Jin Sutra #60

Two forms of religion are possible: one like science, one like poetry. There are only two ways to look at life—either through the eye of the poet, or through the eye of the scientist. Both are right. Neither is higher nor lower, yet they are deeply opposed.
What is right from the poetic vision appears mere imagination to the scientific vision. What is right from the scientific vision appears utterly dry to the poet—mere mathematics and logic. What is true to science seems dead to poetry, and what is true to poetry seems only a dream to science.
Keep this in mind and much will become easy. Mahavira’s way of looking at life is the scientist’s way. He sees as a scientist observes in his laboratory. In his vision there is no poetry at all. Hence there is no way of bhakti with Mahavira. With Mahavira there is no way of prayer or worship.
Those who attached worship and prayer to Mahavira did great injustice. Even the word Paramatma has no separate meaning with Mahavira. For Mahavira, Paramatma too is man’s web of imagination. Atman is all. He called the highest state of the Atman “Paramatma.” Paramatma is nowhere outside to be found; Paramatma is what we have to become. Paramatma is not something that will stand before the devotee; Paramatma is what will be revealed within the devotee.
The devotee is the seed of God.
When the seed blossoms and flowers, it is not that the seed looks at its own blooming flowers; the seed is already gone. There are flowers in bloom. The seed and the tree never meet. As long as the seed is, the tree is not; when the tree is, the seed has vanished.
Thus, the darshan of God as an external encounter is not possible with Mahavira. The devotee becomes God in his supremely pure state. Whom then to worship? Whom to adore? In whose name light the lamps? For whom to perform yajna and havan?
Mahavira stands among those rare pioneers of humanity who gave religion the shape of science; who grounded religion upon the base of mathematics—separating out whatever was woven of fantasy.
Remember, when I say “imaginative,” I am not saying “untrue,” because for me the bhakta is just as true; so is Narada, so is Chaitanya, and so is Meera. These are two different ways of seeing.
When a scientist comes to a tree, beauty does not appear to him—not because beauty is absent. The tree is green, full of flowers; its leaves dance in sunlight; it stands delighted in the gusts of wind. Yet the scientist does not see any of this. He sees the botany of the tree. He sees the elements that compose it; the minerals that joined to form it; what the earth gave, what came from air and water, what came from sky and sun. He sees how the tree was constructed, how it came into being, by what coordination of factors this event occurred.
A poet too comes beneath the same tree. None of that comes to his mind. Not that what the scientist says is wrong. He has no sense of minerals, chemicals, substances from which the tree is made. He is aware of something else.
He sees sunrays dancing upon the leaves. He experiences a beauty, an incomparable beauty—such that he himself begins to dance. The passing breeze brings him tidings and messages from another realm. He starts to hum.
The scientist grows grave—thinking, analyzing. The poet begins to hum; if he was serious, he drops his seriousness and dances.
Both are true. Truth is so vast that both can be true—true together. Do not be stingy with Truth. Much miserliness has happened; therefore I say it. Do not say, “Where my vision ends, there Truth ends.” Your vision has a boundary—Truth has none. Truth is so vast it includes even its apparent opposites. In Truth, contradictions reconcile and become complementary.
Someone said to the great American poet Walt Whitman, “Your poems are full of contradictions. Somewhere you say one thing; elsewhere you say the opposite.” Do you know what Whitman replied? “I am vast—I contain multitudes. Within me all opposites are contained and become complementary.”
This is the utterance of a rishi—great insight, great inner vision.
Truth is vast. It includes science; it includes poetry. It contains all facts and all imaginings. Within it there is room for mathematics and logic, and also for rasa, bhakti, and love.
When we look through bhakti we select something; when we look through logic we select something else. Whatever we see is our choice. Mahavira knew this.
Hence Mahavira stated his own vision, yet said also that it is but a vision. He who goes beyond all visions alone knows the Supreme Truth—the one who remains neither scientist nor poet; who has no bias of a viewpoint, no spectacles on his eyes; whose eyes are open, empty, innocent, virgin. One who sees with virgin eyes.
But to see with virgin eyes is very difficult. It means the heart too must be as vast as Truth itself, for it must contain all opposites. Night and day must not be set against each other; nor pleasure and pain; nor life and death. One must see both together, not as opposites but as complements.
As a teacher writes with white chalk upon a blackboard: only upon a blackboard can white chalk be seen. On a white wall it would not appear. So black is not the enemy of white—it complements it. Black brings white into relief, reveals it, becomes the medium of its expression.
The day poetry vanishes from the world, that day science will vanish as well. The day science disappears, poetry will also be lost. They bring each other forth, reveal each other. The world is rich because here countless perspectives meet. The many religions of the world enrich man; they are different modes of seeing.
Follow what draws you, what resonates with your heart. But never think—even by mistake—“This alone is the Truth.” He who thinks “this alone is Truth” has rendered his truth untrue.
Therefore Mahavira gave birth to Syadvad. Syadvad means: I am also right; you are also right. I am right, you are right—and someone else may be right too. What has been said is right, and what will yet be said is also right. The perspectives already revealed are right, and those that will appear in the future will be right too.
