Jin Sutra #54

Man is as he is, because of himself. Man is as he is, fashioned by his own making.
In Mahavira’s vision, man’s responsibility is ultimate. If there is suffering, you are the cause. If there is bliss, you are the cause. If you are in bondage, you have desired bondage. If you wish to be free, you can be free. No one binds a man, and no one sets a man free. One’s own tendencies bind, one’s own likes and dislikes bind, one’s own thoughts bind.
In one sense, man bears a profound burden of responsibility, for the blame cannot be thrown upon anyone else.
In Mahavira’s understanding there is no place for a separate God to be blamed; therefore you will not be able to hurl fault onto another. Mahavira has taken away every device for shifting blame. All fault is yours. Yet there is no reason for despair, no cause for despondency.
Since all fault is yours, an announcement of your sovereignty is being made. If you will, this very instant the chains can fall. You are holding the chains; the chains are not holding you. No one has thrown you into prison; you entered by your own will. You mistook the prison for home. You took thorns to be flowers.
In the Old Testament there is Solomon’s famed saying: “As a man thinketh, so he becomes.” As a man thinks, so he becomes.
Buddha begins the Dhammapada: What you are is the result of thoughts you cherished in the past. What you will be is the fruit of thoughts you think today. Man becomes what he thinks.
The world is a process of thought; liberation is the peace of thoughtlessness. The world is a knot made of thoughts. Cease thinking—and the knot melts of its own accord, it flows away. Withdraw your cooperation; refuse your support—and the chains vanish as in a dream.
These sutras point in that direction. As I said earlier, there are seven veils over man. Now Mahavira hints at the thought-chains that make each veil.
“The ferocity of temperament, the wildness of nature; the hard knot of enmity; a quarrelsome disposition; emptiness of dharma and compassion; wickedness; and refusal to be persuaded even when explained—these are the marks of Krishna leshya.”
From these warp and weft is woven the first veil: the veil of darkness. Had the darkness been outside you, someone could bring light from outside. You sit in a house in the dark—your neighbor could bring a lamp. But the darkness in life is of such a kind that you are manufacturing it. Its roots are not outside, they are within you; hence no one can give you a lamp unless you uproot the darkness at its very root.
The roots are: the ferocity of temperament.
There are many who live only in rage. Some are angry now and then. Some have anger as their very nature; from them one cannot hope for non-anger. You can be certain they will find some occasion to be angry. Onlookers are astonished: where no cause appears, these people still manage to find one.
I have heard: a husband and wife used to quarrel continuously. The wife went to a psychologist. He said, “Take steps to remove quarreling. It has been created; let it be uncreated. When is your husband’s birthday?”
She said, “Tomorrow.”
He said, “Consider this an opportunity. Buy something for him, present it. Stretch a hand toward love. The clap of love does not sound with one hand. If your hand rises, perhaps your husband too will be eager.”
The wife liked the idea. She bought two ties from the market, and the next day presented them. The husband was very pleased. Nothing like this had ever happened. He could not even imagine that his wife would buy something. The psychologist’s satsang was bearing fruit. So pleased was he that he said, “Don’t cook today. Let us go to the city’s finest hotel. I’ll get ready.”
He rushed off, bathed, changed his clothes. Of the two ties the wife had brought, he put on one and came out. The wife saw him and said, “Aha, so you didn’t like the other tie!”
Now a man can wear only one tie at a time. He cannot put on two ties together. Whichever tie he wore, the quarrel began. The wife was offended: the second tie was not liked! “With such effort, with such feeling, with such love I bought them.”
Some people have anger as a passing surge—most people. Someone abuses you, you are inflamed.
But some are angry as a state. Whether anyone abuses or not is irrelevant. They find abuses, and where there are none, they interpret them.
Mahavira says: the person who has made anger his habitual climate is sunk in Krishna leshya—anger, fierceness, malice!
You are walking along the road; you see a dog and you pick up a stone and hurl it. There was no dealing to be done; the dog would have gone his way, you yours. You pass under trees in bloom and go on plucking the flowers, and moments later you fling them on the path—something inside relishes cruelty.
Understand well: cruelty that has become a habit is the truly dangerous thing. Cruelty that happens once in a while is not a great issue—human it is. Someone gets annoyed, someone flares up, someone even turns cruel for a moment—that is forgivable. From it Krishna leshya does not arise. Krishna leshya arises when wrong tendencies have been practiced so much that where no cause is present, the habit, by sheer habit, finds a cause. Then you are watering your darkness, manuring it. Then this darkness will only grow thicker.
“The ferocity of temperament…”
Be mindful. Do not allow any such tendency to crystallize into habit. If anger happens sometimes, there is no need to be overly troubled. Man is weak. The real issue is when anger settles into your house—builds a nest and resides.
An angry man is angry even when he is sitting alone. You can see anger in his eyes. He walks with anger, sits with anger. Anger is his shadow, his constant company. Whatever he does, he does in anger. He opens a door in anger. He takes off his shoes in anger.
A Sufi fakir, Bokuju, was visited by someone. The man banged the door open with a shove—likely he was an angry man, a man of Krishna leshya. Then he flung down his shoes. Coming to Bokuju he said, “I long for peace. Give me a path of meditation.” Bokuju said, “Drop this nonsense for later. First go and ask forgiveness from the door, and bow your head to your shoes.”
The man said, “What do you mean? Forgiveness from a door? Salutation to shoes? They are dead things, inert. What forgiveness or salutation to them!”
Bokuju said, “When you were angry, did you think you were being angry with inert things? When you flung the shoes in anger, did you think, ‘Why be angry with shoes?’ When you shoved the door with rudeness and boorishness, did you think? Go back—otherwise there is no permission to come to me. I will speak to you only after you have asked forgiveness of the door.”
