Jin Sutra #56

Today’s sutras are exceedingly unique in Mahavira’s path of sadhana. No one has ever divided the seeker’s journey into such subtle stages as Mahavira did. The whole map of the way, the stopping-places along the road, the milestones by the roadside—exact, precise indications have been given.
This is only possible when someone has walked, has arrived. It cannot be done merely by thinking, by philosophical contemplation. And then, over thousands of years, those who attained siddhahood have all testified that from the seeker’s first step to the siddha’s fulfillment, Mahavira’s statement is minutely and accurately true.
In Mahavira’s language, a seeker passes through fourteen gunasthanas. It is essential to understand each stage rightly. Somewhere on this very path you too will be standing. If you recognize your place correctly, how to travel, from where to travel, in which direction to move—becomes effortless.
‘Living beings are recognized by the specific modes arising from the operations upon deluding karmas—their subsidence, destruction, or destruction-cum-subsidence, etc. The Omniscient Jina has designated these modes as guna, or gunasthana. That is, the states, grades, and roles of beings in relation to rightness—samyaktva, etc.—are called gunasthanas.’
‘Mithyatva, Sasadana, Mishra, Avirat samyak-drishti, Deshvirat, Pramatt-virat, Apramatt-virat, Apurva-karana, Anivritti-karana, Sukshma-samparaya, Upshanta-moha, Kshina-moha, Sayogi-kevali Jina, Ayogi-kevali Jina—these, in order, are the fourteen states of the jiva or gunasthanas. The siddha is beyond the gunasthanas.’
The first stage is: Mithyatva—seeing that-which-is otherwise than it is; failing to see what is, as it is. This Mahavira calls mithyatva.
There is only one barrier to seeing what is: our ego. If truth is to be seen, all our ‘I-ness’ has to be set aside. If you insist, ‘My truth alone shall be truth,’ you will live in mithyatva.
Truth is neither mine nor yours. Truth is simply truth. The adjectives ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ make truth untrue.
Often it happens that when you say, ‘What I am saying is the truth,’ your insistence is not really upon truth. It is because you are saying it, that it must be true. By your saying, how can a thing become true? It is true only if it is in accord with truth. By your being, it does not become true.
Hence the one who sets aside the ‘me’ and is willing to go with truth—that one can take the first step. Otherwise, people get stuck at the very first step. Most live their whole life in mithyatva.
You too must often reach moments when a slight glimmer shows you that what you are saying is not quite right—yet how to admit it? It feels humiliating, shameful, a fall of prestige. So you persist in stubbornness. You make the false into the true.
Oscar Wilde has said the world is divided into two kinds of people. One kind says: ‘Truth must stand with us; wherever we stand, truth must stand there.’ These are people of mithyatva-drishti. The second kind says: ‘Where truth is, there we shall stand.’ These are people of samyak-drishti. The difference seems slight—shift the words here and there: ‘Truth must stand with me,’ or ‘I will stand with truth.’ In words it is a tiny shift; in existence it is a vast divide—as far apart as earth and sky.
Joshua Liebman writes that when he was young and living in his master’s ashram, every day there were two hours to stroll and meditate in the garden—time to walk and pray, to let prayer grow wings in open nature. Another youth, his friend, strolled with him. Both were addicted to cigarettes, yet felt embarrassed—how to smoke in the ashram without asking the master? So they thought, why not ask? And the master is so simple, so straightforward—he may not refuse.
They asked. The next day when Liebman arrived, he saw his friend smoking. He was astonished. ‘Didn’t you ask?’ he said. ‘I asked, and the moment I asked he said, “No, never.” It seems either you didn’t ask, or you are disobeying his permission.’ The youth said, ‘Strange! I did ask, and he said, “Certainly, it is fine—go ahead.”’
Liebman said, ‘I cannot understand—why did we receive opposite answers?’ The other youth said, ‘First tell me, what did you ask?’ Liebman replied, ‘I asked, “May I smoke while I am praying?” He said, “No, never.” And what did you ask?’ The youth said, ‘Now it is clear. I asked, “May I pray while I am smoking?” He said, “Certainly.”’
‘May I pray while smoking?’—who would forbid? But ‘May I smoke while praying?’—who would say yes? The difference is slight, but the distance becomes sky-wide.
Mahavira says: stand with truth; do not force truth to stand with you. By belonging to you, truth becomes untrue. You are untrue. Your poison will poison truth as well. Do not cast your shadow upon truth. Do not smear truth with your dirt. Walk with truth—but do not coerce truth to walk behind you. There, violence enters. When you drag truth behind you, truth dies. Truth lives only in freedom.
So even by mistake do not try to make what you say into truth. Rather make the effort that whatever is true, that alone you say. The difference is minute—and immense. Each of us harbours the conceit: whatever I say must be true. Because I said it!
I saw Mulla Nasruddin had two piggy banks in his house. I asked, ‘What for?’ He said, ‘In one I put genuine coins, in the other the counterfeit. I open them once a year.’ I said, ‘This time, when you open them, I will be present.’ He broke them. All the coins came out of the piggy bank for counterfeits; the piggy bank for genuine coins was empty. I asked, ‘What is this? Were all the coins counterfeit?’ He said, ‘What I haven’t minted myself—how can it be genuine? Had these coins been minted in my own house, they all would have been in the genuine piggy bank. How can the coins minted by others be genuine? All are counterfeit.’
What others say, simply because they say it, you declare untrue. What you say, only because you say it, you declare true.
This is not worship of truth; it is an insult to truth. Truth is bigger than you. If you try to be bigger than truth, mithyatva will be the result.
