Jin Sutra #50

First sutra:
“Just as long-accumulated fuel, once fanned by the wind, is instantly consumed by a kindled fire, so the fire of meditation reduces the immeasurable fuel of karma to ashes in a single moment.”

Man is very ancient—call him eternal, ever-present.
Across endless births, countless deeds have been done—merit and sin alike. If one had to settle each account, one by one, liberation would be impossible. Such a long span! In that long span, such a chain of actions! Sorting that chain would itself take eternity.
And in that eternity spent breaking old actions, new ones will arise. Breaking is also an action. The effort to be rid of an action is the beginning of a new one. Then the web becomes a vicious circle. To step out becomes difficult.
You will do something! If not irreligion, then religion. If not sin, then virtue. But Mahavira says: virtue binds just as sin binds. The doer’s ego exists in the one who does evil, and also in the one who does good—and sometimes, even more densely in the one who does good. The evil-doer feels a sting, a certain humility, a sense of guilt. The ego of the good-doer becomes gold-plated—studded with jewels. The ego of the doer of good becomes ornamented with merit, luminous with it.
Even if you do rightly, the doer is strengthened; the sense of “I am the doer” is reinforced. Build a temple, give charity, fast, practice austerities—each act fortifies the doer. And to fortify the doer—that itself is the world. To fortify the doer—that itself is the staircase back into the world.
The doer must become thin.
When the doer thins, actions thin.
Slowly, the very sense that there is a doer within must dissolve. Only the witness remains. Only the seer remains.
Therefore action cannot be cut by action. Nor can sin be cut by virtue. You may replace sin with virtue, but the bondage will not change—only its ornamentation. It may become prettier, more refined—more decorated than before. Gold may be plated upon the handcuffs—but there is no way to break handcuffs like that. Action does not break action.
Then how will action break?
If action cannot cut action, is there no hope for man? If every deed spins a new web, will we ever be able to step out of this web—or not?
Mahavira says, one can step out—but not by the door of action. Action is the very mechanism by which one comes into the world. The doorway out is non-action.
Meditation means: the state of non-action.
Meditation means: the state of witnessing.
Meditation means: such wakeful awareness that it does not identify with the deed.
You are walking along the road, but within, someone stays awake and sees: “I am not walking, the body is walking. I am watching: the body is walking.”
Hunger arises; within, someone keeps seeing: “Hunger has not come to me; it has come to the body.” Food is eaten—the food is being placed into the body—someone within remains awake, watching. Satisfaction happens, hunger subsides—within, as a witness, someone observes: “Now hunger has passed; the body is satisfied.” But in no state does one connect oneself with the act.
To sever from the act—that is meditation.
Twenty-four hours, actions are happening. Even if you do nothing, sit idle, the breath still moves—so action is happening. You say, “I am breathing.” Have you ever reflected how untrue this is? When the breath refuses to come, will you still be able to draw it? When it stops, will you say, “No worry—I will continue to take it”? When the breath goes out and does not return, will you bring it back?
In that moment it will be seen that you too were not breathing; breathing was happening. And with this movement, unnecessarily you had tied yourself as the doer. Is hunger yours? Did you create hunger? It is arising—true; but you unnecessarily get attached in between. You can stand aside and watch. Hunger is a phenomenon occurring in the body.
That is why Mahavira emphasized fasting—not for self-torture as Jaina monks later practiced; not to inflict pain upon the body. Mahavira’s fasting was solely to create an inner space in which consciousness could remain awake and watch. Because as hunger intensifies, the likelihood of identification increases. When hunger is moderate, food is near, you are seated by the fridge, the fragrance wafts from the kitchen—then perhaps you can also “enjoy” talk of meditation. You say, “What hunger? I am a witness.” Hunger is not much. There is no cost to being a witness then. But when hunger pierces like pain, sinks deep into the chest, when every hair screams—then it becomes increasingly difficult to remain aware.
Mahavira regarded fasting as a process of meditation. A moment comes when hunger stands with a tremendous force—one could go mad; one could eat anything; one could steal; one could even kill.
Those who journey in the desert have reported that thirst can come upon one such that one drinks one’s own urine if no water is found; camel urine if nothing else. In the desert, thirst can be such that one loses all awareness—witnessing is another matter. Even the knowledge of what one is drinking disappears.
All your refinements—“Is the water pure? Filtered? Boiled? Or scooped from some dirty drain?”—these are conveniences. In the desert, when thirst grips, even if a drain flows before you with filth—you will drink. Mahavira made this into a crucial experiment—because hunger is very deep, the deepest.
Two things are most significant in human life: one is sexuality, and the other is hunger. Sexuality nourishes society. Sexuality is food for society. If you stop sexuality, you break a branch of society. No progeny will come forth. Your children live through your sexuality. Life lives through sexuality; the world runs by it.
So sexuality is food for the world. Without it, the world will die. If all people attain Brahmacharya, the world will stop immediately.
Hence a great Western thinker, Immanuel Kant, called Brahmacharya a sin. There is weight in his argument. He says Brahmacharya is a kind of violence—you are preventing someone from being born. Whether you kill someone alive or you prevent someone from being born, what is the difference? To cut a neck, or to prevent a neck from ever arising—preventing birth is cutting the neck beforehand.
Then Kant adds: the foundational rule of ethics is that the maxim by which we live must not be such that its universal adoption renders it impossible to practice. Otherwise it is a self-defeating maxim.
For instance, Kant says, lying is immoral—because if everyone lies, lying becomes impossible. Lies work only because there are still some who trust truth. A lie does not stand on its own legs; it walks with the crutch of those who trust truth. That is why the liar loudly declares, “I speak the truth.” Until he convinces you he is speaking truth, there is no chance to lie.