But all perspectives are partial. No perspective is complete; none can be complete. A perspective is, by nature, incomplete. Where all perspectives fall silent, there philosophy—darshan—is born. And perspectives end only when you yourself end. As long as you are, a viewpoint remains; your way of seeing keeps influencing. If you are Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian, your way of seeing is colored accordingly. Whatever you see, you dye it; you drape it in the garment of your feelings; you clothe it in your own attire.
When you are utterly gone—when within you there is no Hindu, no Muslim, no Jain, no Christian, no theist, no atheist; when you do not even know whether you believe or disbelieve; when you have shaken off all dust and become utterly empty, formless—then darshan is born. What is then known, Mahavira says, that alone is Truth. And only such Truth liberates.
These are today’s sutras—how to reach that liberating Truth, how to attain moksha; how to be freed from all biases, all nets; how all our limits may fall and we become limitless.
“Every age’s religion brings a new God—
We too might speak, but of which God shall we speak?”
Therefore Mahavira did not speak of God at all.
“Every age’s religion brings a new God.”
Whenever man has spoken, whenever he has thought, a new Paramatma has been born. Whenever man has speculated, he has fashioned a new God. A temple is raised, a mosque arises, a gurudwara is built. Whenever man has sought the truth of the universe, he has carved the image of some God—Hindu, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jain. Each vision creates a God suited to itself.
The Bible says God created man in His own image. The fact is the reverse: man creates God in his own image. Your God’s face is like your face; how could it be otherwise? You will fashion God in your own likeness—perhaps a little more beautiful, a little ornamented, refined, blemishes trimmed—but still your own face. A finer nose, lovelier eyes—but still your own likeness. Whether Ram or Krishna, it is your face—slightly adorned—the utmost beauty your imagination can conceive. But those imaginations also change.
“Every age’s religion brings a new God”—
imaginations change.
When we imagined Krishna, dark-blue skin was considered the most beautiful, so we called Krishna Shyam—dusky. Today, were a new God to be fashioned, no one would agree to call him dusky. Today he would be fair, a Gaurang. The language of poetry has changed. In those days the dark hue had great charm and glory.
That dusky complexion has its own splendour. A fair color is shallow; it lacks depth. Depth belongs to the dark—like a river that turns blue when very deep; when shallow it remains whitish.
That day’s aesthetic chose the dusky form. That day we placed a peacock-feather crown. Today, if you place a peacock crown on someone, it will be a problem.
We gave Ram a bow and arrows. Today if you give him a bow and arrows, Ram will appear violent. The air is filled with nonviolence, with talk of peace. Today you would have to give a dove—release the dove! If Ram walks with bow and arrows today, there will be great difficulty. He himself will not be able to go about; people accompanying him will hesitate: “Please set aside the bow and arrows, sir. With these you look like a tribesman. And the time of bow and arrows is gone.”
But in those days valor was revered, strength and heroism were worshiped—so we gave the bow and arrows. Without them, Ram did not “fit.” Then no one thought of doves flying as symbols of peace.
Times change, God’s face changes. Time changes, ways of thinking change, standards change, conceptions change. So we keep altering the form of God.
The God of the Jews is very wrathful—angered by the slightest offense, burning, reducing to ash. The Christian God is supremely compassionate. The time had changed. Where the Jews were journeying, a stern, hard God was needed. Where Jesus took up the story of God, a hard God seemed absurd—inhumane. So a loving God. Jesus said: God is love.
Forms keep changing. But Mahavira said: How long will you go on like this? You keep peering into your own reflection. End this business. Do not waste time. Drop altogether the anxiety of seeking God—for in that search you only construct your own face. Better, descend within your own face and find yourself.
This is Mahavira’s fundamental sutra: the search for God must become self-search. Because the God you create will be your own reflection. Do not get caught in this futile web of fabrication. It will be only your toy. Go within yourself. Seek the one who has created all gods; who has built all temples; who has composed all prayers. Seek the source of your consciousness, your very ground. Flow toward that Gangotri.
Know yourself. Until you know yourself, whatever you think about God will only reflect your ignorance.
How is this search to be? Until it happens, ignorance creates great havoc. In the name of God little benefit is seen; much harm is apparent. How many riots! How much bloodshed! All history is filled, in the name of religion, with rapes of the soul. Mosque and temple have mostly incited conflict. Man has been cut down. Beautiful pretexts given for wrong deeds; pretty slogans to conceal hideous processes.
If you are Muslim and you slaughter a Hindu, it is merit. Or force Hindus to become Muslim—merit. If you are Hindu, the matter is reversed. If you are Christian—by any means make people Christian: buy them with bread, with money, by any device.
What man has done in the name of religion so far does not seem religious. But it is natural: in all he does, man’s shadow will fall. If we are violent, our religion will be violent. If we are meat-eaters, we will find some arrangement for meat in our religion. If we have tendencies of rivalry, envy, and jealousy, we will build our religion upon bases that allow us to quarrel and fight. Man is clever, full of guile. He finds good excuses for what he wants to do; hiding behind excuses, he keeps doing all his bad deeds.
“These ceaseless calamities, these yearly slaughters—
How long will man remain slave to false delusions?”
