Jin Sutra #52

Today's sutras:
‘There are six kinds of leshyas: Krishna leshya, Neel leshya, Kapot leshya, Tejo leshya (Peet leshya), Padma leshya and Shukla leshya.’
‘Krishna, Neel and Kapot—these three are adharma, inauspicious leshyas. Because of them the jiva is born into various lower destinies.’
‘Peet (Tejo), Padma and Shukla—these three are dharma, auspicious leshyas. Because of them the jiva is born into diverse higher destinies.’
‘There were six travelers. They lost their way in the middle of a forest. Hunger began to bite. After a while they saw a tree laden with fruit. They wished to eat the fruit and began to ponder within. One thought, “Cut the tree at the root and eat its fruit.” The second thought, “Cut only the trunk.” The third considered, “Breaking off a branch will be right.” The fourth thought, “Let us break a twig.” The fifth wanted to pluck only the fruit. The sixth thought, “When the fruit ripens and drops from the tree, then pick it up and eat.”’
‘The thoughts, speech and deeds of these six travelers are respectively examples of the six leshyas.’

Leshya is a technical word in Mahavira’s method of understanding. It means the passions that color mind, speech and body—the kashaya-laden tendencies. The human soul hides behind many veils. These six leshyas are six veils.

The first veil is Krishna leshya: great darkness, black, like the night of no moon. One upon whom Krishna leshya has fallen can find no trace of his own soul. Life is so crushed under such darkness that even the possibility of there being life within seems doubtful. If even one’s own soul is not known, how could that of another be known?

Our age is the age of Krishna leshya. People live in new-moon nights. The full moon is lost; not even the slim crescent of the second night is anywhere to be seen. Hence, there is no trust in the soul.

How can trust arise? The veil is so black—how to recognize that within there is a source of light? When you look at another, you see only the body. When you look at yourself, you see only the body.

Standing before a mirror and looking at yourself—that is not your being; it is the shadow of your body. Neither do you come to know yourself, nor do you sense the soul of others.

Let Krishna leshya be lifted—and only then can self-vision happen.

So Mahavira spoke of six veils—Krishna leshya, then Neel leshya, then Kapot leshya... the darkness gradually lessens.

After black comes blue. Darkness still, but with a blueness. Then Kapot—like the pigeon, like the color of the sky.

As the veils are lifted, the glimpses within become clearer. But remember one thing: Mahavira says even the white leshya is a veil. It is the last leshya. As long as there is color, there is a veil. As long as there is color, there is raga.

The word raga means color.

Vairag means to move beyond color.

Vitarag means to transcend color entirely.

Now no color remains upon you. Because as long as color remains, your nature is repressed; something alien still overlays you—even if it be white, even if it be pure.

We are buried in a dark night. Mahavira says even the full moon is not the final experience. Not only must the new moon be left, even the full moon must be abandoned. Let Krishna leshya go, let Shukla leshya go as well. Let the dark fortnight depart—and the bright fortnight too. Let no veil remain upon you. Become unveiled.

This is why Mahavira remained naked. His nakedness is symbolic. Only when the inner soul is equally naked does its feeling begin. And when one comes to know one’s own soul, then one comes to know the souls of others. The deeper we look within ourselves, the deeper we can see within the other.

As of now, we cannot even trust that there is a soul in human beings. At best we conjecture—it should be so. It seems logical that it must be. But in truth, is there? We possess no existential proof. If within we have no proof, how could we have it for another?

Mahavira says, as the veils lift, the soul in the other begins to be seen. A moment comes when even in stone the soul is seen.

With Tejo leshya, a revolutionary change begins. The first three leshyas are of adharma; the last three of dharma—Tejo, Padma and Shukla. With Tejo leshya the first glimpses arise within you.

Mahavira named the veils by colors. This is the rainbow of life. In truth, the color is one. Scientists call it white. All other colors are fragments of white.

Hence, when a ray of the sun passes through a prism it splits into seven colors. Or, as you may have seen in school—paint seven colors on a disc; spin it swiftly and the seven vanish, leaving white. White is the sum of the seven; and the seven are born out of the white.

The rainbow appears because droplets of water hang in the air. Sunlight strikes and splits into seven. The sunray itself is white.

But Mahavira says, one must go even beyond the white. One must go beyond adharma—and beyond dharma too. Adharma binds, and dharma binds as well. Use dharma to be freed from adharma. Remove a thorn with a thorn, then throw both away. There is no need to save the second thorn. If you are ill, take the medicine; when the illness ends, consign the medicine to the trash. Do not keep the medicine to your chest after the illness is gone. It was only a remedy. It had a use only for the transition.

As the auspicious leshyas arise—as one moves toward the white—the depth of vision grows. The glimpse of Paramatma appears even in others.

In the last moment of the white leshya, when there is a light within like the full moon, Paramatma is seen even in stone. From this experience Mahavira’s ahimsa was born.

Mahavira told a story—he used very few parables. Among those few, one is this:
‘There were six travelers. They strayed in a forest. Hunger struck. After a while they saw a tree laden with fruit. Wishing to eat, they began to think within. The first thought, “Cut the tree at the root and eat its fruit.”’

Mahavira says this man is crushed under Krishna leshya. For a small happiness, a fleeting satisfaction—hunger will go for a while and return—he is eager to destroy the whole tree. He has no sense that the tree too has a soul, that it too feels hunger and thirst, that it too experiences pleasure and pain.

This man is blind. He sees nothing in the tree. He sees only a means to gratify his hunger—a hunger that will return; there will be no eternal satisfaction—yet he is eager to cut the tree at the root. This man is utterly blind. Such men are all around you. You will find such a man within yourself too.