Once Mulla Nasruddin was on trial. He had cheated a very simple, saintly man—picked his pocket. There was old friendship and the saintly man trusted him. The whole village knew he was virtuous. The magistrate too knew. The magistrate said, “Nasruddin! Cheat someone else if you must. This man is your old friend, childhood companion. He is worshiped like a saint in the village, and you pick his pocket? Did you feel no shame? He trusts you so!”
Nasruddin said, “Whose else should I pick? Only the one who trusts can be picked. One who doesn’t trust—how to pick him?”
Only a saint can be cheated; how will you cheat a cheat? Only with the honest can you be dishonest; how with the dishonest?
Kant says: That maxim which, if universalized, destroys itself, is immoral. If lying becomes universal, it becomes impossible. If we declare that everyone lies and lying is the religion of man, that very day lying will be in trouble—who will trust you then? Even if you speak the truth, people will think you lie.
If theft becomes the rule, theft becomes impossible. If everyone steals, what does theft mean? What sense in moving things from one house to another? Where all are thieves!
Hence you must have seen, thieves’ guilds don’t steal from one another. There the rule must be: no stealing. Otherwise life becomes impossible.
Kant says Brahmacharya is also like this. If all become celibate, then there will be no one left to practice celibacy on earth. Which means: for celibates to exist, some lustful ones must exist; otherwise even celibates won’t be.
Mahavira can attain Brahmacharya only because Mahavira’s parents were not celibate. Had they been, there would be no Mahavira. So for Mahavira to be, thanks must be given to the sexuality of his parents. The same for Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ—they must take the help of sexuality to arrive.
Understand this well.
Brahmacharya is the closing chapter of life—the final curtain. I am not saying don’t practice Brahmacharya. Because for all to practice it—this is impossible. For even one to practice it is very hard; for all—impossible.
Kant tried to refute by taking the impossible as possible. This will not be. For thousands of years man has discussed Brahmacharya, written scriptures. Once in a while, a rare individual attains it. It is difficult.
I am saying: sexuality is the food of others, the food of the future, of coming generations. Therefore its influence is so strong upon you. Your children are struggling to come through you. However much you try to be celibate, their life is in danger—they will push; they will break your rules and oaths; they will insist on birth.
When sexuality arises in you—even that is not “yours.” It is the pull of coming lives. Life that wants to come through you says, “Complete your task. Before you depart, be a medium—let the chain continue.”
So sexuality has great influence on man—but not so great that one cannot remain celibate. Because it is another’s life that is at stake, not yours. You are. Yours was at stake only if your parents had been celibate. You already are. There is no danger to you now.
The second important urge is hunger. It is deeper than sexuality, because your own life is at stake in it. Sexuality affects those who are to be; whose countenance we do not know. But giving up food—you will not be.
Thus Mahavira made fasting a deep experiment. As hunger increases and your life comes under threat, your capacity for awareness declines. What will a hungry man not do?
Psychologists say: hunger is the root of all sins. Perhaps they speak truly. Until hunger is eliminated, sins may not vanish from the world. A hungry man can do anything—and if he does, it even seems forgivable.
Mahavira undertook deep fasts for a single knowing: Is there a threshold to hunger where my awareness is lost? Does a limit arise where I forget that I am a witness and I become a doer?
For this deep testing—fasting. Mahavira’s fasting is not self-suppression; it is a profound experiment in meditation. The very word upavas holds the clue. Therefore Mahavira did not call it anshan (hunger strike), nor “remaining hungry,” but upavas. Upavas means: to abide near oneself. To dwell near the Self. It means: to move away from the doer and slowly slide toward the witness.
So whatsoever you do—if the witness remains in it, slowly you are freed from the doer. And as soon as there is freedom from the doer, the entire net of actions, of infinite births, is burned to ashes in a single instant.
This is Mahavira’s unique proclamation. In this proclamation lies man’s possibility.
If it were not so, there would be no possibility of Moksha. If we were to be freed through action, we could never be free. If freedom comes from freedom from the doer, then liberation is possible.
Keep this in mind. This is the ultimate message of the Gita as well: Arjuna, do not be a doer. Through another route Krishna reaches the same conclusion: Arjuna, do not be a doer. Drop concern for action. Actions happen, and will go on happening. Drop the attitude “I am doing.”
Mahavira’s language and the Gita’s language are opposite. It is necessary to understand that sometimes opposing languages declare the same truth. Do not be trapped in language. Jains do not even read the Gita. To them, the Gita seems to have no essence—worse, it seems dangerous, violent.
Hindus did not even mention Mahavira in their scriptures. Such a living being walked this land—and there is no mention. What deeper condemnation and opposition could be? The Jains at least showed some courtesy: they mentioned Krishna—even if to declare him condemned to hell, even the seventh hell—but at least they mentioned him. They did not forget. But the Hindus crossed all limits—they did not deem Mahavira even worthy of hell! If Buddhist texts did not exist, Mahavira’s mention would be only in Jaina texts—and even for the Jains, without Buddhist support, collecting external evidence would be hard that Mahavira ever lived.
That is why, when Hindu texts were first translated in the West, Western scholars assumed Mahavira was merely another name for Buddha. The statues seemed similar, the teaching of non-violence sounded similar—so they thought he was just another form of Buddha. Mahavira was not acknowledged—Hindu scriptures did not mention him at all.
Why?
The language is very different—indeed, exactly opposite. If one says night, the other says day; that much distance. And yet I say to you: both are trying to say the same. Krishna employs the notion of God to say it. He says: God is the doer, you are a mere instrument. Abide in witnessing and let what is happening, happen. Drop only this: “I am doing.” Then let the Divine do what it will through you.
Mahavira does not employ the notion of God. In his speech there is no God-symbol. He simply says: be a witness. In the ultimate depth of meditation, in the supreme state of witnessing, suddenly you will awaken and see that all that happened through you—never happened “by you.”
