Jin Sutra #5

If the house is on fire, there are only two ways to run out: either it appears to you that there is no fire outside; or it appears to you that the fire within the house is death-dealing.
Either a sense arises that outside there is joy, there is bliss, there is life—and then one rushes out; or the ache of the house, the inner fire begins to burn you, is felt, awakens you—and then one runs out.
There are only two kinds of religions in the world. One—those that sing of the bliss of Paramatma; that praise the happiness of the ultimate state; that hum the fragrance of Samadhi, the songs of that fragrance. And the others—those that make you look at the fire of your present life, your sorrow, your pain, the thorns piercing your chest.
Mahavira’s religion is of the second kind; therefore sorrow will be discussed again and again. Patanjali’s religion is of the first kind; therefore the grace of the Divine, the ecstasy of Samadhi, the rapture of meditation will be spoken of again and again. But the aim of both is one: that you step out of the burning house. And if you look closely, Mahavira’s grip is more scientific, more logical, more practical. Because the Paramatma of whom we speak—you have not seen. Mere talk about it cannot have much force. You have never stepped outside the house.
I tell you, ‘Outside there is great light; why remain in darkness?’ But you have known nothing except darkness. You cannot even imagine light. You cannot even dream light. You have no acquaintance with it. You will hear me, you will listen—but it will not transform your life. You will say, ‘What guarantee is there that light exists at all?’
I may speak to you of flowers, I may tell you their tales; but if you have never seen flowers, and fragrance has never lodged in your nostrils, what can be done? How will you be drawn? You will hear the words, but they will not touch your heart; they will not give birth to revolution in your being. Perhaps you will become a scholar, but not wise. Perhaps, listening and listening, you will repeat the same talk to others. Perhaps words will be on your tongue, scriptures will enter your memory; but you will not run out of the house. You will say, it is not wise to drop the half in the hand for the sake of the whole in a dream; these things are dreamy, impractical, webs of imagination. Deep within you will go on knowing this. Your knowledge of words will go on increasing; ignorance will not depart. You will drown in the poetry of religion; but religion will not become the fact of your life. Then you will fall in a split as well. Because the bliss that fills your words but does not stir your life will split you in two: in life there will be sorrow, on the tongue—talk of bliss; thorns in the soul, in memory—flowers of fancy will float. You will be torn in two.
The whole of mankind has become split; for on the one side Paramatma calls—and in that pull there cannot be much force. Because that which has not been known, not tasted, not lived—how will you hear its call? It remains a far, faint sound, just an echo, a reflection, a shadow.
And the desires of life—those are dense; they will pull you. So you will remain tied to the wheel of life, you will be dragged along with its chariot, you will go on eating its dust. Yes, you will start dreaming of moksha, of paradise. This will not pacify you. Your restlessness may even increase a little. It seems unlikely that this will give you God; it will make you sad, dejected, melancholy.
Therefore Mahavira chose the other path. He does not speak of God. He sets it aside, puts it later; not even on the margin—let alone in the scripture. He removes it. He does not speak of the grace of Samadhi, nor of bliss—he speaks only of your life as it is, where you are, and says: here is sorrow. He wants to acquaint you with the depth of your pain. He wants you to recognize the thorns lodged in your heart. His whole base is to introduce you to the factuality of your state. Let it be known to you that the house is on fire. You are burning, encircled by flames. Then Mahavira believes you will run out. Come out—and you will know the outside.
Flowers too are in bloom. Not that they are not. Paramatma is. Not that He is not. Clouds of Samadhi are raining; streams of nectar are flowing. All is. But Mahavira does not speak of that. He repeats only, again and again, the refrain of your sorrow. If the sorrow of life becomes visible to you, you will begin to drop life. In that very dropping, moksha descends.
Hence Mahavira’s path is the path of negation, of denial. Mahavira’s path is the path of the physician. When you go to a physician, he does not talk of health. Not that health is not—but what use to speak of health to the sick! He diagnoses your illness; lays bare the diseases; catches each one, examines, tests, does diagnosis. When the illness comes into grasp, is understood—he prescribes the medicine. Has any physician ever talked to you of health? If the illness is caught and the treatment known—now it depends on you. If the disease becomes visible to you, if its pain is seen, you will accept the medicine—even if it is bitter. When there is a face-to-face encounter with the illness, you will adopt the remedy. The medicine will cut the disease. What remains after the disease has been cut away—that is inexpressible; it cannot be spoken; no one has ever been able to express it. Say ‘God’—and nothing is known thereby. Say ‘Samadhi’—and only a word comes to hand. Say ‘Kaivalya’—there is a resonance of a word; the heart finds no correspondence in experience. But when all your sickness falls away, then suddenly what happens—alive, existential—that is health. Health cannot be described, it can be experienced.
Therefore in Mahavira’s words you will hear again and again the discourse of sorrow. This may make you a little uneasy. For you want to hear talk of happiness.
You say: what is this monotone of suffering!
Thus when Mahavira’s words first reached the West, people thought: he is a pessimist, a worshipper of suffering. Mahavira is not a pessimist. None more celebrative of supreme bliss has ever been. If a physician talks of your disease and diagnoses the remedy, will you say he favors illness? He speaks of disease only so that you may be freed from it. He does not speak of health, for has anyone ever become healthy by talk? Hence Mahavira goes on analyzing suffering. From a thousand directions his one pointing is: sorrow. Let it become visible to you that your whole life is sorrow—from morning till evening, from birth to death—heaps and piles of suffering.
The day such a recognition occurs… and this can occur, for in this you are standing. God is a far-off conversation; whether He is or not—sorrow is. So Mahavira does not bother when the creation came into being; nor who made it. What profit is there in these far-away matters? Isn’t it perhaps that by discussing far-away topics you wish to forget the near reality? Isn’t it that by raising big questions—Who made the world? Why?—you are hiding the real questions of life? Are these not consolations, so that suffering not be seen; so that it neither prick nor wound, so that there be no pain? Perhaps your temples, mosques, houses of worship are nets of consolation?
Mahavira knows them as such. All this is your net of consolation. Therefore Mahavira does not even seem like a friend. Hence he could not gather many followers. Had he talked of happiness, the unhappy would have thronged to him. He spoke of pain, and the unhappy thought, ‘We are unhappy anyway—spare us!’ They said, ‘We are already miserable; to come to you and hear only talk of suffering—are there not enough sorrows that you will add to them by your discourse? Give us a little solace, a little reassurance, a little hope. Tell us: today all is wrong, tomorrow all will be right. Tell us this world is māyā.’
Mahavira did not say that this world is māyā; for he said—perhaps you want to call suffering māyā so you can forget it! Whatever you label māyā becomes easy to forget. If the world is māyā, then sorrow is māyā, disease is māyā—then endure it; there is no reality in it anyway; the real thing is God.