How many times, for a small pleasure of your own, have you not planned even the ruin of another? How many times what you would gain was almost nothing, yet you murdered another—if not in act, at least in thought. For land—two inches of land; for money, for position—you competed. You wanted to cut the other’s neck. You did not consider that what you would gain is nothing; what you destroy, you cannot create. You bring an end to a life. You become the cause of the annihilation of a supreme event. You extinguish a lamp. A living being like you, carrying Paramatma as you do, is moving along—you destroy that opportunity. And you gain nothing—some fleeting gratification. After a moment, hunger returns.

One filled with Krishna leshya is filled with great violence. Whenever you are ready to give another pain for your own small happiness, know this at once: you are pressed under Krishna leshya. A veil has fallen. If you keep feeding this veil, it will grow stronger.

Be alert. When a moment arises where for a small pleasure you feel to hurt another, then pull back your hand. The real issue is not whether you inflicted pain on another or not; the real issue is that in inflicting pain you watered your Krishna leshya, strengthened its roots. In that veil your essence is lost. The meaning of life is lost. From there you cannot sense whether life has any significance at all; you cannot see who you are, where you go, why you go.

You are blind because you have cared for your Krishna leshya. You have nourished it; when a hole appeared in it, you hurried to darn it. Whenever you grow angry at another, notice: in some way he has struck at the veil of your Krishna leshya. Your ego is hurt; you become enraged.

Yesterday I was reading a story. In America, people from the state of Texas are considered uncouth and violent. In a cinema hall a Texan returned after the interval, holding his gun. On his seat someone else was sitting. He asked, “Sir! Do you know this seat is mine?” The man sitting there joked, “It was yours. Now I’m sitting. Since when does a seat belong to anyone?” The Texan pulled his gun and shot him. A crowd gathered. He said to the people, “It is because of such people that Texans have a bad name.”

But many times, though you may not have fired the shot, the desire to shoot has certainly arisen—even over small things, like someone sitting on your seat.

Mahavira says, even if the mind has willed it, the matter is done.

In this story he does not say the first man cut the tree; he only thought so.
‘…Hunger struck, the desire to eat arose, and they began to consider within.’
Nothing has been done yet; only a wave of feeling arose, a thought came. But Mahavira says: the thought has come, the matter is done. As far as you are concerned, it is done. As far as the tree is concerned, not yet; but as far as you are concerned, it is done.

If you thought to kill someone—if only a fantasy arose—the matter is done. The other is not yet killed; crime has not yet happened. The sin has.

This is the difference between sin and crime. Sin means you have done what there was to do—within. Its consequence has not yet reached the other. When the consequence reaches the outer, crime also happens. Courts can catch crime, not sin. Sin is within. Crime is when the inner poison reaches out and its effects begin; waves arise in the outer. Then the police can catch you, the court can catch you.

Law catches you when sin becomes crime.

But Mahavira says, for religion it is not necessary to wait so long. In the supreme court of life, the deed is already done. You did not act because there were obstacles, difficulties, limits. To act could be expensive. You thought and restrained yourself—clever man—passed with a smile. But within, you thought to shoot. As far as dharma is concerned, the matter is done; because your Krishna leshya has grown stronger.

To strengthen Krishna leshya is sin.

To weaken Krishna leshya is virtue.

To strengthen Shukla leshya is virtue. And to rise even beyond Shukla—to go beyond both sin and virtue—is liberation, nirvana.

When a thought of sin arises, you wish to harm another—for some petty gain of your own. And that too is not certain. But how is this possible—that there are so many wars, so much violence, so many murders, so many suicides, quarrels over trifles? Are people utterly blind? Do people really not know what they are doing? Do they have no sense of values?

They cannot have—because of the black veil that covers the eyes. Mahavira says: you are not blind; there is a veil upon the eyes. You are wearing a burqa—a black burqa; the burqa of Krishna leshya.

In our smallest acts our leshya is revealed. You cannot hide it. And now even science has provided a basis for this.

In Soviet Russia, the development of Kirlian photography has discovered a surprising fact: the state of consciousness within you appears as an aura around your head. And Kirlian’s discovery matches Mahavira wonderfully. In one whose life harbors feelings of violence, there is a dark ring around the face.

You have seen halos drawn around saints; the aura. That is not mere poetic fancy—at least not now. After Kirlian’s discovery, the poet’s vision stands established. What the camera could catch after thousands of years, the poet’s subtle insight had seen long ago. The rishis had seen it long ago.

As your vision becomes clear, when someone comes near, at once you see special hues shimmering around his face. If he is violent, greedy, angry, intoxicated with ego and envy, there will be a dark ring around his face.

Now even photographs can be taken. Kirlian developed very subtle cameras—they worked wonders. And such a ring appears around the violent, the greedy, the arrogant, the angry; exactly such a ring also appears when a person is near death.

Kirlian says: six months earlier one can declare that a man will die. For six months before, death begins to occur in his aura—what will take place in the heart later appears first in the halo.

Consider the joining of these two observations. The dark circle of violence, ego, anger, envy—that is also the circle of death. Which means: one who lives with the dark circle is not truly alive. In a sense he is dead. His life will never fully blossom; its wave will never complete—suppressed, cut, broken. Even while living, he carries his corpse; he has never danced alive. Spring never came to him; no new buds sprouted. After birth, he has only been dying.

If a black veil lies upon a man’s consciousness, life becomes impossible. For the ray of life to reach the heart, the door must be open. For the joy of life to make you joyous, for the dance of life to touch you—no veil should stand in between. One must be unveiled.

Only when you stand utterly naked, inviting the open sky within, does Paramatma enter you.

Keep this in awareness. You do not harm the other—in the end, the harm is yours. Even if you kill someone, nothing of his is destroyed. For life here has no end. At most, the old body is gone; a new one will be found. Life’s journey is without end. By killing you do not harm anyone. But even without killing, if the thought to kill arises, you have harmed yourself greatly.

Mahavira says: every murder is, in the ultimate sense, suicide.

