Jin Sutra #44

First sutra—

“Just as, when a thorn pricks, pain and suffering spread through the whole body; and when the thorn is removed the body becomes nishalya—splinterless, whole, at ease in every limb—in the same way, the one who does not reveal his faults, the cunningly evasive, remains unhappy and agitated; and when he lays them bare before the guru, he becomes purified and blissful. No splinter remains lodged in the mind.”

This sutra is supremely significant. Psychology took a very long time to discover it. What Mahavira said twenty-five centuries ago came to Freud’s mind only in this very century. Modern psychology stands upon this single insight. Psychotherapists say: whatever lies suppressed in the mind, if it is brought to light, one is freed from it. The whole process of psychoanalysis is a process of bringing feelings, thoughts, passions that lie in the unconscious up into consciousness.

The alchemical formula is: we are bound by the unconscious; the moment we become conscious we are free. Whatever we know within ourselves precisely as it is—of that we are released. Whatever we have not known precisely, whatever we have not directly encountered, that remains lying in the dark, hanging about our neck like a noose. Mahavira calls this condition the state of shalya—of the lodged splinter.

His very word is important. If a thorn is embedded, you may forget it for a little while, get busy with work, but again and again the sting pulls your attention back to it. However many be your tasks, the prick of the thorn returns to mind between them. Walk, sit, talk—yet through every interval the sting makes itself known. This sting Mahavira calls the condition of shalya. Remove the sting, and a nishalya mind is born—a sound mind arises. Let nothing remain within you that you have suppressed. Let nothing remain within you that you have concealed. Let nothing remain within you which you are afraid to behold, which you fear to place before your own eyes. Let nothing remain behind your back—bring it all before your eyes, and as soon as it comes into the open, the thorns begin to bid farewell.

Psychoanalysts labor for years. The essence of their therapy is only this: the one they call sick is in truth a person full of Mahavira’s shalya. Perhaps it is not quite right to call him sick. He does not need so much medical treatment as he needs self-realization. Yet knowingly or unknowingly, psychoanalysis does the same. They say to the patient: lie down. The therapist sits behind and says, “Whatever arises in your mind—relevant or irrelevant—let it arise and keep speaking. Do not edit. Do not be a censor. Even if gibberish comes, let it come—because even gibberish has some inner cause, else it would not come. If the unrelated comes, let it come—if it wants to come, it too has a reason within.”

You will be surprised. Take any single, neutral word: cow, horse, elephant, car, or dog. Sit silently and try: as soon as the word dog arises, write whatever words arise within you. You will be astonished. Words that have no apparent relation to “dog,” thoughts whose connection you cannot trace, begin to arise. A simple word—dog—creates a ripple within you, and along that ripple are pulled untold feelings and thoughts from the unconscious—who knows of how many years, even lifetimes—bound together somehow.

You say “dog,” and perhaps you remember a friend who had a dog. With the friend comes his house. With the house, you set out on a journey. It began with the dog—where you will end it, who can say?

Psychologists call this “free association”—the law of spontaneous association. Within you everything is interwoven. Every wire is tangled. Pull one, others are pulled along. But precisely this tangle is man’s disease. This is his shalya. This tangle must be unraveled—begin anywhere.

The therapist says, “Just go on speaking.” He listens. He does nothing, says nothing, only keeps reminding you gently, “Yes, I am here. I am listening—attentively.” The more attentively he listens, the easier it becomes for things to rise up out of your deeper unconscious. That is why we search for someone who can listen to us peacefully. How hard it has become to find one who will listen quietly, attentively. Whenever you find someone who will listen to your heart for a few moments, you feel light. Where does this lightness come from? Something lay upon your chest like a stone—someone helped share it. Someone lifted some of the load. Someone supported you and set down the stone that was on your head. By telling, one grows light.

Only in this century did psychologists grasp this sutra. Mahavira said it two and a half millennia ago. He said: as long as anything remains within you that you fear to reveal, you will remain sick; the thorn will remain embedded. You must become naked—revealed.

Mahavira says: at least do this before your guru. In the world it may be very difficult. There it is hard to find persons so understanding that they can forgive your errors and lapses. There it is hard to find those who, hearing your tales, will refrain from forming judgments about you. You say, “I have stolen,” and they begin to take you as a thief. You say, “I have sinned,” and they stamp you a sinner and condemn you. Hence people are afraid. You cannot tell anyone, “I lied.” People will say, “He lies!” and your trust will be broken, your life hindered. So you hide the lie. Even if it is discovered, you try to prove, “No, I spoke the truth.” If you are caught, you say, “It must have happened by mistake, despite myself. I did not intend it.” First you try to escape so that no one finds out.

In the world it is hard to find those eyes which, whatever you have done or not done, thought or not thought, still do not diminish your worth—who accept your being unconditionally. This is the very meaning of guru: to find one who has traversed the roads on which you now walk; one who has made mistakes, committed sins, stumbled—and gone beyond them; one who will understand your pain because he has passed through the same pain.

If you find a guru whose eyes hold no condemnation for you—only then know you have found the guru. Where there is condemnation, know that the world is continuing there.

Take this to heart. If you go to some monk, some sadhu, some sannyasin, and you say, “I am a very bad man. Thoughts of stealing arise in my mind. Sometimes I even dream that I have run off with the neighbor’s wife. Sometimes the urge arises to kill someone. Sometimes I am full of rage”—and if, upon hearing you, condemnation flickers in his eyes, then know this man is no guru. He has not yet crossed over. For one who has crossed over has unconditional compassion in his eyes. If condemnation appears in this man’s eyes, how will you be able to open yourself before him?

And if in any way he begins to form judgments about you, based on what you have done or thought, then here too you will not be able to open. Here it will not be possible. Here you will remain closed. His very eyes will shut you. His manner of sitting will shut you. His way of looking will lock the door. You will not be able to open.

