Jin Sutra #62

A mirror floats upon the water
The eye has begun to shimmer
On every leaf prayer sways
Evening has begun to hum
If only I could still the bells of the clouds
From ringing at the feet of the east wind
Yellow lights have begun to glimmer
In the village of lighted lamps
Darkness swings the cradle
Memory has begun to call me home
Memory has begun to call me home! In these few words lies the essence of all religion — memory has begun to call me home. Where we are, we are not fulfilled. With what we are, we are not fulfilled. One thing is certain: we are not at home, we are somewhere in a foreign land. Like strangers we have gone astray. Where to go — that perhaps we do not know; yet everyone knows this much, that where we are, we should not be.

There is a restlessness. Do whatever you may, earn as much wealth as you can, gather all the status and prestige you like — there is a lack that does not end. There is a wound that does not heal. A call within keeps saying: not this, not this; go elsewhere. Seek home. We have knocked from door to door, gate to gate. Who knows in how many births, by how many means, we have searched for our home.

But every search has been for one thing alone: a place where there is contentment. A state of feeling in which no craving arises.

The very meaning of craving is that in what we are, the juice is missing — there must be something else. Desire itself means restlessness. Desire arises from restlessness. There is no ease. A thorn is pricking. An unfulfillment surrounds from all sides. Everything is attained, and yet the unfulfillment remains just the same — untouched, unassailed.

Religion is born in man from this immense happening within — from this happening of restlessness. As if in a foreign land where no one understands our tongue, where none is our own. Where all relationships are accidental. Where all relations are made up by mind, not real. And where one gets much illusion of water, but not water — a mirage. From afar a source of water appears, and as you come near there is nothing but sand.

This wandering we call the world. In this wandering, when the memory of home begins to arise, the beginning of religion has happened.

A mirror floats upon the water
The eye has begun to shimmer
If, looking without and looking without, weariness has arisen — if you have seen and seen and there is nothing worth seeing — if the eye begins to blink, the thought of looking within arises, the urge to see with eyes closed is born — the beginning has happened.

We have grabbed at handfuls and handfuls — and whenever we found, we found them filled with ash. Sometimes filled with diamonds — but the diamonds became ash. Filled with gold — the gold turned to dust. Filled with relationships, filled with so-called love — and all, in the end, proved valueless. And now the wish to fill the hand further is no more.

On every leaf prayer sways
Evening has begun to hum
Thus, the very day the eyes begin to withdraw from the outside, that very day:
On every leaf prayer sways
Evening has begun to hum
Now the time to go home has drawn near.

Prayer is the mid-station when one begins to turn from the outer towards home and has not yet arrived — it is the bridge. For those lodged in the world, prayer does not arise in the heart. For those who have reached Paramatma, prayer is no longer needed. Prayer is the bridge to come from the outer to the inner; from the foreign to the native; from alienation to one’s own nature.

On every leaf prayer sways
Evening has begun to hum
The twilight of the world has come. And the twilight of the world is the dawn of Nirvana.

If only I could still the bells of the clouds
From ringing at the feet of the east wind
Yellow lights have begun to glimmer
In the village of lighted lamps
Darkness swings the cradle
Memory has begun to call me home.

Today’s sutras are Mahavira’s ultimate conclusions. These sutras are of Nirvana. These sutras are the last statements of one who has come home. These are of such a kind that they cannot actually be said — at most one can attempt to say them. They cannot be expressed; language is too small, words too narrow. And the vast must be brought by means of narrow words.

Therefore do not clutch these words too tightly. Understand them with great sympathy, with deep reverence, remembering the incapacity of language.

There is a language of mathematics where two and two are four. There it is simply two and two are four, and nothing else. All is straight and clear.

But the experience of truth is such that there is no experience in this world similar to it. Whatever has been seen without bears no alignment with what is seen within. Of all that has been traveled in the foreign, the experience of returning to one’s homeland cannot be said in the language of the foreign.

So this is the effort to say nature in the tongue of alienation.

Rahim says: ‘Rahinman baat agamya ki, kahan-sunan ki naahin; je jaanat te kahat nahin, kahat te jaanat naahin.’ There is something of the Unapproachable about which saying and hearing are not possible. Those who know, do not say. Those who say, do not know.

This does not mean that the knowers have never spoken; they have. And even after speaking, what they had to say could not be said. They spoke — then said, we have not been able to say. Again and again they spoke. Mahavira, all his life, spoke of Nirvana by many, many ways, using numerous hints — but how to say that which is experienced when words fall into emptiness? How to say that which is known when language is transcended? How to say that which is known as you come inside the house?

Language is for everything outside the house. Language is of the marketplace. Language exists to speak to the other. When you are alone, utterly alone, arrived in your most intrinsic nature, where there is no other, language has no purpose. There is no way to speak there. There is supreme silence there.