Who has ever killed another? Man only kills himself—again and again. To go on killing means: he cannot live. He erects so many obstacles upon the path of living—and we all sense this. This is not philosophy; these are straightforward mathematics of life. You see it: the more angry you are, the less you can live. Anger must allow life for you to live! The more violent you are, the more difficult living becomes. With violence, how can life’s blossoming remain? The more greedy you are, the more you shrink; you cannot expand. Expansion needs a little capacity to give. Expansion needs the courage to share. Like a miser you keep gathering; your safe fills, you remain empty.

A day comes in the honey-grove when spring arrives—
Every blade laughs, every bud opens,
The koel’s voice fills with a new call,
On the branches new anklets tinkle.

But in the life of one pressed under Krishna leshya, this never occurs. Spring never comes; the koel never calls; buds do not ring anklets. Such a person lives in name only—the minimum. He breathes; he does not live. One should say: he gets by.

If you have not danced, not sung, not hummed; if no festival of bliss has rained upon you—then somewhere there is a miss. Recognize Krishna leshya. All the inner enemies the scriptures speak of strengthen Krishna leshya.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin was descending a mountain in a taxi. On the slope the brakes suddenly failed; the car began to speed uncontrollably. The driver panicked and asked, “Bade miyan, the brakes have failed! What shall I do now?” Mulla said, “First of all, switch off the meter. Then do whatever you like.”

A man whose mind is always set upon greed… They say, once dacoits caught Mulla. They pressed a gun to his chest and said, “Give whatever you have, or be ready to die.” Mulla said, “At least let me think.” Seeing him delay, the dacoits said, “Hurry up! What is there to think? Either be ready to die, or give up what you have!” Mulla said, “Then kill me, because what I have gathered I have gathered for my old age. Kill me—for without this wealth I cannot live. Better to die than to live without it.”

Such exaggerations are rare. You will think, “If someone held a gun to my chest, I would not do this. I would say, take whatever you want, leave me.” But in small ways every day you do exactly what Mulla did. Whenever there is a choice between wealth and life, you choose wealth, not life. Do not take Mulla’s story as exaggeration. If ten rupees can be saved and a little life is lost, you save the ten rupees. Perhaps inwardly there is a calculation: life was received free; nothing had to be spent. Money comes only with great difficulty, much labor.

Observe these processes of thought within you. From their weaving, Krishna leshya is born.

Mulla’s son asked him, “Father, I am in a dilemma. Should I become a dentist or an ear doctor?” Mulla said, “What dilemma? Become a dentist. A person has only two ears, but thirty-two teeth.”

If greed is within, greed will cast its shadow everywhere. All your decisions, all your utterances, your every movement—will be guided by greed.

Have you seen whether, in the twenty-four hours, you do even one act free of greed? People even meditate and first ask, “What will I get?” They pray and ask, “What will be the benefit?” Even when they go to the temple of God, they go as to a shop—profit! Is there anything in your life without utility? Something you do out of sheer joy, not for use? Whose value is intrinsic?

The koel hums, birds chatter in the trees, flowers bloom, stars shine in the sky, waterfalls leap from the mountains—what purpose? What utility? Ask a waterfall, “What’s the profit? You just keep flowing! What sense is there in this?”

The whole of nature is “useless” in man’s sense—no rupees are minted from it. Man does only what is useful, what has utility. But remember, if you do only what is useful, you become a machine, not a man. You become a corpse. You may have utility, but there is no deep joy of life.

All joys are free of utility. Only when you become free of utility do you enter the world of bliss. Ecstasy has no price tag; it is valuable in itself. Ecstasy is not a means to something else; it is an end in itself. Life itself is an end. There is nothing else to be gained from it. Whoever tries to get something else from life, his Krishna leshya will never be cut.

So I say to you: even if you sit in Jain temples watching Jain monks, observe carefully—you will find them filled with Krishna leshya. They have left the world out of greed, not free of greed. The Jain monk tells his lay followers: “What is there in the world? Seek heaven. What is there in wealth? Seek punya. This wealth will be lost tomorrow; merit will never be lost.”

Do you understand the meaning of this? It means the monk seeks a wealth that is never lost; you seek wealth that is lost. Then the monk is more greedy than you. You are content even with the transient; the monk seeks eternal wealth. But the shopkeeper’s mind remains. The arithmetic of the mind remains. Even if he fasts, does tapas, practices meditation—utility clings: “Through meditation I will attain the soul; through meditation I will attain Paramatma.”

I say to you: through meditation you receive only meditation. Through love you receive only love. And when meditation showers utterly, one of the names given to that rain is “Paramatma.” Paramatma is not something else that meditation gives; it is a way of speaking of the very rainfall of meditation. Utility-free, outside the market, beyond the tendency of greed and gain, beyond pride and envy—whenever you live even a single moment in simple joy, what happens in that moment is Paramatma. Call it moksha, call it nirvana, call it Samadhi, kaivalya—name it as you will, for it has no name. But you must watch, moment to moment, where you are strengthening Krishna leshya.

There are six kinds of leshyas. Krishna, Neel, Kapot—these three Mahavira called the leshyas of adharma.

Patanjali speaks differently—he describes seven chakras. These three leshyas of Mahavira correspond to Patanjali’s three lower chakras. They are two systems pointing to the same fact.

What Patanjali calls the muladhar—one who lives in the muladhar lives in Krishna leshya. Living in the muladhar is living in darkness, in new-moon night.

The sixth chakra is the ajna chakra. One who reaches the ajna chakra has arrived exactly where, in Mahavira’s language, one reaches Shukla leshya. The third eye opens. The full moon arises.

And what Patanjali calls the sahasrar—the lotus of a thousand petals, the seventh chakra—that is, for Mahavira, the vitarag state. Color and raga are gone. All leshyas are gone. The black veils have lifted, the white veils have lifted. No veils remain.

Paramatma stands unveiled, naked, sky-clad, digambar. With nothing to cover but the sky—flawless.