Mahavira called the world very real; he did not talk of God. Of the Truth of truths he did not speak; he called this deluding world very real. Because he says: I know your mind. Your God, your moksha—all are poultices and bandages with which you cover the wound. And this wound is such that it needs surgery. So when you go to a surgeon, he will press the wound and you will cry out; he will draw out the pus—will you say he is your enemy? ‘Already I was in pain, and you have pressed out more pus; already I was writhing, and what have you done now? Were there not enough sorrows that you have come with knife and scissors!’ No—you know the surgeon is a friend. He will cut away the diseased part from which poison is spreading through your whole system of life.
Mahavira is a surgeon; less a philosopher, less a metaphysician, more a physician. Keep this word in mind: physician. Nanak called himself vaidya. Buddha too called himself vaidya. Mahavira is a vaidya. They are not eager to sing lullabies to put you to sleep; you have been awake through nights upon nights, lives upon lives, so go to sleep a little. No—their eagerness is not to put you to sleep, for it is because of sleep that your life’s whole pain, nets and deception have spread. Therefore Mahavira will touch the nerve full of your pain—do not be frightened. He is not a pessimist. But you are in pain. And you have so enveloped yourself in delusions that you no longer call suffering ‘suffering’; you have begun to call it ‘happiness’—so you must be awakened again and again that sorrow is sorrow, not happiness.
The day you see your whole life filled with flames—as indeed it is; the day it becomes clear that there is nothing here but worms and maggots, wounds, pus, pain—on that very day you will leap out of this house. Yes—outside there is open sky; there is the light of the sun; flowers are in bloom, birds are singing; there is a great breeze outside, great sweetness, great beauty! But that you will hear only when you step out; that you will see only when you step out. Therefore nothing about the outside. Only about where you are. A very practical talk.
There is an incident in Buddha’s life. And in this matter Buddha and Mahavira share one perspective. Both are the roots of the Shramana culture. It is said: when Buddha attained supreme knowing, the Devil appeared. This tale appears in many religions: when supreme knowledge arises, the Devil too appears. There must be some truth in it; it cannot be mere symbol—Jesus too has this note in his life: as he neared illumination, the Devil appeared, and tempted him. He offered great lures of desire: ‘I will make you emperor of the whole world; all wealth will be yours; the most beautiful women yours; your life long—what do you desire?’
The same the Devil said to Buddha. Buddha smiled. ‘I want nothing. I am saved—no one remains within who wants; wanting itself has gone. I too had desired, to build great empires; I too had desired to be a chakravarti. Because of that wanting I remained a beggar, wandered through births upon births. Dropping wanting, peace arrived. With wanting fulfilled, now I am filled with supreme bliss. You have come at the wrong hour; had you come earlier, perhaps I too would have fallen in your net.’
Then the Devil said: ‘You think you have attained enlightenment—but who is your witness? Shall I accept it just because you say so? Who can bear witness for you?’
A most unique thing—perhaps you have seen Buddha’s painting or statue with one finger touching the earth. Buddha touched the earth and said: ‘This earth is my witness; this is my testimony.’ Astonishing! He invokes the Earth as witness! If he had pointed to the sky and said, ‘God is my witness,’ it would be understandable. But Buddha and Mahavira do not speak of God. They speak of the reality of life. ‘Ask this Earth. From it I am made. This Earth is my body. This Earth raised a thousand desires in me. Ask this Earth. I have borne much suffering, and now I am beyond suffering. Who else can be witness?’
They call the Earth to witness. This is highly symbolic. For Mahavira this world is very real. He does not call it māyā. Do not escape by calling it māyā. You will find no essence by evading it. You will have to wrestle with this truth. And this truth is very painful. Therefore the mind feels like assuming: it is not! You know your mind’s process—whatever gives too much pain, you start believing it is not there.
One of my acquaintances had tuberculosis. His wife brought him to me and said, ‘Somehow persuade him to go to the doctor for a proper diagnosis.’ The husband flared up: ‘What is she saying! If I am not ill, why should I go? Those who are sick should go for tests. When I am not ill, what is there to test?’
But I saw his anxiety, his flushed face, his trembling hands. I said, ‘You are absolutely right. You are not sick. There is no need at all to go to a physician.’
He was delighted. ‘Wherever she takes me, they all say: go, get tested. You say rightly there is no need.’ I said, ‘You are right. There is no illness—so there is no need to go. But your wife is going mad with worry; have a little compassion! She will die of this suffocation; please grant her the favor of going to the doctor! There is no illness; the doctor will say so too. Why are you afraid? Her doubt, her thorn will be removed.’
He became very sad. Tears came to his eyes. He said: ‘You have entangled me. The truth is—I am afraid. I too fear that perhaps I am ill. I am somehow persuading myself I am not. How will I hide before a doctor? I am trying to persuade my wife, my children. I fear death. The word “TB” terrifies me. If the doctor says it is TB, I will die—whether I die of TB or not is not the question; only hearing that it is TB—I will die.’
I said, ‘You are crazy. Today who dies of TB? You speak of the old days.’
Fear! People fear going to the doctor. Only when the disease completely takes hold and there is no other way, then they go. Before going to a doctor they go to other kinds of people—tantrics, charmers, faqirs, those who tie amulets—to places where there is consolation; but not straight to the doctor. For the doctor will plainly say, ‘Such-and-such illness is there,’ and the talk of treatment will arise. So first they chant mantras, tie amulets, bring ash. First Sai Baba; when all Sais fail, then out of compulsion to the doctor.
Exactly the same in religion. First you will listen to those who say: ‘The world is māyā.’ You will fear going to Mahavira; your feet will tremble—because Mahavira is not eager to support any of your illusory cravings. He will place his finger exactly where the pain is.
These sutras are diagnostic. These are a physician’s words. Listen to them carefully. However much suffering they seem to bring, in them lies the way to liberation. If, coming to Mahavira, you can say—
‘Phir main aaya hoon tere paas, ai amir-e-karavan’—
‘O Guide of the caravan! I have come to you again.
“Chhod aaya tha jise tu, vo meri manzil na thi.”
—The place where you left me, or where I left you—that was not my destination. I wandered with false guides.
Wherever there is one true guide, there will be ninety-nine false ones. There have to be, for there is so much suffering in life, and so great the urge to escape suffering, that deluded and deceiving people will arise. Where so many wish to escape illness—very few wish to be treated; the first effort is to find someone who assures you there is no disease—there such people will surely arise to reassure you: there is no disease; tie this amulet and all will be well; chant Ram-Ram and all will be well; turn this rosary daily and all will be well. If only it were so easy!
Think a little—what childish longings! Do you think life so simple that by chanting Ram-Ram all will be well? Look at the complexity of life, the intricacy! Is it so easy that by sliding a few beads on a string all will be set right? Before which temples do you stand with folded hands? Those images are not of God—they are of your own desires; you made them; you installed them; you worship them! First you make a god, then you stand before your own made god with folded hands! See the web! See your cleverness! First you yourself make God. By your sanction a stone becomes a god. Yesterday it was for sale in the market, then it was not God—then you bring it home, chant mantras, perform worship, gather priests and pundits, rituals occur. The same stone that was being sold in the bazaar, made by people like you—you now stand before it with folded hands! You begin to pray! Deep down you know: prayers won’t work. Because your God is your own making. We have opened cottage industries for making gods. It is difficult to live without gods; there is fear, there is life, and there is pain and only thorns. So we avert our eyes from the earth and look to the sky. Therefore everyone’s God is in the sky.