Take this as the touchstone for guru. This one measure makes finding a guru easy: begin to speak of your sins, your mistakes. If the guru is truly awakened, his compassion will flow toward you with depth. His forgiveness is unconditional. He is not occupied with what you have done; he says, “What you are is supreme, blessed!”

Understand it so: your Atman is not the sum of your actions. Your Atman is not the sum of your thoughts. Your Atman is far greater than what you have done. Your Atman is far greater than what you have thought. No verdict about your Atman can be made from your thoughts and deeds. Thought and deed are external. Atman is within. The worth of your Atman is absolute, not relative. It cannot be measured by anything. You are valuable because you are—you are valuable because you are. Your very existence is enough. You are Paramatman. Where you find an eye that falls upon you and begins to awaken the Paramatman within—then know you have found the guru.

Where there is condemnation, where anger arises toward your sins, where there is relish in your sins—for denunciation has relish—whoever finds relish in your sin, even in order to denounce you, to call you bad, to make you small—that person is filled with ego. He will not miss the chance. You speak of your sin and his eyes say, “Ah, a sinner!” Seeing your sin he takes himself as a virtuous man. Because of your sin he makes himself big and you small.

The eyes in which you sense you are being made small—those are not the eyes of a guru. If you grasp only this one sutra correctly, finding a guru becomes easy. You will not go astray. One who accepts you wholly as you are; who does not want to make you otherwise; who does not even say, “Become good,” for in the very urge to make you good he has already taken you as bad; who does not say, “Renounce sin, swear by virtue,” for whoever demands you swear by virtue has already accepted you as a sinner—what is accepted in that way cannot be forgiven.

No. In whose compassion and love you can open yourself—just as the morning sun rises and buds, in deep reverence, open at the touch of its rays. Who knows what will happen upon opening? It is an unknown event—the bud has never opened. The sun knocks at the door, and hearing the guest’s knock, the bud opens—hearing the call it opens, spreads its petals, releases its fragrance. In such opening the bud becomes a flower. As long as you have hidden yourself, you have not met a single person before whom you could open yourself wholly. This is Mahavira’s sutra of nakedness. The fundamental meaning of Digambara is just this. You have not met even a single person before whom you could become utterly naked—simply as you are! In whose presence there was neither condemnation nor praise of you, no humiliation. In whose presence there was no urge to be otherwise. As you were, you were good. You were accepted so.

If you meet even one such person, by his side for the first time you will get the news of your soul. For only there can you be naked, natural, simple. He holds no demand over you. He does not say that you must fulfill some ideal. He says: you are already Paramatman. And if there have been mistakes, they have been mistakes of Paramatman. What is done is done. What is gone is gone. Forget the past. What had happened was like lines drawn upon water—now they are nowhere. Do not torment yourself in vain.

If the satsang of a guru is found, one is freed of karma the way one is freed of dreams upon waking at dawn. If in the presence of a guru you are still not freed from karma, then know you have not opened yourself. You have not revealed yourself.

This sutra is utterly revolutionary. Christianity, based on a sutra of Jesus—my own view is that before he began to teach, Jesus received his initiation in India—that is why the Jews could never accept him; he brought something foreign to their thought, which did not fit Jewish doctrine. Even Christians possess no account of thirty years of Jesus’ life. Only the last three years are narrated. Where he spent those thirty years—how, with which gurus, in whose satsang did this man awaken—there is no account.

This much is certain: Jesus was not in his own land. From birth he had to be taken away—his parents fled with him. Later Jesus lived in Egypt, in India, in Tibet. It is even possible he reached Japan, for there is a place in Japan where folk legend still tells that Jesus came there. He searched all the East.

Certainly when Jesus came to India, Mahavira’s voice was still a fiery voice. Only five centuries earlier Mahavira had departed. Buddha’s voice was still alive. The fragrance still lingered in the air though the flower had gone. Surely the sutra Jesus held—what Christians call confession—must be linked somewhere to Mahavira’s very sutra. Only Christianity has given confession such value: go before the priest and reveal whatever sin you have committed. Say simply, “This mistake happened.” In the very acceptance—“A mistake happened through me”—liberation begins. In acceptance is freedom. And as soon as you tell it to someone who will not condemn—someone you trust will not form a poor opinion of you, someone you trust will not lower you even an inch in his eyes; in truth you will rise, for the acceptance of sin, the acceptance of error, is an act of the virtuous—you return light.

Hindus bathe in the Ganga. They think it will wash away sin. If it is done with feeling, it will. The Ganga does not wash away sin—what will the Ganga do? Your feeling does it. If you are filled with the deep feeling that a dip in the Ganga will wash away your errors, if your feeling is intense, then surely the moment you dip you will be new. For before the Ganga you have accepted—“Mistakes were made, Mother; now carry them away and forgive!” You may return light, fresh. It is not necessary this should happen—it depends on you. With what depth of feeling, with what deep reverence, with what resolve and surrender you bowed and dipped—according to the depth of your trust, so will the Ganga act. The principle is the same.

Yet it is worth pondering: there is indeed danger in revealing your sin before a person. Who knows whether that man is in the right place or not? Doubt will remain. Perhaps he is not yet in that space, and you open your sin before him—and he is precisely at that stage where he still has relish for sin, and out of curiosity he begins to probe you.

Freud has written that a psychologist becomes a true psychologist only when his curiosity has ended. As long as there is curiosity, he cannot be an ally.

Someone comes and tells you, “I committed adultery with a woman.” What is the first thing that arises in your mind? Curiosity. You want to know which woman, whose wife, when, how—you want details and elaboration. You begin to relish this man’s sin within him—and you have missed. The relish you take in sin—you will not be able to keep what has been revealed to you. It will become rumor. You will tell someone. One who relishes hearing will relish telling. And before him your image will be lowered. Yesterday he took you as religious; now he will take you as irreligious. He will consider himself above you.