So Patanjali’s six lower stages are Mahavira’s six leshyas. The first three chakras are worldly. Most people live and die in the first three. The fourth, fifth and sixth are the entry into religion. The fourth is the heart, the fifth the throat, the sixth the ajna. With the sprouting of the heart, religion begins. Heart means love. Heart means compassion. Heart means kindness. With the awakening of the heart, religion begins. What Patanjali calls the heart chakra, that is Tejo leshya. In the life of the heartful there appears a certain radiance.

You have seen the lover’s face shine. When you fall in love, a new aura appears upon your face. The face is yours—the same as yesterday—but instantly a glow, a brightness appears that was never there before. You become more alive—as if someone coaxed the dying flame of your lamp; the ash gathered, someone blew it away and your ember glowed again.

If this happens in ordinary love, what shall be said of the love of which Mahavira and Patanjali speak!

Fall in love with a woman, with a friend, and a glow appears—Tejo leshya! A golden shimmer comes.

Yesterday I read a poem—of love.
For this transfiguration I send them a blessing—
Till last night it was death; since last night, life.
He has turned gracious to me—envy of evergreen—
Again the bud in my heart begins to bloom since last night.
His splendor in my dream has intoxicated me—
Since last night, a sleep has come into the eyes.
How great the joy of meeting him—since last night—
A freshness has entered life since last night.
A world of dread lay everywhere until last night—
Since last night, charm is in every door and wall.
Every longing of the heart has become a festival of delight—
Since last night, the instrument of life is full of song.

In ordinary love, what was death till yesterday appears today as life. What lay as a broken instrument suddenly resounds.

As soon as the heart is touched, a radiance is born in your life. In worldly love this touch illuminates a corner of the vast heart. When that corner is no longer a corner, when the whole heart becomes luminous—that Mahavira calls ahimsa. That the Buddha calls karuna. That Jesus called love. The bhaktas, Narada, called it prayer.

When your whole heart is moved by love, Tejo leshya is born in your life. But remember: Mahavira still calls it a leshya. He says, that too is a bondage—righteous, true, beautiful, yet do not forget it binds. Then comes Padma leshya and Shukla leshya. Life grows ever more beautiful.

Shukla leshya—the yogic third eye, the tantric Shiva eye—this is Mahavira’s Shukla leshya. Between these six within you is the difference of new moon and full moon. When your life energy comes to rest at the ajna chakra, your entire inner sky is crowned with a radiance. A light spreads. For the first time you are awake. For the first time you attain to meditation.

Hence Patanjali called it the ajna chakra. Ajna means: in this moment, what you command is fulfilled. Your command is naturally accepted by your personality. In such awareness, whatever is said, decided, begins to happen instantly; because no opposition remains. You become one-pointed, integrated. No longer two eyes; one eye. While there were two, there was conflict. One said one thing, the other something else. This is the meaning of the symbol of the third eye: one eye—one vision.

Jesus told his disciples: until your two eyes become a single eye, you shall not enter the kingdom of my Father.

Two means: within we are fragmented. One mind says, enjoy now. Another says, what is there in enjoyment? Let it go. One mind says, go to the temple—the purity of prayer. Another says, a waste of time; in an hour we can earn some rupees. Go to the market. Prayer is for the old; we’ll do it at the end. At the time of death we’ll pray. What’s the hurry? No one is dying just now.

Have you noticed? The mind never decides. Indecision is its nature. In the smallest matters it wavers: which clothes to wear today—on this the mind becomes undecided. Which film to watch—again undecided. Go or not go—the man begins to think, waver; as if there are two men within, not one.

At the ajna chakra your conflict ends; you become one. Hence Patanjali called it ajna—you become master for the first time. Until the ajna opens, no one is his own master.

I have called you Swami, I have given you sannyas. You do not become Swami by my saying so. It is only a direction—a seed of aspiration. A vision and a direction. A remembrance has been given—that this is what you have to become. Do not stop until you become a Swami.

So, indeed, ajna chakra is a beautiful word. There you come out of slavery for the first time. Your command rules over you. Mahavira’s word too is beautiful: Shukla—full moon. All darkness gone. Every corner awake.

If we use the language of modern psychology, the first three chakras belong to what Freud calls the conscious mind. The next three, which Mahavira calls the leshyas of dharma, belong to the unconscious mind. And the seventh is the superconscious mind. One who lives in the first three lives on the surface—as if someone lived in the porch of his own house. He erected a tin shed and began to live there. The entire mansion is empty. The whole palace is his by birthright, but he has forgotten. He forgot how to go in.

Those who live only in the first three never come to know their own mansion. Those who enter within and reach the sixth chakra come to dwell in their palace. The first three are somewhat lit; the next three lie in pitch darkness. That is why Freud calls them unconscious. But they are unconscious because you have not gone there; the moment you go, they become conscious. Wherever your gaze falls, consciousness is born. You have not gone—hence they are unconscious.

Consider: until fourteen, a child grows. Until then his sex-center remains unconscious—at least it used to. Now it is difficult. So many are intent on exploiting sex-consciousness that even small children’s sexuality awakens before maturity.

A startling phenomenon is unfolding in America: girls have begun menstruating two years earlier. What used to happen at fourteen is happening at twelve. It seems the surrounding pressure—the flood of lust everywhere—film, television, radio, posters, newspapers, the air itself, the shallow display—perhaps it is pressing upon human nature. A decrease of two years is astonishing. Biologists are amazed. If this continues, the age may drop further. Perhaps even seven-year-old children will become sex-obsessed—unseasonal fruit, leading to great difficulty.

Ordinarily, until fourteen the sex center sleeps, unconscious. At fourteen it becomes conscious. As soon as awareness reaches the sex center, it is no longer unconscious. The whole mind begins to revolve around it. Most people finish off near the first center; they live and die there. Even the very old live lustfully—whether or not they say it. It makes no difference; within, sexuality runs. It is unfortunate. It means the palace remains unfamiliar.