When you go out of yourself, mingle with the other, relate — then speech is needed. So it is not that those who have known did not speak, but in speaking they could not speak it. Speaking and speaking, in the end they said: forgive us, we could not say what we were saying.

Yet among those who have spoken, Mahavira’s statement is supremely scientific. To be scientific is difficult; but if all statements are weighed, Mahavira’s statement is ultra-scientific. If truth is seen, then every statement is far from it. And among statements, his is the nearest.

The first sutra:

‘Na vi dukkhaṁ na vi sukkhaṁ, na vi pīḍā ṇeva vijjade bāhā.
Na vi maraṇaṁ na vi jaṇaṇaṁ, tattheva ya hoi ṇivvāṇaṁ.’

‘Where there is neither sorrow nor joy, neither pain nor hindrance, neither death nor birth — there is Nirvana.’

But is this saying anything? It is saying by negation — by the via negativa. What is not there has been said; what is, has not been said. What it is cannot be said.

It is like telling of a healthy man: he has no TB, no cancer, no malaria, no plague — he is healthy. Is this a definition of health? Is health merely the absence of disease? No — health is much more than the absence of disease. Health has its own positivity, its own presence.

Consider it: the absence of a headache does not necessarily mean the head is healthy. Just as headache takes you toward the negative, toward pain, so the health of the head will carry you toward delight. The non-existence of pain is the middle, merely the midpoint. Pain is one extreme; health, another. Between them lies only this much that there is no pain.

If someone asks you, how are you? You say, I am not unhappy. He too will be a little concerned. You are not saying you are happy; you are only saying you are not unhappy. It is not necessary that you are happy. The absence of sorrow is a precondition for happiness, but not the definition of happiness. Yet we are compelled.

That supreme truth we can say only thus: the world is not. Nirvana is not the world. In all these sutras, in different ways, Mahavira says only this: the world is not there.

There there is neither sorrow nor joy. Joy and sorrow are the world. The dual is the world. The constant struggle between two is the world. Therefore sannyasi means one who has learned to be alone. It does not mean he has fled to the forest and become solitary. In this world there is no way to become solitary.

If you live in the forest you will not be alone either. Sit under a tree — a crow will drop its dung; a relation of anger is made. Sit under a tree — the tree will give shade; a relation of attachment is made. You will come and sit beneath the same tree again and again. And if a woodcutter comes someday to cut that tree, you will be ready to fight: do not cut it. This is my tree.

Where will you flee? Wherever you go, the world is the world — there are always two.

So sannyas means the capacity to be alone. Not to be alone, but the capacity for aloneness. Wherever you are, let the remembrance remain: ‘I am alone.’ Then in the marketplace you are a sannyasi. As a householder you are a sannyasi. Wife, children, shop, bazaar — and you are a sannyasi. Let this much remembrance remain: ‘I am alone.’

Stop the habit of dividing yourself into two.

‘Where there is neither sorrow nor joy, neither pain nor hindrance, neither death nor birth — there is Nirvana.’

Two rivers, shoreless, flow toward opposite ends
How long shall I be borne along by both currents together
O my helmsman!
Two heavy boats go in separate directions
How long shall I row both at once
With a single oar of flesh!
Two doors open on far horizons
How long shall I straddle both thresholds
At the same time!
My story is small, my sequence of events small
Like a whirl of wind, a momentary history
You have broken it into shattered, disjointed pieces
O invisible contradiction!

Such is the world — as if a man rides two boats at once, and the two boats go in opposite directions. As if a man tries to enter through two doors at once, and the doors are as far apart as earth and sky. As if one at once wants to be born and also wants to escape death — he desires two opposites and is entangled between them, harassed — such is the world.

All our desires are opposites. Understand this a little. This understanding will light a lamp within you. On the one hand you want others to honor you; on the other, you want that none should insult you. Ordinarily it seems there is no contradiction between these two.

But there is. You are riding two boats.

Analyze it: you want others to honor you. By wanting this you have given power over yourself to others. The other becomes powerful, you become weak. Insult has already begun. You have already accepted insult. The other may do it later; you have begun to be insulted now. Is this any way to be honored — where the other becomes more powerful than you?

To desire honor from another means you have put in his hand the power to insult you too. And surely, he will relish insulting you more — for by insulting you he can feel honored. He too wants honor, just as you do. Whom do you honor? You beg honor. He too begs honor. If he honors you, who will honor him?

It is competition. You are rivals. When you beg honor from another you have given him the capacity, the key in his hand, to insult you. Now on ninety-nine of a hundred occasions he will seek some way to insult you. If by compulsion he cannot, he will honor you. People honor by compulsion; insult seems natural. To bend appears a compulsion; to be stiff, natural.

