Jin Sutra #48

First sutra:
“The ascetic imbued with the spirit of Samadhi should neither cultivate attachment toward agreeable sense-objects nor let hatred arise toward disagreeable ones.”

The very foundations of the human mind lie in choosing. The base of the human mind is in choice. Choose—and the mind appears. Do not choose—and there is no mind. That is why Krishnamurti insists so emphatically: choiceless awareness.

In choiceless awareness the mind does not get constructed. No bamboo, no flute.

Many people want to destroy the mind. It is hard to find anyone who is not troubled by the mind. The mind gives so much anguish—restlessness. No path of the mind leads to peace, to bliss; only thorns prick. The mind promises flowers, assures you of blossoms; but by the time they reach your hand every flower has turned into a thorn. On the label outside it says: “Happiness.” Inside, when you search, you find sorrow. Wherever the concept of heaven arises, there the attainment is hell.

So it is natural that one would want to be free of the mind. But wanting is not enough. It can even happen that the desire to be free of mind becomes the very maker of mind—because all desire manufactures mind. Desire alone is the creatrix of mind.

So it is necessary to seek the root—how does mind get made? It is not the right question to ask: How to destroy the mind? It is enough to know: How is mind created? And if we do not create it, the mind does not get created. It is made by us. We are the masters.

But it has happened that we never look into the roots; we keep cutting leaves. Cutting leaves solves nothing.

This first sutra of Mahavira is the first step toward the state beyond alternatives. Mahavira says: be neither in attachment nor in aversion. These two are the only options of mind. The mind swings between them like the pendulum of a clock—sometimes forging friendship, sometimes enmity; sometimes calling someone “mine,” sometimes “other.”

The moment you create attachment you have laid the foundation for aversion. Have you noticed? Without making someone a friend you cannot make an enemy. If you want an enemy, first you will have to make a friend. The day you made a friend, enmity has begun. You said of someone, “He is mine,” you seized upon union—at that very instant you sowed the seeds of separation. Whatever you cling to tightly will be snatched away from you.

Then this too becomes possible—that a man sees: whatever I hold onto, that alone slips away. So he begins clutching at “letting go”—he tries to grasp only the act of renouncing. This is the entire tale of your renouncers and so-called dispassionate ones.

They used to cling to wealth; they found it brought suffering—now they do not cling to wealth. But their insistence upon “not clinging” is just as intense. Earlier they were mad for money; now if money happens to come near they panic—as if a snake or scorpion had approached, as if poison had arrived.

Again the mind has trembled—earlier for money, now in opposition to money. Earlier they sought a beautiful body, a beautiful woman, a beautiful man; now they have convinced themselves that there is nothing there but sorrow.

Go to the renouncers and ascetics—you will find them condemning the body. And you will also notice the great relish in their condemnation. They will speak of the body as flesh and marrow, bile and phlegm, stench, feces and urine. Just as the sensualist raves about lovely eyes, a golden form, heavenly fragrance—so does the renouncer rave: he harps on the filth and excreta packed inside the body! “This is a basket of dirt; skin alone is fair above, within all is foul. Do not be deceived by the skin.”

But both are in attachment to the body. What we call non-attachment is merely attachment standing on its head—attachment doing a headstand. There has been no release from the body. The one who now says, “The body is a basket of filth,” still remains tied to it. He is trying to break that very attachment by lecturing himself that the body is a basket of filth. Where is the poor madman going! There is nothing in the body—he is not trying to explain it to you, he is trying to explain it to himself, using you as the excuse. By denouncing the body he is trying to restrain the hidden lust within.

We condemn only that which we fear. We repress only that which terrifies us. And we fear only that toward which we are attached.

It is necessary to understand this entire mechanism. Therefore Mahavira says: “Let there be no attachment toward agreeable objects, no aversion toward disagreeable ones.”

Do not say the body is a golden form; do not say it is a basket of filth. Do not choose—neither this nor that. Do not sway. The body is what it is. Do not form any notion about it; do not interpret. See the fact as a fact. Do not sing hymns in its praise; do not compose verses of adoration; do not hurl abuses in condemnation. The body is worthy neither of scorn nor of eulogy. The body is simply the body. Let that suffice.

This is only an example. So it is with everything in life. Wealth is wealth. Do not say, “This is my all,” and do not say, “What is this! mere dust.” Do not say anything. The moment you say something, mind is made. The moment you decide, a brick of mind is laid. Merely keep seeing—be the seer. Do not choose. Stand in the middle—go neither this way nor that.

Have you seen? If the pendulum of the clock stops, the clock stops. Let it swing left or right—the clock keeps running. The clock runs because the pendulum moves. The mind is constructed because it sways. When it no longer swings, it becomes still. There is the birth of meditation.

“Those who are well acquainted with the nature of the world—detached, fearless, and free of hope, and whose mind is imbued with Vairagya—only they become firmly established in meditation.”

So take this to heart—“those who are well acquainted with the nature of the world.”

Mahavira says, only he can be free of the world who has not been hasty; who is well acquainted with the world’s suchness. The raw run away; they break off unripe from the tree—pain remains. If, hearing someone, you drop the world—if not by your own knowing, your own experience, but under another’s influence—then outwardly you will have “left,” but inwardly the world will keep pulling.

Therefore this sutra of Mahavira is supremely valuable: “Only those who are well acquainted with the nature of the world can attain Vitaragata—freedom from attachment.”

In truth, one who has become acquainted with the world—what else can he do but become dispassionate? There is no other way. Dispassion is not your decision; it is the distillation of your life-experience. Dispassion is not a resolve opposed to attachment; having experienced attachment, aversion—everything—you have found: there is no essence. The name of that realization is Vairagya.