Buddha did rightly to touch the earth and say: this is my witness. Anyone else would have pointed to the sky—there is my God, he is my witness. You lift your eyes to the sky because you wish to avoid the earth. But you know—however much you deny, what difference will it make?
I have heard: in a village where no rain was coming, a priest announced that he would pray to God for rain in front of all the villagers. At the appointed time everyone gathered. The priest said, ‘Brothers and sisters! Before I pray, I ask one question: where are your umbrellas?’ They have gathered to pray for rain—if it will rain—where are the umbrellas? Those who came to pray know even as they come that rain will not come! Yet they come! They have not brought umbrellas! If they had, it would show faith.
You go to the temple—but do you carry an umbrella? You go to the mosque—but do you take an umbrella?
You know beforehand nothing is going to happen! Still you do it—what harm, perhaps by chance…
I was staying with Mulla Nasruddin in a house. Someone had told him that that house was haunted by spirits. He came running, packed his things. ‘If you want to stay—stay; I am going! I’ll lodge in a hotel, a dharmashala, sleep at the station.’
I asked, ‘What’s the matter?’ He said, ‘Someone said ghosts live in this house.’ I said, ‘Nasruddin! You have always said you do not believe in ghosts.’ He said, ‘Certainly—I never believe in ghosts.’ ‘Then why are you so scared?’ He said, ‘But what if my belief is wrong! I can also be wrong! Why take the risk! We’ll sleep at the station tonight.’
A great German scientist—only recently dead—used to hang, behind his desk, a horseshoe. In Germany there is a belief that if a horse’s shoe is hung, then whatever blessings God showers get caught in it; you become their owner. Something is needed to collect them! The shoe serves as a cup. An American visited him, saw the horseshoe, was stunned. ‘You—such a great scientist, Nobel Prize winner—and you hang a horseshoe! Aren’t you ashamed? I cannot believe that a man as intelligent as you would believe in such superstition!’
He said, ‘It is obvious that I—believe in superstition? Never. I do not believe this shoe can do anything.’
‘Then why hang it?’
He said, ‘But the man who gave it to me said: whether you believe or not, it works anyway. He said belief or disbelief is not the point.’
Man is very deceitful! He will even pray; and inside he knows—nothing will happen! It is natural; because the one you pray to you do not know; you talk of love, but you never met. How will you love an unknown woman? How will you love an unfamiliar man? One whose name you never heard, whose village you don’t know, whose form you never saw, from whom you never received a letter, of whom you don’t even know whether he exists—how will you love him?
So Mahavira does not speak of prayer. He says: do not seek such routes. Life is plain and straight. And the truth is—there is sorrow in life. It is this sorrow that you must confront—no escape, no running away. You must accept its challenge.
‘Raga and dvesha are the seed-causes. Karma arises from moh. This is the root of birth and death. And birth and death are said to be the root of sorrow.’
Try to understand each word. The first sutra: ‘Raga and dvesha are the seeds of karma. Karma arises from moh. And moh is the root of birth and death. And birth and death are said to be the root of sorrow.’
This is diagnosis. The language of the physician. The effort here is to catch the root cause. Raga and dvesha: this is mine, that is not mine! Raga and dvesha: I desire that some be saved, and I desire that some be destroyed; I say this is good, and I say that is bad; choice—that the good happen, the bad not.
Mahavira says: as long as there is choice; as long as you say ‘this should be’ and ‘that should not be’; health should be, disease should not; youth should be, old age not; friends should come, enemies be destroyed… Therefore Mahavira could not call the Vedas religion; for even in the Vedic prayers there is raga-dvesha. There are prayers wherein someone prays to Indra: destroy my enemies! Another prays: let the udders of my cows overflow and let the udders of my enemy’s cows dry up! Innocent farmer’s prayers these seem—nothing of religion. These are our cravings: let me have it; let others not—even at the cost of others’ sorrow!
Mahavira says: raga and dvesha are the seeds of karma. Wherever you choose, karma begins. You say, this should be—so you set out to get it. You say, that should not be—so you set out to remove it. Even if in your mind the thought arises that the enemy should die—Mahavira says, violence has already happened, karma has begun.
Thought is the first stage of action.
Then slowly-slowly thought grows dense, becomes deed; what today came as a mere feeling will tomorrow or the day after become an event.
Dostoevsky’s famous novel Crime and Punishment—there is a character Raskolnikov. A university youth. Opposite him lives an old woman—wealthy and a great miser! Her whole trade is to suck the poor. A usurer—exacting whatever interest she can. Whoever falls into her net never escapes. He cannot even pay the interest—let alone the principal. The interest keeps swelling. Seeing this daily, Raskolnikov sits by his window with his books; looks at the old woman. She is eighty, near death. No one belongs to her. Yet her exploitation runs on.
A thought arises in him: if only this old hag would die—what harm! She has no one; no one to weep; the whole town will be happy—people will rejoice, there will be celebration. Why doesn’t God take her away? And for what does she live? No happiness in her life; her back bent, blind eyes, walking with a stick. God should take her away!
Nothing bad has happened—yet the seed of thought has fallen in him; and again and again it repeats. Whenever he sees her, this feel: let her be gone… Slowly he first thinks God should take her; then he thinks: what a town—why does no one kill her? She is sucking the whole town! Slowly even this thought: what am I doing sitting here—one jerk and it will be over. He is startled: what kind of thought is arising! But the thoughts keep circling, the waves keep moving, the feeling slides in him, becomes dense. Exams approach; he has to deposit fees; he has no money. He goes to pawn his watch to the old woman. He has not planned murder; he has only gone to pawn the watch. Evening—dusk descending; lamps not yet lit. He gives her the watch; she takes it to the window to see in the light, to assess its worth. He stands behind. Suddenly he feels possessed. In one leap he jumps, clasps her neck, and chokes it. She was near death anyway. She could not even cry out—and died. She fell with a thud. Then he came to his senses: what have I done! He panicked. He ran. No one saw. No one could imagine that such a quiet bookish youth could murder.
Police search; no trace. No witness. But now inside him a fear seizes: what have I done! He can neither sleep nor do anything else. He sits with windows shut. He thinks: now the police came; now I hear boots; now a wagon arrives—it must be the police! Someone knocks; he sweats, trembles. Now another thought seizes him: I will be caught. As the first thought one day condensed into deed—without planning—so now the second thought condenses. He starts at the rustling of leaves; he looks cautiously along the street: who comes, who goes? On seeing police, he ducks into an alley and runs. Word spreads in town: what’s the matter? People ask him—what’s the matter? He denies: ‘What matter! None. Why did you ask? Who are you to ask? How did you suspect?’ People are surprised: certainly there is something. The net tightens. At last he suffers so much that he cannot sleep; day and night one dream: police seizes me! One day he goes to the police station and says: arrest me; stop this nonsense! Day and night—I can neither sleep nor eat. Yes—I did the murder. The police inspector is a kind man. He says, ‘Are you mad? You—and murder? What did you have to do with the old woman?’