Therefore Mahavira says, the first step—the first station of the seeker—is where we all are. From here the journey may begin, or not begin. If we go on insisting that my partialities are right, my opinions are right, my scriptures are right, my Tirthankaras are right, my avatars are right, my guru is right—and the only reason within is that they are ‘mine,’ therefore they are right—there is no other reason.
You were born in a Jain home, so you say Jain dharma is right. Had you been born in a Hindu home, you would say the same of Hindu dharma. Had you been born in a Muslim home, you would say the same of Islam.
So you have nothing to do with Islam, or Jain, or Hindu. Wherever you were born, truth too must be born there! As if truth has a contract to be born with you!
Since childhood you were taught the Quran, so you accepted the Quran as yours—hence the Quran is truth. Or you were taught the Gita—so the Gita is truth. But truth is not so cheap. Truth has to be found. It is not available for free. Truth is not obtained by conditioning, nor by society. From society you get bias, prejudice, dead beliefs, hollow words, borrowed and stale doctrines—which you turn into ornaments for your ego.
When a Hindu says Hindu dharma is right, he is really saying: I am right—therefore Hindu dharma is right. When you say, ‘The land of India is sacred, a holy land,’ what are you saying? Only this: that a holy great man like you has been born in India—therefore India must be holy. What else? Had you been born in Poland or China, you would say the same of that place: Poland is holy land; if heaven is anywhere, it is here. Such is man’s ego—whatever it finds connected to itself, it begins to sing its glories.
So Mahavira says, if you go on doing this you will remain mithya-drishti. You will remain stuck on the first rung. The second rung is stepped upon only by those who do not make their ‘I’ the deciding formula of truth and untruth. Who say: I am not the arbiter.
Truth is—if it is. Even if my enemy announces it, if it is truth, it is truth. And even if I announce it—if it is untruth, it is untruth. By my declaration, the false does not become true.
The first gunasthana: Mithyatva. The whole world lives in this state.
Hence there are quarrels over trifles. Over petty things conflict arises. Have you watched? Do you observe? Over what small causes people fight—husband and wife, brother and brother, father and son, friend and friend—friction erupts over tiny matters.
The cause of conflict? Not even worth stating. If someone asks a fighting husband and wife, ‘What is the cause?’ they too would be embarrassed: ‘There is nothing really.’ But since the fight is going on—there must be a cause!
Causes are very small, but the ego hiding behind them is huge. Small causes—but a big ego behind. The wife says, ‘What I said is true; it must be so, otherwise it cannot be.’ The husband says, ‘What I said is true; it must be so.’
And both think they are insisting for truth. Both think they are doing satyagraha. But insistence belongs only to untruth. Truth has no insistence. Therefore ‘satyagraha’ is a hollow word. Truth has no insistence; it has a prayerfulness. Insistence belongs to the ego. Claim belongs to the ego.
In the name of truth we expand the empire of our ego. The father says to the son, ‘It is so.’ If the son asks, ‘Why?’ the father retorts, ‘Do not answer back. I am your father. I know. Life has not been cooked in the sun like this for nothing. These hairs have turned white out of experience. When you grow up, you will know. Your father must have told you the same.’ You grew up—did you come to know anything? Growing up, all that is known is: neither did the father know, nor do you know. And yet you say the same to your son: ‘When you grow up, then you will know.’
What have you known by growing up? What truth, what treasure have you found? But how can the father’s ego accept that the son may be right? How can the husband’s ego accept the wife may be right? How can the wife’s ego accept the husband may be right?
It is a clash of egos. Truths do not clash. So in this world the quarrels of religions, the debates of scriptures—these are the debates of egos; they have nothing to do with dharma. Dharma is the quest of a humble person who says, ‘I do not know. If I already knew, what would I seek? What would be left to find? I do not know. I am ignorant. I have set out to search, to grope. If anyone may tell me what truth is, I will listen, understand, receive in goodwill, examine, test. Perhaps it is so, perhaps not. Experience will decide.’
The seeker of truth is not disputatious. The truth-aspirant is dialogical, not argumentative.
Mahavira says, the first gunasthana: Mithyatva—failing to see what is as it is. Even if it does appear as it is, keeping a veil drawn over it. Even if it begins to be experienced as it is—still denying the experience. We have vested interests. If you look from behind these vested interests, then a great obstacle arises.
Sathya Sai Baba’s reply yesterday to the Vice-Chancellor of Bangalore University and his committee said: ‘By the barking of dogs, the moon and stars do not fall.’ Now think a little—by dogs barking, the moon and stars do not come and say, ‘Keep barking, we will not fall.’ To say so is already to have barked. To say so is to have fallen. Who then will decide who are moon and stars—and who are dogs?
This statement of Sathya Sai Baba is the statement of a hollow ego. On one hand he proclaims, ‘The Brahman dwells in all.’ On the other, when the ego is touched he immediately says, ‘By the barking of dogs the moon and stars do not fall.’ Is there no God in these dogs? Dogs—that is, the Vice-Chancellor of Bangalore! Is there no God in them?
This is no answer. The Vice-Chancellor appears more saintly. He simply requested, ‘The wonders you perform—are they miracles, or mere conjuring? We wish to come close and know. We pray you cooperate with us in the search for truth.’
No dog barked at anyone here. A seeker of truth should at once accept. If it is truth, what fear? If the Vice-Chancellor and his companions come to witness Sathya Sai Baba’s miracles—good! What is the harm? The harm is obvious—for there is a vested interest. They are not miracles at all, but conjuring—very ordinary street-level tricks. Any street juggler can do them; any professional magician. But on them rests all profit, all prestige.