It is difficult to open before a person. Perhaps curiosity still remains in him—an aggressive curiosity—and he begins to excavate within you. He becomes acquainted with your delicate places and some day may attack. Some day he may stand in the marketplace and shout, “Hey sinner! Where are you going?” Or if some quarrel arises with him, he will expose everything. After all, man is man.

Hence the Hindus discovered something even more marvelous. They said: go to the Ganga and surrender it there. The Ganga will tell no one. The Ganga has no curiosity. The Ganga will flow as it flowed before. Whether you come or not, it makes no difference. Before the Ganga you can open wholly. There is no need to conceal anything—there is no human being there who will reveal it tomorrow, or the day after, in a moment of passion. There is no fear, so you can open wholly.

The Hindus raised Mahavira’s sutra to its ultimate height. They said: remove the man altogether. The Ganga is fine. In fact, Mahavira’s meaning was the same: open before one in whom the “man” has been removed and the Ganga has been born. That was the meaning: go to the one in whom the Ganga now flows within—take a dip in him. Open everything. Keep this also in mind: when you open before the Ganga, there is not much hindrance in the opening, for you know it is only the Ganga. Because there is no hindrance, the benefit is less. There is great convenience in opening there, but the gain is small, for there is no challenge at all. When you open before the guru, you waver a thousand times between doubt and trust. “Shall I say it or not? Should I hold some back, or say this much? Shall I polish it a bit before I say it, embellish it, whitewash it—or tell it exactly as it is? Shall I beautify the sin a little, put a few flowers on it, present it in such a way that I was compelled? Shall I bring in a little logic, a few ideas, so that not all the blame falls on me—let me distribute responsibility a bit?” In going before the guru there will be a thousand conflicts—that very struggle is your growth, your maturation.

If you choose doubt and forsake trust, you will be lost in bottomless pits. If doubt keeps shouting, yet you go with trust—hold trust by the hand—then a revolution happens within you. You have triumphed over doubt; you have entered into trust.

With the Ganga there is convenience, no challenge. Where there is no challenge, there is no growth. Hence the guru—a human being who has become Ganga—has both qualities. He is a man—he can understand you; he has gone through the same experiences—and he is Ganga. The Ganga flows within him. He will forgive you.

Understand it like this:

Only one who has forgiven himself can forgive you. One who has not forgiven himself will not be able to forgive you. One who is still fighting with himself—how will he forgive you? Suppose someone is still struggling with lust within himself and you speak of lust to him; he will pounce upon you. He will say, “You are a sinner, a heinous sinner—you will rot in hell.” When he says this to you he reveals only this much: he too cannot take lust with ease. The struggle is still on. He cannot listen to it as simply as he listens to other matters. Even the word unsettles him. Fear still is. His own victory is not complete. There is still the inner dread of defeat.

If you open Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra before a Jain monk, he will close his eyes or throw away the book—he will be alarmed.

You cannot take a Jain monk to Khajuraho. He will not enter those temples. He will stay far away, flee. The fear still within him will be projected outward. The statues of Khajuraho will become a cause of terror.

One of my friends was Education Minister of Vindhya Pradesh. An American poet came to see Khajuraho. He had known Jawaharlal Nehru and, being a friend, special arrangements were made that someone worthy should show him around. My friend, the Education Minister, was the most educated member of the cabinet, so he was sent.

He went, but he was frightened. He worried: “What will this man think? What will he make of the naked, erotic postures, the couples in sexual union, the copulating statues? What will he think?” He felt a little guilty. He showed him the special temples completely. On coming out he said, “Please do not take this to be India’s essential culture. This is not the mainstream. Under the influence of Tantra this is a kind of aberration. Do not think these obscene statues represent all our temples. Keep proportion in mind. These obscene figures do not reveal the soul of India—only traces of a time when a distorted stream flowed here.”

The American poet was startled. He was filled with great feeling. For the first time India’s glory had been revealed before him. He had only heard until then that India has gone deep into man’s inner being—today he saw the proof. He had heard that Tantra has touched the utmost edge of man’s innermost passion, the ultimate center, and found methods of transformation—today he saw it clearly inscribed in stone. He was overwhelmed. As if someone shook him out of sleep, he grew alarmed and said, “What did you say—obscene? Then you must show me again, because I did not see a single obscene statue. Now please show me which are obscene and which are distorted and of a sick mind. I did not know; I was simply filled with the feeling—‘How wondrous!’—but you have reminded me, so let me go again.”

My friend told me: “I felt as if someone had flung me down from the sky. Here is a man to whom nothing appeared obscene. Obscenity is seen through the obscenity within us. What is within us is what we see without.”

Therefore, if someone who calls himself a guru becomes curious, prods your wounds, condemns you, declares you a sinner, becomes your judge—know he is not a guru. The Ganga has not flowed in him. The descent of Ganga has not happened upon this person. To dip into him will achieve nothing. You will only become dirtier—he is a sewer flowing through the city, not the Ganga. He carries the garbage and filth of all drains. He cannot purify you.

Mahavira has said: one who reveals everything before the guru becomes purified and happy. The Jains have reflected very little on this sutra, for this sutra makes the whole theory of karma worth a few pennies. It is revolutionary. It uproots the doctrine of karma at the base. Mahavira is saying: if you accept simply—with a simple heart—then you are freed. The shalya is gone. The thorn will not prick again. The matter ends. This is what the saints mean when they say that by the guru’s grace it can happen in a single instant. But grace can descend only upon one who opens his heart completely. If the vessel is open, the guru’s grace—which is always raining—will fill it. But someone must open his vessel.

Just as, when a thorn pricks a small place, the pain does not remain localized. The thorn enters the foot, but the pain strikes all the way to the head. The thorn pierces a tiny spot, but the suffering spreads. A little sin turns the whole body into a wound. A small mistake, a small lie, spreads through the whole body, through body and breath. So do not take any mistake as small. You do not ignore even a small thorn. You do not say, “What is it—just half an inch of thorn in a six-foot body; what does it matter?” But half an inch of thorn agitates the whole six-foot body.