These unending attacks in religion’s name, this continual misconduct! How long will man remain prey to false illusions!
If today the new generation is filled with contempt for religion, the reason is not the youth—it is awareness of what has happened in the name of religion. Mahavira could already glimpse this twenty-five centuries ago: that what goes on in religion’s name will one day bring irreligion; religion will not come through it. So Mahavira spoke a few simple things which have nothing to do with temples and mosques, Quran and Bible—some small sutras that can become the science of entering man’s inner life: how to go within and purify oneself. Then whatever you do will be religious. Keep this in mind.
Usually it is said: become religious, then whatever you do will be auspicious. Mahavira said: first become auspicious; then whatever you do will be religious. There is a great difference here.
We tell people: first go to the temple, worship, pray—gradually you will become auspicious. But the inauspicious man who goes to the temple will leave the temple inauspicious. The temple cannot make him auspicious. The temple is inert; it cannot change man. Man changes the temple.
Therefore Mahavira says: first begin to become auspicious; then wherever you go, there will be a temple. Understand this sutra.
“As the water of a great pond, by closing the inlet of water, by bailing out the prior water, and by the sun’s heat, gradually dries up—so too the ascetic’s karmas, accumulated through millions of births, are destroyed when the inlet of sinful karma is stopped, and by tapas he attains nirjara.”
Mahavira says: a pond is full; we want to dry it. We want the land back. What shall we do?
Three things are necessary. First and most basic: stop the source by which water enters. If the inlets keep pouring into the pond while we bail, it is madness. You will bail and new inlets will keep filling.
So the first scientific step: stop the incoming streams.
Second: the water already in the pond will not vanish merely by stopping the inlets; bail it out.
Third: even bailing will not make it entirely dry—give the sun a chance; let sunlight do the rest so that nothing remains, not even lodged in the soil. Let the earth be utterly dry.
Mahavira speaks of these three. First, stop the primary source. Second, bail out what is there. Third, allow the open sun so even what lies hidden in the ground is dried away. Let all dry up.
Man is like a pond. Karmas from endless births are heaped within. Who knows how many wrongs, how many deceits, how many sins, how many inauspicious acts, how many lusts and cravings? Greed, sex, anger—all filled up.
Now we must be free. We must set free the field of the heart. First thing: stop the source.
Many people want this, but they do not stop the source. With one hand they try; with the other they undo.
You too have often wished for the advent of the auspicious, the coming of Truth, a shower of benediction—to live divinely. You have made some effort: to do good, to donate, to merit, to serve, to fulfill duty. But you tire quickly. It does not happen.
Why? Because the basic current is not broken. The primary stream flows on. The river continues to fall. You bail a little. Donation—means giving a little. But what will come of that? A man who earns a hundred thousand gives a thousand as donation. Only the one who earns so much parts with a little; otherwise he gives nothing.
The essential meaning of dana is non-possessiveness. But one donates only when a lot is coming in. He thinks: What to do with so much? Let me donate some. With one hand he donates—and in such a way that further inflow is arranged. He gives to politicians and political parties—tastes the joy of charity and arranges the next license.
The source stays open. The main stream falls on. He distributes a little from that and tastes being a philanthropist—but he never becomes free of possessiveness.
So first the very tendency of greed must be broken. He who would donate must first drop greed; must renounce the stupor of covetousness.
“Thus, the karmas accumulated through millions of lifetimes are destroyed when the inlet of sinful karma is stopped, and by tapas nirjara takes place.”
So first enquire: from where do our sinful actions arise?
People come to me and say, “In your presence we vow not to be angry.” I tell them: You may vow—this is bailing—but why were you angry all this time? Unless you find the root, what will a vow do? Perhaps you will suppress, restrain; you may not express anger. But how will anger cease to arise? It did not arise because you lacked a vow, so it will not stop because you take one. Anger arises for a reason. Find the reason.
Why does anger arise? When the ego is hurt, anger arises. When your image is pulled down, anger arises. When others do not see you as you see yourself, anger arises. As long as there is ego inside—its wound—anger will happen. You may take a thousand vows.
The fun is: people often take vows because of ego itself. Understand this web of man. They go to a monk, a sadhu; a crowd is there. Somebody takes a vow: “I pledge never to be angry.” People clap: “Blessed soul!” Your ego too gets tickled.
You think, This man is becoming elevated—what are we doing here? You stand up, not even knowing why. More applause: another noble soul is born. You take a vow: “I will never be angry.” Or you vow celibacy.
But can such things be solved by mere vows? Is it that cheap? You have not grasped the science of anger. The very foundation of anger is being fed by this vow; your ego enjoys it, tastes the juice.
That is why people lavish praise on renouncers and ascetics. They take out chariots and processions; with bands they welcome the renunciate. The renunciate’s ego is being pampered, his influence increased, his identity thickened—and identity is the cause of all diseases.
Insult such a renouncer a little and see. A worldly man, if you step on his foot, may say, “Well, it happens in the world.” But let your foot touch the renouncer’s foot—trouble will begin. You will not find a worldly man as angry as a renouncer. Let one person in a family become “religious” and the whole house is harassed.