On this too I lay great emphasis. Do not run away from where there is juice—taste it fully. Do not worry about what others say, because another’s experience cannot become your experience. If there is still savor in food for you—then savor it. Savor it so totally that no longing remains lurking within. Do not let any taste lie repressed in some corner of the mind; bring it up, bring it out fully. Yes, only remember—taste consciously, in awareness.

Many people taste, but in sleep. Those who taste while asleep derive no conclusion from their tasting. A heap of experiences gathers in their lives, but no essence. They are crushed under experience, lost in it, but cannot bring back from it any jewels of life-truth.

An experience undergone in sleep is no experience at all; it will yield no essence. If undergone in wakefulness, the experience will educate you, will teach you some lessons. Those lessons are the wealth of life. Those lessons are the Veda, the Koran, the Dhammapada. Those who looked at life’s experience wide-awake, who lived it wide-awake—a certain light came to their hands. What was futile became clearly futile; what was meaningful became clearly meaningful.

When a lamp is lit, the whole room is seen as it is—where rubbish lies in the corner—known; where the safe is, where diamonds and jewels are kept—also known. If you lie asleep in the dark, there is indeed the safe, there is rubbish too—but you know nothing.

And unless the safe is seen, you cannot even know that the rubbish is rubbish. If there is a little glimpse of meaning in life, then what is meaningless becomes clear of itself. If thorns are recognized, flowers are recognized. If flowers are recognized, thorns are recognized.

One who has taken life’s experiences wakefully—who has not been impatient, not in haste, not greedy, not saying, “Well, the rishis say, leave the world!”—the rishis do speak truly, but they speak from their experience. They have suffered the world’s sorrow, borne its pain. Until you bear their pain, their conclusions cannot become yours.

We become full of greed. When someone like Buddha or Mahavira passes near us, his radiance, his aura, the climate of his peace, fills us with greed. We say, “Ah, if only such bliss were ours! How can such bliss become ours too? How to plunge into the same ocean you are drowned in?”

Then we begin to clutch at the words of Mahavira and Buddha. We heard their song, but what agonies refined that song—of this we have no idea.

“What was won through tears, was given back in songs—
Even so, the world complains of the singer.
The tune that came from the string, all have heard—
But what passed over the instrument, who knows?”

When you are near Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna or Christ, the tune that is rising you can hear, the song being born you can hear—but by what sufferings that song was matured, what mountains were shattered for this spring to flow, which tears filled these melodies, along which thorn-strewn path journeying those golden spires of the temple appeared—none of this reaches us. We are charmed by the song, held by the tune, and we start asking, “What shall we do? How did it happen to you? How can it happen to us?”

If we begin to imitate Mahavira, we will be deceived greatly. We can adopt his garb: if he is nirgrantha, naked—we too can be naked, digambara. How he rises, sits, walks—we can practice all that.

But you will find the tune that arose within him does not arise within you. The essential is missing—the roots are not there. It is not the distillation of your life-experience. You have draped Mahavira from the outside. He is not a flower blossomed in the soil of your life-breath.

This is precisely the misfortune of Jain monks; the misfortune of Buddhist bhikkhus; the misfortune of Christian monks. Those who influenced them did so rightly—no wonder that the air of Jesus becomes a call for you, an invitation! That the eye of Mahavira meets your eye and your unfathomable depths begin to quiver, some sound starts ringing within you—this is natural.

But also ask: through what sufferings, what tapas? Hearing Mahavira’s word, a sweet breeze begins to spread within you; each of his words pours honey into you—fine. But ask as well: from what silence were these words born? In what meditation did they take birth? In what sadhana were they conceived? From where did they arise?

If you clutch only at the word and memorize it, the dead word will stick in your brain; it will create noise and turmoil; but the peace that is within Mahavira will not arise within you. Because peace did not come from the word; the word came from peace.

Mahavira’s Vitaragata did not drop from the sky; no roof suddenly broke open. Mahavira’s dispassion was husbanded inch by inch, practiced; and its roots are in life-experience—experience is the earth.

If you are charmed by some plant and you cut it and bring it from above while leaving its roots behind, a while it may stay green, but soon it will wither; it cannot remain alive for long. And if you bring only the roots—even if you leave the plant—that will do. As soon as you transplant the roots, a new plant will bud in your courtyard.

“Those who are well acquainted with the nature of the world...”

Not merely “acquainted”—Mahavira says “well-acquainted.” We all are acquainted a little, but drowsily. Something is happening, something is being noticed, but all is hazy. Neither are the eyes intense, nor is a lamp lit; we have not learned the art of squeezing the essence from each experience. So we keep doing the same thing every day.

Have you noticed? What new do you do? What you did yesterday, you repeat today. What sort of man are you? A mechanism. You were angry yesterday, you are angry today. Yesterday you repented after anger, today you repented again. Yesterday a mistake happened, you wept, you asked forgiveness; today another mistake happened, you wept again, asked forgiveness again. How long will you wander in this circle?

This very circle has been called samsara in the East—the wheel of the world. Round and round like the bullock of the oil-press. The bullock may feel motion is happening, progress is being made—he is going somewhere, arriving somewhere. But look—where is he going! He surely walks, but is tied to the same center, circling it.

Look closely: is there growth in your life? Evolution? Are you going somewhere? Is anything happening, or are you merely repeating? The same paths, the same ruts. As you woke yesterday morning, so today; as you slept last night, so tonight. How many times the sun has risen—and finds you where you were!

So you are not well-acquainted; acquainted you are. Well-acquainted means: whatever experience passes through your life, by its very passing you are now other—something you learned, something you gathered as wealth. If you were angry today, you learned something from it; if tomorrow anger must happen, it will not be exactly like today’s—there will be some difference, some refinement, correction and revision—something dropped, something added.