Mahavira chose the word shalya. He says the ordinary man is pierced by great splinters—and one must become nishalya. Not a single splinter should remain.

Understand it:

You speak one lie—a splinter pierces, a thorn enters. The moment you lie you fall into contradiction. Where there is contradiction in energy, there is obstruction, pain, suppuration; there a wound and boil arise. You lie—lying means you know what the truth is and you speak the opposite. What you know in your heart, against that you speak. Your heart says one thing and your tongue says another. A conflict is created within. You knew one thing, you said another; you are something, you reported something else. A knot is formed. It will fester. It will trouble you, it will not let you sleep properly, not let you eat properly.

Psychologists say: for at least half an hour before eating, do not lie, do not get angry, no enmity, no hatred, no jealousy—then only will your food digest well. Try it. While eating, speak a lie and see; speak in anger and see. Experiments have been done—devices attached and checked: a man is eating, on the screen appear images of his stomach, the digestive juices are being secreted—and at that moment the wife says something and the man becomes angry. As soon as he is angry, the digestive juices stop. The body collapses inward. The stomach becomes cold; the heat is lost. The heat has reached the head and departed from the belly. Now the food will lie in the stomach but the juices will not meet it. The food becomes heavy. It will not digest. Either constipation will arise or diarrhea—but it will not become flesh and marrow. This cold stomach will take a long time to digest this food, will digest with great difficulty. A knot of disease will be created.

You are eating, you speak a lie while eating—instantaneously the stomach contracts. A contradiction is created. Whenever you lie, observe within—there is immediate transformation. Buds close. You become ready to protect yourself, ready to fight. A thousand arguments begin spinning in the mind—how to prove the lie as truth. Only the lie needs to be proved; truth is self-evident. Therefore, one who speaks truth has fewer thoughts within—there is no need. Truth needs no thinking—he says it as it is. For a lie, a thousand thoughts are needed—bridges must be built, strategies arrayed—because now you have to prove as true that which is not. The hardest task in the world is to prove “is” for what is not. In trying to do so you will have great difficulty. The thorn has entered.

Thus thorns go on piercing as we travel through life. A time comes when the whole body-mind is nothing but thorns. How many lies have you spoken? How many distortions have you nurtured? How many poisons have you drunk? How many fires of anger have you lit with your own hands? How much hatred and jealousy have you watered and tended? You kept nurturing the false. If the soul is lost, what is surprising? If it is buried under all these thorns, what is surprising? How will the flower of the soul bloom—you are preserving the thorns. What should have been removed, shaken off—you have embraced to your chest and taken as wealth.

Mahavira says: just as when a thorn pricks the whole body suffers—and when the thorn is removed the body becomes nishalya, whole-body-blissful—have you known the delight of a small thorn being removed? The moment it is out, everything becomes light. A weight lifts. Pain leaves the mind. Joy arises—from the removal of a mere physical thorn. Think a little, when spiritual thorns are removed how weightless you will become! Wings will sprout—you will fly in the sky. There will be no weight in you. You will become like the wind—free. You will be pure like the Ganga. Now nothing will be able to defile you. It is these thorns you hold that have festered into sores.

“When the thorn is removed the body becomes nishalya, whole-body-blissful. In the same way, the one who does not reveal his faults remains deluded, unhappy, or agitated; and when he reveals them before the guru, he becomes purified and happy. No shalya remains in the mind.” Mahavira does not say: go stand in the marketplace and announce your sins. In fact, that is dangerous. First, you will not be able to do it. And if ever you do, you will exaggerate. Announcing in the market, you will want to prove that no one has made a greater confession than you—see! You will exaggerate, accept sins you have not committed.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was tried. After serving a year he returned. I asked, “Nasruddin, you are ninety years old—how could this be? The charge was that you raped a young woman.” He said, “I did not even know her, nor did I rape her; but when in court such a beautiful young woman said it, I could not deny it. The very idea filled me with joy—that a ninety-year-old man could rape a twenty-year-old! I could not deny it. A year’s sentence seemed worth it.”

Psychologists have studied this. Some people have proclaimed their sins—exaggeratedly, falsely. They have inflated their sins. Man is strange: either he hides the sin, or he boasts of it. Such is the grip of falsehood that if we leave it on one side, it appears at the other extreme.

In Gandhi’s autobiography there are such exaggerations. In Rousseau’s too. In Augustine’s too. And in Tolstoy’s too. Now there is strong evidence Tolstoy wrote of things that did not happen—he magnified sin. If it is a virtue to confess one’s sin, why confess petty sins! If you must confess stealing two coins, you yourself will feel mean—if you must accept theft, then why not say two lakhs! Why be a small sinner? If you are to confess anyway, at least be ahead in this! Ego will catch even there—again falsehood. So neither confess sins you did not do, nor proclaim virtues you did not do.

Therefore Mahavira says: in solitude, in the nearness of the guru—who will understand—quietly tell him your tale. And before him you will be able neither to diminish your sin nor to inflate it, because his simple atmosphere, his peace, his bliss will not give your ego a chance. His humility will make you humble; his naturalness will make you natural. Sitting before the mirror of the guru, you will have to declare the very picture that you are. Only declare that much which you are. In that declaration you become weightless. The burden of your mind lightens. Duality dissolves; contradiction ends; knots open.

And if you can tell one person and find joy in it, gradually you will discover, “How much joy will there be if I say it to all!” Slowly you will begin to accept before others too. What does the world have that it can take from you? What has it to give you? Status, respect—delusive mirages. What can it take? Whatever the world can take from you is of no worth. What it can give is of no worth. And by hiding from it, what you lose is precious. And by revealing, what you gain in your consciousness is your own soul—the supreme wealth—ever yours.