They tell him he has lost his mind. He says, ‘No—I committed the murder.’ In court he gives the same statement; but the police can find no witness.
A little ripple of thought today or tomorrow turns into event. You become what you think. What you think becomes your action.
Therefore Mahavira says: before you change actions, awaken to thought. If thought starts rolling, the deed is not far behind.
Mahavira used to say: to think it—is to have done half. Among Mahavira’s subtle and troublesome principles, one is this: thinking it—is half done. Logically, it is hard to prove. On this point Mahavira’s son-in-law rebelled and with five hundred monks split away. He said: this is wrong; Mahavira says, to think is half done—how can it be? I think this house should fall; it does not half fall. Thinking is thinking; doing is doing. How will thinking accomplish half? Everyone thinks: let me become rich; it does not happen—half does not happen either!
A master said to his servant: look, if the plan of any work is properly made, understand: half the work is done. Then he ordered him to clean the rooms and went away. Two hours later he returned: ‘Well—done?’
‘Sir, half done,’ the servant promptly said.
‘Which rooms have been cleaned?’ the master asked. ‘Sir, I have not started the cleaning yet; but I have made the plan—which room to clean in what order,’ replied the servant.
Those who opposed Mahavira sound logical—for nothing happens just by thinking. But Mahavira is saying a very deep thing. He is saying: when the first ripple has arisen, when the seed has fallen into the soil, then no one sees that the tree is there already. But the seed is in the earth—the essential part is done; the real thing is done. Now it is only a question of time; only of season—clouds, rain—and the seed will sprout, the shoot will emerge. Now it is time’s affair; but that the seed is sown—the essential is done. Because no tree can ever arise without the seed; and with the seed sown, the tree will arise.
Mahavira says: if you wish to prevent the tree, then prevent the seed from entering the soil. Therefore he says: raga and dvesha are the seeds, the root causes.
People want to be free of karma. They ask: how to get free of the web of karma? Mahavira says: if you wish to be free of the net of karma, catch the seed; begin from the beginning; from the start; nothing can be done from the middle.
Raga means attachment to something. Dvesha means aversion to something. Raga is: making a friend. Dvesha is: making an enemy. Then let there be no friend and no enemy of yours. Neither desire anything, nor be repelled by anything. Whatever happens, silently, without choice, accept. This is Mahavira’s key to meditation. Whatever happens—morning comes, let morning be; evening comes, let evening be; happiness comes, let happiness be; sorrow comes, let sorrow be; do not say to happiness, ‘come more’; do not say to sorrow, ‘never come again’; neither garland happiness nor insult sorrow—whoever comes to the door, let the door be open! If sorrow comes, house it; if happiness comes, house it; when it goes, let it go—do not hold even for a moment. Neither push nor pull. This is what Krishnamurti calls choiceless awareness. Mahavira calls it nirvikalpa dhyan.
Do not choose—for by choice the bondage begins. With choice you are bound. And once the ripple of choice arises, soon, given time, the deed too will happen.
Where to awaken? Exactly where the seed begins.
‘Karma arises from moh.’ Moh means trance, stupor. Moh means unconsciousness, negligence. We are drowsy people, as if intoxicated. Our intoxicants differ; our liquors vary; but we all are drunk. Someone is drunk on wealth; to everyone else it is visible he is mad: for what is he hoarding money! But the drunk cannot see. Someone is drunk on power; all can see: why this madness! Even on the highest seat—what will happen? Look at those who sit there—what happened? Those who piled mountains of money—what did they gain?
Andrew Carnegie, American multimillionaire—when he was dying he asked his secretary: ‘There is one thing I have wanted to ask many times but hesitated. Now that death is near, let me ask. You have worked with me thirty years—almost a lifetime. Tell me honestly: if God had asked you, before your birth, whether you would be Andrew Carnegie or Andrew Carnegie’s secretary—what would you have asked for?’
He said, ‘I would have asked to be the secretary.’ Carnegie sat up. ‘What do you mean?’ He said, ‘I have watched you for thirty years—you have not gained a thing. You ran a lot—reached nowhere. You gathered a lot—but seeing your worries and anxieties, each night in my prayers I thank God: “Your great compassion—you did not make me Andrew Carnegie. Good you did not. Had you trapped me, I would have been in trouble.”’
Carnegie said, ‘I am dying—publicize this truth to the whole world. I am pleased with you. I ran about in vain.’
So much wealth! He left ten billion rupees cash—and more scattered in billions! It is said, except for the Nizam of Hyderabad, none was richer. And what did he get? He could not sleep properly. He could not meet his children properly. His wife had become a stranger—work left no time. It is said even the peon arrives at nine; Carnegie at eight. The peon at nine, clerks at ten, managers at eleven, directors at one; directors leave at three, managers at four, clerks at five, peon at five-thirty—Carnegie sits from eight in the morning to nine, ten, eleven at night. Worse off than a peon! At night he cannot sleep—anxieties burden him; his empire of wealth spread over the world! When asked on his deathbed, ‘Are you content?’ he said, ‘What contentment! I am dying leaving only ten billion; my desire was one hundred billion. It could not be fulfilled; the journey remained incomplete.’
But the one running after wealth cannot see; he is intoxicated. If you do only this much—look carefully at those running around you—your own running will slow. Look at those who have reached. Look at those who have got it—your dreams will fall.
Do not look at their surface pictures; look within them, their inner state. A president, a prime minister—look at their inner condition; do not look at the photos printed in newspapers. Those pictures are lies. They are arranged.
Stalin and Hitler would never allow any picture to be published as it was. Their photos first went through a secret department, where they were scrutinized. Only those that displayed cheer, joy, happiness, would be published. Stalin’s face had pockmarks from smallpox; never did they appear in any photo. They were never allowed to be printed.
Politicians fall ill; for months the news is not given.
Can a politician be ill? That dents the image. Even if hands and feet tremble, the news is not given.
The picture is fabricated. See them from within—you will be shocked. None lives more in hell than they. But you can understand their difficulty: hell has been obtained with such struggle—how can they accept it is hell! It has been achieved with so much toil, so much strife; how to admit it is hell!
In a village, a hooligan’s nose was cut off by the villagers—they were very troubled by him; he teased everyone, the daughters-in-law and daughters could not live. Nose cut, he was upset—what to do now! He became a sadhu and went to another village; sat under a tree, lit a fire. The villagers grew curious—who is he? Strange—no nose, eyes closed, sitting in meditation! People came. They gathered. Someone asked: ‘Maharaj! What are you doing here?’ He said: ‘Tasting God; enjoying the Lord. Ah—the bliss that is showering!’
People looked to the sky: ‘We don’t see anything.’ He said, ‘How will you! For that—you must get your nose cut. And that is for the brave. Dharma is the razor’s edge!’