Then growth is happening. If from anger you keep learning, learning, learning—one day you will find anger has departed of itself, as you became more and more well-acquainted. Knowledge of life is revolution.

“Those who are well acquainted with the nature of the world...”

Therefore beware—under someone’s influence do not take vows; under someone’s influence do not renounce anything.

Often it happens: you go to listen, you sit in satsang—words affect you. Someone takes a vow of celibacy. But celibacy-vows are not to be taken in a temple! If you ask me, a vow of celibacy taken in a brothel might hold fast; in a temple it will not. If it has come from the very experience of sex, it will hold. If taken after sermons in a temple, after reading scriptures, in an emotional high—it will not hold; it will break.

“You have pronounced the command to renounce desire—
But with what heart can one truly renounce desire?”

Saints keep saying, “Drop this snare of love! Drop this mess of passion! Drop indulgence!”

“You have pronounced the command to renounce desire—
You gave the order: ‘Drop love!’
But with what heart can one truly renounce desire!”

One who has no experience yet of life—how will he drop love? How will you renounce what you have not known? How will you drop what you have not gained? Remember this: only what has been attained can be dropped. Only what is in your fist can be let go. Only what you possess can be thrown away.

But often the old preach to the young—and it creates great trouble. And the old are not necessarily preaching from knowing. As youth is intoxicated with attachment, old age is intoxicated with dispassion. There is no understanding in the youth’s attachment; there is none in the old man’s detachment. As man is blind in youth, so he is blind in old age—the blindness is different, youth’s blindness and old age’s blindness.

The old keep condemning the young. Did they ever think: when you were young, your elders did the same—did you listen? If you could not understand even that your elders were not heeded by you, how will your young sons heed you? Then you have understood nothing. Your hair may have whitened in the sun—but you are not well-acquainted.

An elder who is well-acquainted will say to the young: “Enjoy rightly; enjoy with awareness.” He will not say, “Drop enjoyment.” He will say, “When the days of enjoyment are here, enjoy with full awareness. Beware that the days of enjoyment may pass and a craving remains within—that creates great trouble. The legs no longer have the strength to walk, yet the mind still dreams of climbing distant mountains.” This dilemma births the old man’s condemnation. If you listen closely you will find jealousy in it. When the old condemn the young, they are merely jealous.

D. H. Lawrence wrote somewhere: “When I see little children climbing trees, immediately I feel like saying, ‘Come down! You’ll fall!’ But I thought again and again: what is the matter? Let me look within. I discovered I feel jealous when I see them climb; I can no longer climb—age has come, there is no such suppleness in the limbs, no such daring, no such naive mind to risk danger. I say, ‘Come down, you’ll fall,’ but deep within jealousy flutters its wings—I can’t climb now, so no one should.”

In the old man’s condemnation you will often find this: what he cannot do, no one should. From such people children are educated. And children begin to think of dropping things they have not even experienced. Anything dropped without experience returns again and again, seizes you again and again, torments you again and again.

Keep this sutra of Mahavira like a diamond in your heart—
“Those who are well-acquainted with the nature of the world, detached, fearless, free of hope...”

He who has truly become acquainted with the world—who has tasted all its bitter and sweet, who did not shrink, who stepped unashamed into its darkness, who even fell into pits and was not afraid—who resolved to undergo all of life’s experiences: “Let me be acquainted! I have come into this life—let me know rightly what it is.” He who did not learn borrowed words, who did not carry borrowed doctrines, who did not live from scripture but gave life itself the opportunity to teach—he becomes detached by himself.

Detachment means: when you recognize life rightly, you discover you are alone. Togetherness is a deception. We are all alone. Because of aloneness we feel fear, insecurity; we create companionship. But companionship is a mere assumption. You will die—and you will go alone. You came alone, you will go alone. For a little while you are with strangers... and remember, when I say “strangers,” I do not mean those you do not know; those you think you know are also strangers.

Is your wife known to you? One day you circumambulated a stranger seven times—did that become knowing? Is your son known to you? One day an unknown soul took birth in your house—because he was born from your womb he is known? You lent a little assistance to his descent—does that make him known?

Kahlil Gibran says: “Your children are not yours. They come through you—you are the passage. But do not claim, ‘Our children are ours.’ Give them your love, not your ideas. They will live in the future—in a tomorrow whose dream you cannot even see. Your knowledge belongs to the past; they will live in the future. Give your love, not your knowledge. And do not claim that the children are yours.”

There is a primitive tribe—the Hopi. The Hopi language is unique in this regard. If a Hopi father goes with his son and someone asks, “Who is he?”—you say, “My son,” or “My daughter.” In Hopi there is no such expression. If a Hopi father is going with his son and someone asks, he says, “This is the boy who lives with us.” Or, “This is the boy born in our house. Who knows who he is!”

This seems closer to understanding—“This is the boy who lives with us; we live with this boy. A coincidence. He was born in our house; otherwise we do not know who he is.”

Who knows? Have you ever looked into the eyes of your little child? Do you know him? Where will you find more alien eyes? There is no way. We do not even know ourselves—how shall we know another?

And one thing is certain: we come alone, we go alone—and in between these two days of fairground we form great relationships. On the road we clasp hands with passersby; someone becomes wife, someone husband; someone friend, someone enemy. We quickly attach relationships to hide our aloneness. We spread a blanket of relationships so our loneliness is covered within. We are afraid of being alone. In this alien world we want someone to be “ours.” By making a few our own we gain a little confidence—no worry, there are a few who are ours; there is some bond.

Whoever has looked closely at life finds: we are companionless. And when we are companionless, there is no reason to be deluded by ties.