You all have experienced it. If one mischief-maker becomes religious—he is doing puja, so no sound in the house; children cannot play, the radio cannot be on—his meditation is disturbed. He begins to repress the entire household. If he sits to eat, others must move when he moves. Have you stayed with a renouncer? From afar, it is pleasant to see him. Stay near and you will run away. Everything feels bound; you too feel bound. The renouncer becomes a burden; his ego is like a rock upon your chest. It should have been the opposite—that the renouncer becomes humble, that being with him is joy and good fortune; that a little time in his company brings flowers to your life. But it does not happen. People bow, then slip away. That bow is a strategy: “You stay there, we stay here. We touched your feet—what else to do? Your renunciation is great.”
Know this: anger arises when the ego is hurt. And the attempt at renunciation often nourishes that very ego. The root disease remains. Man has greed, pride, jealousy because of unconsciousness. In that very sleep he takes vows and abandons the world and goes to the Himalayas—but the sleep remains.
Hence Mahavira says: “This is the Jina’s word: without sanvar, mere tapas does not lead the monk to moksha—just as a tank does not dry up while its inlets remain open.”
“Without sanvar…”
He has not shut the source. The inlet is wide open, and he has begun to bail a little.
You are in a boat—holes have opened; water is entering. You do not plug the holes; you bail. The boat cannot go far—it will sink. Bailing is necessary, but even more necessary is to close the holes.
Mahavira is not saying do not bail. But what will bailing do if new water keeps coming through the holes? First close the holes; then bail, and there will be a way. The boat may reach the far shore.
Find the holes in your life. Be less concerned with “leaving badness.” Find from where badness arises. Take a lamp of awareness within and search from where the evil comes.
If someone asked Buddha: “How to abandon anger?” he would say: “First know how you get angry. Leaving it is secondary. First is: how do you do it? Try this: when anger arises, watch it fully awake. See how it arises. This is straightforward.”
One morning Buddha came among the bhikshus. He had a handkerchief; he tied one knot, then another, five knots. The monks watched, astonished. Then he asked: “You have seen the handkerchief in two conditions—without knots, and now with five knots. Is this a different handkerchief now—or the same?”
One monk said: “In one sense it is the same—knots are there but the cloth is the same. In another sense it is not the same—earlier there were no knots; now there are.”
Buddha said: “So it is with man. Man is Paramatma—but knots have formed. The difference is only that of a knotted cloth and an unknotted one. The knots must be opened.”
Then he said: “What should I do to open the knots?” He pulled the ends of the cloth. A monk stood and said: “Lord, that will only tighten the knots, make them smaller—harder to open. This is not the way.”
Buddha asked: “What should I do?” The monk replied: “Give me the cloth. First I must see how the knots were tied. Until I know how they were made, they cannot be undone.” Buddha said: “You have understood. This is why I performed this little experiment.”
Whatever is to be opened—first see how it was tied. Do not hurry to open, else in tugging you will only tighten the knot.
This is what I see happening. Man wants to leave anger; without understanding how the knot of anger is tied, he pulls and tightens it. In the worldly man, the knot is coarse—easier to open. In the renouncer it becomes very subtle—hard to undo. In the householder it is not as entangled as in the sannyasin; he has pulled a lot. Subtlety has one apparent advantage—not real—that others cannot see the knot. But being unseen does not liberate you!
People keep refining their knots. You wish to leave lust; the praise of brahmacharya has rung for centuries—your mind longs for it. Good—auspicious—but without understanding kama, how will you be free? Unless you wakefully observe where lust arises, by what method this knot binds, surrounds the mind, drowns it—pulls it where you do not wish to go, makes you do again what you do not wish to do—you must know the knot rightly.
Mahavira says: the one without sanvar—sanvar is his technical word; it means ‘stoppage of inflow’—who has not closed the original spring… Drawing water from the well while the spring still pours new water—the spring behind the well is the ocean. Your bailing gives even more impetus to the spring.
You may have noticed: if a well is not drawn for years, it can dry up; the spring gets clogged—dust and pebbles settle. But if you draw, the spring must supply—the spring keeps running: that which flows is called a spring. If nothing flows, it sleeps.
So the one who forces brahmacharya without stopping the spring of lust—without understanding its science—lands in greater difficulty. Try and see: the more you force brahmacharya, the more streams of lust open; the same thoughts return, the same dreams. Wherever you look, only the expansion of desire appears.
Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychologist. A camel passed by. The doctor asked: “Seeing this camel, what comes to mind?” “A woman,” said Nasruddin. “And this clock hanging here?” “A woman.” “And seeing me?” “A woman.” “You are mad!” “Mad? I remember only women. The camel, the clock, and you have nothing to do with it.”
Try this: whatever you forcibly avoid grows dense in memory. Take a vow of one month’s celibacy—only a month, as an experiment—and you will find all your life-energy entangled in sex. Fast two or three days—only food, food, food. The thoughts that never came before food will arise during the fast; the reverse happens.