If it is once proved that the vibhuti—this ‘ash’—does not descend out of the void, but is hidden somewhere in the body—once it is proved; that those Swiss watches do not appear from Switzerland but are bought from smugglers—once it is proved, Sathya Sai Baba’s standing will vanish. Upon this everything depends. Hence annoyance arises.
Otherwise the invitation was auspicious. He should have accepted. Should have thanked them for their interest. Universities being eager for dharma—how good! Educated, cultured people turning toward the search—very good. Come, understand, inquire.
A seeker of truth will cooperate. But this is not a search for truth. The statement of Sathya Sai Baba is the statement of ‘Asatya’ Sai Baba—there is no truthfulness in it. Hidden within it is anger, abuse—‘dogs’! The whole tone is vulgar. He has used similar expressions—nothing but abuse: that ‘an ant has set out to sound the depths of the ocean.’ Who is ocean, who is ant? The wise say—even the ant is ocean. The wise say—the ocean dwells in the drop. But who decides who is ant and who is ocean? And suppose it is an ant—if it sets out to sound the ocean, help it! Why place obstacles? Build steps, float a boat. The ant’s very aspiration is worthy.
But why is the ocean so frightened? Why does the ant’s attempt to fathom frighten the ocean? The fear is—perhaps the ant may fathom. The ocean seems shallow. Perhaps there is no ocean at all—only deception. So anger arises.
A mind filled with mithyatva—ever ready for dispute, eager to fight, anger close at hand, curses ready on the tongue.
This Sathya Sai Baba says he is the avatar of Shirdi Sai Baba. He should not be—more likely he is of the lineage of Durvasa muni. Avatar he certainly is—here all are avatars! But who is a dog, who an ant, who ocean, who moon and star? Each thinks himself the moon and star, and all others dogs.
Why was it taken as barking? It is not necessary that Bangalore University wishes to uproot Sathya Sai Baba. And if it is truth, how can it be uprooted? If it is truth, it will stand revealed. Accept it.
Your nervousness itself proves you untrue. What need of defense? Uncover all. Stand naked and show the miracle. If it is once decided, the gain will be great.
On one hand Sathya Sai Baba says, ‘I wish to serve truth, to increase people’s reverence toward religion.’ What could be more auspicious than that people themselves say, ‘We come to verify. Make it evident.’ If it be established that the miracles are true, not false, reverence will become immense. The Vice-Chancellor and his committee will become your devotees. Why so terrified of them?
Insistence belongs to untruth because untruth carries vested interests. If this is exposed—if the trick is revealed—the entire persona of Sathya Sai Baba collapses. Not worth two pennies. Then even dogs would not bark. They would pass by with faces turned away. No ant would come to fathom. Hence the fear.
Mithyatva is possible within us all. Wherever ego clings, mithyatva is possible. Mahavira says: Mithyatva is our common state. What is called ‘ignorant,’ Mahavira calls ‘mithyatvi.’
The second stage: one who has lifted the eyes a little above mithyatva—who has a right, precise shraddha; who has taken interest in true dharma and disinterest in adharma. A person full of mithyatva shows disinterest in dharma and interest in adharma—though he finds many excuses, many logics.
Ramakrishna told of a man who was a great devotee of Kali, and every month or fortnight he would offer goats at the temple. Suddenly he stopped worship. Ramakrishna asked, ‘What happened to your devotion? You were such a great devotee—offering big goats.’ He said, ‘Now I have no teeth left.’
No one offers goats for Kali! Kali was the pretext. The man’s teeth had fallen out; he could no longer chew—so worship stopped!
Take care—when you sit to worship in the temple, are you worshipping? Or under the pretext of worship is something else going on? If you go to satsang, have you gone in search of truth—or have you gone to seek worldly gains there as well? Often you will find your interest is not in dharma but in adharma. Adharma means: that which prevents you from reaching truth and sends you astray. Dharma means: that which takes you to truth.
People gather around the miracle-monger, because there arises hope—perhaps our lawsuit will be won, perhaps the woman we wish to entice will be ensnared, perhaps a lottery will open, perhaps something will happen—we will win the election, become prime minister.
Therefore in Delhi you will find almost all politicians are devotees of Sathya Sai Baba. The moment a politician loses his seat, immediately he takes to satsang, to searching for gurus—again to win elections; again a blessing is needed. This interest is not religious; fundamentally it is irreligious.
Mahavira says, rise from this—that is the first step.
The second stage, the second gunasthana is: Sasadana.
Mahavira says, you will not rise all at once. Rising will take time. Many times you will come out of it, and again you will be pulled back. Old habits will call you back.
Sasadana means: one who strives to come out of mithyatva, but because of old habits, because of old karmic fruition, is drawn back. Again and again, the old relish returns. Even for a moment—again he dreams of those days—wealth, office, prestige. Daydreams arise.
Sasadana means: he sees worldly dreams—though outwardly he has restrained himself from the world.
As if someone has left the house and become a renunciate—sits in a temple, meditating, rosary in hand—and he forgets the temple and the rosary; the wife’s image arises. Sasadana. He has tried to desist from mithyatva—he has made effort, reached the temple, taken the rosary, merged into prayer—but for a moment, prayer is lost, temple forgotten, rosary forgotten, the wife stands before him. No one else will see this condition. Each must observe it within. Often the event of sasadana happens.
Even here, you sit with me; while listening, suddenly you look at the watch—sasadana! Looking at the watch means—the court, the office—the world has returned. Many times you look at the watch for no reason—just the old habit. How much time has passed? How much has been lost? So much time—could have done something worldly. Time wasted.
A wave rises in the mind. This too is natural. Things leave by and by. Again and again old habits clutch—old tastes, old colours, old memories, old pleasures call, invite.
