yet. Take it—Ganga is flowing; drink while she flows.

“Still I keep scattering like mercury.”
You cannot decide what to do now: cling to old dead conditionings, or water and tend this new sapling of freedom you have planted. You are caught between two.

Have you heard the story of the donkey who stood between two bundles of hay? He couldn’t decide which to eat. If he leaned this way, he thought the grass on the other side looked greener; leaning that way, he thought this side looked greener. He died standing between them. The food was there on both sides; it was not far. Only decision was lacking. Dilemma arises when you cannot decide. Duality arises when you cannot decide. The moment you decide, duality drops. Decision is nonduality.

So decide. Here I am; there are your Jain conditionings. Decide. If your taste is there, go back. I will not stop you. You may not find bliss there, but at least you will find consolation. So be it. At least you will have comfort—so be it. But if you have the courage to come with me, then I can assure you—bliss can happen. Awe can happen. You can be blessed. But you must decide; you must pay the price. The decision itself is the price. Otherwise, everyone would attain bliss. Only those who decide, attain.

“Your talks on the Jin-sutra appeal to me. But I also have much taste for pleasure.”
Why do the talks on the Jin-sutra appeal to you? Because of the talks? Then what has that to do with the Jin-sutra! Because of the Jin-sutra? Then what have the talks to do with it! If it is because of the Jin-sutra, it simply means your ego is gratified: “Ah, how fortunate—I was born in a Jain family!” This stupidity is taught to everyone. “Born in a Hindu family—how fortunate! Born on Indian soil—how fortunate!” As if the rest of the world were unfortunate. Jains are taught from childhood: “To be human is rare, but to be born a Jain—utterly rare!”

If my talks on the Jin-sutra please you, the basic reason is that your ego gets a scratch in the right place when I say Mahavira is right. You feel, “Absolutely! Then we too are right; then I am right!” When I say the Gita is right, Krishna is right, the Hindu struts, “Absolutely right!” It is not that he understands me, or understands Krishna or the Gita; his ego is being tickled. He puffs up with it.

That is why you feel “taste.” This is not taste; it is a sick taste. It is unhealthy. If you are listening to me, be concerned with what I am saying. You are fussing over the peg on which I hang it. Count the seeds if you like, but better to suck the mango. The mind is crazy.

If I praise Mahavira, the Jain begins to swagger: “Then what we believed is right.” I am not saying your beliefs are right. When I say Mahavira is right, I am not saying the Jains are right—remember. If Jains are right, Mahavira is wrong. If Mahavira is right, the Jains are wrong. What have Mahavira and the Jains to do with one another! It is these followers who spoil everything. They themselves drowned, and dragged Mahavira down with them. Had Mahavira been free of them, the sky would be clearer. Their clouds gathered and covered his sun.

Because of them Mahavira is now difficult to understand. Because of Hindus, Krishna is difficult. Because of Christians, Jesus is difficult. Because of Muslims, there is disgrace to Mohammed! Seeing a Muslim, the mind, unknowingly, attributes the Muslim’s doings to Mohammed. It will happen. Whoever watches a Jain carefully will not be able to bow at Mahavira’s feet; for if this is the result of Mahavira, there must have been some flaw in him.

But remember, disciples are often the opposite of the master. Perhaps those who gather around a living master follow a little—only a little; if they followed totally, who knows how many Mahaviras would be born! A little they follow, and even that little saves them. Then children are born to them, and to their children; Mahavira recedes. He becomes a worn-out line.

What you have not chosen can never be a living religion for you. What you took from parents, tradition, conditioning, is a dead line—no life in it.

Think a little. You came to me; there will be joy in your life. You chose me; you searched; you came of your own accord—no one brought you. In fact, there were many trying to stop you—who is there to bring you here? On the way, a thousand must have said, “Where are you going? Stop!” Yet you came in spite of them. Many set out; a few arrive. In between are many who stop others, and they succeed. Your coming has your strength in it, your resolve. But you will leave my books and pictures for your children, leave a mala saying, “Keep it safe; with this mala we attained so much.” Your attaining was by your resolve, not by the mala. “We found great light through these books.” That light came through your seeking. Your children will keep the books and worship them; they will not even open them. And if they ever open them, their hearts will never be touched—because what is not chosen for oneself...