The very moment you sought honor, you handed over the capacity to insult. And the other is also engaged in the desire for honor. He too wants to draw a line longer than yours. As you want, so he wants.

Now the trouble begins. If he honors you, still you will not be honored — because the one who honors is more powerful than you; and if he insults, you will certainly be hurt.

You asked for wealth — you proclaimed your poverty. Only the poor ask for wealth. What we do not have is what we ask for.

I have heard: a wealthy man once said to Sheikh Farid, this is a strange thing. When I come to you I always speak of knowledge, of Atman, of Paramatma. But whenever you come to me you always ask for money. So who is worldly?

Sheikh Farid said, I am poor, so I ask for money. You are ignorant, so you ask for knowledge. Whatever one does not have, that one asks for. I remember you only when there is trouble in the village — a school to open, a famine falls, someone is dying and needs medicine — then I come. I am lowly, I am poor. My village is poor and wretched. Naturally I do not come to you to talk of Brahman and Paramatma — that is with us.

When you come to me, you do not talk of money because you have money. You talk of Brahman, which you do not have.

Consider this a little. From whom you ask wealth, from him you have declared you are poor. The one who begs money is poor. You ask for position — you have declared you are inferior. Psychologists say those who crave position suffer from inferiority complex. All politicians suffer from inferiority complex — they must; there is no other way. When you want to prove that you are powerful, you have already assumed within that you are powerless. Now, by some means, it must be proved that it is not so.

The weak want to prove bravery. The coward wants to prove he is a hero. The ignorant wants to prove he is wise. We are engaged only in striving for what we are not. And what we are not begins to reveal itself more through our striving. Pain goes on increasing.

We ask for birth, for life — and we fear death. We cry: not death! Let everything else be, but not death. We do not even wish to speak of death. But with birth we have asked for death — for whatever begins must end.

Death is not the opposite of birth; it is the natural culmination of birth. Whatever begins must end. Whatever is made will be unmade. The day you build a house, that very day you begin the preparation for a ruin. Ruin will be. When you are building, you are building a ruin — because in the making is already the beginning of the falling. You gave birth to a child — you gave birth to a death. With birth you brought death into the world.

Two rivers, shoreless, flow toward opposite ends
How long shall I be borne along by both currents together
O my helmsman!
Two heavy boats go in separate directions
How long shall I row both at once
With a single oar of flesh!
— One oar, two boats, going opposite ways!
Two doors open on far horizons
How long shall I straddle both thresholds
At the same time!
My story is small, my sequence of events small
Like a whirl of wind, a momentary history
You have broken it into shattered, disjointed pieces
O invisible contradiction!

What we call the world is contradiction; and the one who has gone beyond contradiction attains to Nirvana.

So Mahavira’s first sutra is: beyond opposition lies Nirvana.

‘Where there is neither sorrow nor joy, neither pain nor hindrance, neither death nor birth — there is Nirvana.’

Where there is no opposition, no dual; where there are not two, no twoness; where there is no duality — where there is Advaita — there is Nirvana. Where only One remains, ultimately only One remains — there is Nirvana. So long as opposition lives within you, so long as you desire the two, so long as there is struggle and duality in your desires — how will you be at peace? What joy then? What calm? What repose? Until then there can be no rest.

The error is in your asking. It is not that what you ask does not come, hence you are miserable. In your asking you have asked for misery. Often people grow weary of the world — yet the reason for their weariness is wrong.

A Jain muni came to see me, five years ago. I asked him, why did you renounce the world? He said: in the world nothing is attained. There is no essence.

Because nothing is attained in the world, there is no essence — therefore you renounced? Then the desire for attainment has now been turned toward liberation. Now there it will be attained. Turned toward Paramatma, toward Atman. The greed has not gone, the craving has not gone — only the direction has changed. Where there is craving there is the world.

So this sannyas is not a transcendence of the world, it is an extension of the world. Now this man is harassed by a new greed. I asked, why have you come to me? He said, I do not find peace. I said, the one who renounced the world — the moment he renounced, peace should have been instantaneous. After renouncing, what remains to disturb? If a worldly person says, I am restless, it is understandable. You say you are restless? Then what difference is there?

Consider this again. The world has not been dropped. Duality still remains. The perspective of gain and loss still remains. Things should be attained — and they are not. Where the mood of ‘it should be attained’ arises, the shadow of ‘it is not attained’ also falls. Where expectation comes, failure is bound to come — sooner or later. You have sown the seed; how long before you reap the crop? If even sannyasis are restless, if even monks and sages are restless, then what distinction do you make between the worldly and the monk? Both are restless.