This does not mean you should break all ties and run away today. The idea of running away occurs only to one who has not understood. Mother remains mother, father father, son son—but now within you know, in wakefulness, that no one is anyone’s; no one is our own. These are rules of a game.

When we play cards, the pack has a queen, a king, a knave; but do we believe there are real kings and queens? We know they are pieces of card, a play of agreements. If a man were to suddenly stand up and declare, “All this is a deception; I renounce these kings and queens!”—you would laugh. Renunciation is meaningful only if the king and queen were real. You would say, “Are you mad? What is there to renounce? They are symbols on paper—our conventions.” Renunciation can only be of what is.

So when someone says, “I am leaving my wife and going to the forest,” he has missed. Why was there any need to leave the wife? When she is right beside you, hand in hand, know that you are alone; know that she is alone. When your son is playing in your lap, know you are alone; the son is alone.

Relationships are a card game, a coincidence. For a little while there is meeting. In these few moments live in such a way that because of you no needless pain reaches anyone—that is enough. A little while we walk together; hum a song together—fine! If you can give, give—fine! But do not fall into the delusion that this tie will last forever—companionless!

One who has known this becomes fearless. The foundation is this: one who becomes well-acquainted with life becomes companionless. Look and you will see—I am alone, utterly alone; for births upon births, on the journey to the infinite, I am alone.

And when I am alone, and there is no way at all to have a permanent companion—what fear? When I have been alone, am alone, will be alone—what is there to fear now? When one learns to look facts in the eye, a fearlessness is born: what is, is. If death is—well, it is; what will you do? Where will you go? Where will you run? You can run from the battlefield; you cannot run from life.

Here death is certain. Wherever you go, however you hide, death will find you. Knowing it must be, it is accepted.

“Companionless, fearless, and free of hope...”

This word “free of hope” must be understood very carefully. In life we are bound more by hope than even by desire. Saints tell you to drop desire—they do not tell you to drop hope. For if you drop hope, even the saints’ own support goes—hope of heaven, hope of moksha; “if not here, then in the hereafter”—the hope.

Mahavira’s statement is different: hope must be known and dropped. Without freedom from hope there is no liberation.

Hope is the subtlest form of desire. Hope means: what did not happen today, will happen tomorrow. What could not be done today, tomorrow we will do. We missed today; tomorrow we shall not miss. Hope is the convenience of postponing life to tomorrow.

We lose every day, yet we keep the hope of tomorrow alive.

“So much suffocation—let there be some outlet,
If not always a shout, at least a sigh may escape!
The beggar of dawn still has clothes on his body,
The lord of the city—his longings are not yet spent!
If realities remain intact, there are dreams aplenty—
Why lament if some dreams go waste?”

Why lament? Reality persists—we can make more dreams. Why lament if some dreams prove false, if some hopes are not fulfilled?

A man loses once, and people console him: “Why worry? A man loses once, wins the second time. If he loses a second time, he wins the third. Keep moving—you will win.”

But in this world no one has yet won. All lose here. Victory is not possible; loss is the very nature here. Yet hope whispers: today you lost because you did not struggle rightly, you did not arrange the means, now you are wiser, more experienced—you will surely win tomorrow.

Thus we live hanging upon what never happens, and never will. Meanwhile life runs out. Life turns to ash; hope keeps smoldering and keeps us running.

More dangerous than desire is our grip on hope. Many tire of desire, few tire of hope. They tire of desire and flee the world, but in sannyas they keep hope burning—that what they did not get in the world will be got in renunciation.

In Mahavira’s vision sannyas happens when you are free of hope—when you accept that nothing “happens” in that manner. All hopes are futile, deceits, mirages.

You will be scared: “If a man becomes hopeless, will he not turn dejected, despairing—how will he live, get up, step out of bed? If nothing is to happen, what is the point of getting out of bed?” We fear that without hope living is impossible; even breathing would be impossible. We do not know: despair is only till hope remains. When hope drops utterly, even despair has nothing to feed on. Understand this.

Despair is the failure of hope.

Despair is not the absence of hope; despair is its failure. The one who has dropped hope has also dropped despair—there is nothing left to be despondent about. When there is no idea of victory, how will you be defeated?

Therefore Lao Tzu says: “No one can defeat me—because I know victory never truly happens, and I have no urge to win.” How will you defeat the man who is not eager to win—who has seen the futility of victory?

Defeat and victory are two faces of the same coin.
Hope and despair are two faces of the same coin.
Pleasure and pain—two faces of the same coin.
Heaven and hell—two faces of the same coin.

You want to avoid pain and catch pleasure—but pain is what comes. You want to avoid despair and fan hope—but despair is what arrives.

Mahavira says: become free of hope; be cleansed of hope. Drop hope. The moment hope drops, a revolution happens—the future dissolves. Not despair, but the future itself is relinquished. And as the future departs, your energy settles here and now.

That is the first stage of meditation: energy settled here and now—not wandering into tomorrow, not seeking there. Today, here, in this very instant, your whole being gathers.

Right now you are scattered. Something is tangled in the past, which no longer is—and much is tangled there; ninety percent of people live entangled in the past. Someone insulted you twenty years ago—you are still entangled there. A friend died thirty years ago—still a wound remains. Fifteen years ago you lost—its bitterness is still on your tongue. It does not let go; it returns again and again.

Ninety percent are entangled where it is not; the remaining ten percent are entangled where it has not yet arrived. Thus we live in emptiness.

This is exactly what it means to live in Maya—living in what is not: in the past; and living in what has not yet come: in the future.

To live in Brahman is to live now, here—one hundred percent gathered in this moment. Let the entire vital energy assemble, converge, center in this very instant. In that concentration of energy arises our first relationship, our first meeting with truth.