Sasadana is the second gunasthana—the condition of those among us who try to rise above mithyatva. Better than the first. At least outwardly—he has left. If he leaves outwardly, inwardly too it will leave. Enough awareness has come—that he will not insist from ego. But spells of unconsciousness arise. Those spells are called sasadana.
You decided—you will not be angry now. In the crowd someone steps on your foot. In that one moment you forget your resolve. You don’t even remember. Anger happens. Or, even if you say nothing, anger flashes within—one instant, a flame rises.
So first, one must be free of mithyatva—and then also go beyond sasadana.
The third stage: Mishra—a mixed state of samyaktva and mithyatva. A little glimmering of truth begins. A slight descent of truth happens, and yet because of past conditioning, the darkness of untruth still surrounds.
Like lighting a small lamp—one corner is illuminated; the rest of the room remains dark—mixed, khichdi-state. A mixed taste—yoghurt and jaggery together, say the Jain scriptures.
One who passes beyond sasadana attains the mishra state. Many are in the mixed state. Ninety-nine percent live in mithyatva; the remaining thirteen gunasthanas belong to one percent. Of these, many keep hovering in sasadana—like Trishanku. Some among them reach mishra. Both exist within. The boundary line is visible, yet both are together. There is awareness of dharma—and relish in adharma. One knows what is right—and still cannot break the fetters of the wrong.
Mahavira proceeds very scientifically—an exact analysis of your consciousness so you may recognize where you are, and then in which direction to move.
The fourth gunasthana: Avirat samyak-drishti—the fourth ground of the seeker; where even after understanding dawns, dispassion toward enjoyments or toward sins like violence has not yet awakened.
Understanding dawns—right vision happens. It is clear what ought to be done and what ought not—but decision does not ripen. Dispassion toward attachment, greed, delusion, violence, ego does not arise. It does not happen that one simply leaves them. What is right is visible, but what is seen does not become conduct. There is clear realization—speak truth; only truth is auspicious—but the courage to renounce the false completely is not yet gathered. To know what is true is one thing; to become truth-full is quite another. To recognize the right path is one thing; to walk upon it—entirely different.
Avirat samyak-drishti means: one who has come to a halt. He does not go along the old road; the new has been glimpsed; yet he stands hesitating. He cannot go on the new, for to go on the new, a total renunciation of the old is needed. You cannot carry both. One must be dropped.
You will find this within yourselves many times. People come and say, ‘We know anger is bad. We know lust is a disease. We know greed yields nothing. We know we came empty-handed and will go empty-handed, and yet dispassion is not being born.’
At least one thing is clear—they are seeing themselves clearly; and that is precious. The vision is clear. When vision is clear, conduct will follow behind it. If vision is not clear, conduct has no way to be born.
But do not remain sitting with clarity alone. For what is now clear, may blur tomorrow. If not brought into conduct, it will not remain clear long. When vision flashes, bring it into action at once—for these moments are rare. At times lightning flashes and the path appears. In that moment, move—do not stand. Lightning has flashed; it will not stay forever. Who knows if it will flash tomorrow? The first glimpses are like lightning—use them. By using, more lightning comes. Move, and vision will grow brighter. Doing is what polishes vision. If you go on merely thinking, concepts are clarified—but life remains entangled.
Clarity of vision is like sitting with a cookbook while hungry. The cookbook contains all the recipes—minute details. The ingredients are present—flour, water, salt, the stove is lit. You sit with the cookbook—your hunger will not subside. Nothing will be solved.
Many sit with scriptures. They discuss scriptures; lifetimes are wasted, but they never apply. They remain hungry. And when hunger is not met, gradually hunger itself is forgotten.
Keep this in mind: if you fast, then after three or four days hunger ceases to arise. For three days it torments you, knocks daily at your door; if you do not listen, the body agrees—‘Very well, perhaps you have decided upon suicide—so be it.’ What will the body do? Slowly hunger is forgotten. Those who fast long face a trouble—how to break the fast? The body has forgotten. Sitting long hungry, holding the cookbook, hunger is forgotten.
The hunger for the Divine has died in many. So long a fast from God—and hunger dies. Then comes a great difficulty. Such people say, ‘God is dead.’ Their hunger is dead—but what they say is apt. When hunger dies, the meal too dies. Food is relishable only so long as there is hunger. Taste lies in hunger. When there is no hunger, even the most delicious dish evokes no movement within. If hunger has died completely, food will not even appear as food. Food appears as food because of hunger—it is a definition created by hunger.
God has not died—many people’s hunger has died. And the cause is this: even hunger needs to be nourished—for hunger, too, dies if kept hungry.
Do something. According to what vision you have, take two steps. Whatever comes in experience, bring a little into conduct.
If something appears right, do not sit with it as a theory—otherwise it will not appear for long. The mist will descend again; the mind will be filled with smoke. Move a little. As you move, visions will become clearer.
Mahavira says Avirat samyak-drishti—the fourth ground. Here understanding dawns, yet dispassion toward pleasures and sins like violence does not awaken.
The fifth gunasthana: Deshvirat. Now the domain of restraint begins. Now what you see, you begin to bring into life. There is no need to know too much. Know a little—but live that little. A scripture a thousand miles long has no essence—an inch of scripture lived—walk it. Journeys are traversed by walking; sitting and thinking takes you nowhere. Arrival is existential, not conceptual. It is not intellectual; it is of living.
Deshvirat means: one who has now begun to draw boundaries around his life. He has begun to give a periphery to his life. He has begun to remove what is useless and bring in what is meaningful. He has said: ‘Now I will not live haphazardly—this way and that; sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes south, east, west. Running in all directions—how will one reach? Running in all directions brings madness.’