One brave man stood up—this is a challenge. ‘What do you think? Is this a village of cowards? I am ready.’ ‘If ready—good,’ he said. He took him to a nearby bush and cut his nose. The man screamed. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he said. The sadhu said, ‘Fool! Don’t say that to anyone. Do you think we see anything? But now that it’s cut—we must save our prestige. Now yours too has been cut. If you go and tell the people that nothing is visible, they will laugh—you will be taken as a fool. It’s your choice. Now you are with us. Go dancing and say: ah—as if a thousand suns have risen together, millions of lotuses have bloomed. O Lord! What bliss! Never before!’
‘It’s up to you,’ he said, ‘I am not telling you to say this. If you wish to tell the truth—tell it.’
He said, ‘What truth now! The nose is gone—shall I lose the rest by speaking the truth?’
He went and made noise in the village—danced. Many got ready to have their noses cut. It is said slowly the whole village lost their noses. The news reached the king. He too came to see. The people were dancing, screaming, very happy. The king said, ‘Unbelievable! Such an easy technique to attain God! Never heard, never read in scriptures.’
But seeing so many ‘attain’ it, the king himself got ready. His vizier said, ‘Wait, Majesty! Not so fast. I have seen this man somewhere; he seems familiar. He is from another village; his nose was cut there by the villagers. Hold on—don’t get yours cut. If you do, a great disaster will fall; the whole kingdom will cut their noses.’
Those whose noses are cut then try to save face. I have yet to see a rich man whose nose is intact; nor a politician whose nose is intact. But to whom can they tell their sorrow now? What can they say, to whom can they weep! What happened—happened. All that remains is to go on claiming ‘We are very blissful, very happy.’
You—look carefully at those who have attained. Those who have built great palaces—look carefully. Those whose vaults are full—look carefully. Has anything been gained?
Seeing them carefully your raga-dvesha will wither. And you too have tried raga-dvesha enough—more or less—what have you gained?
Raga brings sorrow; dvesha brings sorrow. Those who are one’s own—bring sorrow; those who are other—bring sorrow. The enemy brings sorrow, of course; has any friend given you happiness?
‘Raga and dvesha are the seeds of karma. Karma arises from moh. That is the root of birth and death.’
And when you die unfulfilled in this life, then, at the time of death, there remains a longing for a new life—because nothing was completed; you came empty; your hands remained begging bowls, never filled. That craving, that unfulfilled desire to ask and to become—will give birth again. You take birth because life is unfulfilled. And you did not see that the nature of life is to be unfulfilled. Often we birth—no one gives us birth.
Mahavira is supremely scientific. He does not say God gives birth, that He is playing a lila. For this ‘lila’ seems absurd. Such a lila indicates God is a sadist—enjoys others’ pain. And the definition of sin is: pāpam para-pīdanam—sin is to hurt another.
If that is sin, God would be the greatest sinner—to bring so many into being and to torment them. Mahavira says: do not talk of such a God; there is no such God. If there were, this suffering could not be—for He would not relish others’ pain.
What lila is there in giving sorrow to others? People are rotting, decaying, crying, filled with anguish—and God enjoys it! No, this cannot be true. This enjoyment is sick, perverted. This is the pleasure of a madman. God would be insane if this were His lila. A child is born and dies; the mother weeps and shrieks; sons and daughters weep; husband weeps; wife weeps; everywhere weeping, wailing; wars rage; millions die, rot, decay; everywhere struggle, bloodshed, snatching—and even then none gets anything; hands remain empty! What kind of lila is this? It is a dream of suffering.
Mahavira says: no—do not bring God in. See things directly. Bringing God in creates an obstacle. It is like passing sunlight through a prism—it breaks into seven fragments, becomes divided. Remove the prism; see the sunray directly; recognize its nature directly.
Mahavira says: you are the cause of your life. He hands back your responsibility to you in totality. No one else is over you misguiding you; you have chosen to wander, therefore you wander.
The responsibility is heavy, serious—but hidden in it also is a ray of the sun, a dawn. In this responsibility the seed of freedom is hidden. For if I am the cause of my sorrows, the matter is finished: the day I decide, that day sorrow ends. The day I do not create more, that day they vanish. If I have accepted and fashioned this spread of birth-life with my own hands, then the day my support is withdrawn, the flow is broken.
‘Moh is the root of birth and death; birth and death are the root of suffering.’
Sab kuchh adeeb! ishq ne ji se bhula diya,
Jaana kahan hai aur aaye the kahan se hum!
In the trance of moh everything is forgotten: where we came from, where we go, who we are!
Hain kuchh kharabiyan meri tameer mein zaroor,
Sau martaba banakar mitaya gaya hoon main.
The path of devotion will say: God makes you and unmakes you, because there are defects in your making—like a painter repainting, a sculptor recarving—because the statue does not come out perfect.
Hain kuchh kharabiyan meri tameer mein zaroor—
—there are some flaws in my construction.
Sau martaba banakar mitaya gaya hoon main—
—and thus so many births, so many deaths—so many makings, so many un-makings…
But Mahavira says: no one is making and unmaking you. For if God is making you and still flaws remain in you, then the flaw is in God, not you. If a sculptor fashions a statue and it doesn’t turn out well, the flaw is not in the stone—but in the sculptor. If he makes again and still something is missing, again the flaw is in the sculptor. If there is a God, all responsibility is His—and man is dependent. Mahavira declares man’s freedom in its fullness. There has been no greater declaration. He says: man is above all—none above man. Great freedom—and great responsibility! Then every step must be taken with care! For if there is God, we can go on praying; He will hold our hand; the responsibility is His!
Mahavira has made man, in one sense, an orphan—no master above. As if parents were taken away from a child. But have you seen—when the net of imagination is removed from above you—when there is no one above, you alone are—at once you begin to walk carefully. Have you seen a child walking with the mother, and walking alone?
I was a guest in a home. A small child was playing—he fell. He looked around. His mother was not near—she had gone to the market. He looked at me; then thought—who knows… I too refrained from looking; as he fell I thought: now do not look. I looked away. He got up. He resumed his play. Half an hour later when his mother arrived, the moment he saw her at the door he screamed and cried. I said: see—this is dishonesty! You fell half an hour ago. He said: so what! No one was here—what use crying! And you were looking away; what use!
He is not crying from pain—he cries because the mother has come!
Mahavira removed the canopy from above. He said: there is no God. He left man alone. Now you must hold your own feet with your own hands. This opens the possibility of great awareness. Great alertness can arise. As when you walk along a cliff—you walk with great care. Alone in the dark—you walk with great care. How alert! How vigilant!
Mahavira removed God so you may become vigilant. Without any support, you will be careful—for then care itself is the support. No other is giving you birth; only you, through your raga-dvesha…
‘In this world the being afflicted with the sorrow of birth, decay and death has no happiness. Therefore only moksha is worth attaining.’
Not a grain of happiness. In this Mahavira is extremely radical. He says: not a grain. And if sometimes you feel happiness, it is your assumption—your projection. Quickly your assumption will break; you will find: happiness gone.
Duniya mein koi gham ke siwa khushi nahin—
vo bhi hamein naseeb kabhi hai, kabhi nahin.