Therefore Mahavira says: freedom from hope.

We go on deceiving ourselves: “Tomorrow it can be better.” The greatest art of human self-deception is this—“tomorrow there will be some improvement.” Today the shop is not doing well—tomorrow it will. Today customers did not come—tomorrow they will. Today honor did not come—no reason it should not tomorrow. Try a little harder.

“Each new day brings a new boat,
But the sea is the same, the shore the same.
Each new day inflicts a fresh wound,
But the pain is the same, the tears the same.”

Nothing changes. Look back—like a desert, empty. Look at your past—there is nothing there. The very reason for the nothing is that what you missed in the past, you placed in the future. What you could not find in truth, you are dreaming of.

When Mahavira says “freedom from hope,” he means: truth is here, in this moment. Do not wander elsewhere than this moment. Return to this moment. In this moment will be the meeting. In this moment the revolution will happen—call it Samadhi, call it right-knowing, give it any name you wish.

From this moment the door opens into existence. This moment is the doorway. Only the present is true; all else false. What has passed, has passed; it is no more. What has not come, is not yet. What has passed was once true—when it was present. What has not come will be true—but only when it becomes present.

So one thing is certain: except for the present, nothing is ever true. Learn the art of being present—and you will be with truth; you will be in satsang with truth.

“And that moment which is gone—let it be gone.
What new arrives—let it stay new.
It cannot be that the new will not pass;
And each moment the new moment will arrive.
Then what is momentary? what is fragmentary? what is cut?
What is today, tomorrow—what is ultimate, indivisible?
All is eternal, fulfilled and whole;
All is inconceivable, beginningless, unagitated.
And that moment which is gone—let it be gone;
What new arrives—let it stay new.”

Contemplate this a little.

Because of your hope even the new cannot remain new. All your plans corrupt the new before it arrives—your expectations cast shadows on it beforehand. You go on assuming, “This will happen.” If it happens—you feel no delight, because you have dreamt it many times, thought it many times; it is old before it arrives. If it does not happen—you are unhappy.

Note it well: from those of whom you have expectations you never get joy. You are walking on the road; your handkerchief drops and a stranger picks it up and gives it to you—you say thank you, delighted, because there was no expectation; “What a kind man!” But if your wife picks it up and gives it—you do not even thank her. If she does not pick it up, you are annoyed: “Why didn’t you?” If she does, you are not pleased—no thanks, no gratitude. If she doesn’t—you are upset for dereliction of duty.

From those we expect, we harvest sorrow, not joy. If fulfilled—it “should have been,” so there is no reason for joy. If your son respects you—no special joy; if he does not, you are pained. Strange arithmetic. Then you ask: why are we unhappy?

If in business you expected ten thousand and it comes—no special delight: it “had to” come; you had already planned what you would do with it. So when it arrives, it does not surprise, does not fill you with wonder, does not intoxicate you with joy. If it does not come—you are distressed.

In Calcutta I have a friend. We were driving from the airport; he was glum. I asked, “What is it?” He said, “A loss—five lakhs.” His wife was in the back seat, laughing. I asked her, “He is sad, and you laugh?” She said, “Don’t take him seriously. The truth is there is no loss—there is a profit of five lakhs. But it should have been ten; so he is sad. I keep telling him: you made five lakhs. He says: ‘That’s not the point; ten was certain. It is a loss of five.’”

He who “must” make ten—how will five bring joy? Joy depends on expectation.

Observe: if you become free of expectation, there will be a shower of bliss in your life. If you are free of hope, you will find heaven’s flowers blooming each moment. One who has no hope finds even breathing a great joy. “I am alive”—this too is much. There is no necessity that it “should be so.” What necessity that this world must keep me alive? If it snuffs out my lamp—where shall I complain? There is no court of appeal. That my lamp still burns—this is grace.

In the life of one without hope, mere being is supreme delight. Small things become occasions of joy—the breeze humming through trees, new buds opening in branches, birds at dawn, the night sky crowded with stars, a stranger greeting you on the road, a child smiling, someone taking your hand in love—everything is extraordinary.

For the hope-less, every moment is golden; each moment fragrant; each moment heaven.

Mahavira says: “He who is well-acquainted with the world—companionless, fearless, and free of hope—his mind attains Vitaragata; and he alone becomes firmly established in meditation.”

The steadiness of meditation means: not wandering even a little from the present moment; remaining unmoved. To live in full harmony with what is—with no demand for otherwise, no desire for otherwise, no hope for otherwise. “What is, should be.” “What is, is exactly as it should be.” No opposition, no condemnation, no criticism.

The acceptance of fact is called Tathata. One who attains such Tathata is called Tathagata by both Mahavira and Buddha. Tathagata is their special word—it means: one established in suchness; fully arrived at acceptance of what is. What is, is; what is not, is not—and I have no choice in it. I consent. I consent to what is being; I consent to what is not being. There is no desire for otherwise. There is complete welcome of fact. Such a one alone becomes established in meditation.

Ordinarily we keep weeping. Look into people’s eyes—you will find them filled with tears. Thousands of complaints—only complaints. The whole past wasted; the present being wasted; hanging upon hopes for the future. A very thin thread holds the sword—there is no certainty it will be. Only hope—no trust. How can there be trust? We have hoped before, and every time it broke. Hoping and hoping we lost all—and got nothing. But how to live without hope? So we push it forward—we cry over the past, we cry for the future. Meanwhile, in the moment between, God keeps knocking at your door: “Here, this moment! Open your eyes! See—I am present!”

But where is the leisure? The present is a tiny instant—atomic—lost in the vast anxieties of past and future.