Deshvirat means direction has been decided; the field set; limits drawn; restraint begun. Now only what is to be done will be done; what is not to be done will not be done. Tasting will be only in what is the right task; dis-taste will be brought to the un-right. Life is given a boundary, a direction—and all energy is poured into one direction.
In the unrestrained, body, mind, speech run in all directions. The difference between the restrained and the unrestrained is only this: the unrestrained runs in all directions at once; therefore he remains shallow.
If a pond is opened on all sides, its water flows away in every direction; where there was great depth and a blue stillness, everything becomes shallow. If it spreads too thin, only mud remains; the pond is lost.
Restraint means protected energy. Mahavira’s technical word is Deshvirat—setting limits, choosing a field; not running everywhere; gathering oneself. When energy is pooled in one place, depth arises.
The unrestrained man is shallow. He makes much noise—like shallow water. Where a river is shallow there is great clatter—rushing over pebbles. The deeper the river, the quieter it becomes. With a deep river you cannot tell if it even flows—movement turns serene.
Deshvirat: drawing limits, building a periphery for action and thought. Ponder this a little.
Of the thoughts you think, ninety-nine percent you can drop—and nothing will be lost. Ninety-nine percent is useless—pure garbage. And yet your energy is spent.
Psychologists say a man cannot use more than fifteen percent of his energy; eighty-five percent is simply lost. Those in whom you see some happening—an Einstein, a Freud—who discover great truths in science, mind, or dharma—what is the difference between them and you? Energy is given equally to all—equally measured. But you let it flow away.
A scientist gathers his energy. He thinks only of his science. He even dreams of his science.
Madame Curie received the Nobel Prize because of a dream. The formula she solved—she solved in a dream. For three years she had been trying in waking hours; it would not yield. But awakening and sleeping, there was only one churning—the one task: to solve that formula. Some mathematical problem had been stuck for three years. The night it was solved, she went to sleep immersed in it. It seems in the dream it was solved. She awoke, found the answer, went to the table and wrote it down, and returned to sleep.
In the morning she did not remember the dream, nor that she had risen—but when she went to the table she was astonished. The answer was written; the handwriting was hers; there had been no one else in the room. And no other could have solved it anyway—Madame Curie herself had not been able to solve it for three years. Slowly the dream returned to memory—she remembered she had risen in the dream, thought the rising had been part of the dream; writing at the table had seemed dreamlike. Then all became clear.
A scientist pours his whole energy into one direction—therefore he discovers the deep secrets of nature. He dives deep; he does not float on the surface; he plunges. All energy is staked on one throw.
So too the meditator—Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Patanjali—dives deep and returns with diamonds and pearls. We too have as much energy. There is no difference in quantity. As much as Mahavira received, so much have you received. Nature gives equally; but not all use it equally.
Jesus told a story. A father had three sons—all capable and intelligent. The father could not decide whom to make his heir. There was great wealth and land. He worried: whom to choose?
He devised a method. He gave each son a sack of flower-seeds and said, ‘I am going on pilgrimage. Guard these well. Much depends upon them—your future depends upon them. Through these I will choose my heir. Do not be negligent. When I return, I will want the seeds back.’ He left.
The first son thought, ‘This is a nuisance. If I keep the seeds at home, rats will eat them; they may rot; children may scatter them. Better sell them in the market and keep the money safe. When father returns, I will buy seeds and give them back.’ Simple arithmetic.
The second son thought, ‘Father said return the seeds—surely he wants the same seeds. If I sell them, then later buy others, he may say, “These are not the same seeds.” We will be in trouble.’ So he locked them in the safe and kept the key carefully.
The third son thought, ‘If I sell them in the market, they will not be the same seeds—deception. If I lock them up, who knows when father will return—six months, a year, two years. In the safe they may rot to dust.’ He decided to sow them.
When, a year later, the father returned, the first son quickly bought seeds from the market and returned them. The father said, ‘These are not the seeds I gave you. The condition was—return the same.’ The second son was very pleased; he hurriedly opened the safe. The seeds that yield most fragrant flowers had all rotted; only stench remained. The father said, ‘I gave you seeds—but these are not seeds; this is ash. A seed means: there can be a plant in it. Can a plant arise from these? I gave you the possibility of fragrance; you return stench. I gave living seeds; you return dead ash. The condition is not fulfilled.’
The father asked the third. He was worried—would all three be unworthy? The third said, ‘I am in difficulty. The seeds you gave I sowed. In their place there are now a million-fold seeds. I thought: return only as many as father gave—what merit would that be? I could not sell them, for those would not be the very seeds you gave. These too are mine—but they are the offspring of those very seeds—the same lineage. But I cannot return only as many as you gave, for I never counted. They have multiplied a millionfold. Please take them all.’
The father went back to the estate. As far as the eye could see—flowers upon flowers. Seeds upon seeds. The father said, ‘You have won. You are my heir.’ For worthy is the son who increases the wealth, keeps it alive, expands it, makes it more valuable.
We have all been given equal energy, equal seeds. A Mahavira makes them bloom—attains the state of the Divine. A Buddha becomes a lotus. And we, shrunken, either sell ourselves in the marketplace (the very industrious)—or rot in safes (the lazy). But this life-energy does not flow from us.
Mahavira says: Deshvirat means—one who has staked all his energy on one aim; whose energy has become an arrow and who has drawn his bow toward the target. Deshvirat: a target given, a direction set, a boundary drawn—no wastage in deed, speech, or thought. A life of harmony—every step linked with the next—lived in a single discipline.
If you are to become a river, you need banks—then you can reach the ocean. If you flow leaving your banks, if discipline breaks, you will never reach the ocean—you will be lost in some desert. To reach the ocean, a river must remain bound within her banks.