As you bring consciousness within, as you cast light upon neglected parts, you find new possibilities appear.

Mahavira says: at the sixth center Shukla leshya is fulfilled. Full-moon radiance spreads across your whole being. For this, you must undertake the inner journey, slowly dropping the veils that hold you outside.

Leave Krishna, Neel, Kapot.

Drop greed, attachment, hatred, anger, ego, jealousy. Awaken love, compassion, sympathy. Drop possession; awaken aparigraha. Drop miserliness; learn to share. Do not ask—give. The inner journey will begin.

Do not cling to things. Things have no value. Do not let things become your master—remain master of the things. Use them as means, do not make them ends. Slowly the veils break.

If you do not do this, you may gain everything in life, yet the very thing worth gaining will be missed.

Pain was given by birth,
Disrepute found by the riverbank—
So much I got; only one thing—
I did not find You in life.
Friendship grew so with sorrow—
Each hardship turned to verse.
So much love festered into jealousy—
I died a virgin in my yearning.
In the garden the papihas never called,
No bridal palanquin halted at my door—
The day was spent plucking thorns
Entangled in my dress.
Pain was given by birth,
Disrepute found by the riverbank—
So much I got; only one thing—
I did not find You in life.

If that one is missed, all is missed. That “one” whom the bhakta calls the Beloved, Mahavira calls Paramatma. That Beloved sits within you. If you go within, union is. You wander outside, and have hung such curtains that the memory of the within is forgotten. Only the black curtains are seen; it seems there is nothing within.

People come to me and say, “We read Kabir, we read Nanak—they all say: go within and light appears. But when we go within, nothing is seen but darkness.” Until Krishna leshya is lifted, the black veil remains. When you go within, you will find blackness. Often when you close your eyes, either thoughts will churn, or, if for a moment you are free of thoughts, a dark, moonless night. Frightened, you rush out and open your eyes.

We fear the dark. We produce the darkness—and we fear it. All life we create darkness—and we fear it. The moment darkness appears, we flee outside and open our eyes.

People tell me, “When the inner darkness appears, panic arises. We fear we may die, be lost. What darkness is this!”

Christian mystics named it: the dark night of the soul. What Mahavira calls Krishna leshya is that. They say: when one moves towards the inner soul, one must pass through a great dark night. That night is of our own making. We must dissolve it. No one else can. With courage—daring—we must rend the veil.

It is not difficult, because its weave is clear: built of greed, illusion, attachment, pride. Weaken these and the black sheet will begin to thin. Its weave will loosen; holes will open here and there. Through these holes you will glimpse Neel leshya.

One in whom Krishna leshya falls will see a blue sky within—very calm, like a deep river—blue.

Then, beyond that, Mahavira says, Kapot leshya; a lighter blue, not deep. Thus layers break in sequence.

‘…Tejo leshya, Padma leshya, Shukla leshya—of these, the first three are inauspicious. Because of them the jiva is born in lower destinies.’

Understand this too. For this sutra has been much misinterpreted. The traditional interpretation is not wrong, but it is not the most important.

They have said: one entangled in these three leshyas will go to hell, will fall into bad destinies, will be born as beasts, birds, worms. This is not wrong—but it is not the essential point.

The true meaning is: one entangled in these leshyas meets a great degeneration. Not that he will become a worm in some future birth—he becomes a worm here. To become a worm you need not acquire the body of a worm.

Have you not seen men who are like insects? Men upon seeing whom no memory of man arises—only of animals? Men whose personality does not touch even the threshold of the human? In whom the sub-human is still active? The body is human, the mind very backward, from far behind.

Close your eyes and you will find the mind like a monkey. Until the mind is quiet, do not think you have come down from the tree. Darwin says man arose from the monkey—true; but he forgets: has man yet arisen? Sometimes a few do. Some monkeys climbed down; many remain in the trees. But monkeyness is within all.

A Mahavira, a Buddha is truly human—when the monkey of the mind is no more. See the monkey of the mind twisting its face, leaping from this branch to that; you will not find a monkey as restless as your mind.

Darwin studied outwardly and concluded; had he peered inward, he would not have needed so much outward research. Man has certainly come from the monkey; man is still a monkey. Until we are free of the inner monkey, man is not born. The human body is one thing; the human consciousness is a greater thing.

Mahavira’s sutra: ‘Krishna, Neel and Kapot are the inauspicious leshyas of adharma. Because of them the jiva is born into great degeneracies.’

Do not think degeneration will happen later. In the very moment a leshya seizes you, degeneration happens. It is not a loan for the future; it is now. When you are filled with anger—degeneration happens. With ego—degeneration happens.

Degeneration is happening moment to moment.

I emphasize this. Because the idea “after death” has made people complacent. They think, “We’ll see when it happens.” Man has limits in his thought.

If someone says you will die this evening, you panic. If he says after seven days—you are less disturbed: “We will see.” If he says after seven years—no prick is felt. After seventy—“Forget it!”

The statement is the same—you will die. But as the time grows, your worry thins.

If a man dies next door, you are pained; if a thousand die in Africa, ten thousand in Bangladesh—you read it in the newspaper, nothing happens. Why? Whether they died next door or a thousand miles away—what difference? But your mind has limits. If your wife dies, there is great pain; if the neighbor’s wife dies, less pain. A house’s distance makes a difference. She is someone else’s wife.

As distance from your heart increases, your worry, your unrest lessens. Psychologists say the human mind is limited. Whether one dies or a thousand die, you do not feel a thousand times more pain when a thousand die. Perhaps you feel less than for the one—if that one was known.

I have heard: in a bus, one Hindu and fifty Muslims were traveling. The bus overturned; all died. Someone said, “Did you hear? A bus turned over—fifty Muslims and one Hindu died.” The listener said, “Poor man!” He must have thought of the Hindu; he said, “Poor man.” For the Hindu there was pain; for fifty Muslims—none.