This is the meaning of all karmas being burned to ashes. You did them in a dream. They never truly happened. They were dream-thoughts, dream-mutterings, dream-doings. Upon waking in the morning, everything is found vain. You laugh: how real it all seemed at night! How factual! On waking, it evaporates.
Try a small experiment: try to wake up inside a dream. Difficult, but it happens. If, night after night, you go to sleep with the resolve, “If I dream, I will try to know I am dreaming; I will awaken inside the dream,” then between three and nine months, some night, suddenly, while dreaming, a remembrance will flash: “Ah! This is a dream.” And then a unique, sweet experience happens—wondrous, unparalleled. Because the moment you remember “This is a dream,” the dream dissolves at once. In this vanishing you learn for the first time that coming to awareness and the breaking of the dream are two sides of the same coin.
Life too is such a great dream.
Mahavira does not even use the word maya—because to use maya, there must also be God. Maya is the power of someone; if there is a magician, there is magic. In Mahavira’s lexicon, there is no magician—hence no maya.
But this sutra declares: those karmas which end merely by entering meditation—those in truth were never existent. If they truly existed, how would meditation dissolve them? Meditation cannot alter Truth; it can only dispel delusion.
You sit in a room, eyes drooping, dreaming. If you wake, the dream breaks—but your waking does not destroy the chair, the furniture, the walls. What is, does not get destroyed by your becoming aware. In fact, as you become aware, what is—appears more fully. Only what is not, vanishes.
Thus, I take this sutra to mean: Mahavira is saying—what you have done till now, all that happened—happened in a dream. On waking, in an instant, it is gone.
“Just as the fire, once fanned by the wind, consumes long-accumulated fuel at once—so the fire of meditation burns to ashes the measureless fuel of karma, in a single instant.”
“A seeker after Moksha should first refine his mind through dharma-dhyana. Later, even after rising beyond dharma-dhyana, he should ever remain absorbed in contemplations such as anitya and ashrana.”
Also remember: Mahavira alone, among all seers, divides meditation into two—dharma and adharma. Alone! In all human history. Patanjali does not, Buddha does not, Krishna does not. Only Mahavira divides dhyana into dharma and adharma. There is great scientific insight here—his unique gift.
All awakened ones have given something; some things are common, some unique. This is Mahavira’s distinct contribution to the science of meditation: adharma-dhyana and dharma-dhyana.
You may be startled—adharma-dhyana? We usually connect meditation only with dharma. But Mahavira’s reach is deep. He says: there are certain moments—adharmic moments—in which meditation still binds.
For example, the gambler, as he throws the dice, has tremendous concentration. It is possible that his focus exceeds that of the man in the temple fingering his beads.
A murderer, going to kill, becomes utterly one-pointed. Thoughts do not arise; he does not wander. Like an arrow, one idea pierces him.
You too have glimpsed it—perhaps you’ve neither gambled nor murdered—but in anger you have had a taste. Perhaps that is the “pleasure” of anger: attention becomes fixed. In anger, one forgets everything. That is why afterward you say, “It happened in spite of me. I didn’t want to—and it happened.”
“In spite of you?” What do you mean? You did it. It happened through you. You were present.
But you say, “I forgot everything. I was unconscious. Nothing remained in memory—neither rules nor manners; even the oaths I had taken vanished. So many times I decided not to be angry—again it happened.”
When anger grabs, one becomes utterly concentrated. Mahavira calls this raudra-dhyana—meditation in anger.
In sexuality too, one is flooded with meditation.
I have heard: a man was caught snatching a bag of money from a shopkeeper by the road. The magistrate asked, “You are quite a thief! We have seen many, but at high noon, in a crowded bazaar, a policeman at the crossing—you find such a time to steal?”
He said, “At that moment I could see nothing but the bag and the money. Only the bag and the money were visible. Everything else dropped from my attention. All my attention had fixed upon the bag. I did not see even the policeman.”
You know it—one driven by lust sees nothing else. Tulsidas’ tale says: he used a corpse as a raft to cross the river to reach his wife. Such lust must have possessed him—he did not even notice it was a corpse; he took it to be a log. Then, to climb the loft of her house, he caught a hanging snake—taking it for a rope.
What his wife said—surely she knew something of Mahavira’s dharma and adharma-dhyana—for she said: “If only you had fixed such attention on Rama as you have fixed on me, you would have attained supreme bliss and liberation. The same attention you placed on lust—had you placed it on Rama…”
That one sentence became the revolution in Tulsidas’ life. It struck. It made clear some hidden search of many lives. That one line became a lifelong sutra: If such attention for lust, then why not for Rama? And what will lust bring anyway?
Mahavira divides meditation into two: adharma-dhyana and dharma-dhyana. He says: in both there is dhyana. In adharma-dhyana, attention is present—but what you receive is pain, suffering, anguish. Attention is there—but imposed in the wrong direction.
Dharma-dhyana means: the same attention, turned from the wrong to the right. From lust to Rama. From wealth to dharma. From anger to compassion.
“A seeker after Moksha should first refine his mind through dharma-dhyana.”
First turn away from adharma-dhyana and enter dharma-dhyana. First, free your attention from those objects that across lives have yielded nothing but thorns. From afar they promised flowers; when you reached, you found only thorns. A door glimmered in the distance; up close, your head struck the wall. From afar all seemed golden; as you approached, it turned to dust.
On the basis of this experience, first release the energy of attention from adharma—because this very energy will be needed for dharma. If it is still bound to adharma, you will have none to invest in dharma.
Hence it often happens—you too have known it; many tell me—when they sit in a temple to chant, who knows what thoughts arise! Those are the very thoughts upon which you have practiced attention. They are not coming from nowhere, not from the sky—they arise from habit. And because your mind has learned to call those things “attention,” those very things will appear when you sit to meditate. Old association, old company, old linkage.