Do not leave the world because nothing is attained there. The mistake is not in the obtaining; the mistake is in the asking. The mistake has occurred in your craving, in your desiring. There you have asked for duality. The world is the expansion of that duality.

Understand it thus: the world is not the cause of craving; craving is the cause of the world. If you think the world causes craving, the arithmetic of your life will go wrong. Then you will be engaged in leaving the world, and craving will not be left. See it so: craving is the world, so that craving may drop. If craving drops, the world drops.

Mahavira says:

‘Na vi indiya uvasaggā, na vi moho vimhayo ṇa ṇiddā ya.
Na ya tiṇhā ṇeva chuhā, tattheva ya hoi ṇivvāṇaṁ.’

‘Where there are no senses and no afflictions, no delusion and no astonishment, no sleep and no thirst, no hunger — there is Nirvana.’

Here is something subtle. If you do not keep it in mind, you may forget. Mahavira is not saying that if you abolish hunger, if you end thirst, if you end sleep, then Nirvana will happen. Do not hold it so, as the Jain monks have held it and wandered for centuries.

Mahavira is not saying that if you abandon sleep, Nirvana will be attained. He is saying: when Nirvana is attained, there is no sleep. There is a great difference between the two. They seem similar, so the mistake is very natural. Those who have erred are forgivable, because the mistake is very fine — a hair’s breadth.

Mahavira is defining Nirvana. He says: Nirvana is such a state of consciousness that there is neither sorrow nor joy, no sleep, no hunger, no thirst — because there are no senses there, no body there; hence the properties bound to the body are not there.

But you can take the reverse meaning. You can take it as if Mahavira is teaching the practice of Nirvana. This is only the definition of Nirvana. He is not saying: if you renounce sleep, renounce food, then Nirvana will be attained. If you renounce food, you will wither; Nirvana will not be attained. If you renounce sleep, you will stagger half-drowsy through the day; Nirvana will not be attained. You will become sad — the great bliss will not happen.

If you try to make yourself indifferent to both joy and sorrow you will become hard. Your sensitivity will be lost; Nirvana will not be attained.

These things happen as a result of Nirvana. Do not start reducing them beforehand. Else you will have tied the ox behind the cart. Keep the ox in front of the cart and the cart will move. If you tie the ox behind, neither the cart will move nor the ox. Though you are not doing much differently — some keep the ox before the cart, you have put the cart before the ox — yet the difference, though slight, is fatal.

All these are the consequences of Nirvana, not the means to it. Let them come following Nirvana; do not place them ahead of it, as the Jain monks have done. They think: let us fast, because Mahavira says there hunger does not arise. If hunger does not arise there, then how will you fast there? Think a little! Fasting is possible only where hunger arises. Mahavira says there sleep does not come — so stay awake, keep standing.

I came to a village; a great wave of fame surrounded a sannyasi. I asked, what is the matter? For ten years he has been standing. ‘Khade Shri Baba’ is his name — Standing Saint. He does not sleep. I went to see him — the man is almost in a corpse-like condition. For one who has not slept for ten years and has stood — because he is afraid that if he sits or lies down, sleep may come — he keeps standing. The legs have become like elephant legs; all the blood of the body has shrunk and settled in the legs. The legs are swollen. Leaning on poles, ropes tied from the ceiling support him — with that support he stands.

This man has put a noose around his neck.

And a noose more difficult. The gallows finishes in ten seconds; this one has hung on the gallows for ten years. He cannot sit, he cannot lie. And much respect flows to him — so the ego swells.

Look into his eyes — in animals’ eyes some little intelligence appears; not even that appears in his. How could it appear? For intelligence, rest is needed. This man is not taking rest. Inside, he has become like vegetables. He is no longer a man; he is a cauliflower! There is no brain left in him now. The subtle fibers of the brain, deprived of rest, snap.

That is why often no talent is seen in sadhus. You worship them for other reasons, not for talent. No creative energy appears in their lives, no aura.

You worship for other reasons. You say, this man fasted for a hundred days, therefore we worship. To fast a hundred days — does that require intelligence? In truth, the more foolish a man is, the easier he can do such a thing. The more obstinate, wooden, egoistic — the easier.

An intelligent man will understand the needs of the body, the needs of the mind; he will live intelligently, with restraint. This is intemperance. Some are gross — who go on eating; they live only to eat. And some are grossly dull — who starve themselves. They live only to kill themselves with hunger.

Understand Mahavira. He is defining Nirvana. Consider it thus: someone asks Meera, what happened to you upon meeting the Beloved? She says, an upsurge welled, I danced, songs sprang forth — ‘having tied anklets to my feet, Meera danced.’ You think: good, then let us learn to dance — we will meet the Beloved.