I have stayed in Jains’ homes. During Paryushan they fast for ten days. The one who cooks daily, who serves—often loses taste for food. But during a fast, all springs open; juices flow from all sides; taste becomes life’s center. After Paryushan the Jains pounce on food. Ask the vegetable sellers—the prices rise suddenly. Ask the sweet-makers—their sales soar. For eight or ten days they somehow held back—thinking, postponing—and then they break upon food madly.
What you forcibly suppress—Mahavira calls this tapas without sanvar—no muni attains moksha by tapas alone. Sanvar is first: dry up the spring.
Where is the spring? Where is the fundamental source? In man’s unconsciousness, in his stupor. We are asleep. We do not know how the knot ties; every day it ties and we do not see. Anger arises daily and we do not see how its knot forms upon our cloth.
So when anger arises, do not waste the moment. It is a golden opportunity. Do not dissipate it in idle talk. When anger arises, close the door and sit. Watch how the knot is forming. Observe it wholly—do not suppress, for suppression is not needed. Do not throw it upon another—for you will miss the moment in venting. This is the time to see—to have darshan.
Someone insulted you; anger boils; run—shut the door—sit with eyes closed. Watch the smoke of anger: from where does it arise? Where is the fuel? Where the original spark?
This is possible only if you make no judgment. Do not say “This is bad, ugly, sinful.” The moment you say that, your eyes close. We do not look an enemy in the eye; only in deep love and friendship do we look into eyes. With enemies, we avoid. If you deem anger an enemy, you will never observe it. Without observation you will not know how the knot is tied; without knowing, how will you untie? Vows do not dissolve knots!
Thus I say: Mahavira gave religion a scientific form. He made it psychology—pointing exactly where to begin.
His first indication: recognize the original source.
And have you noticed? If you wish to control the Ganga, it is easy at Gangotri; further down it becomes impossible. At Gangotri the Ganga is a small stream falling from Gaumukh; at Prayag or Kashi you will go mad trying to control it. Everything is small at the source, within your reach.
So see anger at its arising; see lust at its fountain. No quarrel—only scientific observation.
“This is the Jina’s word: without sanvar, mere tapas does not yield moksha—just as a pond does not dry while the inlet remains open.”
First thing: recognize the source. It has one name: moorchha—stupor. Mahavira’s term is pramad—living in a doze.
We are living, yes—but our living is full of trance. We do not know why we live, who we are, where we go, whence we come. We are pushed by the crowd.
Have you seen a crowd surge? People go; you too go. You cannot stop—the crowd shoves. You do not know where you are being taken; you think, “All are going; it must be right.” We are born in the crowd and die in the crowd, and never know where we were to go, what we were to be—our destiny, our swabhava.
To break this stupor is the first thing. How to break it? Whatever you do, Mahavira says—do it with vivek, with awareness.
Jain monks misinterpret vivek. Ask them what Mahavira meant by “Rise with vivek, sit with vivek,” and they say: sweep the ground before you sit, lest an ant be killed; filter water before you drink—this they call vivek.
This is not the meaning. Vivek means: let there be no stupor in the act. When you sit, only sit. Let your consciousness be wholly with sitting, nothing else. When you walk, only walk. Do not think a thousand other thoughts.
You walk on the road and think a thousand things—walking will be drowsy. The mind cannot be in a thousand places; only one. You eat while pondering over the shop. I have heard this tale:
A man used to visit a sadhu, sings bhajans. Those who sing wish to make everyone sing—this is violence. He wanted his wife to join. He forced her: “Come, be religious! Time is passing!” She refused. He told his guru. The guru said, “I will come and explain.” He came at dawn. The wife was sweeping. He said: “See how absorbed your husband is in meditation!” She said, “Nonsense! He is at the cobbler’s shop, buying shoes.”
The husband inside heard this and rushed out: “I am here meditating—how dare you lie!” She said, “At least in your guru’s presence tell the truth. Were you not at the cobbler’s, haggling price?” He was startled and, before his guru, could not lie. “She speaks true. My shoes are torn; while meditating I was at the market, bargaining. But how did she know?”
No one knows how women know—but they know. You cannot hide.
When you meditate—be simply meditation. But this is possible only if you do other acts also with attention. When you walk, only walk. When you eat, only eat. When you lie down, just lie. Do not let the mind run everywhere. Otherwise why lie down? Keep running.
People lie down and say, “Sleep does not come.” The reason is simple: you do not lie down. The body lies like a corpse; the mind rushes through far-off worlds—through plans and schemes. When mind is racing, how can sleep descend? Rest is possible only when mind and body are in harmony.
Only a sadhu truly sleeps—because only the one who truly wakes can truly sleep. When he wakes, he simply wakes. When he sleeps, he simply sleeps.
Mahavira’s words—vivek, awareness, apramad, yatanachara, living with care—Jain monks make them petty. What they say is included in my meaning; but my meaning is not included in theirs. One who lives wakefully will naturally walk seeing that no creature is crushed; separate watchfulness is not needed—walking wakefully is enough. Errors happen only in sleep.
When a man lives wakefully, the light of awareness falls on all his processes. Violence drops from his life. Where there is no inner conflict, outer conflict ends. We fight outside because we are fighting within. Smoke outside appears because inside there is fire.