Deshvirat means—a personality bound within banks.
The sixth gunasthana: Pramatt-virat. Along with restraint, a faint negligence remains in the form of subtle passions like attachment. Restraint has come, discipline has come—but the faint shadow of what we have nurtured for lives—attachment, delusion, greed—still lingers. It does not leave all at once. We have risen above it, but in the unconscious a dim shadow remains. Outwardly we may not be angry; yet the waves of anger rise in the unconscious. We may not grasp in greed; we may control, yet the unconscious keeps sending messages of greed.
It is said Bhartrihari renounced his kingdom and went to the forest. He was an extraordinary man. First he wrote Shringara-shataka—the poetry of life’s enjoyment. No one has ever praised enjoyment as Bhartrihari did; none has surpassed him. Then he wrote Vairagya-shataka. First he praised passion, then dispassion. It often happens: the one who lives passion to the full will one day attain dispassion. One who goes through the Shringara-shataka rightly comes to the Vairagya-shataka.
Bhartrihari left all—sat in the forest—great empire, wealth, gems. Suddenly his eyes opened. Two horsemen came galloping on the path before him. His meditation broke. He saw a precious diamond lying on the path. He did not rise, but the mind rose. He did not go to pick it up, but the mind picked it up. A flash within—‘Let me pick it up.’ Not even forming words; not even the thought ‘I should pick it up’—just a subtle quiver, a tremor—‘pick it up.’ He shook himself awake—‘Strange! I left all this—diamonds more precious than this—and the desire is arising now!’
You can leave in the conscious; the unconscious does not leave so soon. He sat aware, but he knew: subtle attachments remain within. Very deep. Their voices do not reach the mind now—yet they exist in the cellar. No news reaches the drawing room, but the cellar below is yours as well.
What psychologists call the unconscious—Mahavira speaks of this condition: Pramatt-virat. Along with restraint, a faint negligence remains in the form of subtle passions. Consciousness is on top—like an iceberg—one part above water, nine parts below.
So awareness is above—nine parts of unconsciousness below. Invisible to others—but the person himself understands. And as awareness increases, understanding grows subtler. Had you been sitting in Bhartrihari’s place, you might not have noticed. But he must have been crystal-clear—a wave before it becomes word; the tremor caught. So slight that even the subtlest instrument might not catch it—like a ripple in emptiness. But Bhartrihari recognized it.
The two horsemen also saw the diamond together. They drew their swords, both claiming, ‘My eyes fell first.’ Bhartrihari watched. In a moment, their swords pierced each other’s chest. The diamond remained where it was; where two living men stood, there fell two corpses. Bhartrihari closed his eyes and must have smiled—‘This is the limit! The diamond lies where it was; two men came and went.’
All diamonds remain lying. All that seems valuable here remains lying. We come and go. And often we thrust knives into each other’s hearts—for that which never becomes ours, which can never be ours.
The seventh: Apramatt-virat—the seventh ground in which no negligence whatsoever appears; not even the faintest glimmer remains—no expression of delusion, ego, negligence. In this state one becomes a sadhu. Only upon arriving here does saintliness manifest. In the fourteen gunasthanas, this is the seventh—standing in the middle; half the journey complete. Only he who reaches the seventh is a sadhu.
Most of those you call sadhus have not reached the seventh. Some of them are stuck in the first; some in the second. Even reaching the seventh seems difficult—for the seventh means the lamp within has fully lit; there is no darkness now; no expression of passion of any kind.
The eighth: Apurva-karana—the eighth ground of the seeker, where, upon entering, the modes of consciousness each moment become unprecedented, unprecedented. By the seventh one becomes a sadhu; by the eighth, happenings begin. Up to the seventh is sadhana; from the eighth, experience descends. Until the seventh is preparation; from the eighth, the grace begins to shower.
Moment by moment unprecedented experiences—such fragrance begins to hover as was never known; such sweetness melts into the throat as was never known; such pulsation of life is felt as cannot die—an aftertaste of immortality.
Up to the seventh the vessel is prepared. In the eighth the rain begins. Kabir says, ‘Dense clouds have gathered—amrita is raining.’ Dadu says, ‘A thousand suns have arisen—such light that darkness cannot be found.’ Meera says, ‘I bound anklets on my feet and danced.’
These are the events of the eighth—Apurva-karana. Here an unparalleled music is born. Here the Zen masters say, ‘The clap of one hand is heard.’ The unprecedented happens—the impossible happens—the unsayable happens—the tale of the dumb tasting jaggery.
In this hour a man becomes deeply intoxicated with bliss—and each moment is new. Door after door opens; veil after veil lifts. Till seven, you cultivate; after eight, it happens.
Apurva-karana—the name is apt: that which has never been before. And when for the first time it happens to you, you gain trust that Mahavira existed, Buddha existed, Kabir speaks rightly. You become a witness. On the eighth your testimony is born. Before the eighth, when you nod, it is not of great worth—you say, ‘Yes, it seems right’—it only seems so—by logic perhaps, by conditioning perhaps, by repetition perhaps—or because of your desire, your longing that such a thing may happen, you ‘believe’ it happens.
But on the eighth you know. On the eighth you can sign your name: Mahavira has been, Buddha has been, Jesus has been. Whatever they have said is right—for now it is entering your experience. Now the existential proof is there.
Only on Apurva-karana can one say, ‘There is Atman.’ Only here can one say, ‘There is Paramatman.’ Only here can one say, ‘There is Samadhi.’ Before this, all is net of argument; after this, the springs of experience open.
Each moment unprecedented; nothing remains mechanical. As if you die each moment and are born each moment; the old dies every instant and the new arises; each moment the dust of the past flies off and your mirror is made new again.