But there are many dancers. Many dance — yet no Beloved is attained. If dancing brought the Beloved, dancers would have attained. So many are going ‘ta-ta, thei-thei’ — nothing is happening.

What Meera is saying is definition. Meera is saying: upon attaining the Beloved, the heart blossomed; dance was born, the stream of rasa flowed, a Ganga moved, anklets rang. That is the cart behind the ox. You saw and said, ah! then I too can learn to dance. By learning to dance you do not meet the Beloved; by meeting the Beloved, dance happens.

Understand Mahavira’s definition of Nirvana exactly so. How much suffering the Jain monk takes upon himself — unnecessarily. What an announcement of woodenness! Look at Mahavira’s image. And stand a Jain monk beside it — you will understand. The form of Mahavira’s image is altogether different, the color altogether different. It is said that as beautiful a man as Mahavira is rare upon the earth. And look at the monk — he has made ugliness his practice.

It does not appear that Mahavira tormented his body. That he went beyond the body — yes — but that he tortured it — no. And that which you torture, you cannot go beyond. To keep torturing it, you must remain near it. Move a little away and you fear the body may slip out of the rein, escape your control.

One who suppresses sexuality will sit right upon sexuality. The moment he steps down, he is toppled. Sexuality sits upon his chest. So he cannot step down. One who suppresses anger cannot move an inch away from anger. Move away and anger appears. The flames flare within, so he remains somehow pressing them down. He stands along with anger. One who suppresses sex stands along with sex.

‘Where there are no senses and no afflictions, no delusion and no astonishment, no sleep and no thirst, no hunger — there is Nirvana.’

Mahavira is saying: when you reach Nirvana, how will you recognize it has arrived? He is giving its signs. There you will find neither sorrow nor joy; there you will find neither pain nor hindrance; there you will find neither death nor birth — know that home has come. There you will not find senses, nor the torment of the senses; you will not find delusion nor astonishment; neither sleep nor thirst nor hunger — then know, home has come.

When a person, descending deeper and deeper into meditation, enters within the Atman, suddenly he finds that here the body is not. This does not mean the body is gone. Mahavira, even after attaining Nirvana, remained in the body for forty years. For forty or forty-two years he used the body — and used it as it should be used. We do not use it so even in forty births; he used it in forty years. Through him, a stream of benediction flowed. Shreyas descended upon the earth. Many flowers blossomed in the souls of people. Much rain fell because of him; and seeds long buried through births sprouted.

Even after the attainment of Nirvana, the body remained for forty or forty-two years; the senses were there. But Mahavira says: the state of Nirvana is an inner state in which you find, ah! the body has fallen far behind; the body is left far away. The body remained at the periphery, and you came to the center. The senses too remained there upon the body. Naturally, when the body is left behind, the hunger of the body, thirst, sleep and waking — all are left behind. Suddenly you find within you a consciousness awake twenty-four hours, which needs no sleep — which, even before, had never slept. You did not remember; you did not recognize it. It had never slept. It cannot sleep. Sleep is not its quality.

Hence Krishna says: ‘ya nishā sarva-bhūtānām, tasyām jāgarti sanyamī’ — in that very night in which all beings sleep, the disciplined one is awake. This does not mean the disciplined one paces like a madman in his room, or sits cross-legged upon the cot lest he sleep.

Though such foolish ascetics exist, who fear descending into sleep — because the moment they do, the discipline they have somehow managed breaks. All day they did not look at women — what will they do in the dream? In the dream they have no control. The eyes close, and all the women from whom they turned away all day arrive — more beautiful, more adorned. As beautiful as the women of dream are, no woman is in fact. As beautiful as the men of dream are, no man actually is.

Where will you run? In sleep you cannot even run. And in sleep you forget all scriptures: that you are Jain or Hindu or Muslim, worldly or sannyasi — all gone!

So a man fears sleep. But one who fears sleep does not attain Nirvana.

Mahavira says: one who attains Nirvana knows that there is no sleep here. Here, sleep never happens. At this depth, sleep never entered. This stratum remains untouched by sleep. It is virginal. Upon it never came sleep, nor dream descended. The senses do not reach here. The body does not reach here. This is beyond body and senses.

This is experience — and the interpretation of experience. And when you enter this experience, these are sign-posts for you: from here, know that Nirvana begins. It is not being said to you: begin to do this. Give up food, give up sleep, sit down. That would be madness.

Where you are — at the body. Consider this: a man stands just outside his house’s wall and thinks, this is my home. When the sun comes, his head is burned; when it rains, he is drenched and shivers. But he assumes: just outside the wall is my home.

Mahavira says: your home, your inner house — there neither rain falls nor sun beats. Move a little within. Leave the periphery and walk toward the center. As you come into the shadow of the center you suddenly find yourself safe — safe from all hindrances. All those events happen at the periphery.