As Mahavira said, as Jesus said, as the Hindus understood—before someone or other, open your heart. Before whom you open is not so important; that you open is important. Before whom you can open, open there—before your beloved, before your wife, before your mother, before your friend. Where you find the convenience to open and no condemnation, open there—you will receive a little of the guru’s grace. If you find the guru, you will receive the whole sky.

“Tere gunahgaar gunahgaar hi sahi,
Tere karam ki aas lagaye hue to hain;
Yun tujhko ikhtiyar hai taseer de na de,
Daste-dua hum aaj uthaye hue to hain.”

The devotee says—
“Even if I am a wrongdoer—a wrongdoer indeed—
Yet I hold the hope of Your grace.
It is Yours to choose to touch me or not;
But today these hands of mine are raised in prayer.”

“Yes, we are sinners—I accept. Yet we wait upon Your compassion. We trust You will forgive.
Whether You give Your touch or not—that is Your will.
But we have raised our hands in prayer. You cannot say we did not raise our hands. We are ready for Your compassion—whether You give it or not. We have sent our prayer—whether You fulfill it or not. The fruit is in Your hands. The prayer we have made. You cannot say we did not pray.”

A small child is playing in a garden. His father sits nearby. The child tries to lift a large stone. It will not lift. He tries every way to pull it—it is heavier than he is; it will not budge. Finally the father says, “You are not using your full strength.” The child says, “I am using all my strength.” The father says, “No—your strength includes this too: you can ask me to help. You are not using your full strength. Your strength includes that you can say to me, ‘Come, help me lift this stone.’”

Prayer is full strength. You do what you can, and then you say to the Divine, “We are limited—now You also lend a hand.”

“Whether You give Your touch or not—
These hands of ours today are raised in prayer.”

One cannot at once raise his hands before God, for we have no address for God. Where is He? In what direction? Who is He? How to call? What is His name? What language does He understand? Before the guru it is easy. From there we learn the ABC of life. From there we place the first step toward the Divine. He is the first rung. The guru is one part like us, and one part not like us—one part human, one part Paramatman. An amazing confluence where man and God meet.

So far as he is like us, we can speak to him. So far, he will understand. And where he is not like us—from there his forgiveness comes. This is the wonder of guru, the glory of guru. He is human, just like you: hands and feet, face, needs—hunger and thirst, heat and cold, birth and death—just like you. He has walked through where you walk. In those same darknesses he groped and found a path where you grope. He will understand you, for you are his own past story. Where he was yesterday, there you are today; where he is today, there you can be tomorrow.

God is very far. The guru is near—and far too. To stretch a bridge to God is very difficult—beyond the power of man. You utter the word ‘God’—does any feeling arise within? Nothing arises. Until you glimpse God in some human being, the word ‘God’ will have no life for you. The guru breathes life into the word ‘God.’ Since he is like you, he understands what you say: “A desire to steal arose. Ten thousand rupees lay by the road—no one was watching—I felt like taking them.” He will say, “Many times I felt the same. Do not worry—do not be alarmed. See—I have gone beyond it. You too will go beyond. It happens to all—it is natural, human.”

The guru is like you—he understands your language. And he is not so like you that he condemns, or relishes your disease, or grows curious, digging, probing for your hidden secrets. No—the guru simply listens in a passive, peaceful way to what you say—and he gives you assurance.

That assurance is less of words and more of his very being. By his existence, by his presence, he gives assurance. He takes your hand in his, or places his hand upon your head—and you experience that he has forgiven. And if he has forgiven, be certain God will forgive. If even the guru can forgive, what need to speak of God!

“Whether You give Your touch or not—
These hands of ours today are raised in prayer.”

To find a guru is the first necessity for a seeker.

“We gained life—but in that life,
Did even two moments of joy pass?
Many met who deceived the mind—
But did we meet the friend of the heart?”

If the heart’s friend is found, the guru is found. Many will befriend the body, many will use your body. Many will use you as a means. The one who reminds you of your end—when he is found, the friend of the heart is found. The guru is friend.

Buddha even said: my next incarnation will be named Maitreya—Friend. The guru has always been the nearest friend: kalyana-mitra. He wants nothing from you. His wanting has gone. He is desireless. He has no reason to use you. He has nothing left to use. What was to be attained has been attained. He is home. He will not make you his ladder. He will not climb upon your shoulders. There is no purpose. What was to be seen has been seen; what was to be become has been become. Fulfilled in every way. If such a one is found, it is good fortune. Do not leave the shadow of such a one. Build your nest in his shade. Rest there—and open your heart completely. You will become nishalya. No shalya will remain in the mind.

But people are very strange. They avoid the guru and get caught by those who are not gurus. For those who are not gurus pose no danger to you. They will not annihilate you—they will neither crucify you nor enthrone you; they will not become your death. With them you can come home with cheap consolations. Truth will not be found there. Truth is costly—its price must be paid with your very life. Consolation is cheap.

“Aa’ine se bigad ke baith gaye—
Jinki surat jinhen dikhayi gayi.”

People become angry at the mirror. The guru is a mirror. Your face will appear before you.

“Aa’ine se bigad ke baith gaye—
Jinki surat jinhen dikhayi gayi.”

So the guru’s work is very difficult. He has to show you your face—and also free you from your face. He must tell you as you are—and lead you toward what you can be—and yet neither condemn you, nor break your self-trust, nor shatter your image. It is a delicate task. He must hold you so you do not fall—and hold you in such a way that you never feel someone is forcibly holding you. You should never feel your freedom is being lost—that your freedom to fall is being taken away.

The guru’s work is the most delicate work in the world. Sculptors carve in stone; painters paint upon canvas; poets arrange and adorn words—the guru refines the statue of consciousness—most delicate. His delicacy is that he must do opposite tasks: on one side he must prevent you from falling in fear; on the other, he must not allow you so much reassurance that you remain as you are.