What the Buddhists called living moment-to-moment—that is the state of Apurva-karana. What Krishnamurti says: ‘Die to the past so the future may be born; drop the past, do not cling—so the unprecedented may happen.’
Apurva-karana is meditation’s first taste. From here you enter another realm; a new world begins. As if a traveler in a boat leaves one bank; till the middle, the old bank is visible—the seventh. The new shore is not yet seen. The other shore is hidden in mist, far away. From the eighth, the old shore disappears; the new begins to appear. From the eighth, the old is lost in haze and the new dawns. The eighth is the birth of the soul in the life of the sadhu; the descent of light into darkness; the rain of nectar in the desert—Apurva-karana.
And it is not the same experience repeating—each moment it becomes new. As you move nearer the other shore and things clarify, every hour the feeling of bliss grows deeper, denser.
The ninth: Anivritti-karana—the ninth ground; where the states of all fellow seekers become alike, and moment by moment an infinitely multiplying purity is attained.
Anivritti-karana is to be understood. Here individual personalities end; personal differences drop. All seekers reaching the ninth become alike. Until now personality’s shadow remains—someone a woman, someone a man; someone intelligent; someone intellectual; someone adept in music; another in mathematics; an artist; someone something else.
Up to the eighth, distinctions remain. From the ninth, non-distinction begins. Here the skin of personality falls—like the snake slips out of its old sheath. From here, impersonal life begins. From here you are no longer different from anyone. Neither woman nor man; neither white nor black; neither beautiful nor ugly; neither important nor unimportant. All become equal here.
And notice—this is only the ninth. In the ninth, the sense of equanimity is born—he sees the One dwelling in all. Even in those asleep he begins to see that One who has awakened within him. Now difference remains only of sleeping and waking; beyond that there is no difference. In this state, no seeker remains Jain or Hindu or Muslim—he cannot. No difference remains between temple and mosque, or gurdwara and church. Whoever has known, speaks the same statement. The language will differ; the saying will not. The stories will differ; what is said is one.
In the ninth, one goes beyond the adjectives of religions, beyond the differences of body and the particularities of mind. The common is born—the universal.
The ninth ground of the seeker—where fellow seekers’ states become equal and moment by moment purity increases without limit. From this moment, purity begins to grow.
After equanimity, purity.
Therefore one who still says, ‘I am a Jain muni,’ is wandering somewhere in adjectives. One who says, ‘I am a Hindu sannyasi,’ is wandering in adjectives. One who says, ‘I am a Christian,’ is lost in adjectives.
Adjectives fall away. Because what is experienced within is utterly one-taste—hence purity increases.
Imagine your drawing room—your furniture, your pictures on the wall, your clock, vase, radio, television. The neighbour’s drawing room—his pictures, his vase, his radio, his preferred furniture, his curtains.
Now both of you slowly remove things. When both rooms are emptied, they become very similar. Differences were of curtains—curtains are gone; of furniture—furniture gone; of pictures—pictures removed; of radio and television—removed. Now both rooms remain empty; they are alike—both are only rooms.
Both have purity, emptiness. Both have space. As things are emptied within you, space, sky becomes available. Sky is the same; fullness creates difference. One book is the Quran, the other the Bible. Remove all ink letters—blank pages remain. Then it is difficult to tell which is Quran and which Bible—blank books are simply blank. Which Quran, which Bible?
The Sufis have a famous book in which nothing is written. They call it ‘The Book of the Book’—the book of books. Empty. Sufi fakirs read it well—that alone is worth reading. There is nothing written. A Sufi sits, opens the empty book and reads from morning. The effort is to become empty like this empty book. What Mahavira calls the ninth ground is ‘The Book of the Book’—the book of books. There the seeker attains shunyata—emptiness.
The tenth gunasthana: Sukshma-samparaya—where, though all passions have been thinned away, a very subtle shadow of greed or attachment remains.
Understand this. In the ninth all is emptied. In the tenth Mahavira says: even when all passions are thinned away, a subtle shadow of attachment remains.
Your rooms have become alike—but what of your cellars? Your conscious minds have become alike—where your awareness reaches, there is equality. But within, the subtle lines of karmas from endless lives—what of them?
Have you seen—pour water upon the floor; sun comes; the water evaporates—but a dry line remains. It is hardly visible. Ordinarily no one will see where the water had flowed. Water is gone, not a trace remains—but the dry line remains. If you pour water again, much possibility that the water will follow that dry line—the easy path.
Karmas are dry lines. Where you acted many times—anger you did a lot; anger you have dropped—the furniture of anger thrown out; greed, you enacted it often—you have dropped greed—but through infinite ages, the results of infinite greed, the current of greed that once flowed through you—its dry lines remain. You do not see them. They become visible only to one who has reached the ninth. They are so subtle; they are not—but they are.
You emptied your room; the neighbour emptied his. Still there will be something unique about your room not found in the neighbour’s. You lived long in that room; your smell remains; your way of being remains; your presence remains. You lived there long; your habits, emotions, desires arose and spread there—they cling to the room.
If in that room you once murdered someone, that event is written upon the room—very clearly. Invisible writing—no one can read it—but it is there. In a room where someone was murdered, if you sleep there, you will not sleep well—even if the murder was ages ago. Some cry is still hanging from the atoms of the wall. Some subtle emotion wanders. That is what we call a ghost—a subtle emotion left hanging.
Therefore where a saint sits, where a saint walks, those places become tirthas—pilgrim places—because their subtle fragrance hangs there. Centuries pass. When you stand where a saint once sat and attained Samadhi, that place still hums that song—whether you notice or not. And sometimes you do—you feel deep peace at some spot. At some place, sudden restlessness. Under some tree, an awe arises. Enter some house—fear appears. Some house you’ve never entered—but passing by you feel invited—‘Come.’ Someone wishes to host you. No one speaks—but the state of the house, subtle vibrations...