Pavlov performed great experiments on conditioning. His famous one: he would present bread to a dog; saliva would flow. He would ring a bell at the same time. He did this daily for fifteen days—bread, bell, saliva. On the sixteenth day, no bread—only the bell—and saliva flowed. There is no intrinsic relation between a bell and saliva. Ring a bell before any dog—no saliva; but Pavlov’s dog salivates.
He concluded: between bread and saliva there was relation; now the bell has slipped between them—joined to both.
You have experienced it too. Even without Pavlov, try it on yourself. If you eat daily at one o’clock, you look at the clock—one strikes—and hunger appears. A moment before there was no sign of hunger. Perhaps the clock is wrong and it is only eleven—but seeing “one,” the inner flash of hunger arises—association!
Wherever you have placed attention—anger, lust, wealth—and then you go to the temple to “meditate.” You have joined attention to those. Saliva is tied to the bell. Hunger is tied to one o’clock. Now in the temple you sit—and the bell begins. Now you say “meditate,” and as soon as you say it, all kinds of rubbish arises. Because you yourself are raising it. You say “meditate”—and the things you have called “attention” till now are strong in habit.
Some beautiful woman appears in mind. You scold, “Go away! I am meditating. This is a temple, not a brothel. I have come to worship—to meditate—to chant. Go!” But the more you push, the beads are forgotten, the beautiful woman stands again and again. You are puzzled: she does not haunt me so much when I sit in my shop counting money—why does she follow me into the temple?
The tales of rishis say: apsaras harassed them. Who harasses whom? What have apsaras to do with rishis? And had they to harass, would they not choose more fitting men? Rishis—dry bones—long dead by now—no beauty, no juice left—and apsaras descend from heaven to harass them!
Something else is amiss. In the rishi’s mind, old associations of attention are operative. He had placed attention upon women. Now he declares: I will meditate beneath a tree, in a cave, twenty-four hours. The very word “dhyana” has been linked with adharma through many births. So when you sit for dharma in its name, adharma attacks you.
Mahavira says: you must break these associations. What Pavlov said twenty-five centuries later in Russia, Mahavira said earlier in India: first break the association. Do not run straight to the temple—first be free of the bazaar. Otherwise you will sit in the temple while living within the market. Outwardly in the temple, inwardly in the bazaar. The bazaar holds very old ties.
“A seeker after Moksha should first refine his mind through dharma-dhyana.”
Turn from adharma toward dharma. Slowly change the objects of your attention.
A second, even more important point: in adharma-dhyana the objects are adharmic; attention is the same. In dharma-dhyana the objects change; attention is the same.
Then there is a third state which Mahavira calls Samadhi, samyaktva. In truth, Samadhi is the state of a thought-free mind—where no objects remain. There, even the objects of dharma-dhyana must be dropped.
First free attention from wrong objects; apply it to right ones. This application to the right is only a transitional process—to help you loosen from the wrong. Then, when you are free of the wrong, do not sit clinging to the right. That was only a device. As a medicine to the sick—when the sickness goes, what to do with the medicine? Throw it away. Be free of it too. It was only a bridge—an interim state.
Thus even dharma-dhyana is not the ultimate meditation; it is transition—a ladder. Then, be free of meditation too. Drop even the objects of dharma. Only then will the supreme meditation be—when no object remains; only consciousness remains, the lamp of awareness remains—but that light falls on nothing: neither wealth nor dharma; neither lust nor non-lust; neither anger nor compassion.
Use compassion to escape anger—but do not become possessed by compassion. Go beyond that too. Find a moment in which only you are—simply you, alone.
Mahavira calls that kevala—the state of “only,” kaivalya—where only you are. Imagine a lamp burning in emptiness, with nothing to illumine—only the shine. For whatever object exists casts a shadow; wherever an object is, darkness arises.
An objectless mind—unmodified mind—becomes possible only when mere attention remains—pure, utterly pure. No object for attention—only the energy of attention.
“A seeker should first refine his mind through dharma-dhyana. Later, even after transcending dharma-dhyana…”
A time comes when one rises beyond dharma-dhyana—transcends. Still, Mahavira says, maintain contemplation upon a few themes:
“Remain ever absorbed in reflections on anitya, ashrana, and the like.”
Because Mahavira says: the power of mind is strong. Sometimes you may cross over for a moment; if you relax, the mind may pull you back. Therefore even when you feel no more need of meditation, Mahavira advises caution—do not drop meditation too soon. Continue contemplating these twelve bhavanas:
“Anitya (impermanence), Ashrana (no refuge), Ekatva (aloneness), Anyatva (otherness), Samsara (the cycle), Loka (worlds), Asuchi (impurity), Asrava (inflow), Samvara (stoppage), Nirjara (shedding), Dharma (svabhava), and Bodhi (awakening).”
Each is worth understanding. These twelve are Mahavira’s foundational walls. Whoever masters these, Samadhi flowers by itself.
“Anitya”—remember always: all here is momentary. Do not forget it even for a moment. Across many lives, the mind acquires the impression that changing things are stable.
You see walls, trees—seem stable—though you know they are changing. Flowers that were not yesterday appear today. Leaves that were yesterday have fallen. The strong wall will become ash—tomorrow sand blown away. How many palaces have risen and fallen. Mountains arise and disappear. Seas are formed and vanish. Continents dissolve.
Yet eyes deceive with a feeling of permanence. Daily you grow old, but the mind maintains: all is well. As it was.
The process is slow and your awareness, small. If only the process were rapid—you go to sleep young, wake up old—perhaps you would be shocked into understanding: all is fleeting.
But aging happens so slowly, so gradually, by such fractions that you never see. A vast ocean drains drop by drop. From above, all seems the same.
Either the flux must whirl so fast that you step out and return to find your wife old; you had left her young. You return to find the house turned to ash; where there was a mansion, only a mound of sand.