Such a man is burdened by Krishna leshya. He has not “done” anger deliberately; anger has become a limb. He can only open the door in anger.
Watch people carefully and you will begin to see. First watch others, for it is easier to see truth in others—you have no stake in them. Stand a little apart and observe. Sit by the roadside under a tree, watch those who pass. See who walks with anger, who walks with love, who walks in a mood of joy. You will find the gestures differ in each state.
In the gait of one who walks with love there is a music—some anklet sounds invisibly. In his heart, a rain of delight is falling. One who walks in anger seems pricked by thorns—burning in pain, singed by flames. The path is the same, the people are different.
On the roads you walk, Buddha and Mahavira have walked. Beneath the trees you pass, Buddha and Mahavira passed. Yet you have not walked in the same world nor upon the same roads. For in truth your world is constructed out of what you are.
So observe others first. Some will appear stupefied—walking, yet as if in a trance. Sometimes a person, a small child, will seem awake. Sometimes in someone’s eyes, a flash of awakening; otherwise, darkness. They walk, they look awake—and yet they sleep.
Observe others—and then slowly apply what you saw to yourself. Walking, sitting, rising—watch: are you not getting soaked in certain moods? Is it that you have begun to live filled with anger, crammed with rage, with violence as your inner ground, with cruelty as your nature?
If this becomes visible, a very significant recognition has happened: you have recognized Krishna leshya. And what must be destroyed must first be recognized. What you wish to be free of, you must see through and through.
“The ferocity of temperament, the hard knot of enmity…”
There are people who carry a knot of enmity across births. They do not forget. They forget everything else—but not hostility. Enmity runs generation after generation. A father dies and instructs his son: keep quarreling with the neighbor—ours is ancestral enmity.
What can ancestral enmity mean? Some others began it; those grandfathers are long dead—yet the enmity is being continued.
Perhaps less so now, but someone abused you twenty years ago and you still remember. Abuses are the hardest to forget. Someone who did ninety-nine favors to you—if he abuses you once, the ninety-nine are forgotten and the one insult remains.
Look back and see what has remained in memory. You will be startled: only burning embers remain. Look back—what memories have made deep homes in your house? You will be surprised. Some small incident—thirty years have passed; someone mocked you with a sarcastic laugh; that laugh still echoes. In thirty years you have lived millions of moments—yet that ember sits like a wound, still raw, still painful. You would still like to take revenge. Trifles are remembered. Petty things are remembered. The infinite beneficences of life are forgotten.
Gurdjieff used to say: each person must one day reconcile with his parents; one who cannot forgive his parents can never enter meditation.
You will say, “Forgive parents?” But Gurdjieff is saying something very deep.
It is natural that the parents who raised you were often angry with you—for your good. Many times they scolded, punished. If the sting of that still remains, if you could not create a juicy, loving relationship with your own mother and father, with whom else will you create it?
Gurdjieff says: the one whose heart has learned to honor mother and father has begun to become a sadhu.
The entire culture of the East teaches reverence for mother and father. Why? You may never have thought so, but psychology thinks thus: when a culture so insists “honor your parents,” it is simply indicating that if you are left to yourself, you will be disrespectful. The insistence signals that if unrestrained, you would dishonor them. In the West, psychoanalysis has made discoveries; the greatest is that all who are mentally ill carry some form of anger against their mother.
If all psychoanalysis were to be summarized in one phrase, if all mental illnesses were reduced to a single root: anger toward the mother.
Every man was small, a child, weak. In weakness he was helpless and dependent. Dependent upon mother and father. And they had to raise the child—stop him from many wrongs, encourage many rights; often get angry, often scold and punish. Those wounds remain within.
Often when sons become young and strong and the parents grow old, revenge begins. The wheel has turned. You were a child then, weak, unable to do anything; you endured. Now mother and father become like children—old, weak. You become powerful. Then you begin to torment them.
If our anger and knot of hostility persists even against mother and father—what to say of others! Mahavira says: the deeper the knot of enmity, the denser your veil of Krishna leshya.
Mulla Nasruddin was traveling on a bus. He sat on one side of the aisle; his wife sat on the other. On the other row sat a young woman. A gust of wind made her scarf flutter, brushing Mulla’s foot. When, as the bus turned, her hand fell on Mulla’s foot, he whispered to his wife, “She must be thinking I am Gautam Buddha.” A little later, as the bus jolted, her sandal struck his foot—and the wife whispered, “Careful! Now she has recognized your reality.”
What is the basic cause for man’s knot with the world? It is that man thinks of himself as a Buddha—therefore he expects. He expects that the entire world should bow at his feet. When people do not bow—on the contrary, they insult him; far from fulfilling his expectations, they ignore him; worse still, they create situations in which he must bow at their feet—wounds arise, the knot of enmity tightens.
From ego the knot of enmity is tied. Ego is the foundation of Krishna leshya. The more the ego, the tighter the knot. If you think yourself to be something great, knots will be many; for no one is there to fulfill your expectations. People live for their own egos. Who lives to gratify yours? People struggle against your ego. The more egoistic you are, the more people will try to pull you down—because their rising depends upon your being pushed down. And you too are doing the same: pulling others down.
Only the man without ego will not tie knots of enmity. Lao Tzu says, “You cannot defeat me, for I am already defeated. I have no desire to win. You cannot push me from my place, for I stand at the very end—there is nowhere beyond.” Lao Tzu says: with the humble, no one can be an enemy. And even if someone becomes hostile, that enmity is his problem—not the humble one’s.