On the surface of the ocean storms come, gales blow — but in the depths of the ocean no storm ever comes, no gale. As you go deeper — those who explore the ocean’s depths say unique experiences occur. One experience is: there is no storm, no wind, no wave — absolute hush.

As you go deeper — the Pacific is five miles deep. Beyond half a mile the sun’s rays do not reach. At five miles depths they have never reached. From eternity a dense darkness sleeps there. No news of the surface ever reaches. Wind, storm, cloud, rain, sun, heat, cold — nothing is known there. The seasons do not change there. Ever the same.

The depth of the Pacific is nothing compared to your own depth. When you descend within, no hunger ever reaches there, no sleep ever reaches there, no sorrow, no joy ever reaches there. These are mile-stones.

And if not today, then tomorrow, you must step away from the periphery — because the body is momentary, it will die. Those who stand on the periphery tremble — death makes them tremble. It is a great wonder: you never die, yet you tremble and fear. It is like seeing a rope in the dark and running away thinking it a snake — sweating, panting, the heart pounding. Someone shouts ‘Snake!’ in a cinema hall — you run. It was only a word; there was no fire. But the feeling entered within — fire! Then even if one stops you, you will not stop.

What we call our life now is life at the periphery — very incomplete, very fragmentary. We have assumed this fragment to be the whole. That is the trouble. Hence fear is natural. There death will come, sorrow will come, old age will come; the body will grow worn; you will tremble.

Mahavira is not saying cut this body away, destroy it. He says: use the body. As this body becomes a vehicle for going into the world, so too can it become a vehicle for the inward journey. Whether you go to steal or to meditate in a temple — the body carries you to both. Whether you go to murder or to embrace someone with love — the body becomes the vehicle in both. The body is an amazing mechanism. You have learned only one trick — to go out. It is not the body’s fault.

Perhaps you know that when Henry Ford made his first car it had no reverse gear. It did not occur to him it might need to go backward. The first model only went forward. To turn it one had to take a long loop. Half a mile loop, then return to turn. Then he understood this is not right — the car should also return. Then came reverse gear.

You are almost Henry Ford’s first model. You know only one gear — go! And it is not that the other gear is not within you — it is. You do not know how to engage it. You do not know this mechanism can return within. It can take a dip into itself. You have only dived into others — and formed that habit.

The meaning of meditation is only this: the reverse gear — the process of returning inward, the process of going into oneself.

This body will go. Before it goes, ride its wave and make the inner journey. This steed will die. Become the rider. Make the inner journey.

What will you do when the spell of words has ceased to sound?
Then where, to which shore, for whom
What references will go as lamps?
When the sky of victory falls to pieces
What will you do then?
One deep resonance, unruly winds
Whether the footfalls of headlines arrive or not
One blood-drained word
Whose meaning we might not understand
Or perhaps we might
Clouds gather and do not rain — let them not
Whether the seasons touch us from their tender angle or not
Whether we yearn, whether we yearn, whether we yearn
But when all yearnings have run dry
What will you do then?
And when the saffron has shed
What will you do then?

This will happen. The saffron will shed. This veena will fall silent. These strings will break. They are made to break. On the periphery, all is built only to be unbuilt. At the center it is eternal. Do not forget the center by living on the periphery. Live on the periphery — but remember the center. Live on the periphery — but sometimes slip into the center. Live on the periphery — but let the remembrance of the center not be lost. Do not let the link with the center break.

The saffron will shed. What will you do then? You will repent much, you will weep. But nothing comes by weeping. Nothing happens. Awake! Before the saffron falls, before the lamp of life is extinguished, see the eternal lamp of life which never goes out. Join yourself to it. Use this wave. This wave is not your enemy; it is your friend. By it both journeys are completed — of the world and of truth.

Mahavira gives only mile-stones. Till you know the nectar within yourself, you are in the charnel ground, in the cemetery.

Ibrahim was a faqir. If someone asked him: where is the village, the settlement? He would say: go to the left; do not go to the right, you will go astray. From the left you will reach the settlement. The poor traveler walked, and after four or five miles he reached the cremation ground. He came back in great anger: what kind of man are you! You sent me to the cremation ground. I asked for the village!

Ibrahim said: You asked for the settlement — that is why I sent you there. What people call settlement is ever being ruined. Each day someone dies. The one who settles in that cremation ground, he truly settles. ‘Settlement!’ I have never seen anyone ruined there. So when you asked for the settlement I sent you there.

Kabir says: this is a village of corpses.

So long as we are on the periphery, we are corpses. If we have bound ourselves only to our mortal form, we are corpses. And we tremble, we fear. Fear is natural; it will not go.