He must break your seed. He must transform what you are—yet without hurting you, without violence. You should not feel it has become bondage, dependence, a prison. Discipline must arise in your life through willing freedom. That is the complexity. Not imposed, but arising—through love for the guru, through his presence. It should come from his counsel, not his command. A guru gives no commands. Those who command are not gurus. The guru only speaks—he pleads, suggests at most, not commands. He must preserve your freedom, and he must also complete your journey toward Truth.

But its first beginning, Mahavira says, is the total acceptance of one’s errors. The one who becomes nishalya becomes healthy. His mental diseases fall away. His mental afflictions drop. When the mind is healthy, the journey to the soul can begin.

Understand this:

If the body is sick, the journey to mind cannot happen. If a man is sick, how can he play the veena? How can he sing a song? When he is bound to the bed, how can he dance? What savor of literature, what poetry, what sculpture? If the body is diseased, full of wounds, one remains stuck in the body. When the body is healthy, one moves toward the mind. Then he listens to music, dances, paints, sculpts, gardens, tends flowers. A new world of rasa opens—of beauty’s perception. When the body is healthy, man begins to use the energy of mind—rides the waves of mind. But if the mind is sick, one cannot go toward the soul. When the mind becomes nishalya, then a final new journey begins—the search for Atman, the search for Paramatman, the search for Truth. Only when body and mind are both in balance can the search for the soul happen.

“Ab mujhko karar hai to sabko karar hai—
Dil kya thahar gaya ki zamana thahar gaya.”

As soon as the mind’s churning comes to rest—when the heart stands still—the whole hustle and bustle, the whole running about, ceases.

“When the heart has paused, the world has paused.”

All becomes still; time itself is stilled. In that ultimate stillness the flowers of meditation can bloom. In that supreme silence man moves toward his last destination.

“From knowledge arises the accomplishment of meditation; from meditation, the shedding of all karmas; the fruit of shedding is moksha. Therefore one should practice knowledge unceasingly.”

“णाणेण ज्झाणसिज्झी, झाणादो सव्वकम्मणिज्जरणं।
णिज्जरणफलं मोक्खं, णाणब्भासं तदो कुज्जा।।”

“From knowledge arises the accomplishment of meditation.” Know well the meaning of knowledge. Knowledge does not mean study of scriptures—Mahavira rejected that long ago. Knowledge does not mean the collection of information. Knowledge means to know what is, as it is—to see the fact as the fact. Do not twist or manipulate the fact. Do not superimpose your mind upon the fact. Do not distort the fact. To know what is, just as it is, is called knowledge.

A rose blooms. You say, “It is beautiful.” Then you have drifted from what is. You have imposed your mind. This idea of “beautiful” is yours. The rose knows nothing of beauty or ugliness. Even if man disappears from the earth, roses will bloom and marigolds too. But neither will the marigold be ugly nor the rose beautiful; neither will the marigold be less beautiful nor the rose more. The grasses will bloom. All will be simply as they are. When man is removed, valuations fall away.

When you say, “The rose is beautiful,” you have added something to the flower. You have not allowed the fact to remain a fact. You have added imagination—your feeling. You have made the fact unfactual. Look at the rose—say nothing. Add nothing. Let there be the rose there and you here—two presences—empty, silent—with no disease of words. Let no word arise between. Words distort Truth. Let the bridge be of silence. Let the rose bloom there, and let your presence bloom here—face-to-face in a mutual revelation. Do not think, do not form a notion. Simply keep seeing what is. Allow what is to reveal itself, to spread. Then for the first time you will know the rose—without name, without adjective, without form. The rose will reveal its full splendor. It will spread across your soul. For the first time you will touch what is. And what I have said about the rose—do with all of life. Mahavira calls that knowledge.

“From knowledge arises meditation.” A priceless sutra. Such knowledge transforms by itself into meditation. The very purification of knowledge becomes meditation. Meditation means a mind free of thought. When you become skilled at seeing fact as fact, thoughts depart. Their waves cease. The encounter happens in silence. Your eyes become empty. You simply see, you add nothing. You simply hear, you do not think. You simply touch, you do not interpret. Interpretation, thinking, adding, joining—these are acts of mind. When these acts vanish, the mind vanishes. Where there is no mind, there is meditation. The absence of mind is meditation—the state of no-mind is meditation.

“From knowledge arises meditation; and from meditation, the shedding of all karmas.”

Listen—Mahavira says: from meditation comes the shedding of all karmas. Whatever sins or virtues you have done through countless births—by a single moment of meditation they are dissolved. How is this possible? The arithmetic seems odd. For births upon births you have sinned—stolen, slandered, lied, murdered—if not another, at least yourself. You have done unworthy deeds for long lifetimes—such a web of karma—and meditation will dissolve it? How so? Because what you have done was a dream. The doer is a dream. At night how many deeds you do—and in the morning the alarm rings, birds chirp, eyes open—and all is gone. What a sequence was there at night—how much endeavor and commotion, how much gain and loss—and upon opening the eyes, all empty.

Nirjara means: what you called karma is nothing more than maya. Mahavira does not use the word maya—but what does it matter! His statement is so clear. He says: what you have done is dreamlike. There is a need to awaken. Upon waking, dreams vanish. At night you steal—do you worry in the morning, “I stole at night—became a thief. What shall I do? Shall I give in charity? Shall I report to the police?” At night you murdered—do you panic in the morning that the police are coming? Upon waking, shedding happens. Shedding is possible because what was done was the dream of sleep.

“From meditation comes the shedding of all karmas.” The word nirjara is very sweet—a word of Mahavira. It means “shedding, falling away”—as leaves fall in autumn, as dust falls away when bathing. Sit beneath a waterfall—every speck of dust washes off. So when one bathes in meditation, all is shed.