Another’s abuse hurts you because you nurse the ego carefully. You have built a palace of glass; a small pebble shatters your mirrors. Ego is delicate—at the slightest touch it trembles, cracks, quakes. And the knot of enmity tightens.
Whom do you call your friends? Those who gratify your ego. Hence flattery has so much power in the world. If you flatter, even exaggerate absurdly, the one you flatter believes you speak truth—indeed he thinks you are the first to recognize him. He always believed himself to be a great man; none recognized him—until you came.
Try it and be amazed: call a blind man “lotus-eyed,” an ugly man “the image of beauty,” an ignorant man “an incarnation of wisdom”—and he accepts it. He had accepted it already. You are merely the first to recognize. That is why flattery works.
If a man is humble and knows the fact, your flattery will not please him. Be careful: the one who is pleased by flattery will also bind the knot of enmity. One who delights in false praise will be offended by unreal insults too—angry even at baseless criticism.
A humble person can be neither pleased by flattery nor angered by insult. He moves beyond your power to manipulate. He becomes his own master.
A man pressed under Krishna leshya is a slave—a great slave. He has buttons on him; press whichever you like, he responds accordingly. Slight him, and he bursts into flames—your finger has pressed his hundred-degree button and he is steam. Press another button and he is delighted, joyful—ready to do whatever you say, even give his life.
Which means: the man filled with Krishna leshya lives by reaction. You can make him do anything. The humble lives by awareness, not reaction.
“The ferocity of temperament and the knot of enmity, a quarrelsome disposition…”
The world is not as full of quarrels as it seems. The quarrels you see are born of quarrelsome minds. People are primed for a fight—waiting for an opportunity. They are restless without it. They invite the bull: come, gore me. For only when the bull gores them do they feel they exist. Only in fighting do they know “I am.”
Understand this: one who has had no glimpse of the soul is always ready to quarrel—for only in quarreling does a slight sense of self arise. “How else to prove that I am?”
In America a man killed seven people within an hour—strangers, unknown. Two of them he did not even see as he shot them, for they were facing the sea; he fired from behind. In court the judge asked why. “I am not mad,” he said. “I had no chance to prove I am. I wanted to see my name and photo on the front page. I have seen them. Now even if you hang me, I will die satisfied. I am not leaving without making a name.”
People say, “If infamous, so be it—at least some fame.” When do you feel your soul? When you grapple with someone—under that stress your feeling of “I am” is stimulated.
It is said Adolf Hitler wanted to be an artist. He applied to an art academy, but they rejected him. Until his death he kept sketching on paper. He remained deeply resentful of that refusal.
Man is strange. He wanted to create—he ended up destroying. Psychologists think that had he been admitted to art school, perhaps the second world war would not have been. Energy would have flowed into creation. He would have painted beautiful paintings, filled colors, hummed songs—left the world a little more beautiful. He wanted to leave a name in history. When the creative road was denied, his energy turned destructive.
Remember: when you fill with a quarrelsome tendency, you are seeking a backdoor experience of the soul. When you destroy, you feel you are. Schoolboys break windows, college students create disturbances—to feel their power.
There are two ways to know power: create something—or demolish something. No third. He who experiences power in destroying will remain bound in Krishna leshya. Experience power in creation. Create. Do not break. Breaking requires no intelligence—the mad can do it.
Create. Compose a song, carve a statue, plant a tree. When flowers blossom on that plant, you will know you have a soul. Have you seen the gardener’s joy when his flowers bloom? The sculptor’s delight when his statue is complete? The poet’s radiance when flowers of verse open?
Create. There are very few creative people in the world. Each person is born with energy. If your energy does not move into creation, it will move into destruction. Look around. Those engaged in building—you will not find them quarrelsome. You will find them humble, generous, simple, gentle, straightforward, tender, soft. Those engaged in demolishing—you will find them chronically argumentative, ready to fight over anything.
A strange phenomenon happens in politics. Those who reach power—suddenly they possess the capacity to build. If they have even a little bent for creation, their energy begins to flow creatively.
These are the very people who, before power, were destructive—strikes, rebellions, conspiracies, derailing trains, inciting people—quarrelsome fellows. Seat these very people in power and instantly they oppose strikes and vandalism. By vandalism they reached there—by vandalism they now condemn it. All revolutionaries, upon reaching power, drop revolution.
What happens? Such a change—how? Understand. Energy can flow only one way at a time. On reaching power the revolution stops. They speak now of nation-building, peace, prosperity. Yesterday they spoke of freedom and progress, of the new; today they preserve the old. Lenin and Stalin—no sooner in power than they become enemies of revolution. Those who still plot revolution they crush—throw into prisons.
This happens within each person too. Try it. Become eager to create—any small thing. Learn to play the flute—and you will find your quarrelsome tendency has lessened. Energy that flows into the flute will not be available for quarrel. That is why Mahavira insists so much on ahimsa.
“The knot of enmity, the quarrelsome disposition, emptiness of dharma and compassion…”
In such people, compassion does not arise. Recently an American university studied those who, on the road, kill someone, or knock someone down with a car. At such a moment, some suddenly become saviors. A man struck an old woman with his car and fled. A man shopping in a store sprang onto his motorcycle and chased the car for three miles, caught the driver and beat him.
Psychologists studied this. They asked, “When the old woman fell, would it not have been proper to take her to the hospital first, rather than chasing the man? She died. Had she been taken to hospital she might have lived.” He said, “It never occurred to me. My first thought was to punish the culprit.”
Such a man will claim he is full of compassion—but he is not. If a hoodlum assaults a woman, those who jump to fight him are hoodlums of the same sort. They have nothing to do with the woman; they are quarrelsome. They will say they were moved by compassion—but they are using goodness as a cover. It is a case where society will applaud them; so a convenient chance for hooliganism. They are hoodlums; there is no difference.