Either this—yet things do not work like that. Then the other way: deepen your awareness so that you recognize even the finest differences. That too must not escape the eye.
Awake and you will find a difference each morning in your face. Return home—you will see the difference. But it demands keen awareness, because the differences are subtle, slow.
When you weigh vegetables in the market—rough weights suffice, a tola here or there. But you cannot weigh gold like that. Weights for vegetables cannot serve all tasks. When gold is weighed, it is by ratti and fractions. Even that is not the deepest weighing. The scientist’s measure considers thousandths of a ratti, thousandths of a second.
The more precious the thing, the more precise your measure must be. And we have only one measure—the scale of awareness, of attention. Call it what you will—the measure is one. It must be razor-sharp—capable of detecting the tiniest change.
So, grow your awareness.
The first bhavana is Anitya. Walking, sitting, standing, sleeping, waking—let one remembrance remain within, constant: all is changing, all is being changed.
What will be the result? You will not be possessed by attachment. What is flowing away—there is no sense in grasping it. What is departing anyway—attachment is meaningless. What must be lost, is already lost. The wise have nothing to cling to here, because nothing can be held. Nothing here is still. Therefore the wise expect no stillness in the fleeting.
If you betray Mahavira—he is not shocked. If your friend betrays you—you are shocked. Why? Because you assumed friendship is permanent. You expect permanence in an impermanent world. Nothing here is steady—neither enemy nor friend. Today’s friend can be tomorrow’s foe; foe can be friend. All is in upheaval.
But you thought the friend is forever. When he betrays, you are startled.
You are not shocked by the friend, nor by his betrayal—you are shocked by your own expectation of permanence.
Betray Mahavira—no difference; he will not be surprised. He has no expectation.
Perhaps he will whisper within: “See how steady the world is! All is anitya. Here even a friend is not one’s own; nor is an enemy truly other. There is no ground for trust or distrust.”
There is a famous Sufi story. A king summoned his wise men: “I seek a single aphorism—short; I have no leisure for big scriptures. Let it serve in every situation—sorrow or joy, victory or defeat, life or death.”
They labored—argued—but no conclusion. They said, “We have heard a Sufi outside the town—enlightened. Let us go.”
The Sufi removed a ring from his finger and gave it to the king: “Wear it. Beneath the stone is a small paper—my Master wrote a formula upon it. I never needed it—by his grace. He kept but one condition: open it only when no other way remains, when you are utterly helpless. Such a moment never came; I have not opened it. Surely, there is a secret within. Keep it—but promise me, only in the last extremity. This is a Vedic formula—open it only in a burning moment of vedana.”
Vedana—remember the word—has two meanings: pain and knowing. Only in the flame of deep pain does knowing arise.
Years passed. Many times he felt like opening—but he had given his word. A war came. The king lost. The enemy took his kingdom. He fled on horseback to save his life. The companions left him. The enemy pursued. He reached a mountain pass; the path ended—a chasm ahead; behind, the hoofbeats approach. For a moment he stood stunned. He remembered, opened the ring, removed the stone, took the paper. A single line: “This too will pass.”
Reading it, a smile arose. Everything passed—the kingship, the joy. If joy passes, sorrow too cannot be eternal. Perhaps the formula speaks true. And there is nothing to be done now.
The mantra struck an inner string: “This too will pass.” As the understanding came, a dream broke. He was no longer panicked. He sat quietly. For a while the hoofbeats neared—then faded. Perhaps the soldiers turned down another path. The forest was dense; the hills confusing; they did not know where the king had gone. The hoofbeats died.
He wore the ring again.
Some days later he rallied his friends, attacked, won back his throne. Seated upon it, joy surged—then he remembered. He opened the ring, read the paper, smiled. The exultation vanished—the pride of victory, gone.
The ministers asked, “You were delighted—and suddenly you became calm! What happened?”
The king said, “This formula—‘This too will pass.’ Now everything passes. So in this world, there is nothing to be either sorrowful or jubilant about.”
This is Mahavira’s anitya-bhavana.
There is a couplet:
“The forewarning of death was always upon my life;
Even before flight, my color had turned pale.”
He who knows death—he knows before taking flight that the wings will break.
He who has awareness hears in every heartbeat the knocking of death. This heartbeat—it will stop one day. It carries you to the place beyond beating.
The wise know, even before soaring—the wings will break. The rainbows of desire will fall. Dreams will be scattered. Life here—is not truly life. What does not endure—how to call it life? In the East our definition is: Truth is that which is eternal—sanatana, shashvata. The fleeting is not Truth; it is dream.
East and West differ. In the West, when you ask, “What is dream, what is truth?”—they say: the dream is what is not; truth is what is. The East says: both are. The dream too is—otherwise how would it appear? Truth is. The difference is not between being and non-being; it is between eternal and transient.
Truth is that which is—was—and will be. The dream is that which was not, now is, and soon will not be.
Therefore Western translators render maya as illusion—that is wrong. Illusion means: that which is not, merely appears. Maya means: that which is—but transient. There is no doubt it is—but there is doubt about its endurance. It will not stay. Like a wave—it comes and goes. This too will pass.
So whatever appears—know, it will pass. If you grasp even this single formula, what more is needed? Your grasp will loosen; slowly you will find yourself standing apart from the things that pass. What pride? In what to preen? All will pass. Youth will pass.
“Memories returned as stories;
Breaths returned as emptiness;
All the sorrows the world had given returned—
But youth, once gone, never returned.”
All will pass. This two-day youth, these butterfly wings, this bustle—then silence, the peace of the cremation ground.
Mahavira says: do not forget death. That is the meaning of anitya. To remember impermanence is to remember death. Every moment, keep death in mind.
Man’s glory is that he knows death. From the knowledge of death, religion is born. The deeper one’s awareness of death, the deeper the religion in his life.