You too feel nothing when fifty Muslims die; “They were Muslims.” Muslims feel nothing when Hindus die; “They were Hindus.” As if Hindus have no life or death. As if it is good they died. Muslims feel for Muslims, not for Hindus.

What feels near…

A hundred thousand died at Hiroshima at once, yet the world did not tremble in sorrow. People read the paper—no wound.

Man’s range is small. His light flickers over a tiny field. Beyond it, nothing matters.

Thus the interpretation that after death, if you remained seized by wrong leshyas, degeneration will occur in hell—this does not move you. I bring heaven and hell into the present. Whatever is later is here too. See it here—only then will you manage later. If you do not see it here, you will not manage later.

Have you noticed? Someone is sick. You take him a flower. Look within at that moment—your own image becomes brighter in your eyes; you feel lighter. You abused someone, insulted someone—look within after—the image of yourself in your own eyes becomes dust-covered; you fall; you writhe.

Hell and heaven are happening every moment. Whenever you feel happy, know: heaven. Whenever you feel miserable, know: hell. When you feel miserable, know you have connected with the leshyas of adharma; otherwise misery cannot be. When you feel happy, know you have connected with auspicious leshyas, with dharma; otherwise happiness cannot be.

Happiness is the consequence of auspicious feeling. Misery is the consequence of inauspicious feeling. They are your feelings; the consequences come upon you.

The little parable Mahavira told:
‘The first thought, “Cut the tree at the root and eat its fruit.”’ He cares for his own hunger, but none for the life of the tree.
‘The second said, “Cut only the trunk.” Why destroy the whole tree? If the trunk is cut, it will sprout again; the tree will be reborn.’

But even this second did not think: why cut the trunk? To eat fruit, the trunk need not be cut. Have you seen in life? Where a needle is needed, you roam about with a sword. What can be done with a needle can never be done with a sword. Often the sword will only hinder what the needle would have done. You need fruit, and you set about cutting the trunk! Unnecessary.

Many, most, do exactly this. How much food do you need? How many clothes? What kind of shelter? But you go on hoarding. With no limit. People reach such a place that they understand: now what will we do with more? What could be bought with money has been bought. Extra wealth is being gathered; still they continue—as if intoxicated. “What will we do with this wealth?” is not asked. Whatever in this world could be bought with wealth has been had—good house, car, garden, food, clothes—what more? Still the race continues.

One who does not set a limit to his needs remains miserable. One who recognizes the limit—happiness begins. To recognize the boundary of need is the first arrangement of happiness. Without it, happiness cannot be. However much he has, he remains unhappy; the more he has, the more unhappy he becomes; for demand increases.

The first thought to cut at the root; the second, the trunk. The third said, “No need for so much—break a branch.” The fourth said, “A twig is enough.” The fifth said, “Are you mad? Branches, twigs, trunk, tree—what for? Let us pluck only the fruit.”

Hunger—fruit is needed. Why break branches and twigs?

The sixth said, “Let us sit. The fruits are ripe—they will fall. There is no need to pluck. Why snatch?”

Remember, existence gives so much without asking, without snatching, that one who gets into snatching forgets a supreme secret of life—that prasad is being distributed here. Here it is given. In the act of snatching you prove only your smallness. There is a secret to life here: without asking, all is given. Life has been given—what else is not possible? Even more will be given. When life itself was given unasked…

Did you ever ask for life? Think on it. Did you ever stand with folded hands as a beggar, “Give me life?” Life was given. When life has been given, what is there that cannot be given? A little patience is needed.

So the sixth said, “We shall sit.” Ripe fruits hang; a wind will come. Then compassion will also arise in the tree. The tree too will understand that we are hungry. The tree too desires that someone taste its fruits and be delighted. Without that, where is the tree’s joy?

A poet with a song longs to hum it to you; waits for your applause. The musician wants to pluck the veena; if your eyes fill with delight, he is fulfilled. A flower’s fragrance scatters and rides the winds—sets out on far journeys—some waiting nostrils must be there.

When the fruits ripen, the branches lower themselves so that a passerby may not find them too far. Ripe fruit falls of itself.

What is ripe falls by itself.

Mahavira says: trust, have shraddha. From that life you have come—the tree has come from the same. You are joined somewhere within. Your hunger is not only your hunger—the tree too will feel the pang. Sit hungry beneath the tree and see.

Modern psychology has given proof of this truth. In New York a scientist experimented upon the feelings of trees. He was astonished. No one had imagined that trees might have emotions. After Mahavira, up to Jagadish Chandra Bose, the matter had been forgotten. Bose revived a little—that there is life in trees. But he too was slowly forgotten. Science lost the thread.

In America there has been a new accidental revival. Many discoveries are accidental. The scientist was working from another angle; in the process he sensed that trees seemed to have sensations. He attached delicate wires to trees and made instruments to see whether trees experience.

If you approach a tree with an axe, merely seeing you with the axe, the tree trembles. If you go with the intention to cut, the tree is greatly frightened. Now the device sends a signal along the wire; a graph appears—showing the tree trembles, panics, is disturbed—you are coming with an axe. But if you carry an axe with no intent to cut, merely passing by, the tree does not tremble; no disturbance.

This is astonishing. Which means the intent within you—to cut—is communicated to the tree. And a man who has cut trees before—if he passes without an axe, the tree trembles; his wickedness is evident; his enmity known.

But one who has never cut a tree, who has given water to plants—when he passes, the tree fills with delight. Graphs show when it is delighted and when disturbed.

Scientists have reached even deeper conclusions: cut one tree, the whole garden trembles, is pained. Give water to one tree, the others are pleased—as if a community exists.

Still deeper: if, sitting near a tree, you wring and kill a pigeon, the tree trembles—as if there is a bond even with pigeons; as if all things are joined, interconnected.