People come to me and say: there is great fear. I ask: of what? They say: of nothing in particular — just fear. True — it will be so. They say: somehow this fear should go. It will not go like this. Only if you are transformed will it go. Only when the taste of the immortal is known will it go. This fear is of death.

It is the fear of death — and you do not want to die. And you do not know that you cannot die. What a tangle! The one who is willing to die attains that which never dies. Upon attaining that, fear vanishes.

‘Erase your self if you seek any station,
For the grain, mixed with dust, becomes a garden of flowers.’

On the periphery one must die —
‘For the grain, mixed with dust, becomes a garden of flowers.’

The seed dies — it dies at the periphery. The shell breaks — and instantly there is sprouting, new life. And from one seed, millions of seeds are born. The seed that was closed opens in thousands of flowers, laughing and dancing.

‘For the grain, mixed with dust, becomes a garden of flowers.
Erase your self if you seek any station.’

If you wish to be something, learn to die. If you seek any true station, if you truly wish to be, to have being, to have existence — die. Die on the periphery so that you can be at the center. Dive from the periphery and emerge at the center. Leave the periphery, slide to the center.

‘Where there is neither karma nor nokarma, neither worry nor the violent inwardness of lament and rage, neither dharma-dhyana nor shukla-dhyana — there is Nirvana.’

‘Na vi kammaṁ ṇokammaṁ, na vi cintā ṇeva aṭṭaruddāṇi.
Na vi dhamma-sukka-zhāṇe, tattheva ya hoi ṇivvāṇaṁ.’

Where there are no karmas, and none of the foundational chains of karmas — no-karmas. Where there is neither karma nor the subtle cravings that craft karmas. Where there is no worry, no brooding, no arta and raudra dhyanas.

Right — arta and raudra dhyanas cannot be there: they are states of a mind full of grief and anger. But Mahavira says: neither dharma-dhyana nor shukla-dhyana — where the ultimate states of meditation too have been left behind. Savikalpa Samadhi is left behind; nirvikalpa Samadhi is left behind. Samadhi itself is left behind. Where you are only pure — and nothing else. No wave, no modification — nothing. Only your throbbing life is — there is Nirvana.

Not only the world has to be left, Dharma too has to be left. Mahavira says: dharma-dhyana, shukla-dhyana — shukla-dhyana is his ultimate word for meditation — where meditation becomes so pure that no object remains; nirvikalpa meditation. But Mahavira says: that too is left. That too is something. That too is a designation. You are doing something — meditating. Something is being experienced. And experience means there is the other.

Here I look at you — then you are separate from me. Then you enter within — in dharma-dhyana one practices noble sentiments and sees noble visions; what Buddha calls brahmaviharas, Mahavira calls twelve reflections — one experiences those. Yet objects remain — there are still two. Then in nirvikalpa meditation, a state arises where no option remains — but there is still a subtle line of experience — a great joy.

So Mahavira says: where all experiences end, where only the experiencer remains without experience; where only pure consciousness remains and no object is left, where even sat-chit-ananda does not remain — there is Nirvana.

Bear in mind: wealth, position, prestige hinder — and charity, compassion, Dharma hinder too. Leave position and prestige, do charity and Dharma — then leave charity and Dharma and go within. The outer hinders, and the inner begins to hinder too. First leave the outer and go within — then leave the inner too. Leave all. Bring such a moment that only you remain. Even for a moment if this moment comes, the darkness that has surrounded you for countless births vanishes in a flash.

‘I could not reach my destination in time,
For the guides on the way surrounded me.’

The bandits on the road are looting anyway — and the guides, too, plunder.

Anger is robbing you — and one day meditation begins to rob you too. Violence has been robbing you — and one day nonviolence robs you as well. Keep in mind: ahimsa is only a device to dissolve violence. Meditation is only a device to dissolve the restlessness of the mind. When the restlessness is gone, throw this medicine into the trash. Do not carry it. Only when even meditation is no longer needed has meditation truly happened. Use the thorn to remove the thorn — then throw both away.

Naturally this is a very long journey. No journey can be greater. Man has reached the moon, will reach Mars, then farther stars. Perhaps one day reach the periphery of this existence — if there is a periphery. Yet even that journey is not so vast as the journey into oneself. Beyond all experience, where only the light of consciousness remains; where not even the least shadow of the other falls; where, in absolute singleness, only you are.

This will happen slowly, slowly. With great patience — not by impatience. Do all the efforts you can — yet only by your efforts it will not happen. Doing and doing all efforts, there comes a moment when even your efforts begin to feel like a hindrance. Doing and doing, one day even effort drops — then it happens.

Kabir has said: ‘Dheere-dheere re mana, dheere sab kuch hoy; maali sinche sau ghada, ritu aaye phal hoy.’