Outer change does nothing; inner change brings outer change by itself. When the inner changes, conduct changes on its own.
In my view, Mahavira’s sutra means: keep the lamp lit within.
Try. It is difficult. What the Jain monk says is easy, hence cheap. Anyone can practice that. It has little meaning.
Filtering water is fine—hygienic, scientific; but do not think moksha comes closer by it. Sweeping the ground before sitting is fine—but no superhuman light will be born thereby; no Paramatma will descend.
If you want to bring Paramatma so cheaply, you are asking too much. “We sweep daily; we filter water—where is moksha?” What price are you putting on moksha? Is moksha equal to broom plus filter? You have made moksha worth two pennies.
No—moksha is a great event. It demands great preparation.
Begin the first step of that preparation. It is hard. If you try to walk wakefully you will see—you cannot remain aware even for a moment. If you wish to eat with awareness—you may take a bite or two, then you wander. But bring yourself back again and again. Keep returning home. When you notice you’ve gone, return. Relax the hand; awaken yourself again; begin again.
While walking you will make one step aware—on the second, sleep returns, a thought comes, you are lost. As soon as you remember, gather yourself. At first, it will be like this. You will catch and lose, catch and lose—grasp the thread and lose it a thousand times.
Do not worry. Lose a thousand times—grasp a thousand times. Do not be disheartened. This is a thing that ripens slowly; it is so precious that if it came in one stroke it would have no value. These are not seasonal flowers; these are deodar and chinar—great trees that take time, reaching to the sky.
There is no greater event than moksha—in this world or beyond. For it, whatever labor you do is little. When moksha is attained, you will see that what you did was nothing. Till then, it will seem: “We do so much—and nothing happens.”
Remember: just as water becomes steam at 100 degrees—not at 99; likewise there is a degree of your effort. At that exact point, suddenly light happens; darkness is gone. One moment before—all was dense night.
Do not despair. Do not turn back. Do not think, “What is the use?” Perhaps you were at ninety-eight or ninety-nine degrees—and you turned back. One step more—only one step more. Never return. Remember one thing and you will have the essence of Mahavira: rise awake, sit awake, walk awake, speak and listen awake—whatever you do, shake yourself into wakefulness; keep the inner lamp aflame.
You are listening to me here. You can listen in such a way that a thousand thoughts run in the head and my words are heard amidst them. Some words will enter, wrapped in your thousand thoughts, and their meaning will be altered. One thing is said; another is heard. What you carry away is yours—it has nothing to do with me.
Listen awake. Listening awake means: while listening, become only ears. Let your whole body function like an ear. Eating, become only taste; let your whole body eat. Walking, become only feet; just walk. Thinking, become only mind; just think.
I am not saying do not give time to thinking. Take an hour; during that time, just think. That too is part of life and needs time. Distribute time rightly. But one caution: whatever the act, let it not be in stupor.
If awareness slips again and again, only remember: a little more effort.
“The garden of acceptance does grant the prayer—
Perhaps it is the heart’s courage that is weak.”
If a prayer is not fulfilled, know only this: your heart’s courage lacked—your heart did not open fully at the door. Some deficiency remained. Know only this; then strive again. Any day the deficiency will be filled. No one can say when—for no thermometer yet exists by which we can measure whether one’s awareness is near Samadhi. There is no device to measure awareness.
So you must grope. But one thing is certain: those who have sought, have found. If you do not find, do not conclude that awareness is unreal. Many decide quickly that there is no Paramatma, no Atman, no awareness. Do not lose heart.
This is tapas as Mahavira means it: to heat oneself, intensify one’s energy. At a hundred degrees you will become steam—there will be a leap. See: water flows downward; when it becomes steam, it rises upward. The same water that always flowed downward suddenly rises. The visible becomes invisible; the water that sought depressions now seeks the sky. Only a difference of a hundred degrees!
So too man’s consciousness ordinarily flows downward. Call this downward flow sin. When it begins to flow upward, call it virtue. The bridge between the two is tapas. The word tapas is exactly right—born of heat.
Some fools stand in the sun and say, “We are doing tapas.” Some sit by braziers and say, “We are doing tapas.” Man’s madness has no limit. Will you do tapas by burning the body? You will sweat; what has that to do with tapas? Will you stand in the sun, letting it rise and set over your head? This has nothing to do with tapas. You will suffer needlessly.
Tapas is inner. Note: in the sun’s rays there is both heat and light. With every heat is joined light. Light has two properties: it illuminates and it warms. So too, when the light of your consciousness begins to dawn within, two events occur: you become illumined within, and your life-energy is heated. On the one hand you move toward that hundred-degree point where the leap happens—bonds of visibility fall off, the habit of downward flow ends; on the other, as the heat grows dense, you are suffused with light. An aura arises within. No braziers are needed; from your face, your eyes, your very presence, glimmers of light will be seen. You become a lamp.
Gradually a person becomes transparent; those with a little vision and sympathy can see the light within a living, awakened person.
So do not take tapas to mean self-torture. Tapas means to accept the pains that come—not to inflict them. Those that come are enough; why add more? We have already earned many pains through the web of our karmas; they are coming. Bear them with patience and equanimity. Do not be distressed. If suffering comes, accept it: somewhere I must have given suffering—it has returned. The account is being cleared.