Sorrow is so deep that even sorrow is not always available. Sometimes you are in such a state that even sorrow is not there—so empty, so vacant! Therefore people cling to sorrow: if not happiness, at least sorrow is there—something at least! Sometimes moments come—neither happiness nor sorrow. Then arrives the hour of great sorrow. Then you become ash. Nothing of value remains in living—not even enough to say: at least there is sorrow—to fight against, to remove. Not even sorrow. A deep ennui, a profound boredom—ash, ash everywhere. No heartbeat in the heart. No tremor in the breath. No flow in life, no energy. You get up—by a shove. You rise because morning has come. You sleep because night has fallen. You live because you must, until death comes. What else to do? Thus by pushes you go on.
Mahavira says: here there is no happiness at all. Because if even a granule remains as hope—one percent—you will remain attached.
Even that one percent is enough to hold you back.
Think you are in a prison. If you believe some part of the ground is not prison, then you will not go out; at least you will remain stuck there. The prison is either wholly prison—or it is the home. Nothing less will do. If you say: granted, most of it is prison—but this wall is not. Sitting near it, great peace comes. But this wall too is inside the prison. You say: ‘All else is bad—but this guard is good; he smiles sometimes, talks a bit.’ But even this guard is part of the prison!
So in life sometimes there will be smiles. Remember—they too are parts of the prison. Sometimes there will be joys—but they too are parts of the prison. Sometimes lamps will seem lit; for if no lamps were ever lit, you would leave the darkness and run out. A little lamp of hope must keep burning. You yourself keep it lit—with the oil of your desires, adding fuel. You keep thinking…
I have seen in prisons—I used to visit prisoners. A state’s governor, a friend, had given me a pass; I could go to any jail in that state. I was amazed—people decorate their cells. If nothing else, they paste film actors’ photos from newspapers. Think! They make even that a home. They keep the cell clean. Someone brings his Ramayana; someone keeps a Bible. But all this is part of the prison.
The entire prison is to be left. The whole is to be left—only then will the capacity to leave arise in you; otherwise it will not.
Therefore Mahavira says, ‘In this world, for the being afflicted by the sorrow of birth, old age and death, there is no happiness. Therefore only moksha is worth choosing.’
Moksha means: release from the prison; freedom from the bondage of raga-dvesha; freedom from trance, moh.
‘If you wish to cross the dreadful ocean of becoming, O well-disposed one, quickly take hold of the boat of tapas and samyam.’
There are some things to be understood here.
‘If you wish to cross the ocean of becoming…’
This world we have called the bhavasagar—the ocean of becoming. Bhava means becoming. Where the waves of becoming rise endlessly. Where we perish and again become. Where the wave does not die before it rises again. Where one tree falls not before leaving a thousand seeds. Where even before you go, you arrange for your return. Where, even as you die, you sow the seeds of life. Where one failure comes and you dream ten successes. Where if one door closes, you open another.
Bhavasagar—where the waves of becoming rise and rise—endlessly!
‘If you wish to cross this dreadful bhavasagar…’ If it has begun to appear to you that life is sorrow, pain, affliction; if you have wished to be free—‘then, O well-disposed one, quickly take hold of the boat of tapas and samyam.’ Quickly…
‘Turant! At once! Without losing a moment! For as many moments as you lose in deciding, in that very time the bhavasagar keeps raising new waves. The more you postpone, the more the world does not stand still; new desires, new cravings make nests in your house, make camps upon your tree. Quickly! Instantly! The very moment it is understood that life is sorrow—take up the boat of tapas and samyam.’
What is tapas in Mahavira’s language? To accept suffering is tapas. To reject suffering is the mentality of the indulger. The indulger says: I cannot accept suffering, I want happiness! The tapasvin says: if there is suffering, I accept it—I want no otherwise! What is—this I accept.
Understand this well, for Mahavira’s lineage, his followers, misunderstood it greatly. They thought: create suffering. There is no need to create it—there is enough, more than enough. To be is to suffer; now no need to organize more—stand hungry, stand in the sun, ruin the body—no need. You will sow a new raga-dvesha again. Earlier you sought pleasure; now you seek pain—but the seeking continues. Earlier you wanted palaces; now if you must stay in a palace you cannot bear it—you say, now I want the street. But something you want. Earlier you wanted tasty food; now if delicious food is offered you will not take it—you say: now it must be mixed with pebbles and dust, then only will it be digestible.
Do not choose pain. To accept the pain that comes—this is tapas. To accept it so totally that it even ceases to be felt as pain—this is tapas. If you ask, you continue asking. Yesterday you asked for pleasure; today you ask for pain. Yesterday you said: wealth; now you say: renunciation. Yesterday you said: the world; today you say: no world; you flee to the Himalayas—but still you are going somewhere; some direction remains.
Mahavira’s tapas means: whatever arises on its own—accept it. Suffering is already there—it is all there is; accept it. In that very acceptance your beggar-image dissolves; you become an emperor.
One who has accepted suffering undergoes a great revolution within. His demand for happiness is gone; otherwise he could not accept pain. And one who has accepted pain—pain is no longer pain for him.
Experiment a little. If you have a headache, one day accept it. Sit silently, lie down; accept: there is a headache. Do not struggle within; do not even say, ‘Let it not be.’ What is—is. Accept it. Watch it with a witnessing awareness. You will be amazed: sometimes when witnessing settles, the headache vanishes in that very moment! When witnessing is lost, it returns. A revolutionary experience: when you accept totally the headache, it disappears. And the moment a wish arises—no, there must not be this pain, how troublesome—at once the headache grows denser.
Practice with small things. Some pain comes—and they come every day, to all. This is the bhavasagar; here pains are born; waves rise. No need to create new waves. What comes of itself—out of the karmas of your past—be a witness to it. Then you have taken up the boat of tapas and samyam. And in this boat, though storms will rise all around, each storm will strengthen you, gather you together within. Each storm, each challenge will become a midwife to the birth of the soul.
Toofan se khelna agar insaan seekh le,
Maujon se aap ubhren kinare naye-naye.
Once you learn to wrestle the storm, to play with it, to witness it—then from the very waves new shores arise. No one ever found anything by chasing pleasure; but one who learned to witness pain has found the great bliss.
‘Whatever gives rise to dispassion is to be practiced with reverence. The dispassionate is freed from the bondage of the world; the attached one’s world goes on becoming endless.’
‘Whatever gives rise to dispassion—practice it with reverence!’ The emphasis is on ‘with reverence’. You can force dispassion. You can do it unwillingly. You can do it for show. For example: you fast—Paryushan comes, you fast eight or ten days. See how things are perverted! You fast, then you are honored; a procession is taken out; bands play; people come to praise—great work done; society grants you respect. This is a great mistake.
Mahavira did not say: you be dispassionate—and others will honor you.
He says: you honor dispassion. When you fast, do it with supreme reverence. It is a great hour, a glorious hour—for ordinarily the human craving is for food; you are fasting. You are traveling sacred ground. It is a pilgrimage. In those ten days, as reverently as possible, with gratitude and wonder, fast—then the glory of the fast will be.