Understand the difference.
A young man falls in love with a girl—that is one thing. Then his father goes to priests and astrologers, and arranges his marriage with another girl. Ask the boy what the difference is. For the one he himself loves, he is ready to give his life. For the one his father wants him to marry, he feels he is being trapped, being hanged. Both are women. It is not necessary that the girl chosen by the father is less beautiful than the beloved—she may be more so. Certainly the father is more experienced, has seen more life. He will choose a family more beautiful, healthy, cultured, educated, affluent. He will consider a thousand things the son cannot even think of. The son may fall in love like a blind man with any girl. The father will move by arithmetic and logic. The son moves by love.

But for the one he fell in love with, the son is ready to die. For the arranged marriage he has to be dragged—like a sacrificial animal to the slaughterhouse. He feels he is dying.

So with religion. The religion you choose is your love. The religion you inherit from your parents is your arranged marriage. Marriage never becomes love. And the day love turns into marriage, love dies. Or if ever marriage becomes love, marriage ends. Love is something utterly different. What is the difference? You chose it—in freedom. From your own feeling. From your heart. No calculations, no cleverness, no worldliness. Chosen in innocence.

So if you tell your sons to keep me—“Keep this mala safe; we gained much from it”—they will keep it safe, they will even worship it, but I will become a burden to them. Do not repeat the mistake your parents made. Your connection with me is personal, intimate. Do not impose it. If you truly received something, then tell your children how you searched and found—uproot your treasure and show it to them; say, “We found, by seeking in this way. You too seek. Perhaps you will also find.” Give them only this assurance: “It is found.” Let your joy be the proof that God is. That is enough. Then they will find their own God. Only what is found by oneself has savor. What is received free becomes flavorless.

“Your talks on the Jin-sutra appeal to me.”
Then somewhere you are going wrong. Listen to what I am saying; do not cling to the pretexts. With wrong vision, the mind clings to pretexts. Often I say the very same thing in the name of Mahavira, in the name of Buddha—exactly the same. But when I say it in Buddha’s name, the Jain sits there unmoved; he feels no “taste.” When I say it in Mahavira’s name, he becomes alert; his spine straightens. You are worshiping your ego—not Mahavira, not Buddha.

“Your talks on the Jin-sutra appeal to me, but I also have much taste for pleasure.”
Both are because of the Jin-sutra. The talks appeal because since childhood you have heard them, been given them; your mind has been imprinted with them. And because of the same thing you cannot be free of pleasure, because from childhood you have been taught repression. Those who have interpreted the Jin-sutra have interpreted it so wrongly that its whole meaning has become repressive. Suppress. Nothing is to be accepted. Deny. Nothing is affirmative. Cut. Those sutras and their interpretations have made you feel sinful, filled you with guilt. It should have been the opposite. Mahavira’s longing was to remind you of the God within. But your monks and saints have done nothing but remind you of your sinner within, and by and by you are full of guilt.

So whatever you have called sin and repressed—that is where your taste will be strongest. Repress sex—sex will attract. Repress greed—it will appear in new forms. Repress anger—anger will take new postures. Whatever you repress, you never become free of it. Repression brings no freedom. Understand—awaken. If there is taste for pleasure, do not run away from pleasure. Wake up; be awake in pleasure itself. Your very awareness will free you from it.

So I do not say, “Run away.” What will running do? Pleasure is within; wherever you go, it will go with you. It is not kept outside that you can turn your back and be rid of it. It is within your depths. There is only one way to end it—know it. Knowing is revolution. Knowing is the only revolution; there is no other kind.

If there is taste for pleasure, do not be scared—taste it, but consciously. Enjoy it. It only means you have not yet passed through it. Before passing through, you condemned it. You did not know the world, and before knowing it you decided it must be renounced. No. The futility has to be seen; only then does the world drop. You have to pass through it, through experience, through the pain of experience, through the fire of experience.

“And tradition and conditioning lie on my feet like shackles.”
They are not lying there; you are holding them. No one has bound you; you are guarding them like treasure, inheritance. Who is stopping you? Drop them. The moment you drop, they will fall. But there is fear, panic. It is a great irony that we keep even what gives us nothing, as if it were an heirloom. You cannot even throw away rubbish; you lock it in your safe.