That is why people become religious in old age—death comes closer—the footsteps are clearer. Things recede. “This too will pass” occurs more and more.
That is why in sorrow, one remembers God—because sorrow reveals: there is nothing here—let me seek the Divine. In joy, one forgets again. If someone could, by miracle, make you young again…
Mulla Nasruddin was ill. His doctor said: you may not survive. He told his wife, “No more calling the doctor—don’t waste fees. Call the priest now—to chant the last verses.” The priest began to come.
By coincidence, the Mulla did not die. The diagnosis had erred. A month later he called the doctor again. Now he was fit. The doctor said, “It’s a miracle—you are well. I thought you wouldn’t last three weeks. Now you could live ten years.”
He told his wife, “No more calling the priest. Go tell him—for ten years there is no need to come. But after nine years and three hundred and sixty-four days—if I am still alive—do come the next day.”
Man remembers at the last moment. He postpones religion. But understand the essence: death reminds one of the Divine. But can you say: “It’s ten years away—let him come when one day remains”? Death may come at any moment—now, tomorrow. We are encircled by death.
Ashrana means: know we are surrounded by death. We are already in its net. When it tightens and we are taken away—no one can tell. But that it will happen—that is sure. Think a little alertly— as death becomes clear, your inner compass turns toward religion.
“Anitya, Ashrana”—Ashrana is Mahavira’s basic formula. As Krishna’s formula is sharanagati, surrender—so I say: opposite languages point to one truth.
Krishna says: take refuge in the Divine. “Abandon all dharmas and come to Me alone.” Come into My refuge. Leave all else.
Mahavira says: remain without refuge. Do not go to anyone’s shelter. Because you must be free of the “other.” You are alone. There is no other support. Supports are deceptions. Because of supports, you have wandered. Now drop all supports. Know this truth: you are unsupported. Stand on your own feet. No one else can deliver you. If you dump your responsibility upon the “other,” it is self-deception. Many who go into “surrender” do just this.
A friend comes and says, “I have come into your refuge.” I say, “Do some meditation.” He says, “What is there for me to do now? I have taken refuge.” I ask, “When you keep your shop—do you say, ‘Now that I am in refuge, what shop? I will close it.’” He says, “How can that be?”
You will not leave shop or market or money. Only meditation you will leave—in the name of refuge—and you never practiced it anyway. Whom are you fooling?
He thinks he has spoken loftily: “I am in your refuge—what else now?”
If it were true, Krishna’s formula would work. But in ninety-nine of a hundred cases it is not true; thus Krishna’s formula becomes a deception for you. You hide behind it: “Now we are in Krishna’s hands. Wherever He takes us, we will go.”
But there is dishonesty in it. If it were total, alright—be poor, be a beggar, and remain joyous—“We are in His refuge; if He gives poverty, it must be needed.” No complaint. Surrender contains no complaint—only acceptance.
But man is cunning. He does for himself what is profitable; what he does not wish to do, he throws upon “refuge.” “Let the Master handle Moksha; we will handle the world. We will earn money—meditation is in your hands. We have placed our head at your feet.”
And what is that head worth? Full of rubbish. You have seen scarecrows in fields? Big pots tied for heads. They stand to scare birds. Your head is like that. Placing it—what will happen?
Krishna said: “Abandon all dharmas and come to Me alone.” But to whom did he speak? To one who had something to surrender. Arjuna was powerful—and he did not surrender cheaply. He did not say, “Yes sir,” at once. He fought—hence the Gita was born.
People come and say, “We have placed our head at your feet; now you take care.” They are fleeing responsibility.
Mahavira saw thousands deceiving themselves, and others, in religion’s name. So he emphasized Ashrana—take no refuge. The responsibility is yours. Your sins, your merits—how can you go to another’s feet? Learn from another if you must; ask if you must; but you must do yourself. You must practice.
Therefore Mahavira says: remember Ashrana. To be alone, man is afraid. It feels insecure.
“A fragile boat, fragile oar—and then the fury of storms;
Will you cross the sea? Look at your own little life.”
Fear arises. The boat is fragile—indeed paper-thin. It may sink any moment. The oars weak. Around, the whirlwind of life and death, of change and impermanence.
“Fragile boat, fragile oar—and the fury of storms;
Will you cross the ocean? Look to your own resource.”
So panic. But Mahavira says: there is no other way. If the boat is weak, strengthen it. If the oars are frail, build new ones. If the storm is strong, awaken courage to face it.
The ocean is vast—granted. But if you walk with awareness, your awareness is vaster than oceans. The sky is great—granted. But for the one with Atman, even the sky is small. Awaken yourself.
Mahavira’s entire emphasis is upon soul-force—upon making one’s possibility a reality.
“Anyatva”—the fourth bhavana: remember who you are. Those outside—brother, sister, wife, husband, friend—they are other. Do not let your “I” be overly entangled with them. That is deception. Do not build a family. We are alone. Alone we came; alone we will go. “Family” is only our imagination—a mental construct.
Because to be alone feels frightening, we make a family. Two travelers on the road hold hands—strangers. Whence they come, whither they go—unknown.
The others are outside; I am other than them.
This body too is outside me. My consciousness is other than it. This mind too is outside me. These thoughts—other than me. Keep eliminating: “Neti, neti.” Peel away: “This I am not.” Like peeling an onion—one layer, then another. Peel that too. At the end—emptiness in the hand. Only layers.
Thus the ego entirely disappears—only layers. Then the emptiness that remains—Mahavira calls Atman—the innermost empty witness, whose very nature is to see. Who am I? The first step is knowing what I am not. As you drop the false, one day the true is revealed. Krishnamurti says: to grasp the false is the first arrangement for seeing the true. To understand the unessential is the first step toward the essential.