The real question was to save the woman—that went aside. They only found an opportunity to vent anger and violence.
Mahavira says, “Emptiness of dharma and compassion.”
Thus even wrong people use the mask of compassion to run their violence. Someone shouts, “Islam is in danger.” Another, “Hindu dharma is in danger.” And what follows in that name is goondaism.
Those who have seen what religions and faiths have suffered,
In this world of Ram and Rahim, a human being finds it hard to live.
Whether the old religions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—or the new—Communism, Socialism, Fascism—behind them all compassion seems pretext; the real point is something else.
When Stalin came to power in Russia, he came saying “we must side with the poor.” But in power he killed millions—mostly the poor, for whom power had been sought. What happened? To serve the poor, he killed the poor!
Have you noticed within yourself? You tell your child, “Be quiet.” He isn’t; you scold, you beat—and you say, “It is for your own good. We are teaching manners.” Look within: do you want to teach manners—or are you angry because your command was not obeyed?
Man hides his bad in the garb of the good. In the robes of saints emerge goons; in the robes of ascetics emerge bandits. Everyone does it. With a clear eye you will see the reason was something else; the pretext something else—good pretexts under which evil can proceed.
“Emptiness of dharma and compassion; wickedness; refusing even when explained—these are the marks of Krishna leshya.”
Examine even your compassion and your religion. You may go to a temple… the reason for going may be something else altogether.
Once in London, the Queen of England was to visit a church. Hundreds of phone calls came to the priest from early morning: “We’ve heard the queen is coming. When will she arrive? We want to come.” People who had never come to church… The priest laughed and answered all: “It is not certain the queen will come—who can trust kings and queens? But if you wish to come, welcome. One thing is certain—God will be there. Whether the queen comes or not.” People said, “Fine, God is fine; but if the queen is coming, tell us exactly, so we can come. When is she coming?”
The queen came—the church was packed to the doors and beyond. The queen told the priest, “Your church is very crowded—people here look very religious.” The priest said, “This is the first time I have seen this crowd. They were never seen before. Each sits with a Bible in hand, eyes rapt—but all this is false. The motive is something else.”
When you go to the temple, watch why. Even when you do an act of mercy, watch why. A beggar holds out his hand; you drop two coins. Not necessarily out of compassion. Perhaps because others were watching. What cheaper way to become charitable than two coins? Perhaps you feared the beggar would create a scene, shout—lest people find out you couldn’t give two coins; “such a miser!” So you gave. Or you gave to get rid of the nuisance. Look within. In your mercy there may be no mercy; in your prayer there may be no prayer. What is not within—its outer show has no meaning.
Hence Mahavira says, “Emptiness of dharma and compassion.”
There may be display—but within, a void.
“Wickedness; refusing even when explained…”
Have you noticed? You fall into a dispute; it begins to appear the other is right—yet ego will not let you accept it. And you cry that you want to come out of darkness! You plead, “O Lord, lead us from darkness to light; from untruth to truth; from death to immortality.” But you do not pave the way. How many times is ego the only reason for argument! Otherwise, you begin to see the other is right—accept it. But how? Defeat is not acceptable.
When two argue, it is not necessarily for truth. It is for my truth. And where “mine” is important, truth isn’t. “How can I be wrong?”—and then we try, through subterfuge and back doors, to prove that whatever we say is right.
I have heard: four frogs were about to drown in a flooded river. A log floated by; they climbed on and were delighted. The log moved. The river ran fast to the sea. The first frog said, “This is the finest log in the world—see how alive and swift it is! I have seen many logs, but never such a living log.” The second said, “The log isn’t moving, sir—the river is.” A dispute began. “The log is like any other, nothing special. Look carefully—the river is flowing; therefore the log seems to move.”
The third said, “Neither log moves, nor river—it’s a futile dispute. You are blind—seeing half, you are partial. The reality is what all scriptures say: all flow is in the human mind. All movement is of mind. All activity, mind’s. When mind rests, all rests. Search the scriptures—you will know.”
The dispute continued—no conclusion came near. Finally they noticed the fourth sitting quietly. He had said nothing—listening and contemplating. The three said, “No decision is possible. That is why disputes in the world have continued for centuries—no decision is ever reached. What decision has there been between theist and atheist? Between Jain and Hindu? Between Muslim and Christian? Never any.
“You are silent—please say something.” The fourth frog said, “The dispute is meaningless—because you three are all right. The river is moving, the log is moving, and the movement of mind—the whole world knows it. You are all right—and all wrong. Wrong because you inflate a small truth into the whole truth; right because each of your statements contains a glimpse of truth.”
All three were enraged—this they could not tolerate. None would accept his statement was not the whole truth; nor accept that the opponent might also have a portion of truth.
Then the greatest of marvels occurred. With frogs this may not often happen—but among men it always does. The three united and pushed the fourth into the flood. “You pretend to be a saint! Claim to be wise!” They forgot their quarrel and found a common enemy—this one, at least, was certainly wrong. “We will settle the rest later.”
This is what happened with Mahavira. While all other philosophies claim absolutes, Mahavira claims none—and therefore he appealed to none. He said: Vedanta is right; Sankhya is right; Vaisheshika is right; Mimansa is right—each is a partial truth. This pleased no one. Mahavira gave a most significant philosophy, yet found few followers—for all were offended. The Vedantin said, “Partial truth? Ours?” Sankhya said, “Ours, partial?” All egos were hurt.
Mahavira was thrown into darkness as few have been in history. All gathered against him—an astonishing fact.
All Indian shastras stand opposed to the Jaina shastras. They refute them—for this one statement spares no ego. Man prefers: either I am the whole truth, or wholly false. And “wholly false”—who will prove that? So you remain in dispute.