Sit and think sometimes—
“Come, let us today reflect on this question:
Those lovely dreams we saw—what became of them?”

You saw dreams before—what became of them? Now you are dreaming again. What happened to those will happen to these. At death you will weep: “I squandered life in dreams; bound by hope I was destroyed.”

Drop dreams. Sprinkle your dreamy eyes with a little water of wakefulness. Shake yourself a little—wake up. Return to this moment. Catch it again and again...

At first it will be difficult—the old habits of mind, it slips away. You catch here—it escapes down another lane; you go behind—it runs ahead; it does not stay here. But keep trying, keep trying. If for even a moment it stops here, the taste begins—the taste of truth. That taste will then capture you; because of it the mind will stop more and more.

“The meditator sees his Atman as distinct from the body and all outer associations—abandoning body and attributes, he becomes companionless.”

He who has known that no one is mine, no friend, no dear one—soon another understanding arises: I am not the body. For all our relationships with others are through the body. When relations with others fall, the relationship with body loosens. One who runs has strong legs; when he sits at home and stops running, the legs weaken; if he remains seated for years, he cannot even walk.

When your mind makes many relationships through the body, ties of a thousand kinds, the body remains strong, its grip deep, attachment heavy, for it is the bridge to the other. But when you slowly let go of others—knowing within that none is mine—this running of the body ceases. As it ceases, your inner attachment to body wanes. When no one is mine, one day it becomes clear: this body is also not mine. The realization deepens: I am not the body.

As this deepens, another revolution happens: I am not the mind either. As the body relates you to others, the mind relates you to the body. As you withdraw, bridges fall. The body links to the world, to “the other”—when that link collapses, the body’s hold loosens. Seeing the body as separate—“I am not the body”—the mind’s link to the body has no reason to persist. When I am not the body, the mind’s fastening unseats.

As the fastening unseats, the last revolution happens: it becomes known—I am not the mind either. What remains beyond is what I am. That alone.

That connection never breaks. That is the eternal Atman within you—the Sanatana, the Nitya, the amrita-nature.

The body dies—so if you are tied to the body, fear will remain. The mind changes—tied to mind there can never be stability. Beyond body and mind is hidden the witness, the Chaitanya. Tied to that, all is eternal, all is steady. No wave of change comes there. You arrive at the infinite home from which there is no reason to leave—where you can rest forever; where there is repose from anxieties, thoughts, agitations, tensions. You have returned home.

“The meditator sees the body and all outer associations as separate—abandoning body and attributes entirely, he becomes companionless.”

“Only that shramana is a meditator on the Atman who, in contemplation, sees thus: I am neither of ‘the other,’ nor are ‘others’ mine. I am pure, awakened, knowledge-filled consciousness.”

Chintavan—this is the Jaina word. Do not confuse it with chintan. The word was coined to distinguish it from “thinking.” Chintan means thinking. Chintavan means seeing.

You can sit thinking, “I am pure, awakened God.” That will not help. It is only a ripple of the mind—mind repeating. No—do not think thus; see thus. Not in thought but within—let it be repeated as vision, as experience. Let it be clearly seen: I am pure, awakened God. Let not the slightest doubt or thorn remain; let no shadow of suspicion fall. Let faith be complete. It does happen.

One who lives hope-less, companionless, slowly and naturally attains this vision, this Samyaktva. He begins to see within. It becomes clear: I am the seer. Whatever is seen is not me—how can it be? That which I see, I am separate from. I am that to whom it appears.

Therefore, gradually freeing oneself from all that is seen, dissolving into the pure seer—this is chintavan.

“Only that shramana is a meditator on the Atman...”

And Mahavira says: only he attains meditation who practices chintavan—who sees, who experiences, who realizes: I am not of the other; nor are others mine. I am pure, awakened, knowledge-filled Chaitanya.

“The Tathagata does not look into the meanings of past and future... ”

“The Tathagata does not look into the meanings of past and future. Free of imagination, the great seer, as a visioner of the present, drains the body of karma and renders it feeble.”

“The Tathagata does not look into the past and the future”—this is the definition of Tathagata: one who looks neither back nor ahead; who is sufficient in this very moment; who does not step out of this instant.

Like a lamp’s flame trembling in gusts of wind—when the gusts cease, the flame burns without a flicker. When you are unshaken, you are here. The moment you tremble—you have either gone into the past or into the future. There are only two directions for trembling.

The direction of no-tremble is the present.

“The Tathagata does not look into the meanings of past and future.”

There is no meaningfulness in past or future. The Tathagata looks into fact. Only by looking into fact, by joining with what is, by descending into it, does the truth become available.

Fact is the door to truth.

“... Free of imagination, the great seer remains an observer of the present.”

An observer of the present! The state of sensing the present, of experiencing the present, of the present’s direct encounter—he sees only that which is passing before him now—he is an observer of that.

Awareness, wakefulness—only of this moment. Try it a little. It is difficult—very difficult. But when it settles, you will know that all difficulties were worth enduring—then the priceless diamond is in your hand.

Try a little. Whatever you are doing—walking on the road, let there be only the observation of walking; eating, let there be only the observation of eating.

A Zen fakir, Bokoju, was asked: “What is your practice?” He said, “When I eat, I only eat. When I draw water from the well, I only draw water. When I sleep, I only sleep.”

The man said, “Is that a practice? Everyone does that.”

Bokoju said, “If only everyone did it, the earth would be filled with Buddhas—only Tathagatas. When you eat, you do a thousand other things. Eating you hardly do—the other things you do more.”

A man sits to eat—he mechanically stuffs the body; the mind wanders in a thousand directions, travels who knows where, makes who knows how many plans.