“The fruit of nirjara is moksha.” And the final state of shedding—where everything has fallen, nothing remains; all weeds, all leaves, all dust have dropped—nothing remains. You remain alone in your purest essence. Your aloneness remains; your kevalata remains; within, only a lamp of breath burning in emptiness remains—everything else has been removed—that is moksha. Moksha is not a geographical state. Moksha is your most purified state. Call it Paramatman or moksha—it is one and the same.

“Therefore practice knowledge unceasingly.” The Jaina monks have misunderstood Mahavira’s word—thinking it to mean: study scriptures constantly. They do precisely that. The study of scripture goes on, but neither does meditation arise—indeed, because of scripture study, meditation becomes impossible—nor does shedding occur, nor moksha come. Still—no sprout appears, no flower, no fruit—and yet they sit and study.

By “practice of knowledge” Mahavira means: the discipline of seeing fact as fact—the process of seeing what is as it is. This must be practiced, because for lifetimes we have learned to falsify facts. We see something else. We are looking—and yet we fail to see what is; we see what we wish to see. The waves within us keep casting shadows on the screen of the world.

Mulla Nasruddin once came to me. He had written his will. On reading it, I was startled. “Mulla, you are very generous!” He had written: after my death, my wife will get fifty thousand rupees. But if she remarries, she will get one lakh. I said, “People usually write: if the wife remarries she gets nothing; if she weeps for me forever, she gets all. What is this? I never thought you would be so generous.” He said, “Do not misunderstand me. I mean something else. But why hide it from you? First, the fool who marries her—and only a fool will—will need some expense money; but I have no relish even in that. My relish is that someone should marry her—why should I alone suffer because of her? Let someone else taste the pain! And one more reason: after my death at least one man will be unhappy, thinking, ‘It would have been better if Mulla had not died.’”

People say one thing, mean another. Layer upon layer there is falsehood. Then outside, we go on seeing exactly what lies within us layer upon layer. You see in another precisely according to your habit of seeing. A thief only sees thieves. To a thief the saint is invisible—he cannot be seen—he cannot even be believed. When he himself could not be a saint, who could be!

Mahavira says: to practice knowledge means to master the art of seeing facts—removing yourself, not coming in between; do not be an obstacle—remove all curtains—and see whatever is, just as it is, whatever price you must pay. The scripture-studier is only a blind worshiper of tradition.

“Leek-leek gaadi chale, leekai chale kaput;
Leek chhadi tino chale—shayar, singh, saput.”

Those who flog the scriptural line are unworthy sons; they are cowards; they have no strength.

“Leaving the beaten track go the three—poet, lion, worthy son.”

Whoever can leave the rut, who does not look at the beaten word, who does not live by hand-me-down notions, who removes all nets and looks at the fact of life, and lives according to that fact—only he is brave, daring—only he is Mahavira. Poet, lion, worthy son. In his life poetry is born. In his life virya is born. He alone brings blessing to life. He is fortunate.

“The austerity of those noble families is also impure who adopt renunciation for worship and honor. Therefore the welfare-seeker should practice his austerity in such a way that others do not even know. One should not praise one’s tapas before anyone.”

Man is inverted—uncomprehending. Even when he practices austerity the causes are the same old ego. Once he strutted with the pride of wealth—“I have lakhs.” Now he struts with, “I have renounced lakhs.” Once the pride was, “See how much I have.” Now it is, “Listen how much I have given up.” The pride remains. The rope burns, the twist does not leave. Mahavira says: do not practice that sort of tapas—that tapas is impure.

“तेसिं तु तवो ण सुद्धो, निक्खंता जे महाकुला।
जं नेवन्ने वियाणंति, न सिलोगं पवेज्जइ।।”

Do not practice austerity for worship and honor. The seeker after welfare should practice in such a way that no one comes to know. Tapas should be in solitude. Your tapas is within—let it be within.

Understand it now:

Ordinarily we commit sins in seclusion and do virtue in public. We hide sin; we proclaim virtue. If compelled to tell sin, we tell as little as possible. If compelled to hide virtue, we hide as little as possible. Under pressure we hide virtue; under pressure we tell sin. We magnify virtue in proclamation, we minimize sin in secrecy.

Mahavira says: the process must be reversed. Keep virtue hidden within; reveal sin without. Tell your sin, for what is told is lost. Tell your virtue—and your virtue will be lost. Tell your sin—and your sin will be lost. What you keep inside becomes a seed. Whatever is hidden will grow. Hide sin—sin will grow. Hide virtue—virtue will grow. Now it depends on you. The arithmetic is clear. If you hide sin, sin grows and spreads through every pore like pus—its hidden stream takes you over completely. And the virtue you proclaim slips away from your hands—its fragrance leaves the flower, the flower is left empty.

Mahavira says: reverse it; be a little intelligent. Hide virtue—let no one know. Jesus said: give with one hand so the other does not know. Pray in solitude, alone, in the dark night. Let not your wife or husband know. Rise at midnight, sit upon your bed, and in that solitude join yourself to the Divine. This is not work for the bazaar. What is there to tell anyone? The moment you tell, it is lost—the arrow leaves the bow; it will not return.

Hold it—preserve it. Hide merit. Reveal sin. Let sin be renounced; good. Let virtue be hidden—let it become a seed, sink deep within your inner chest, let an undercurrent flow—let the fragrance and joy of virtue flow through your veins.

“Knowledge, together with the wind of awareness and inflamed by shila, the fire of tapas, burns the karmic seed that is the cause of the world, just as a wild forest fire burns heaps of grass.”

Kindle this fire of knowledge. Kindle this yajna of knowing. If you would kindle it, have the courage to see the fact as fact. If you would kindle it, throw out the futile and preserve the essential within. Speak the unwholesome. Find at least one person before whom you can speak your whole heart. And conceal the auspicious—conceal it in the casket of your heart. Let the essence of the good settle into your life-breath. And as soon as the inauspicious is seen, at that instant declare it—offer it to the Ganga and let it flow away. Then the seed that is the cause of births—the vasana—is destroyed—or call it the ego—it is destroyed. The peace man seeks will not be found on mountains. The mountain’s peace is a momentary deception. This peace must be sought within.