Mahavira says: not accepting even after understanding; denying even what is seen; contradicting your own eyes; wedging a stone even as inner sight opens—these strengthen Krishna leshya. Go exactly opposite—and the roots of Krishna leshya loosen; the veil falls.
“Smallness in me will not let me rise to the peaks,
Nor will pride let me bow to the dust.”
Thus neither can we claim unity with the summits…
“Smallness in me will not let me rise to the peaks…”
Man’s limit is real—he is small, a fraction, an atomic spark of the Vast.
“Smallness in me will not let me rise to the peaks;
Nor will pride let me bow to the dust…”
Two obstacles—both great. We cannot rise, for there is limit; we cannot bow, for there is pride. Between these two, the simple truth is not accepted: the claim of ego is false; the claim of the soul is true.
What is the difference? Ego declares: I am separate and by my own power, omnipotent. The soul declares: with all, together with all, I am a small wave of this Vast. If there is any power in me—it is the Vast’s. If there is any weakness—it is mine. If there are errors—they are mine. If there is any truth—it is the Vast’s. If there is light—it is Paramatma’s; if there is darkness—it is mine. The one who understands thus—his veil of Krishna leshya cannot remain; it falls of itself. Its supports are gone.
“Sluggishness, unintelligence, ignorance, and greed for objects—these, in short, are the marks of Neel leshya.”
Behind Krishna leshya there is a blue veil. Beyond darkness, a deep blueness.
“Sluggishness, unintelligence, ignorance, and greed for objects.”
We are forever asking—greedy. We cannot be for even a moment without asking. Our begging runs day and night. We are beggars. We do not abide for a single moment in our sovereignty.
Have you seen? If asking stops for even a moment, a unique delight descends. In that instant you are no supplicant. In that instant you move close to Samadhi. The moment asking arises, you are a beggar again—small again. Notice: whenever you ask someone for something, something within contracts. When you give something, something within expands. Have you known the joy of giving and the pain of begging? The very thought of asking makes you small, narrow; your boundaries shrink; you close; fear grips—will he give, won’t he? Even if you get, in asking you have already become small and mean.
Another strange fact: you can never truly forgive the one from whom you have received. Thanks apart—you asked ten rupees; he gave; deep within, you remain irritated—he made you small. His hand was above; yours below.
Hence the Sufis say: do good and cast it into the well. Do good—but let there be no proclamation. Quickly throw it into the well; otherwise, none will forgive you. Because along with your good deed, another event occurs: you made him small. And no one forgives being made small.
Help—but so that the one you help does not even know he was helped. Give in such a way that he feels he is the giver and you the receiver—so that the giver is not seized by the stiffness of giving, and the receiver never knows anyone gave him anything.
When the great Western tycoon Morgan lay dying, someone asked, “You amassed an immense fortune and had brilliant men working under you. How did you use so many brilliant men?” He said, “The secret is small. I never let them feel I was obliging them; nor did I let them feel they worked by obeying me. I strove that they always felt they were obliging me—and that I moved by accepting their ideas.”
He was skillful. If he wanted some work done, he would gather twenty friends, say, “This problem has arisen; we need a solution,” and sit quietly. Where twenty gather, twenty solutions come. Whenever the solution matched his own idea, he would accept it—but never say, “This is my suggestion.” He sat silent, letting the suggestion appear at the right time. If the right suggestion did not come—something near it did—he made minor amendments, still as a suggestion, not a command. He drew work from great minds.
He said before dying: inscribe on my grave—“Here lies a man who showed the art of taking work from those more intelligent than himself.” My immense wealth comes from never letting anyone feel he was smaller than I.
The man of Neel leshya is a beggar—greedy for objects. His grasping tightens the veil.
“Ignorance, unintelligence, sluggishness.”
Sluggishness—mediocrity—sits like a rock upon the chests of great people. No one is born mediocre—Paramatma creates unique and incomparable consciousnesses. If you are dull, you are the cause. You have not polished yourself. You are a diamond left uncut. No one else can polish you; only you can. Do not be content with what you are.
Notice: people are discontented with what they have; with themselves, they are utterly content. They want a bigger car, a bigger house, more money—that is their discontent. But with themselves they are satisfied: “As I am, I am fine.” Thus they remain dull.
Be discontented with yourself—and content with what you have.
A small house will do. If there is no car, it is fine. If there is not much money, enough is enough. Be content with things—but not with consciousness. Otherwise you will remain dull. Keep polishing consciousness. Never think the last moment has arrived. More refinement is possible—endless refinement. So much so that one day your consciousness can become Sat-Chit-Ananda, Paramatma.
But it is strange—people are utterly satisfied with themselves. If you tell them, they say, “What are you saying? More refinement in me? I am already refined. If anything is lacking, it is a few things.” But will increasing things increase your consciousness? If you are a fool, you will remain a fool poor, and a fool rich. A fool with a loincloth is a fool on the throne.
The intelligent man does not waste energy on things. He pours it into awakening consciousness.
Mahavira says, “Sluggishness, unintelligence, ignorance.”
None is born to be ignorant—yet most live and die ignorant, because none accepts “I am ignorant.” People assume they are knowledgeable. If you assume beforehand you know—you have vowed to remain ignorant. Sealed—you will remain what you are. The one who would move toward wisdom must accept “I am ignorant—and there is no need to consider this ignorance final; refinement is possible.” As a sick man takes treatment and becomes healthy, as a weak man exercises and becomes strong—so ignorance is not a fixed state. You have not labored for wisdom. You were busy with petty squabbles, and missed the Vast.