You walk on the road—do you just walk? You do not notice what is present. You keep missing it. And the present is a tiny moment—miss a little and it is gone. The slightest word in the mind—and it is gone. If you even say, “Let me see the present,” the present is gone. Even to say, “I must remain aware in the present,” while you are saying it—the present is passing.

What is, is missed even by a single word. Therefore let no word arise within—stay wordless; only then does the present come within reach. Stay wordless; and be totally absorbed in whatever you are doing—as if this alone is the supreme act.

Hence Kabir says: “Whatever I eat and drink—that is your service, Lord! Whatever I rise and sit—that is your circumambulation, Lord! ‘What I eat and drink is service.’”

Kabir says something wondrous: “What I eat and drink—that I offer to you as prasad, Lord; where else shall I offer? My getting up and sitting—that is the circumambulation of your temple; where else shall I circle?” Meaning: if one lives the moment totally, all is done. Miss the moment—everything is missed. Awaken in the moment—everything is attained.

“O meditator, do not move the body in any act; do not speak any word; do not think any thought. By thus restraining, you will become steady; your Atman will be delighted in itself. This is the supreme meditation.”

This is the supreme sutra of supreme meditation!

“O meditator, do not move the body...” For meditation there is no need of bodily activity.

“... Do not utter any word”—do not let inner words arise, because meditation has nothing to do with them.

“... And do not think any thought. By thus restraining, you will become steady.”

Let a silent emptiness surround you within. In that silent emptiness let the lamp of awareness burn—just that. Emptiness with awareness—Shunya plus Jagriti—that is meditation.

“... Your Atman will be delighted in itself.”

“Ma chittaha, ma jampaha, ma chintaha kim vi, jen hoi thiro.
Appa appammi rao—inameva param have jhanam.”

This alone is supreme meditation.

Keep this in mind. Sometimes when you sit, just sit; be absorbed in sitting. Bid farewell to words within; do no thinking. Not even of the Atman—do not think, “I am the pure awakened.” That too is a miss.

No thinking. No bodily activity. If sitting—be drowned in sitting; and within keep only one care: let awareness remain; do not let sleep come.

If meditation is opposed to anything, it is opposed to sleep—and nothing else. Do not run away from the world, nor from house and home—that has nothing to do with it. Just drop sleep.

When I say drop sleep, I do not mean do not sleep at night. When awake—be fully awake. Slowly as you walk, rise, sit—keep one remembrance: to hold awareness within.

It is delicate—again and again it will be lost. In holding and holding, it will begin to remain. Then slowly you will find: when wakefulness by day is established, even in sleep the body sleeps but you remain awake. The body rests, but a sentinel within remains alert.

The day wakefulness is established for twenty-four hours, that day a man attains Buddhahood.

So first learn to be awake while awake—later we will bother about sleep. First remove sleep from your waking. You may have noticed there are degrees of wakefulness.

You are walking along the road—suddenly a snake crosses—you startle. Before the snake, in what state were you? A kind of stupor—you were moving, half asleep, half awake; a little awake, a little asleep. The snake appeared—death in front—there is a shock; you are suddenly awake. For a moment you come into the state Mahavira says should become each moment.

You are driving, humming a tune, smoking a cigarette, listening to the radio—lost in your way. Suddenly another car races up before you—danger of death—an accident just avoided. For that instant a surge of energy will rise—you are fully awake. It will feel as if all sleep has shattered. The danger was so great that sleep could not remain.

Psychologists say danger has a certain relish because it brings flashes of awakening. People climb mountains—Everest; dangerous, risking life. But when there is risk, there is awakening within. The greater the risk, the greater the awakening. The climber may not know why he is mad to climb—but mind-knowers have always known: we relish danger because a little sleep breaks and we taste waking.

But if you climb daily... The one who goes to climb gets a little joy; but the Sherpas of Nepal who take others up all their life—nothing happens to them.

They are accustomed; it has become mechanical.

Everything external becomes mechanical—unless awakening itself is sought directly. As when you light a fire—ashes gather on embers—so sleep has gathered on the mind. Shake it a little. Keep shaking; let the ember glow.

“O meditator, do not move the body; do not speak a word; do not think any thought. By thus restraining, you will become steady; your Atman will be delighted in itself. This is the supreme meditation.”

“One whose mind is absorbed in such meditation, that self-meditative man is not obstructed, seized, or afflicted by mental pains born of passions—jealousy, dejection, grief.”

“That steadfast one is not shaken by hardships, troubles, or assaults—nor is he frightened by subtle impulses; he is free even of the magic woven by the gods.”

Meditation is the fundamental base of Dharma.

As for philosophy the base is thought and logic, so for knowing oneself, one’s nature, the base is meditation. You may master everything else—but if meditation does not happen, what you have mastered is not Dharma. Practice austerities, practice yoga, perform a thousand rituals and rites, sacrifices, offerings, prayers—but if meditation does not settle within you, all this practice is outside; you will not be able to come within.

And to come within there is nothing much to do. This inwardness can be practiced through all your acts. Sit in the shop, work in the market—do it attentively; do not sleep. Whether you are a laborer or a teacher, a clerk at an office or a peon at a school—whatever you are; poor or rich, soldier or trader—whatever the act of life, only one thing can be mastered there: whatever you do, do it with awareness.

“The earth, this circumstance, this
Place and the multitude—this is a marsh.
Like intoxicated elephants we sink in it—
Blind with pride we think:
‘The lotus-lake is ours, ours!’”

Here nothing is ours. Whatever looks “ours” is marsh. But in this marsh of “mine,” there is something that is our very nature. Nothing is mine; but I am.

What is this “I”? How to catch it? By which paths to travel toward it? How to scent its trail?