If you can see that they are shackles, what is the hitch? Drop them. Break them; fling them away. It can happen in a single instant. But perhaps you do not truly see. Even here you have borrowed my words from hearing me; it is not your own understanding yet. So you invent a trick: “The shackles have been bound on me.” Who has bound them! Where are these conditionings binding you! Just say, “Enough. Forgive me; I have gained nothing from you. Let me be free to seek.” You have gone to the temple a thousand times and have gained nothing. Why go every day? Do not make religion a habit. Religion is not habit; it is your nature. Habit buries nature. Before the idol before which you have rubbed your forehead raw, and even ruined the idol, say to it, “Enough. I am tired; you too must be tired. Forgive me now!”

But the hitch is elsewhere. What you are calling shackles—you are using my word; it is not yours. In your heart you feel those shackles are precious—of gold, studded with jewels. “How can I leave them! There must be great mystery in them.” Then you will not be able to drop them. How will you drop them? If you mistake disease for health, how will you take treatment? If you take the false for true, darkness for light, thorns for flowers, how will you be free?

Look rightly. If it is a shackle, break it. To break it, nothing needs to be done. If you truly understand it is a shackle, it drops. You walk along with pebbles in your hand. Someone tells you, “These are pebbles,” and you ask, “How do I drop them?” You ask only when inwardly you believe they are diamonds, while this man says “pebbles.” You cannot deny him; his argument has force, and yet your conditioning whispers, “They are diamonds.” So you ask, “How to drop them?” Either they are diamonds—then there is no need to drop them—or they are pebbles—then there is no need to ask how to drop them. They will drop. Open your fist. Don’t be afraid! If something gave you nothing, what loss can there be in dropping it? But people are afraid even of dropping their misery. They clutch their suffering—at least it is familiar, known.

There is nothing of value here in what you are holding. And what is of value needs no holding—it is your nature. The Jainism you are clutching is only tradition, a rut. What I call the religion of the Jina is your very nature. When you drop all ruts and all traditions, you will find it appears.

Why tell lies in the name of expediency?
Life is dear, yes—but we must die.
Why tell lies in the name of prudence,
of benefit and harm?
Life is dear, yes—but we must die.

However dear life may be, it will be left; death is certain. For the sake of this life—its benefits and harms, its so-called welfare—why tell lies? What must be left is already left for the wise. What must pass has already passed. Then do not say, “To protect life I must lie.” Life cannot be protected; it will go. Whether it passes comfortably or uncomfortably—what difference does it make? The dream will break in the morning; whether you were a beggar or a king in the dream—what difference? Whether you lived as poor or rich—what difference? Prestigious or not—whether people honored you or dishonored you—what difference? Life will be left.

Life is dear, yes—but we must die.
Once this is understood, you will find no difficulty in dropping your chains.

What is the fear? Prestige comes from chains. The larger your chains, the greater your prestige. People say, “Look at the size of his chains—studded with diamonds and pearls, pure gold—twenty-four carat!” The more tightly you are bound, the more praise you get. Society does not want you free; it is convenient for society that you remain chained. The moment you break the chains, your prestige begins to evaporate. People will not respect you.

A Jain monk came to see me years ago. I asked him, “Tell me truthfully: what have you found? You have been a Jain monk for fifty years—what have you gained?” He said, “I cannot hide it from you—nothing.” I said, “Then fifty years are enough to know that nothing is here; seek elsewhere—life is slipping away.” He said, “It is very difficult. I have received prestige, respect; my ego is worshiped. Thousands touch my feet. Inside I am empty, but outside there is great honor. And if I leave this, those who touch my feet won’t offer me even a job sweeping their homes. I am neither educated nor skilled. My only ‘qualification’ is that I can fast. Is that a qualification—that I can starve? My qualification is that I can suffer. Is suffering a qualification? That I can live like a dead man—that is my qualification.”

Consider well: the chains you are holding are tied to prestige. People go to the temple so that they are seen as religious. If they don’t go, people will think they are irreligious. People donate, keep a Gita or a Koran on their table, so others will think, “Religious—virtuous, of good character.” They hold onto “character.” They bind themselves with vows. But all this is the worship of the ego. If you want the soul, you will have to drop this worship—for it is the obstacle.

“Please guide me.”
Your question contains your answer. Be courageous. Do not be a coward. Risk. Here there is nothing really to lose. Even if everything is lost and nothing gained—you lose nothing.