Do not even let others know; because the desire for others’ respect is disrespect to the fast. You have sold it in the market; you have bought something else with it—social respectability. You turned the fast into a commodity; you sold it like any other. At least this—do it silently.
Mohammed said: when you pray, even your wife should not know. Jesus said: give with one hand, let not the other hand know. Respect.
Respect means: what you are doing is itself the goal; do not use it as a means. If you make even fasting and tapas a means—‘my photo will come in the paper; somehow let me pass ten days’—you will be deprived of the fast. You will hunger yourself—but be deprived of the joy of fasting. Let not a soul know.
Let your tapas be the goal, not the means. Your worship, prayer, meditation, samayika—let them be ends in themselves. In the dark of night, while the world sleeps, get up silently and do your samayika. But you see—people go to the temple. They will do samayika and meditation there; they will turn the rosary and look around—who is seeing? If no one is seeing, the rosary goes fast—two beads at once. If someone is watching, then slowly the beads move. This is the heron’s devotion—the heron standing on one leg, white raiment, unmoving—but its eye on the fish!
If your eye still seeks others’ respect, this is worship of the ego; it has nothing to do with religion.
Mahavira says: with reverence… Practice whatever yields dispassion with reverence. Perform each act of dispassion with such honor and wonder that flowers shower within you, fragrance spreads within you. Not as a means—but as an end. It is itself the destination. Nothing further to be gained.
Do not fast to gain heaven. Fasting is heaven—that is reverence. Do not meditate to gain merit. Meditation is merit—that is reverence. Whatever you do with reverence will move you towards dharma.
‘The dispassionate one is freed of worldly bondage.’
Dispassionate means: one who has honored vairagya. Not one who has donned dispassion like a robe—but one who has honored it. Draping dispassion is easy—you can stand naked, abandon clothes, eat once a day—but if no grace gathers in your eyes, no sweetness in your voice, no gratitude rains in your movements—do what you will—there will be no change, no gain.
I heard of a monk. He was angry when he was a householder. So angry that once, in rage, he threw his son into a well and killed him. Then repentance arose. A monk was in the village; he went to him. The monk said: if repentance is true, leave the world. The man was angry; he left—even the leaving was in anger. ‘You said—and I not do it! You think what of me?’ People tried to persuade him: you have never practiced renunciation, never meditated; don’t jump in one go—go slowly. He stuck his jaw in stubbornness. The old stubbornness—the same that pushed his son into the well—pushed him into monkhood. He became a muni.
Among the Digambar Jains there are five steps. He leapt them at once. Mahavira says: grow step by step. Life is a growth in order. As a tree grows slowly, so slowly you must grow—because as branches rise above, roots sink deeper below. If a tree rises at once and roots have not had time to go deep—it will fall, die. It is not growth; it will be death. Five steps are made. One by one you go. Becoming a muni is the fifth, when even clothes are dropped, everything is dropped.
He became muni in one leap. He threw off his clothes in the temple. The monk who initiated him was impressed: ‘I have been giving discourses since birth, I have seen many people—but they say, we will think. You are a doer; you are very religious!’ But the man was not religious. They gave him the name Shantinath. But the man was a lord of anger.
When he arrived in the capital, an old childhood friend also came there; he went to meet him. Let me see—that fury incarnate, Kradhanath, has become Shantinath. He went and saw—no peace anywhere; the same flushed face; burning eyes; the same anger and ego. He wanted to test. He came close: ‘Maharaj!’ The muni recognized him—since childhood they knew each other. But when one attains a position—muni—the recognition for the riffraff—what recognition! He recognized—and the other too knew he recognized; eyes confess everything. But outwardly the posture: did not recognize. He asked, ‘Maharaj, may I ask your name?’ ‘Yes, yes—don’t you read the papers? It is printed daily. Who is there who does not know me? And you ask my name? Muni Shantinath—my name.’
The man thought: nothing has changed. He waited a while, then asked: ‘Maharaj! I forgot again—what is your name?’ He lifted his staff: ‘Are you in your senses? I told you once—my name is Shantinath!’ The man waited; then began, ‘Maharaj…’ He could say no more; the staff fell on his head. ‘I have told you so many times! Do you have a brain or are you a fool? “Shantinath” is my name!’
The man said: ‘Maharaj! But I see no peace. I see the same form I knew since childhood—no difference. The outer wrap has changed; the inner soul remains the same.’
Do not drape dispassion! It is not a garment; it is not a cover to put on over the same interior. Dispassion is an inner state. Slowly honor it. Respect each moment that brings vairagya. Step by step place yourself upon that ground. Slowly the bondage of the world falls away—for the bondage is due to raga. When dispassion comes, it falls. Like an entwined knot—when you turn it the other way, it opens.
‘And the attached one’s world goes on becoming endless.’ The attached one’s world becomes endless—for one desire gives birth to ten. Desire does not believe in family planning. Desire has a huge progeny. One desire gives birth to ten; ten to a hundred—this is how the arithmetic spreads.
Have you ever thrown a pebble into water? A small pebble—and how many ripples rise! One ripple raises the next; the second the third. To the far shore the whole lake is filled with ripples. One small pebble. So a small pebble of desire and your whole life is agitated with waves.
Thus Mahavira says: the attached one’s world becomes endless. The unattached one’s world begins to break this very moment, to scatter—as if the ground was drawn away, the foundation removed.
‘Your own raga–dvesha-laden resolves are the root of all faults.’
‘The one who undertakes such reflection—who resolves that sensory objects are not the roots of faults—equanimity is born in his mind. And his thirst for the qualities of desire is weakened.’
Another important point Mahavira makes here: the objects of desire are not the cause. Wealth is not the cause of greed; wealth may lie all around you—if there is no clinging, it is mud. And if clinging arises even to mud—mud is wealth. Wealth is created by your clinging. You may live in a palace; it makes no difference. The palace binds no one. Live in a hut—and if your clinging is intense, the hut will bind. A small loincloth can bind you, and a great empire may not.
The sutra: ‘Your own raga–dvesha-laden resolves are the root of all faults.’ The roots are within you. Sensual objects are not the roots. Those who resolve thus—that the sense-objects are not the root of faults—equanimity arises in their minds.
As you come to know and take root in this conviction—that nothing outside binds me; I have chosen to bind; my choice to bind binds me; the root is within—then the question of escaping from the outer world fades. If someone leaves the world, it is only training.
Mahavira left his kingdom. But listen to a sweet tale. He wished to leave; his mother said, ‘I will not allow you. As long as I live, do not leave.’ Mahavira did not raise the matter again. This is astonishing in human history: Mahavira did not argue, nor insist again. Buddha ran away one night without telling anyone; not even his wife that he was going. Twelve years later, when he returned, Yashodhara complained: ‘If you had to go, would I have stopped you? Who has ever stopped one who has to go? But at least you could have told me! You did not consider me worthy of being told! This has hurt me. If you had asked—could I have stopped you? Was it necessary that I would have? I have carried this wound all these years—that you did not even tell me; you fled at night like a thief! With whom you had woven bonds of love—at least you could have taken leave!’