Mahavira’s meaning is: if you want to know this “I,” first loosen your ties with all that you have called “mine.” Because in the marsh of “mine,” the “I” is stuck. First come out of the marsh. When the marsh is crossed, the web of mine is dropped—then there is a second work: do not let the “I” sleep.

Let the outer marsh go; then the inner marsh—an inner stupor, a kind of slumber, a kind of trance.

We walk like drunkards—moving, but not clear—groping in the dark, lost, sleepy.

So shake yourself! Call out! Pull yourself out of this inner marsh.

Mahavira says: for this, no yogasanas are necessary; no bodily kriya is required. You need not be a great thinker; you need not bring great degrees from great universities; no scriptural study is required. Thinking is of no use here. Only one thing works here—awakening.

Whatever you do—even the smallest acts—sweeping the floor: sweep in awareness.

A Zen master once had an emperor come to learn meditation. The master said, “Wait. When the right time comes, I will begin.” The emperor said, “I cannot stay long—my father is old, may die any time. He himself has sent me, that while he lives I may attain meditation. So please be quick.”

The master said, “If we hurry, we will be delayed. In haste, great delay happens. This is work for patience. If you demand time, it will not happen. First decide—you will be accepted as a disciple only when you leave it to me. When the season is ripe, when I know it is time—I will begin.”

Seeing no other way, the emperor agreed. Three years passed; the master did not speak of meditation. One day he came while the emperor was sweeping the ashram—this was his task—and attacked him from behind with a stick.

The emperor was startled: “What are you doing?”

The master said, “Meditation begins today. Remember now—I will attack from behind any time. Keep alert.”

The emperor said, “What sort of meditation is this?” The master said, “Do not worry about that—just keep this alertness.”

A year, they say, passed. The master assaulted him in innumerable ways from behind. Slowly alertness gathered—for when one’s life is under attack twenty-four hours a day, how can one remain asleep? Again and again he would look back. A slight sound from behind and he would be aware. Survival demanded it. Even a cat walking, even a gust of wind, and he would become alert.

By the year’s end it so happened that before the master could strike, his hand would be caught. It became difficult to attack. The master rejoiced: “You have learned the first lesson. Now the second: be careful in sleep—I will attack while you sleep.”

But by now the emperor had felt a great, causeless peace filling him—a certain grace, a great gladness. No apparent link—how does someone’s attacking from behind give such joy? Yet there was joy and only joy. There must be some secret in it.

At night, for a few days he suffered blows—then gradually he began to sleep with care. Even asleep, when the master entered the room he would sit up. Deep asleep, snoring—yet a slight sound and he would start.

Have you seen a mother? A storm, a gale—she does not wake. The child cries a little—she wakes. Where attention is, there is connection.

All of you sleep here tonight; if I come and call out “Ram,” perhaps none will hear—but he whose name is Ram will hear, for a bridge binds him to that name.

By the end of a year it was such that even in sleep the master could not strike—before the blow fell, it was blocked.

One cold morning the master was sitting under a tree in the sun, reading. The young monk—the emperor—was sweeping. Sweeping, it occurred to him: for two years this man has struck me in every way, and much has been gained, but I have never thought to strike back at this old man—let me see whether he too is awake.

The thought had barely arisen when the old man lifted his eyes from the book and said, “Fool! Do not do that—I am old.”

He was shaken: “What happened? I only thought!” The master said, “When awareness becomes very dense, as you now catch the sound of a footfall, the sound-wave of thought too comes within grasp. Thought too has a sound, a vibration; it is also an event. As you now wake even in sleep, I cannot set a foot near your room without your sitting up prepared. I walk so carefully—no use. The slightest sound and you are alert. A day will come when in your life too, if you keep awakening, even a wave of thought will be enough.”

Meditation means awakening. As you awaken, you begin to sense the subtlest waves of life. God is the ultimate wave—the subtlest. When the last depth of awakening arrives, the summit of the Divine is revealed.

In that moment neither you remain nor God remains—only an ecstasy remains—immense, indefinable.

“Who is there to celebrate the festival of union?
The streams of nectar pour—who is there to sing?
Who plucks the strings of the veena there?
The streams of nectar pour—who is there to sing?”

Amrita rains—there is not even anyone left to say, “Amrita is raining”—who is there to sing? The streams pour.

The veena plays—there is no player left.

Who plucks the veena there?

Hindus have called this the anahata nada—the sound happening of itself—Omkar. Mahavira has called it Swabhava—what happens by itself. Bliss is our nature. We are Sat-Chit-Ananda. But we lack the eye of meditation to know this. Or if we have it, it is closed.

“Hundreds of pyres upon the cremation ground have spread my bed;
Hundreds of times dust has stolen my songs’ voice;
Millions of times the shroud, weeping, has adorned my body—
Yet even once my death has not occurred in this world.
I am life, I am youth—
Birth and death are my play.
Here I part like separation,
There I meet like union.”

What you have till now thought you are—these are merely surface ripples. What you are—you do not know. That has never been born, will never die.

Awaken to that eternal.

Awaken in that eternal.

Do not depart without attaining that eternal. Life is the opportunity to attain it. He who obtains the wealth of meditation has won something in life; he who gets busy with everything else and misses the wealth of meditation has squandered life.

Do not miss this opportunity. You have missed many times—so the possibility to miss is great, because missing has become a habit. But however many times you have missed, attaining is possible—because what is to be attained is your very nature; it is present within you. Just lift the veils—just lift the veil.

“Lift the veil!”

The veil is in many layers—veils of relationships, then of body, then of mind. Break through these three layers and you will come to recognize yourself.

“Appa appammi rao—inameva param have jhanam.”

The Atman then delights in itself—this alone is supreme meditation.

Enough for today.