And the marvel is: for the Vast there is no competition. You are alone there. If you wish to set diamonds in your intelligence, there is no quarrel—no one is concerned with intelligence. But if you wish to fill your safe, there are millions of competitors.
I have heard: one night Mulla Nasruddin came home and placed a golden bowl in his wife’s hands. She was delighted—and shocked: Mulla does no work—how did he get a golden bowl? A little afraid, she asked. He said, “I won it in a race.” “A race?” Shocked still more—for Mulla can barely get up if he sits, barely walk if he stands—and he ran? “What race?” Mulla said, “Just now there was a race. I came first, a policeman second, and third, the man whose bowl this is.”
It is a grab-fest. In the world of things, it is all grabbing. Look at your bowl—it has passed through many hands. It is not yours. It was before you; it will be after you. Your bowl is false—who knows in how many hands it has been. The grabbing goes on; the bowl changes hands. Hands come and go—the bowl goes on. It is the bowl’s journey.
Within you is a consciousness untouched—virgin; awaken it. Only that will satisfy. As long as you clutch at bowls, as you snatched from others, someone will snatch from you. It will not remain long in your hands—it is not the bowl’s habit. It cannot be—so many are eager to grab. Only one thing remains truly in your hands—your consciousness. No one snatches it, none can—not even death.
When Mahavira says “ignorance,” he means: one who is occupied with things that death will seize is ignorant. One who seeks that which even death cannot take—that one is wise. He who seeks the essential seeks himself.
“He who is quickly offended, who slanders others, lays blame, is excessively grief-stricken, extremely fearful—these are the marks of Kapot leshya.”
The third: quickly offended; slanders others; blames; overly sorrowful; extremely fearful.
We are all afraid—without cause. What is to be, will be. What is the point of fear? Death will come—certainly. Whether fearful or not, it will come. The body will age; old age will arrive—what is the point of fear about the inevitable? Yet we are deeply frightened.
We are afraid of life’s facts—and wish to deny them. We wish: let all grow old, not I. Let all die, I not. Let life make an exception for me. We tremble. Yet deep down we know it will not be—no exception ever was. That is why fear. We plant our feet, knowing they will be uprooted.
Consider what we do out of fear. We pile wealth—perhaps it will give strength. We pile prestige—perhaps name and fame will give support. Out of fear we worship and pray. Out of fear we manufacture God—perhaps if no visible support, an invisible one may help. But one who goes to God out of fear—cannot go.
Mahavira says: fearlessness is the first step. What will not happen—will not; why fear? What will happen—will; why fear?
Socrates was to die. His disciple asked, “You do not look afraid. The poison will be brought at six—you will drink and die.” Socrates said, “I thought: either I will die completely—then who will be afraid? There will be no one left to fear. Or, as the wise say, the soul is immortal—then only the body falls, the soul remains—then why fear?”
Two options: if the atheists are right—still no fear; if the theists are right—still no fear. This is supreme theism. The man has seen. He has discernment, inner sight, eyes.
Look in life. You fear bankruptcy tomorrow: either it will happen or not. If it happens—what then? The mess ends. If it doesn’t—why worry?
Mahavira says: what will be, will be—you tremble to no avail. Your trembling changes nothing—at least drop the trembling.
Fear is the third leshya of adharma. Those who worship God out of fear have not entered dharma—they are still in adharma. With the fourth leshya, dharma begins.
These fearful people are quickly offended. A fearful man cannot be calm—within, tremors run. He is ready to be upset. Trifles make him miserable.
Have you seen how tiny things make you sad? The most petty. Five minutes late for tea—and you are offended, all day. Someone did not greet you—like a thorn it pricks you all day. Someone looked and laughed—you are offended.
With such touchiness, such fragility—you cannot become soulful. Look at what offends you; is there any substance in it?
If you look closely, ninety-nine out of a hundred are unsubstantial—no reason to be offended. And the one that is substantial—you will find that if you get offended, you will ruin it. The meaningful issue can be handled only if you are not upset.
Who ever acted rightly in anger? In wrath a man becomes intoxicated; in that blindness who walked straight? The more difficult the problem, the more you need a calm mind.
People say: “I am so troubled by a big problem—therefore restless.” If you are restless, how will you solve it—and who will solve it? You are reversing things. When there is no problem, be restless—no harm. When there is a problem, be deeply at peace—only then can you solve it.
“Laying blame, slandering, being overly grief-stricken…”
Tiny things—your fountain pen scratches, makes a noise—grief! Watch your behavior, keep observing.
Bokuju became a Zen master. As a child with his master, his task was to clean the master’s room. While cleaning, a very precious statue of Buddha fell and shattered. He panicked. The master loved that statue. He placed two flowers at its feet daily. It was centuries old—passed down master to master like a will. What had happened!
He was still panicking when the master entered. Bokuju hid the statue’s pieces behind his back and asked, “Why does a man die when he dies?” The master said, “His time has come.” Bokuju said, “Then the time of your statue had come.”
The master laughed and said, “Remember what you are telling me. In your life many statues’ time will come. When they break, remember—the time had come.”
Bokuju said: that single line changed my life. Whatever broke—I thought, the time had come. Those who left—I thought, the time had come. Those dear who died—I thought, the time had come. Someone grew angry—I thought, the time had come. This became a sutra: whatever happens, its time had come. Slowly nothing made me grief-stricken.
“…overly grief-stricken, extremely fearful—these are marks of Kapot leshya.”
The Hindu shastras say: “Courage is the abode of Lakshmi.” In courage dwell auspiciousness, well-being—fearlessness.
Take life in courage. Stop these trembling hands. They tremble in vain. Because of them you cannot grasp life; you cannot manage it. Your fear sends gusts that flicker the flame of consciousness—not any outer wind.