Mahavira says, the tenth state: Sukshma-samparaya—utterly subtle; invisible script. Visible only to one who has reached the ninth, where all is now equal; all adjectives, forms, shapes fallen away. He alone sees the subtle ripples left by deeds done through lifetimes.
Where all passions have been attenuated, yet a very subtle shadow of attachment remains.
The eleventh: Upshanta-moha—the eleventh ground; where, with the subsiding of the passions, one becomes supremely calm for a while.
The example given in Jain scriptures is apt: a small stream has had bullock carts pass through; their passing has stirred up mud, dry leaves, debris; the stream is dirty. Then the carts have gone far; the leaves slowly settle; the dust sinks to the bed; the stream becomes clear again.
So above, it is perfectly clear—drinkable—so pure. But if you agitate it a little, the dust lying below will rise again. Debris rests at the bottom. Scoop water carefully, otherwise it will rise.
This is the eleventh—Upshanta-moha. Delusion has subsided; like dust settled at the bottom—but has not been annihilated. One must walk with great care. In this state one walks the way a pregnant woman walks—there is a womb within; a new life. She walks carefully—lest she fall, lest she slip.
As the fetus grows, caution increases. In the eleventh we have come very near the last state. As if seven months complete; the eighth has begun; the ninth is approaching. Great care is needed.
To emphasize caution Mahavira calls it Upshanta-moha—dust has settled at the bed; it can rise. Do not sit careless; the end has not yet come. It is a very pleasant state—deep peace. For some moments it may seem—‘I am a siddha.’ There is no difference between a siddha and this state so far as the clarity of water is concerned. The only difference: with a siddha, no matter how you jump and splash, the water cannot be muddied. Here it can. From the shore, the two look alike.
One in Upshanta-moha will look just like a siddha outwardly. Ordinary people cannot tell; but he himself can tell—the distortion can still arise. The snake can raise his hood one last time.
The twelfth: Kshina-moha—the total destruction of the passions. Not like debris settled at the bottom; rather, debris has been removed from the stream—utter purity.
Yet Mahavira still calls this the twelfth. His mathematics is exact.
The thirteenth: Sayogi-kevali Jina. Mahavira says: everything is complete, but there is still relation with the body—still a conjunction with the body. All is finished—but the awakened consciousness is still in the body—still connected to the body.
Sayogi—Kevali—Jina: three words. Sayogi means still in conjunction with the body. Kevali means endowed with kevala-jnana—perfect knowing. Jina means one who has awakened. The attainment of kevala-jnana is the designation of Bhagavan.
Mahavira says: in the thirteenth state one abides in the status of Bhagavan—yet still connected with the body. All is complete, but freedom from the body has not yet happened. He is still within the body.
Imagine you are imprisoned; the news arrives; the jailer comes and says, ‘Stand—the hour of release has come.’ The fetters are opened; you walk with the jailer toward the gate—but you are still within the prison. In one sense you are free—indeed free; nothing remains to be done—fetters are gone; the order of release has arrived; you are walking toward the door—and yet within the prison. There is no reason to remain in prison—and yet you are still there.
Mahavira says, in this state one is designated Bhagavan or Paramatman.
The fourteenth: Ayogi-kevali Jina. Ayogi means—when even the bodily connection has dropped—you are outside the prison. A difference of an inch—perhaps of a moment. One moment before, you were within; one moment later—you are outside. Not a big difference. Therefore Mahavira says—at the thirteenth one may be called God in every practical sense; only one small thing remains—he has not yet stepped beyond the door of the prison.
Ayogi-kevali Jina: the final ground of the seeker—where all activities of mind, speech, body have become utterly quiet—shaileshi, rock-like stillness.
Now there can be no fall. Up to the thirteenth, a slight danger remains—the jailer may change his mind; some accident may occur; the guard at the door may have forgotten the key at home; the key may not fit; the lock may jam. He is still inside, ready to go out—but still linked with the body. In the fourteenth, all connection with the body is entirely severed—shaileshi state.
This fourteenth is also the seeker’s last ground. Beyond the fourteen is the siddha. The state of the siddha is gunatita—beyond gunasthanas. The siddha is beyond definition. What the Hindu scriptures call Brahman, the Jain scriptures call Siddha—sat-chit-ananda-svarupa. Jains do not use the word Brahman—so Siddha. For the Jain path is the search of one’s own being.
From the thirteenth, one attains the state of Bhagavan—the experience that life is of the nature of the Divine. One last veil remains—the veil of the body. In the fourteenth, that veil too drops.
What then is the fifteenth? The fifteenth—there is no journey left. Nothing beyond. One does not call it a fifteenth. There are fourteen gunasthanas; the fifteenth is your nature. Crossing the fourteen, one attains oneself.
Remember Mahavira’s mathematics. By it you will immediately understand where you stand. When you know where you are, the journey becomes smooth.
If you are in the first and imagining the seventh—you will not be able to walk. You will have to walk from the first. Where you are, from there the journey begins. From where you are not, it cannot begin.
So recognize yourself accurately. I say—other than Mahavira no one has ever given such a subtle method of measuring. Here each point is made clear. There will be no hindrance. You will be able to examine exactly where you are—and knowing where you are is essential—only then will you reach where you are to reach.
If, with remembrance, you use this path of pilgrimage, this guide-map of the journey—then in some blessed moment that unprecedented, extraordinary, supramundane event occurs—when you come home.
Enough for today.