But I tell you, whoever has dared to risk has always attained. Nothing is given free. Everything has a price. You are after the soul and want it free. Pay the price. And when the soul is found, when there is a vision of God, you will see that what you paid was nothing, and what you received is priceless. Even if you emptied all of Kubera’s treasures, you could not pay for it. Do not fear—

The death of the body is no death at all.
When the body is gone, the person does not die.
The stopping of the heartbeat does not kill longing.
The halting of breath does not silence proclamation.
The freezing of lips does not still the command.
The death of the body is no death at all.

Even if the body dies, you do not die. Even if the mind dies, you do not die. In fact, when you come to know that the death of the body is not your death, the death of the mind is not your death, for the first time you glimpse the great life. For the first time a lamp is lit in the darkness.

So do not give value to false values. Prestige, honor, respectability—sweep them out. Gather this rubbish and dump it in the garbage heap. It does not belong in your house.

Certainly. How long will you keep listening to words? You will have to listen to the void. How long will you remain entangled in speech? You will have to go beyond speech. What I am saying to you is not to be heard by the ears but by the heart. And the gestures I am making to you will not be understood through the eyes; only when the eyes are closed will they be understood.

Do not depend too much on what is being said. Alongside the said I am also sending the unsaid. Catch me in the empty space between every two words. When I fall silent, listen to me attentively then. If the words are missed, no harm; let the silence not be missed. That is why at times, while listening, a note will be struck, a rhythm will be established. You will begin to be suffused with an uncommon nectar. In that moment it may seem that nothing is being heard, nothing is being seen, yet the head begins to bow. That bowing is highly significant. It is the sign of surrender. Do not break it. Do not disturb that drowsiness. Such a drowsiness is the first glimpse of samadhi.

Do not think, “What am I doing? I came to listen, and the listening is being missed! I came to see, and the eyes are closing!” What is to be seen here can be seen only with closed eyes. And what is to be heard here will be heard only when you bow. So even if you do not remember what I said, do not worry. We are not sitting an examination of some university here that you must remember my words. Do not take notes. Do not brood over it in the mind. Something else is happening here under the pretext of speaking. Speaking is only a device to bring heart to heart. My speaking is like giving a toy to a child—“Play.” When the child is absorbed in the toy, he becomes quiet, does not create mischief. So is my speaking: toys for your intellect, so it can play. While your intellect is busy with its playthings, I am near your heart. The intellect’s mischief subsides; it is absorbed in its toys, and your heart can edge closer to me. If this begins to happen, let it happen—totally. For that is the very goal.

Upon the people of passion, in separation—
What can one say of all they went through?
They came for the savor of love:
Some was lost, some was found.

What all befell the travelers of love on the journey of love?

Upon the people of passion, in separation—
What can one say of all they went through?
They came to the savor of love,
They reached the frontier of the City of Love.
They entered the dialogue of love—
Some was lost, some was found.

Here, only by losing will anything be gained. The more you lose, the more you gain. If here you are utterly lost, you have gained all. If you leave here carefully preserved, you came empty and you go empty. Bow. Bow down. Bow with your whole mind and life-breath. This has always been the deep prayer of the devotees—

Do not keep me away from your feet!!
Having left the whole world,
I have taken refuge in these feet;
If I find no shelter even here,
What then was gained by a human birth!
Do not keep me away from your feet!!

The sullied life will be made pure,
The dream and the real kept inviolate,
If with love’s wet eyes
I may touch your dear feet!
Do not keep me away from your feet!!

If under the shade of your gaze
This petty life may be nurtured,
I have steadfast faith
I shall be snatched by life from death!
Do not keep me away from your feet!

When you are bowing, bow with such depth of feeling as if at the Lord’s feet, as if into the divine.

Do not keep me away from your feet!!
If under the shade of your gaze
This petty life may be nurtured—

The moment you bow, you come into God’s shade. Stand stiff and you will go on burning in the sun of ego. Bow—and you have entered the shade; the shade is found.

If under your shade and glance
This petty life may be nurtured,
I have steadfast faith
I shall be snatched by life from death!
Do not keep me away from your feet!!

You are fortunate if the art of bowing is coming to you. Enjoy this fortune. Support it, cooperate with it. Do not obstruct it. Do not raise any barrier to this happening. The key lies in your bowing. From there the doors of the temple open.

Whoever sets out to know will one day reach the stage where opposites are seen to meet—where day and night are not opposites, but two limbs of the same process.