The fifth bhavana—“Samsara.” Do not forget this cycle. Samsara for Mahavira means: the transmigratory round of birth and death—the wheel revolving—birth, then death; then birth, then death. The spokes keep turning. Remember this.
Here we want to avoid death—but we forget that if we do not want to avoid birth, we cannot avoid death. We want to grasp life and escape death—foolish. He who grasps life grasps death—they are together—two spokes of one wheel.
If you want to be free of death, drop birth as well. If you want to be free of death, stand away from life too. Leave the craving to live; then the messengers of Yama stop coming. Behind the craving for life, death hides. Remember the wheel of Samsara.
“Loka”—the sixth. This visible world is Samsara—but behind it, other worlds are hidden. The collective name of them is Loka—hells, heavens, human world.
Be free of this—but don’t think you will escape to heaven, to sit beneath the wish-fulfilling tree and enjoy yourself. That very idea of “enjoying” is a device to carry this world along.
What will you enjoy? Sit quietly and ponder: if you were under a kalpavriksha—what then? You will find worldly desires rising. “Let it rain millions. Let trays of delicacies appear. Let beautiful women dance. Let me have an imperial throne.”
Just imagine—though you are not yet under the wish-fulfilling tree; even imagining it brings the whole world back.
Thus Mahavira says: be free not only of this world—but of the hidden worlds too.
“Asuchi”—the seventh. Wherever there is mixture—there is impurity.
You have seen: the milkman adds water—you say the milk is impure. He says, “But it was pure water!” Milk was pure; water was pure—two pure things together—shouldn’t purity be doubled? But you still say impure. Because impurity means: mingling with a heterogeneous element. Milk is not water—by water’s addition, impurity arises. Equally, water too is made impure by milk’s addition—though because water is free, we don’t mind that loss. Both are adulterated.
Mahavira says: in this Samsara, all is admixture. Everything is entangled with everything. Hence impurity. Your soul is mixed with mind; mind is mixed with body; body is immersed in the world. All pierce and bind one another. Therefore impurity.
Remember this—asuchi.
And remember: you are pure only when only you are. The slightest addition is impurity. A thought comes, a feeling, an image—impurity. Milk into water, water into milk.
“Asrava”—a technical term. Asrava means: guard the door. At every moment, impressions are flowing in from the outer world; desires are entering.
You sit by the roadside to meditate; a car passes. At the very sight, a dormant desire stirs: “May such a car be mine.” You may not even articulate it; you may shut your eyes and resume your beads. But a single glimpse—and a wave rises within. This is asrava.
Asrava: allowing the outer to enter and pollute you.
So stay awake. Let anything pass outside—keep watch—do not let it penetrate the threshold. Let the car pass, watch. Let a beautiful woman pass—watch. Let a handsome man pass—watch. The passing is no issue. As long as no imprint is made within—no problem.
If you can remain wave-less within, then even in the bazaar there is Himalaya. If in the Himalaya you cannot remain wave-less, then the Himalaya is a bazaar.
“Samvara”—another technical term. Prevent what can go wrong from occurring—and preserve what is going right—that is samvara.
While you are practicing dharma-dhyana, a car passes, a woman passes—stop the shadow at the door—one. And nurture the inner process of meditation—two. Then nothing outer enters within, and nothing inner leaks without.
“Nirjara”—and when anything that should be dropped begins to fall away—do not, under old habit, catch it. As old leaves fall, the tree does not hold them.
Man is strange—he won’t even discard trash. He stores it—“Who knows when it might be useful.” People pile up broken things; make the house a junkyard.
One day I saw Mulla Nasruddin wearing a single shoe. I asked, “Where is the other?” He said, “It’s fine—the other was found on the road. I picked this one. If one can be found, the other can be too. Let me keep this safe.”
We collect anything—outside and within. Inside too you cling to useless things.
So old leaves cannot fall. There is no space for new leaves to come. You cannot be new—because you grip the old. You clutch the past.
Someone abused you twenty years ago—why still hold it? Perhaps he is dead. Perhaps he has begged forgiveness a thousand times—still you hold it. Why? Let it go.
Nirjara means: when something has become useless and begins to drop—let it fall. Useless things fall by themselves; do not catch and retain them. Let dry leaves fall and fly away.
Then you will become new at each moment.
Then “Dharma”—Dharma means svabhava. For Mahavira, dharma does not mean religion or sect; it means nature. Fire’s dharma is to burn; water’s dharma is to flow downward—toward hollows. Fire’s dharma is to rise upward—toward the sky. Man’s dharma is to be Paramatma. It is his nature. Not that man must become God—man is Divine; it needs only to be uncovered.
So Mahavira says: do not forget dharma.
But ask the Jaina pundits—they take dharma to mean “Jain dharma.” Mahavira is not speaking of a sect. Such a man does not speak of sects. Sects are like sicknesses—and Mahavira a physician!
Mahavira says: remember dharma—only dharma. Buddha and Mahavira both used the word with a unique sense: the simple, direct law of being. What Lao Tzu calls Tao, and the Veda calls Rta—Mahavira and Buddha call Dharma.
Dharma means: what is your intrinsic nature. Do not go against it. Do not grasp what is contrary to it. Do not let what is contrary enter you. Support that which is aligned with it. Always remember: who am I? It may not be clear yet that “I am Paramatma”—but do not forget. Keep the remembrance. If not today, then tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the day after. But only he who remembers will uncover it. He who has forgotten—what will he uncover?
Even if you have forgotten where the treasure is buried—but you still remember that it is buried somewhere—you will keep searching. Here, there—digging everywhere. You remember that treasure is buried.
A father died. He had five sons—lazy, slothful—but greedy for wealth. On his deathbed he said, “I leave you much wealth—I have buried it all in the fields.” He died. The sons rushed to the field and dug it up entirely—but found nothing. Having dug so much, they said, “Let us at least sow seeds.” A rich harvest came.