A man spat upon Buddha. Buddha rejoiced. He said to Ananda: “See! I must have spat on him sometime. There is a journey of lifetimes. I must have wronged or insulted him. Today I am freed. Had he not spat, the entanglement would remain. Today the account is closed.”
When suffering comes, accept it thus: it is the fruit of a deed—accepted. Do not be agitated; then no new sorrow is created, and the old is burnt to ash.
“Embracing life’s sorrows, in truth we embraced You.”
He who accepts life’s sorrow accepts Paramatma.
The wonder is: ordinarily we seek pleasure and find pain. When one begins to accept pain, showers of bliss begin. This is life’s arithmetic. Seek pleasure—find pain. Let pain come—accept it—and suddenly great joy arises. In the acceptance of sorrow lies the capacity for joy.
Try it. When a small suffering comes, accept it. Do not think, “A calamity has fallen upon me”; do not think, “God is unjust to me”; bring no complaint or grievance. Know only: I must have sown sorrow—I reap its fruit. Good—let the account be settled.
A headache comes—small suffering—accept. In acceptance you will see a revolution. If you accept totally, you will find the pain less than it seemed. Refusal magnifies pain; acceptance diminishes it. If you accept wholly, suddenly you will see the pain has gone—there is distance between you and the pain.
If you accept pain as a guest, that is tapas. There is no need to add pain.
Mahavira could never say: give yourself pain; he says: do not give pain—to anyone. And that includes you. It would be madness to say: do not hurt others, but hurt yourself. What you do not do to another, why do to yourself? If compassion is for others, it is also for you. He who is compassionate to himself alone can be compassionate to others. He who is harsh with himself cannot be gentle with anyone. If you cannot love yourself, how will you love another? Whatever happens happens first at home, within; then its rays spread to others.
Therefore Mahavira cannot say: give yourself pain. He says only this: the pain that comes is the consequence of the pains you have given—accept it.
“The ignorant, through tapas, in millions of births or years, destroy as much karma as the wise, through trigupti, destroy in a single breath.”
This is plain—yet, what a misfortune, that those who follow Mahavira forgot trigupti and remain engaged in millennial tapas.
“The ignorant may exhaust karmas through countless years and births—
But the wise, through trigupti, exhaust them in a single breath.”
What is this trigupti?
Mahavira says: “To live wakefully in the activities of mind, speech, and body—that is trigupti.”
Three guarded points, three secrets, three keys—manas, vachan, kaya. Whatever you do with the body—do it with awareness. Whatever with the mind—aware. Whatever with speech—aware. These three keys—he who masters them gains in a breath what the ignorant cannot gain in millions of births.
Whatever an ignorant man does will come out of ignorance—even his tapas. And what arises from ignorance creates new karmic bonds. Even his renunciation is from ignorance.
By “ignorant” do not think I mean one who does not know the scriptures. Ignorant means one who is not awake; who does not live with knowledge born of awareness.
Here begins the convenience of changing meanings. When Mahavira says “the ignorant,” we think: so we must know the shastras—memorize, parrot, become scholars. But no number of collected words makes one wise. That is mechanical. By memorizing, no light will dawn in your life. Only when a lamp appears within—when experience arises—that is knowledge. Borrowed knowledge is not knowledge.
“Moksha cannot be described in words, because words do not reach there. Neither logic enters there, nor can the mind’s commerce function. Moksha is beyond sankalpa and vikalpa; so utterly free of stain that even ojas is not there. Being beyond attachment, even if the seventh hell is known, no regret arises.”
In the first sutra he said: the ignorant may practice for millions of births with little gain; the aware, in a breath, gain much. To indicate that the “aware” does not mean a scholar of scripture, the third sutra is clear.
Mahavira says: moksha cannot be described in words. Hence scriptures cannot avail, because words do not function there. Only consciousness enters there, not words. You can go there—but not your intellect and logic. Logic and intellect must be left behind.
As one climbs the Himalayas, as height increases, he lightens his load. At first he wants to carry everything; then the climb shows it is not possible—he discards. The higher he goes, the more he leaves. When Tenzing and Hillary reached Everest, they went with nothing; at that height, nothing can be carried.
Moksha is consciousness’s ultimate height. There even thoughts cannot go, nor resolutions and alternatives. Therefore Mahavira says: it cannot be described.
Whatever scriptures say are primary indications, not the final vision. They are the a-b-c—the primary school. They are not the university of life. Do not stop at scriptures.
Experience alone is life’s university. There words have no play. He who goes within must first drop the body—our outermost layer, like the doorway and wall one leaves entering a house. First the body is left; then, going deeper, the mind’s processes drop; deeper still, the heart’s feelings fall away. Arriving at the inmost home, only pure consciousness remains—not body, not mind, not feeling. In this purity, the first glimpses of liberation come.
Mahavira says: by trigupti the experience of such a state will arrive—that alone is knowledge. Logic does not enter there, therefore no one can prove moksha exists; nor can anyone disprove it. What cannot be proved by logic cannot be disproved either. Only he who tastes it by experience will know—like the dumb tasting jaggery. He who tastes knows; even he cannot prove it to you.