Until you cross these three veils, you will have no taste of ease, of peace.
Seekers after heart’s quiet in this world of more and less,
Here everything is found—but the heart’s peace is not.
Here, in this world you know, the heart’s peace is not found. This world is constructed by the three veils: Krishna, Neel, and Kapot. Beyond them, the realm of dharma begins.
“Renunciation; discernment of what is to be done and not done; discrimination between the beneficial and the harmful; equanimity toward all; compassion; a tendency to give—these are the marks of Peet or Tejo (luminous) leshya.”
“Discernment of what to do and what not to do”—do what is worth doing. Think and act. What can be left undone—leave it. What cannot proceed without being done—do only that. Conserve your energy—do not squander it. With this energy diamonds can be bought; you are throwing it on pebbles.
What is worth doing? That by which joy grows. By which the recognition of truth increases. That by which darkness grows, suffering grows, untruth grows—is not worth doing.
Think. Walk alertly. A little mindfulness. In twenty-four hours you do so much that if you look carefully, ninety percent need not be done at all.
How many things do you tell people—what if you had not said them? And because you did, how many entanglements follow.
H. G. Wells writes in his autobiography: if people remained silent, ninety-nine percent of the world’s quarrels would end. It is by speaking that quarrels arise. You speak and you are caught. Be telegraphic—as when you go to the post office; each word costs money; you measure: let ten words suffice.
Speak only what is needed. Walk only as needed. Form only as many relationships as are needed. Slowly you will find a restraint descending.
“Discernment of doing and not doing; discrimination of the beneficial and the harmful; equanimity toward all; compassion; a tendency to give—these are the marks of Tejo leshya.”
Grabbing, greed for objects—these build the world. The tendency to give, to share—this builds dharma. If greed is the root of the world, gift is the root of dharma.
As you give, many things happen. One: your attachment to things weakens. Two: your love grows. Three: you confer value upon the other. Even a small gift—at that moment you say, “You are of value to me. I am eager to give to you. Giving to you brings me joy.”
One who rejoices only in taking knows only pleasure, not joy. And behind pleasure lurks pain—for when you snatch from others, you invite them to snatch from you. You create enmity by taking. By giving, you create friendship. In giving is joy—and behind joy there is no sorrow.
Mahavira says: samabhava—seeing with one eye. Look carefully: a rose is also dust; champa, jasmine—also dust; the human body, these trees under the sky, the peaks of the Himalayas—these are all the play of the same earth, the toys of one energy. Slowly you will see: all life is the expression of One in many forms. One expressing—then equanimity arises.
I know upon the path flowers live for two days,
Only today the breeze is favorable.
The dream in the eyes is for a single night,
Tomorrow the dust will sting the lashes.
Therefore I garland every flower,
And honor even the dust.
What is the difference between flower and dust? Yesterday’s dust is today’s flower; today’s flower will be dust tomorrow. What is the difference between friend and foe? A friend becomes an enemy; an enemy, a friend. What is the difference between life and death? Life keeps becoming death; death keeps becoming new life. Day becomes night, night becomes day—yet you do not see.
I know upon the path flowers live for two days…
Therefore I garland every flower,
And honor even the dust.
Then equanimity arises. Then none is yours, none another’s. None friend, none foe. None gives you joy, none gives you sorrow. All is equal. And as outer equanimity blooms, inner equanimity blossoms. The true value is of samata, of samyakta, of Samadhi.
They are all minted from one metal—sam. Samyakta, Samadhi, Sambodhi, samata, samabhava, samatva—all from the same metal—sam. Let sam arise. Let distinctions of forms lose importance; let the undivided be seen in the divided. Thousand ornaments of gold are displayed—if you see only ornaments, you err. If you begin to see gold in all ornaments—you are on the right path.
“Discernment of doing and not doing; discrimination between the beneficial and the harmful; equanimity toward all; compassion; a tendency to give—these are the marks of Peet or Tejo leshya.”
“All hearts, my Lord, are obtained only from Your grace;
Until pain is received, hearts do not become hearts.”
And until your heart throbs in another’s pain, you do not have a heart. Do not mistake a pump for a heart. Only when it beats with compassion and love for the other, then it is a heart.
“Renunciatory, gentle in inner results, authentic in conduct, straight in action, forgiving toward offenders, eager in service and worship of sadhus and gurus—these are the marks of Padma leshya.”
“Renunciatory”—the capacity to let go. All can grasp; blessed are those who can release. Only those who can release are masters. Until you can drop something, you are not its master. If you can only hold, you are its slave.
Paradoxical as it may sound, it is a supreme truth: when you can renounce a thing, that day you become its master. Until then, a slave.
“Renunciatory; gentle in inner results.”
A thousand events occur outside—insults, honors; success and failure. Yet within, remain noble. Let your nobility be unblemished. Let your equanimity not be shaken. Hold the inner results in your own mastery. Let no one be your master. See success and failure alike; good news and bad—alike. Do not let your inner climate become ignoble. Do not allow even a ripple.
“Authentic in conduct.”
Do only what you truly wish to do. Let the inner and the outer be one. Wear no mask. No face behind a face. Be straightforward, naked—as you are, so appear—whatever the consequences. Do not hide.
Authenticity is precious. What the Western existentialists call authenticity—that is Mahavira’s pramanikata.
We are mostly inauthentic twenty-three hours a day; one hour we are authentic—deep sleep; that doesn’t count. Otherwise we think something, say something else; change color like a chameleon; match our behavior to the situation. Opportunism is the opposite of authenticity. We have no inner voice—no soul; we behave as the other demands, not as the soul dictates.
Authenticity means: we have grown a strength within. Now we live by our own force. If we must suffer, we suffer—but we do not drop the truth.