And so it should be—for we are waves of one existence. The ocean is one; we are its waves. One wave became tree, one animal, one man—but within we are joined; we are limbs of life.

Mahavira says: the sixth says, “Sit.” He is a man who has attained Shukla leshya. Moonlight has spread within. He is filled with awareness. He says, “There is no need to cut and beat; the talk of snatching is wrong. Where life is given free, will food not be given?”

Jesus said to his disciples, “Look at the lilies of the field; they do not labor, they do not shop, they do not trade. Yet some unknown One fulfils all their needs. And look at their beauty—King Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Become like these,” Jesus told his disciples.

Mahavira lived exactly so. When he felt hunger he would come into the town. How to be certain he had not asked? In the morning, while in meditation, he would decide: “Today, if a woman stands at some threshold with a child upon her shoulder and invites me to dine, I will eat. A woman with a child upon her shoulder! One foot outside the threshold, one inside!” He would fix this in meditation. Then he would enter the town. If such a young mother stood, a foot inside and a foot outside, and invited, “O great muni, where are you going? Our good fortune—please bless our home by accepting food,” he would accept. If not, he would circle the town and return. Even if many invited him on the way, he would not accept—because in the morning he had set a rule.

The meaning of the rule: Mahavira said, “If nature intends to give, it will fulfill the rule. If not, we will not snatch. To ask is to snatch. If, standing at someone’s door, we say, ‘Give food,’ that is force. What if he does not wish to give? If he refuses, there is humiliation, insult. If he gives with a heavy heart, the joy of receiving is lost.”

Mahavira made a unique experiment—only Mahavira has done this on earth. After fasts of one or two months, he would come to town; if nothing was found, he would joyously return.

There was no sorrow or complaint. He would say, “Then it is fine; today food is not needed. If nature is not ready to give today, it is clear that only my mind thinks there is hunger. If there were true hunger, somewhere in nature a vibration would occur; some arrangement would be made.”

Once he made a rule: a princess bound in iron chains—now, a princess bound in iron chains!—should invite him; a cow should stand at a doorway with jaggery smeared upon her horn—then he would accept food. Many days came and went; the whole city grew anxious. They saw he had taken some vow; it was not fulfilled. They could not feed him. People wept, pained, distressed. He came each day with the same joy, circled the town and returned. Then one day the unlikely happened. A cart loaded with jaggery was being moved; a cow behind stretched to lick it, and jaggery smeared upon her horn. The cow stood there, chewing jaggery, and a father, angry, had his daughter chained and jailed. The princess stood behind bars in iron chains; the cow stood with jaggery on her horn—Mahavira accepted food.

Mahavira says: when there is need, it will be given. Do not ask. Do not become a beggar by asking.

So he says of Shukla leshya: the sixth said, “Be silent; sit in peace. The fruits will drop from the tree. Why not eat the ripe fruit that falls?”

What is plucked will be unripe; the unripe is not fit to eat. What falls of itself is ripe; that alone is fit to eat. What comes of itself is fit.

Nature gives in a thousand ways. Even if man does not snatch, he receives. Birds receive; animals receive; trees receive. Look—the trees do not go anywhere. Rooted in one place, yet what do they lack? Are they less green than you? Less fresh? Less alive? They are very green, very alive. Roots embedded in earth, they do not come and go. They do not worry about coming and going. To them, Paramatma must come to give. Nature must come there. Clouds come and rain. The earth gathers food in a thousand ways. Sun’s rays come there; the winds bring prana.

If this is for trees, how amazing is man’s lack of faith. This will be so—but only after Shukla leshya is born does such great faith arise: all happens. All will happen. From this supreme trust man becomes a theist.

And Mahavira says: all six are leshyas—even the sixth. Beyond them is the vitarag, the state of the Arihant. There, no veil remains—not even the white veil.

‘…The thoughts, speech and deeds of these six travelers are respectively examples of the six leshyas.’

For now, make the sixth leshya your aim. Make Shukla leshya the goal. Move a little in the moonlight. Come, let us travel a little toward the moon. Let the full moon arise within.

The whole essence of Hindu culture is in this sutra:
Sarve bhavantu sukhinah, sarve santu niramayah,
Sarve bhadrani pashyantu, ma kashchid duhkha-bhag bhavet.
“May all be happy, may all be free of disease. May all attain auspiciousness. May none be a sharer in sorrow.”

This is the state of one living in Shukla leshya. Beyond this, nothing can be said; beyond this lies the ineffable, the inexpressible. Words do not reach beyond the sixth; hence Mahavira spoke only until the sixth. Yet one who reaches the sixth will not find difficulty in reaching the seventh. He who has lifted the dark veils will find no obstacle in lifting the last, thin, transparent white veil. He will say, “We have removed darkness—now let us remove even light. Now we wish to see That which is—as it is—utterly naked, in its natural state.”

We try to hide these states of mind. Do not hide; dissolve. Hiding breeds hypocrisy—and nothing is hidden. You may hide a thousand times; it will be known. Have you observed? Whatever you hide, you think you have hidden—yet all come to know.

I have heard, Mulla Nasruddin was telling his wife, “I will try to return in an hour; if I do not, I will come by evening. And if even by evening I cannot come, understand I had to go out suddenly. If I go out, I will surely send a letter through the peon.” Mulla’s wife said, “Don’t trouble the peon; I have taken the letter from your pocket.”

The letter is already written! It is all an arrangement for hiding.

What you are within announces itself inevitably. Often what you hide is revealed precisely because you hide it. Try it. Whatever you hide, you will find signs reaching others.

A policeman stopped Mulla in his car and said, “Let me see your license.” Mulla said, “Strange! Officer, I have not broken any rule. Why the license?” The officer said, “Sir, you are driving with such caution that I became suspicious. Only those without licenses drive with such caution.”

Whatever you try to hide begins to show in some strange way. You wish to hide anger—the shadow of anger falls around you. Hide greed—its shadow falls around you. Nothing hidden remains hidden.