If you ask the dumb to speak his taste, he will pull your hand—toward where he tasted. “Come, you too taste the jaggery.”
This is what Mahavira, Buddha—all the sages—are doing: pulling your hand, “Come! Where we went, we found much. You too taste a little.”
You say, “First prove it; then we will come. Do not pull our hand. We are not so foolish as to go with anyone. Prove God, prove moksha, prove Atman—then we will come. We are rational. We think; we are not superstitious.”
Then you will never go. You do not know whose hand you have shaken off—the hand that would have led you to yourself; the hand that was a ray of good fortune in your life. In the name of what did you free yourself? Rubbish—logic.
For whatever is vital in life, there is no logic. Can anyone prove love? Even such a common experience as love cannot be proven—though millions love. The ultimate love—moksha, Paramatma—happens rarely—so be it. But even ordinary love cannot be proven.
“I wished to tell—but could not tell the tale.
Pain could not be clothed in words.
And thus our story ended—
They could not hear; we could not say.
Breath remained at every point—yet could not remain.
Such was the matter: said—and yet unsaid.
Thus passed every morning in your remembrance;
If any pain was borne—it was borne, yet unborne.”
Love cannot be said. You want to say you love—but the words seem too small, like nothing before what is. However much you strike your head, saying “I love,” you feel you have not said it.
Even with love it is so; how much more with Paramatma—the ultimate. There are no words in human language to tell it; no thought to carry it; no finger to point it out. Our finger is gross; the reality is subtle. The gross can direct the gross; how can it indicate the subtle? That is living, while our words are dead.
Thus those who knew remained silent. Mahavira called his renunciants “muni” for this reason—muni means the silent. By silence you will know; knowing, by silence you will say.
This does not mean Mahavira said nothing. He said much—but even in all that, the thing remained unsaid; words could not clothe it. He tried a thousand ways—if not this door, another; yet in the end he said: moksha is such that it cannot be said. We can only bless that you too may experience—or, if you are willing to give your hand, we can lead you there.
“Sarve shabda nivartante”—all words withdraw there.
“Tarka yatra na vidyate”—logic has no place there.
“Mana tatra na gahiyam”—there the mind has no grasp. It is far beyond mind—so much so that even the ojas that radiates from the spiritual person does not reach there; even ojas disappears there, for ojas too needs the backdrop of darkness to show.
Hence Mahavira says: “So utterly free of stain is that state that even ojas is not there.”
This is extraordinary. To see light, even darkness is needed. You light a lamp; you think you see light because of the lamp—no, because of the surrounding darkness. If darkness vanished from the world, would you see light? No.
When I speak, you hear because silence surrounds speech. If silence vanished, speaking would be impossible; and if speaking vanished, silence would be hard to know. Because of noise we know peace; if there were absolute hush, you could not know silence.
For knowing, the opposite is needed—the pair, the dual.
Mahavira says: it is such an ultimate One that there is no two—not even ojas is perceived. There is such light that light cannot be seen—no darkness remains. Such purity that even purity cannot be sensed—for to know purity, some impurity must remain. Have you noticed? When health is perfect, you do not notice it; only some illness makes you aware. The word vedana means both knowledge (vid) and pain. Strange—but meaningful: it is pain that is known; bliss cannot be known as an object. In bliss there is no opposite, hence no “knowledge” of it.
Mahavira says: there even “light” does not remain—or there is only light, nothing to say. Therefore he did not use even the term satchidananda. The Upanishads say satchidananda. Mahavira did not use even that. He said: when asat no longer is, whom to call sat? When achit is no more, whom to call chit? When dukkha is gone, whom to call ananda?
So Mahavira took another leap—beyond satchidananda. There is nothing to say there; but you can walk, you can reach.
For those who have the courage to enter the Unknown—this is the Unknown. If you say, “First prove it, then we will go”—you will never go, because this cannot be proven. It will be proven as you go—proven by your experience.
Mahavira says: the happening of knowledge… and to move toward it—trigupti: in the functions of mind, speech, and body, hold to wakefulness.
The ultimate, supreme state of knowledge is called moksha. What the Hindus call Brahman, Mahavira calls moksha—and clearly Mahavira’s word is more significant. “Brahman” or “Ishvara” suggest something outside; “moksha” indicates freedom from all bondage. Our being beyond limitation. All chains fall; the prison collapses; we fly in the free sky, dissolving into the infinite.
Countless lifetimes of ignorant effort cannot take one there. A single breath of conscious being can. Therefore the real question is awakening—becoming aware.
All Mahavira’s vision can be distilled into one word—awareness—apramatta.
This is a unique religion—the straight religion of science. No temple is needed; no idol, no worship, no ritual; no priest; no sacrifice. No instruments are needed. Nothing is needed. You are enough. You yourself are the laboratory.
Within you all is present—even that which has to be awakened. Only a little shaking is needed. You are a handkerchief with knots—only untie the knots. What you have to become—you already are. There are a few obstructions—drop them.
Enough for today.