“How much peace! How much peace!
Why does not the revolution of my heart find repose here?
Why does the untamed, unrestrainable dweller of the inner cave—
The restless wanderer, the soon-forever traveler—
Not stop, even desiring, accepting—rest?
Though I accept that all desires, all cravings,
All the world’s attainments are enticing delusions—
Still the solution does not come.
How much peace! How much peace!
Why does not the revolution of my heart find repose here?”

On the mountains the peace is deep—but it is the mountains’ peace, not yours. You sit in a temple—peace is there—but it is the temple’s peace, not yours. By such peace your inner turbulence, your weeping, your clamor will not end.

“Why does not the revolution of my heart find repose here?
Why does the untamed, unrestrainable dweller of the inner cave—
The restless wanderer, the soon-forever traveler—
Not stop, even desiring, accepting—rest?
Though I accept that all desires, all cravings,
All the world’s attainments are enticing delusions.”

You too know this. But your knowing is only acceptance.

“Though I accept that all desires, all cravings,
All the world’s attainments are enticing delusions,”

Nothing is solved. Has mere acceptance ever solved anything? Hearing and accepting—has it solved? You must know. Knowledge! Then meditation will be born. From meditation will come nirjara. From nirjara—moksha.

This is the only difference between Paramatman and man: man is covered by useless burdens; the jewel is hidden like a diamond beneath stones; gold lies in the earth—if you pass it through fire, it will be purified. Man is Paramatman.

“Sarapa aarzu hone ne banda kar diya humko—
Vagarna hum Khuda the gar dil-e-bemudda’a hote.”

The very totality of longing has made us mere men—otherwise we were God, if only the heart had no demands. If the seed of desire, of craving, were not there, we would be God. Let desire be burned in the fire of knowledge—Mahavira says truly: “As a fierce fire burns a heap of grass, so the seed of desire, of thirst, is burned.” Hurry—there is no guarantee of tomorrow. Kindle this fire. This gold has long been waiting for you.

“For what I brought these wings,
I did not use them for that.
Will not the giver of wings
Be angry with me?
I tied stones to my wings!”

Spread your wings. Test the winds again. Fly skyward.

“For what I brought these wings,
I did not use them for that.
Will not the giver of wings
Be angry with me?
I tied stones to my wings!”

Drop the stones. But this will not happen by others’ words. You have heard much—people say the world is maya—yet it does not drop. You have heard much—anger is fire—yet it does not end. You have heard much—sex is sin—yet it does not go. Is it not clear that what is heard, what is read—what comes from scripture and conditioning—is not knowledge? These are words about light, not light. It is a cookbook, not food. The formula for water is H2O; but has anyone’s thirst been quenched by H2O?

Write H2O on a page and give it to a parched man—he will throw it away. He will say, “What shall I do with this?” What shall I do with scripture? Your formula may be right—but I need water, not the formula. And water cannot be obtained from scripture. It can be found only from oneself. Until you discover that spring within yourself, you will go on writhing in thirst—dying by the moment in the name of life.

“Longing for union is in the heart;
In the eyes the thirst for a glimpse.
I search and search for whom—
His address is never found.
False this great earth,
False these vast skies;
Nowhere is found in the world
The idol of my heart’s song.”

Before whom shall I dance? Before whom shall I sing? Upon whose door shall I place the arghya of my life—the naivedya of my life? Where is that door—that is truly the door of my home?

“Longing for union is in the heart;
In the eyes the thirst for a glimpse;
I search and search for whom—
His address is never found.”

If you keep searching outside, you will not find. He is hidden within. Your very being is His door. Learn only the art of purification. Mahavira calls that knowledge. And do not be disheartened. However defeated, however astray, you cannot go far from Him. Even losing Him you cannot lose Him, for He is your very nature.

“Trishit! Dhar dheer maru mein—
Ki jalti bhoomi ke ur mein
Kahin prachchhanna jal ho.
Na ro yadi aaj taru mein
Suman ki gandh teekhi—
Syat, madhu-purna phal ho.
Dukhon ki chot khaakar
Hriday jo koop-sa jitna
Adhik gambhir hoga;
Usi mein vrishti paakar
Kabhi utna adhik sanchit
Sukhon ka neer hoga.”

Do not be afraid. Many times, seeing men like Mahavira or Buddha, people have become hopeless and said: “This is only for a rare few—for the great ones, the avataras, the Tirthankaras, the Buddhas. We ordinary people—are we only made to worship? Never to be worthy of worship? Shall we only offer flowers before idols—never be idols of God?”

A great error. From those from whom you were to take self-trust, you took more inferiority. Their entire effort was that you understand: they are men just like you who have become like Mount Everest. You too can. Have you ever seen, beneath the banyan tree, the tiny banyan seed? It cannot imagine it can become such a vast tree—but it can. It has the potential. You too have the potential. It is a matter of a little awakening, a little remembrance.

“Re pravasi, jaag! Tere
Desh ka samvaad aaya—
Bhedamay sandesh sun pulakit
Khagon ne chanchu kholi;
Prem se jhuk-jhuk pranati mein
Paadapon ki pankti doli;
Door Prachi ki tati se
Vishva ke trina-trina jagata,
Phir uday ki vayu ka van mein
Suparichit naad aaya—
Re pravasi, jaag! Tere
Desh ka samvaad aaya.”

These Jina-sutras are news from your own country.

“Re pravasi, jaag! Tere
Desh ka samvaad aaya.”

Mahavira and Buddha are postmen—bring letters from the Divine. Do not hold the letters on your chest in worship. Open them—open their meaning. These letters are not for worship, nor to make into scripture. They are for making a life.

“Re pravasi, jaag! Tere
Desh ka samvaad aaya.”

Enough for today.