It is the night that creates the day; in the womb of night the day is nurtured. And then in the womb of day, night is conceived. Each day gives birth to the night, and each night revives the day again. In life, death is being nursed; out of death life stirs. In autumn you can already hear the first steps of spring, and spring prepares the way for autumn again. Behind the old falling leaves, look at the new ones peeping out; and behind those shy new leaves, the story of the old falling ones is already being written.

Here in life, what appears as duality is not conflict but complementarity. There is no opposition here, but non-opposition. Two are seen only because our seeing has not yet deepened; we lack insight, perspective. When vision deepens, you will find that only the One remains. That is the essence of advaita. All who went seeking discovered sooner or later that life and death are two sides of the same coin. Pleasure and pain; success and failure; peace and unrest; the world and renunciation—all are two halves of one.

The day this becomes visible—this is a stage, the last stopping place; beyond it lies the goal—the day you see that there is no conflict and all dualities are joined in the One, the goal is near. This is the final halt. Beyond this, even to call it “one” is not right, for where even two are not, how can we speak of one? Up to this stage the two remain; at this stage the two become one; beyond it, even “one” is improper. That is why Vedanta does not call the Supreme “one”; it says “advaita”—not two. That much alone can be said: not two. Hence Mahavira says, it is not that there is God and soul; the soul itself is the divine. He too is speaking of non-duality, in his own way, the same. But even saying “one” is not right, because “one” evokes the notion of two, two evokes three, three evokes four. “One” has no meaning if there are no other numbers—and That is so one that there are no other numbers there.

When meditation deepens, that stage will come where dualities dissolve. Then run—home is very near; you are standing right at the door. Do not get entangled in philosophy now. Do not ask me now, “In the longing to know I saw night creating day—why did this happen?” If you raise a “why” now, you will turn back. A “why” brings thinking and reflection back in. Now drop it, forget it. Drop the “why” and the “what,” drop philosophy and science. Now just run. This is the last halt; directly ahead is the goal. Now plunge straight into that nonduality.

Every dawn is evening’s prank;
Every smile, a commerce of tears.
Do not ask me the meaning of life—
Life is the text of death.

All is connected. All is together.

When the shroud drew near, why did your eyes grow moist?
Why did adornment shrink, why did spring feel shy?
No birth, no death—only this much is true:
Someone’s eyes opened; someone fell asleep.

It is only the difference between the eye opening and closing. The eye closes—we call it death. The eye opens—we call it birth. That is all—the opening and closing of the eye. And that upon which the eye opens and closes neither is born nor dies. Your eyelids keep closing and opening—the eye keeps blinking; you are present within, unblinking. Creation is the divine eye opening; dissolution is the divine eye closing. But behind both is the hidden eternal consciousness, which is never born and never perishes. It has no birth, no death; no sorrow, no joy; no defeat, no victory.

When it seems to you that you have come to that place where night is seen giving birth to day, then, even by mistake, do not raise a question. Questions will lead you astray. A question will lead to an answer, and the answer to more questions—you are back again. In this moment, tie up the whole bundle of questions and answers and throw it away; start running. Unburdened, plunge into that infinity.

Many people have turned back from meditation; they do not reach samadhi. Because at the last stage of meditation, questions rise with great force—indeed, with tremendous force. The mind makes its final effort, its last bid. Just as before morning dawns the night grows very dark; or before a lamp goes out, the flame leaps up; or before a person dies—even a sick person—he can suddenly seem perfectly healthy. The last surge comes, the last tide of life. In the same way, just before the mind dies, before it is lost, it raises questions with great intensity. If at that moment you falter even a little, the mind will pull you back.

Have you seen the children’s game—Snakes and Ladders? The kids play it: the ladder takes you up, the snake brings you down. You throw the dice. Even at ninety-nine there is a snake’s mouth; if you reach one hundred, you win—but up to ninety-nine there is still a snake’s mouth.

Life’s game is just like that—ladders and snakes. At the last stage, even at the ninety-ninth degree, when the mind is about to be completely erased, the snake’s mouth opens—one last time. If you are not careful there, the snake’s tail will take you back to where a long journey begins again.

No—do not ask questions at this point. Here, become questionless, take the leap. Meditation is on; samadhi is near. Dive.

And in samadhi all solutions are contained. That is why it is called samadhi.

That’s all for today.