Mahavira did not do this. He wanted to go; he asked his mother. Naturally—she who gave him birth—if life is to be renounced, at least ask her!
She said, ‘No—do not raise this before me. I will die of sorrow; that sin will be yours. Then what of your ahimsa?’
Mahavira fell silent. This is unique: he did not argue a second time. When the mother died, returning from the cremation ground, he asked his elder brother: ‘What do you think now? May I go?’ He had not even reached home.
The elder brother said, ‘Think a little! We are returning from mother’s funeral; our chest is heavy as stone, and you talk of renunciation! Is this the time?’
Mahavira said, ‘What better time than this? Honor the arising of vairagya wherever it arises. What can be more awakening than death? Mother has died—what greater event could awaken me! She who gave me birth is gone—so I will go too. If she could not remain, how will I? I am only a link in the chain. Let me go!’ Brother said, ‘No—you cannot go. Until I give leave, you cannot go. Honor the elder brother’s word.’
It is said—Mahavira fell silent again. A few years passed—but he lived in that palace as if he were not there. He moved as a shadow—did not stir the dust. He rose, sat; but did not come between anyone. The family could not tell whether he was there or not. So silent. So absent. Moving like a void in the house. Finally the household told the elder brother: now it is useless to stop him. He has gone already. What shall we stop? We think he is here—but he is not. Months pass; no one notices him; he does not participate; he does not give an opinion; he does not obstruct. What is the meaning of ‘not being’ beyond this? We are unnecessarily incurring sin.’
So the brother and family gathered. They said: you have gone already—we will not stop you now. This is how he left the house. Long before stepping out, Mahavira had left the house. Before leaving, he had left. And I know—if the brother had not permitted, he would have remained always. What difference would it have made? Therefore Mahavira’s dispassion is profound. It is not flight. It is transformation. Then he went to the forest. Twelve years—a deep training. He practiced much. He refined himself. Emptied himself. Lost words. Entered silence. Let speech go. Then returned. For in the forest one can attain; but to share, one must come to the market. Trees and animals can help you find—but to give, there must be man. And when one gets, one must give. Mahavira did not only leave wealth; when he attained the supreme wealth, he showered that too. Once the joy of leaving is known, even the supreme wealth is to be given.
‘Your own raga–dvesha-laden resolves are the root of all faults. He who undertakes this reflection—that sense-objects are not the root—equanimity arises in him.’
Even instantly the taste of equanimity can arise. Sitting in your house, think that you are outside the house. Sitting by your wife, think—who belongs to whom? Sitting in the market, think—what silence everywhere! In the market too equanimity can happen. At home too equanimity can happen. Doing all works, within you begin to become still. The inner lamp stops wavering.
Equanimity means: becoming an unwavering consciousness.
‘And thereby his thirst for the qualities of desire grows thin.’
Hasti ke mat fareb mein aa jaiyo ‘Asad’,
Aalam tamam halqa-e-daam-e-khayal hai.
Do not get deceived by the show of things. But things themselves do not entangle you; imagination entangles you.
The whole world is but a circle of the snare of thought.
This spread all around does not catch you—your web of imagination catches you.
‘One who is dispassionate from feelings becomes free of grief. As the leaf of the lotus does not become smeared by water, so he, living in the world, does not become smeared by the traditions of many sorrows.’
Mahavira is not telling you to abandon the world. This sutra is proof. He says: be like the lotus leaf!
Bhāve viratto maṇuo visogo, eeṇa dukkho paramparena.
Na lippai bhavamajjhe vi santo, jaleṇa vā pokkharinīpalāsaṃ.
As in a lake, the lotus blooms. Its leaves are in the water; drops of water rest upon them—but water cannot wet them. Such is a state of consciousness, of dispassion. Standing in the world, in the household—nothing can touch you.
Mahavira spoke of four tirthas: shravak–shravika, sadhu–sadhvi. By some unknown accident, sadhus–sadhvis became important. But Mahavira’s first emphasis is on shravak–shravika.
Shravak means: one in such rightness that by hearing alone he attains truth; by hearing he awakens. Sadhu means: for whom hearing is not enough; after hearing, practice is needed—then he is freed. The glory of the shravak is immense.
Shravak—one who hears truth and awakens at the hearing.
Buddha used to say: there are many kinds of horses. One will not move until you beat him; another will move at the threat of the whip, at abuse—no need to beat. A third—no abuse is needed; the whip in the hand—just seeing it is enough. And Buddha says: there is one such that even the shadow of the whip is enough. Shravak is he for whom even the shadow of the whip suffices.
You are listening to me. From listening, the first tirtha opens for you. If you listen rightly, with the heart, submerged in listening—there remains nothing to do; the knots open in listening; by hearing, clarity dawns, the knot falls; a little darkness was there—it clears; a little entanglement was there—it drops. The door opens; the boat is ready—you can cross by this tirtha!
Some will not cross by hearing; for them even the shadow of the whip is not enough—whips are needed; blows must be given.
Sadhu—one who could not cross by hearing, for whom comprehension was not enough, for whom effort was demanded for truth.
In truth, the shravak’s glory is greater than the sadhu’s.
But sadhus could not tolerate this. It was bitter for their egos. So no Jain sadhu bows to the shravak. How can a sadhu bow to a shravak! The sadhu is higher; the shravak lower! The shravak should bow to the sadhu!
Yes—where are the shravaks? But another question: where are the sadhus? Those who cross by hearing alone are rare; those who move at the shadow of the whip are rare. Even those who, with the whip upon themselves, move—where are they! Even they become habituated.
‘One who is dispassionate from feelings becomes free of grief. As the lotus leaf is not smeared by water, so living in the world he is not smeared by the traditions of many sorrows.’
As soon as one is free of feeling—free of raga and dvesha; free of choosing; free of resolve and counter-resolve—recognizing this truth: the whole game is within—one draws in, like a tortoise draws in.
Door ja pahunchā gubāre–karvan,
Meri musht-e-khāk tanhā reh gayi,
Sab tamannaen hamāri mar chukīn,
Ek marne ki tamanna reh gayi.
He gathers himself inward. He withdraws from the lust for life. He no longer longs to live. He lives—because until the old karmas, the accounts, are settled, they must be settled. He lives—but no stress on living. He has learned one secret: the supreme death—how to die totally, so that there be no birth again. And one in whom such a state arises—his dawn is not far.
Ho chali subah, fasāna hai qarīb-e-takmeel,
Ghul chali shama—bas ab hai use thanda hona.
When the lust for life cools, he begins to dissolve.
Ho chali subah, fasāna hai qarīb-e-takmeel—
the story is nearing completion; dawn is breaking. The lamp is melting; now it has only to go cool. That coolness—that serenity which is found when the fever of living is quenched—this is moksha.
Meditate upon suffering! Recognize it from every side; diagnose it. When sorrow is seen, finding the remedy is not difficult. When sorrow is seen, the supreme longing to be free is born.
Witnessing is the medicine. Sorrow is the diagnosis—witnessing is the remedy—moksha is health.
Enough for today.