“However much someone sits in secret dens,
The blood itself reveals the executioner’s abode.
Though conspiracies veil themselves with tyranny’s mask,
Each drop emerges in the palm as a lamp.”

Murder someone—hide it as you will—drop by drop, lamps will arise to reveal you. Steal—hide it as you will—your eyes, hands, feet, your gait—announce your thievery. You live among the blind—so perhaps they do not notice. They too are busy hiding themselves; who has time for you? You live among thieves—so your theft might be somewhat concealed.

This is why people fear to go near saints. This is why saints were always ostracized—stoned, poisoned, crucified. There is a deep reason. Why so much anger at them? What harm did Jesus do? A simple man—perhaps a little eccentric. But he harmed no one. Why such eagerness to kill him?

There was an obstacle. That man was a walking mirror. Whoever came before him saw his own face. Then anger arises at the mirror. If one looks into a mirror and sees oneself ugly, one breaks the mirror—“This mirror makes me ugly.”

People grew angry at Jesus—because in his presence what they had hidden was proclaimed. Hiding was difficult in his presence.

Mahavira was pelted with stones, harassed, driven out of villages, not allowed to stay. What obstacle? Whose harm did he do? He had nothing to do with anyone—lost in his own ecstasy, a madman. Let the madman be. Whom was he harming? No one. But whoever came near felt restlessness.

You know the story? Akbar drew a line and told his courtiers, “Without touching it, make it smaller.” They could do nothing. Birbal rose and drew a longer line beside it. The first line became smaller without being touched.

Stand near a Mahavira or a Buddha—suddenly you are small. A bigger line has been drawn. You are angry. Your anger comes from your lowliness—you have been made small. No one has done anything to you; no one has touched you. But what can Mahavira do? His line is large. You come near; your line is small—you feel small.

They say camels fear to go near mountains. They would—until they see a mountain they are the mountains. Near a mountain they see they are nothing. But camels are not so foolish as to crucify mountains or poison them. Man is mad.

We have been angry with Socrates, Jesus, Buddha, Mahavira. We have reasons: our dark veils, our dark faces, our wounded minds, oozing pus, stench—come open in their presence. Hiding becomes difficult. They say to us, “Be unveiled.” And a day will come when all veils will fall—then you will find within That which is forever virgin, forever pure, which cannot be diseased, which cannot be defiled.

But to reach That, we must drop the great illnesses we have nurtured. We have decorated them, plastered and polished the courtyard for them, arranged comforts for them—because we mistook them for friends.

Mahavira says: the soul itself is its enemy, the soul itself is its friend. If we house the enemies—anger, pride, greed, illusion, attachment—the soul becomes its own enemy. House the friends—the soul becomes friend.

Mahavira’s height is yours; Jesus’ purity is yours; Krishna’s bliss is yours. But you must claim it. For this claim, you must drop the little claims. If you would claim the vast, drop the petty. Lift your eyes from the earth if you would be master of the sky.

Before his height, the Himalaya is negligible;
Before his depth, the underworld is shallow;
Before his infinity, the sky is small;
Before his vastness, time is a speck.
His eye pours rain from the clouds;
His smile shimmers upon flowers;
His music resounds in the koel’s call;
His dreams are pierced upon thorns.
All beauty is his reflection;
Heaven is his loveliest imagined nest;
Hell is his home of shame and hate;
The world’s tumult is his mind’s crowding moods.
Bound within the atom, he is ever free;
Living in water, he is far beyond water;
Burning in the flame, he is not ash;
Pressed in stone, he is not crushed.

That Vast, that ever-pure, ever-innocent—this is your nature. Remove the veils.

Bound within the atom, he is ever free;
Living in water, he is far beyond water;
Burning in the flame, he is not ash;
Pressed in stone, he is not crushed.

But before declaring and claiming That, you must relinquish the claims you have made so far.

To renounce the claims you have laid upon the world is sannyas—not to leave the world, but to relinquish the assertions over it. By dropping these claims, nothing is lost—for through them nothing is gained. By dropping them, something is gained—for because of them, That which is, remains hidden.

Move toward That which is yours. Know that what is outside is not yours. Neither wealth, nor position, nor prestige is yours. Whatever can be obtained outside—none of it is yours. You came empty-handed; you will go empty-handed.

On the day you understand: empty-handed we come, empty-handed we go; in between to fill the hands from the world holds no essence—on that day you set out in search of That which is within, which was within before birth, and shall be within after death, which even now flows within this very moment. If in this very moment you turn within, union happens with that ocean.

In Mahavira’s understanding, remove these six veils, break these six chakras, and let your energy enter the seventh—then within you the lotus will bloom that, though living in water, touches it not.

He who does not seek that purity is irreligious. He who sets out to seek that purity is religious. Do not become entangled in words. Some call that purity Paramatma—call it so; it is a beautiful word. Some call it Atman—call it so; beautiful. Some do not wish to call it Atman or Paramatma; they call it Shunya—beautiful word.

Call it Brahman; call it Shunya; but keep one thing in remembrance: what is outside is not yours. What is within—what you are—that alone is yours. Drop all other veils. Then the recognition of this purest Being fills with sat-chit-ananda.

Being sat-chit-ananda, still we have become beggars—chasing a false dream; asking in vain for what is already given; seeking what is already within.

Have you seen? Sometimes it happens: a man wearing his spectacles searches for his spectacles—forgetting they are on his eyes. Through those very spectacles he seeks the spectacles.

In this life, something like this has happened. That which is—we forgot it. We have not lost it, only forgotten. Mere remembrance is enough. By remembrance alone, it can be found.

Religion is not a search but a rediscovery—the search for what is found; the search for what is given. The means of attaining what is already attained.

But we must contend with these six veils. The struggle is not difficult—for the veils stand by our cooperation. When cooperation is withdrawn, they begin to fall.

Enough for today.