“Satyam vada. Dharmam chara.”—Speak truth. Walk in dharma. Say as it is. Drop concern for consequences. Keep no account of results. Become guileless like a child. Let there be no inner-outer duality. Let one stream flow.
In that single flow yoga happens. In that single flow, for the first time, you cease to be fragmented; you become whole. Your notes stop clashing—they merge into a grand music.
“Straight in action.”
Simplicity, directness. Some walk crookedly. They must go west—first they go east. They must come home—first to the market. Zigzag becomes habit.
You do it often. You need to borrow four rupees—you do not ask directly. First you weave tricks and prefaces, slowly lay a net, then finally ask.
Straightforward. Mahavira says: in conduct and work—rectitude. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Crooked ways make a long journey; much energy is wasted.
“Forgiving toward offenders.”
For whoever is an offender—remember—he too is human, like you; filled with your flaws and limits. One who knows himself will always be ready to forgive—for he sees: what happens in the other has happened in me. What happens in him could happen in me. One who truly knows himself, knows all men. He can forgive the thief—for he knows the thief is hidden within. He can forgive the angry—for where is my anger gone?
And as you forgive the offender, your capacity to offend diminishes. If you do not forgive, it does not. For non-forgiveness is possible only if you have no idea that the same offender is within you. Only what is in the dark cannot be forgiven; and what is in the dark you cannot destroy. One who has seen his own face well, has seen all faces well. He no longer gets angry—he can understand.
“Service of sadhus and gurus.”
Wherever you glimpse goodness—a good man, an awakened man—even a hint—Mahavira says, one who is seeking his inner soul will be ready to serve there. From that satsang the final event happens. From that company, the understanding to go within is born.
Sitting near those who have awakened, one learns how to catch awakening. Serving them, waiting humbly for the moment when their energy and yours find a rhythm; when, partnering their wave, you too embark upon the inner journey. If someone is ahead of you, try to take his hand. And to take the hand of the guru there is one way—Mahavira calls it seva-pooja.
This needs reflection, for under Christian influence the meaning of “service” changed. Ask a Jaina, “Where are you going?”—“To serve the sadhu.” Under Christian influence, service became serving lepers, the sick—malaria, plague, cholera—service. Christianity made service ordinary: to those behind you, whom we call compassion. Mahavira uses “service” for going to one ahead of you; more healthy than you. You are leprous; he is healthy. You are asleep; he is awake. You are in darkness; he stands in light. Service of him. Compassion for those behind. For service you must hold the feet; in compassion you give what you have. In service you must be ready to receive what he can give. Service is a state of acceptance. In English there is no exact word; “service” suggests charity.
Ordinarily you cannot conceive: why go to serve the supremely healthy—Mahavira? Serve the poor, the diseased. Why serve the one who has arrived? There is no disease there, no sorrow, no poverty. Why go to serve him?
But in the Eastern tradition, service means: go to one who has attained; press his feet, bow to him, worship. Hence “service and worship” are synonymous. One could say just worship—but idols in temples can be worshiped; they cannot be served. A living guru can be both served and worshiped—there both are blended.
Thus a unique Eastern insight becomes clear: to the poor and suffering—compassion; to the blissful and immortal—service. Toward what you need to receive—go in service; what you have—give in compassion. In compassion there is giving; in service, a spread-out begging bowl.
These are the marks of Padma leshya.
“Not taking sides; having no desire for enjoyments; seeing equally in all; free of attachment, aversion, and even fondness—these are the marks of Shukla leshya.”
The final leshya—Shukla.
“Not taking sides”—accept truth as it is, not according to prior prejudice.
Now I am interpreting Mahavira’s sutras here. Those who are Jains may say, “Exactly right.” Is it truly right—or only because of old prejudice? Because these are Mahavira’s sutras and you are Jain, you nod—then it is false. Let it be your seeing.
Truth is not decided by bias but by vision. If you go to truth carrying a belief, you will miss. Go belief-less.
“No desire for enjoyments.”
By now you have long since dropped worldly greed. In this sixth and final veil, drop even the desire to enjoy in heaven—enjoyments through merit. The greed for objects belonged to Krishna and Neel leshyas. Now, no appetite for enjoyments—not even in the next world.
“Seeing equally in all.”
Earlier: samabhava. Now: samadarshi. Samabhava is feeling—practice before realization. Samadarshi means the event has happened—you see. By practicing samabhava, the state of samadarshi arrives. First you try to see: one is expressing in all. The same earth plays as dust and flower. As yet, you do not see this directly—you have heard it from the guru, read in scripture, learned in satsang. You try. For a moment it seems right—flower and dust are one. Then the effort is lost—you see flower as flower, dust as dust. Through effort, sometimes a glimpse; then lost.
Samadarshi means: what the masters said, you now see yourself. Your own eyes have opened.
“Free of attachment, aversion, and even fondness.”
Neither call anyone “mine,” nor call anyone “other.” Do not accept even the possibility of joy from this world—the very possibility falls away. These are marks of Shukla leshya.
You must pass each veil—often you will wander, fall; rise again.
Without you, O Life of my life,
My breath sobbed through the years.
Which costume pleases You, I never knew—
So daily I changed my clothes.
Where and when will Your hand take mine—
So daily I fell and rose again.
Why this door, why not that—
I found Your house by changing houses.
Keep the search alive. There will be wanderings and falls. Rise, gather yourself. Many costumes will change. Slowly, the inner awareness becomes alert—and you come into the right robe, the garment in which the Beloved can be met, the inner journey entered.
That garment is of truth, of rectitude, of equal-seeing.
Satyam vada. Dharmam chara.
Enough for today.