Then they understood: the treasure was not gold beneath, but in the digging—the field was made fertile; seeds were sown. They were not farmers—they would have slept. But for the hope of treasure—they dug.
Keep the remembrance: within you, the Divine is hidden somewhere—then the search continues. If you forget, what will you search for?
Hence Mahavira says: remember Dharma.
And “Bodhi”—Bodhi is the final destiny—Kaivalya, Samadhi—your becoming Divine. Remember: it is possible. Do not forget.
Two things: Dharma—that you are. But there is a danger: without digging, you may believe “I am already”—and do nothing. That will not do. Remember that you are—but as you are now, you still have to become. What you are—you have yet to be. I repeat: what you are—you still have to be. Your nature is to be uncovered.
Therefore remember Dharma—and remember Bodhi: the happening happens. Awakening is not a poet’s fancy. It has happened—Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Kabir, Nanak and Dadu—their remembrance means only this: on this path, some attained the supreme. So you can trust. They are witnesses—certificates. Because of them, you will not drown in the doubt: “Perhaps this never happens! Why waste time and energy?”
See the consequence: Soviet Russia—where the state has decreed: there is no God, no liberation. In fifty years, not a single person attained Samadhi there. This is a great harm. I do not say if Russia were religious, someone would certainly have attained—but the possibility would be alive. Out of two hundred million, perhaps one might have. But even that did not happen.
If the world becomes communist and atheistic, Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—will be judged mad.
Not to speak of seeking Buddhahood—if you attain it at home, you will not dare disclose it—lest they take you to the asylum.
In Russia this is happening—whoever speaks contrary to the state is declared insane—given electric shocks, insulin shocks, drugs. He may scream—no use.
Think of the difference: the Jews crucified Jesus—declared him dangerous. If Jesus were in today’s Russia, no cross—rather an asylum—electric shocks; far more tragic. The cross could not kill Jesus; the asylum destroys.
Thus when Mahavira says: remember Bodhi—he means: Awakening has been; Jinas have been. They can be today, tomorrow. It is our birthright. Whoever dares and strives—receives. If we do not receive—the weakness is ours. It only means: we did not strive, we did not labor, we did not become worthy.
But whoever sets out for Bodhi—let him remember: much must be lost. As we are—we must dissolve. Our present boat must be immersed.
“You will reach at last, O heart, the shore of peace—
But to escape the tempests of events,
For the little boat to survive—that is difficult.”
The shore of peace will be reached at last—but this boat surviving the storm—that seems difficult. Not only difficult, I say it is certain: this boat will sink. You will be saved—the boat will sink.
Boat means your body; boat means your mind; boat means your ego. That will not survive. It will go in the storm. If you try to save it, you will be deprived of the far shore—and still it will go. It never lasts. Its nature is to perish. But that which endures—you did not remember. You did not awaken to it.
Nirala’s famous lines:
“The stream of love has flowed away;
Like sand, the body remains.
This mango branch that looks dry
Says: the koel or peacock no longer comes;
In the poem I am the line
Which has no meaning—
Life has collapsed.
I gave the world flowers and fruits,
I dazzled it with my radiance;
But all was ephemeral—the blossoming moments—
The true grandeur of life was that which collapsed.
No longer does the beloved come to the riverbank,
Nor the incomparable sit on the tender grass;
Only the new moon of darkness flows over the heart—
Unnoticed—I, the poet, have said it.
The stream of love has flowed away;
Like sand, the body remains.”
This body will collapse like sand. It is a hut of straw and clay; it will fall. This boat will sink—regardless. Those who wish to save it—their boat sinks. Those who drop the worry—their boat too sinks—but they cross.
Here, only those who sink—cross. Those who try to be saved—remain drowned.
“We were neither Avatar nor Prophet—
Why was such greatness thrust upon us?
We died upon the cross;
We lived our life in exile.”
Sweet lines. If Rama was exiled—fine—he was an Avatar. If Jesus was crucified—fine—he was a Messiah.
“We were neither Avatar nor Prophet—
Why was such greatness thrust upon us?
We died upon the cross;
We lived our life in exile.”
Whether you are Rama or not—life will be exile. Whether you are Jesus or not—you will be crucified. That is certain. It is the nature of birth—to die. The nature of gaining—to lose. The moment the leaf appeared, it had already been decided—it will dry and fall. Spring is a preparation for autumn. It will happen. The difference lies only here: Rama accepts it—willingly. Exile came—he took up his bow and stepped out—no complaint, no protest—no doubt upon his father—no grievance.
Exile is for all. Rama accepted—thus he became Avatar. Crucifixion is for all. Some on a bed—what difference? The bed is wood, like the cross. Where it happens—what difference? Death is for all. Jesus accepted—“Thy will be done.” In that instant, he became Prophet.
All are meant to be Prophets and Avatars here. Do not settle for less. Suffering will come anyway—then play a creative game with it. Accept it. Lift it with joy and gratitude. Be ready to die. Carry your cross on your shoulder. You will find Amrit—the immortal nectar—already present. Raise your eyes a little above death, and you will glimpse Amrit. We are like one walking with eyes fixed on the ground—while the sky is available—and he says, “Where is the sky? I see only earth.”
So within you there is earth and there is sky—sky means your soul; earth means your body. Raise your eyes a little above the body. Body means death.
Raise your eyes a little above the body—soul means Amrit—eternal life.
Mahavira called that state Mukti—Moksha. Without attaining Moksha, if you go—coming here was vain. You will be sent again and again. None has ever left this school without learning its lesson. Learn. The one who learns is not sent back. There is no need.
This is all that the doctrine of rebirth means: those who leave without learning are sent back—into the same class. Learn you must; awaken the treasure of knowing. Until the Veda within you begins to hum—until the hymns within you arise—Paramatma will not leave your trail.
Enough for today.