Slowly, slowly, O mind. Everything happens slowly. And by the gardener pouring a hundred pitchers, the fruits do not come.

The gardener may pour a hundred pitchers — the fruit comes when the season arrives. This does not mean the gardener should not water; if he does not, then even when the season arrives, fruits will not set. Let the gardener water, but let him not be in haste. Let there be labor and waiting. Labor and patience.

Slowly, slowly, O mind — slowly all things happen. And this journey is very slow because the distance is infinite. Between your periphery and your center lies the greatest distance in this world. On your periphery is the world; at your center is Paramatma. Naturally the distance is enormous. On your periphery is the seen; at your center the unseen. On your periphery is form; at your center the formless. On your periphery the qualified; at your center the unqualified.

The journey is vast — immense. An infinite journey. Infinite patience will be needed.

‘The place which only the maharshis attain — that place is Nirvana. It is unobstructed, it is siddhi, it is the forefront of the world, it is kshema, shiv, and unassailable.’

‘Ṇivvāṇaṁ ti avāhaṁti, siddhī logaggameva ya.
Khemaṁ sivaṁ aṇābāhaṁ, jaṁ caraṁti mahesiṇo.’

Only the maharshis attain this place — those who have utterly purified their meditation. In whose meditation there remains not the least taint — not of this world, not of the other.

‘The place which only the maharshis attain — that place is Nirvana. It is unobstructed.’

The definition continues. Before Mahavira departs, he gives final directives regarding the ultimate state.

‘Unobstructed’ — it has no boundary.

‘Siddhi’ — arriving there one feels: arrived, reached. There one comes to know: there is nowhere left to go. There one knows: ah! the journey is complete. A sense of ah! All is fulfilled, perfected. Nothing remains to become, nothing remains to go. We have returned home.

‘Siddhi, lokagra’ — the one who arrives at this state is established at the forefront of the world. He reaches that place where we have been running to reach — he becomes first.

‘Kshema’ — there is the feeling of benediction. The feeling of supreme health.

‘Shiv’ — great purity, fragrance, aroma. A profound sanctity. As if lotuses upon lotuses, thousands of lotuses, blossom upon the breath within.

‘And unassailable’ — in this state no obstacle ever arises. None can. It is unconditional. None can shake it. No hindrance can be introduced. It is beyond hindrances — unassailable.

‘As a gourd smeared with clay sinks in water, and as soon as the clay coating is removed it begins to float.’

Try it sometime. If you smear a gourd (tumbi) with clay it will sink in water — from the weight of the clay. That which is not made to drown, drowns. The gourd is used to float with — one ties it on to swim. The gourd which ferries others across drowns itself if it gets a layer of mud.

Mahavira says: by the coating of body we have sunk. The clay has sunk us. Those who were not made to sink have sunk. Those whose nature was to rise, by whose help others would rise and cross — those ferrymen — they have sunk.

The gourd sinks by the coating of clay.

‘As a gourd smeared with clay sinks in water, and as soon as the clay coating is removed it begins to float…’

Just so is the difference between you and the accomplished ones. Between you and the Buddhas. Between you and the Jinas. Just this: you too are a gourd — like them. You are smeared with clay and have sunk in the water. They recognized the clay as other than themselves. They broke identification. The clay slipped off — the gourd rose.

When the gourd rises in water it settles on the surface — at the foremost. Thus, Mahavira says, those who are sunk in this world are like gourds smeared with clay — they sink. When the clay drops, when identification drops, when this delusion breaks, the soul rises and moves.

And this Mahavira calls lokagra — the ultimate station. Where the world ends, there the accomplished settle. These are only symbols. Take their meaning; do not begin drawing maps from them.

‘As a gourd smeared with clay sinks in water and, with the clay gone, floats; or as the castor flower, when dried by the sun, bursts and its seeds fly upward; or as the nature of fire and smoke is to move upward; or as an arrow loosed from a bow goes on by the momentum of the prior impulse — so too is the motion of the siddha beings by nature upward.’

Understand this announcement of Nirvana — that home has drawn near — when your movement begins to be upward. From violence toward ahimsa. From anger toward compassion. From restlessness toward stillness. From matter toward Paramatma. From wealth toward meditation. Then know that the movement upward has begun. The gourd is slipping free of the clay. If not today, tomorrow it will rest at the lokagra — there where there is nowhere further to go.

‘Laua eraṇḍa-phale, aggi-dhūme usu dhaṇuvi-mukke.
Gai puvvapaogenaṁ, evaṁ siddhāṇa vi gatī tu.’

‘The Paramatma-tattva is unassailable, beyond senses, incomparable, without merit or sin, without return, eternal, unmoving and unsupported.’

What is this Paramatma-tattva, this Nirvana, this return home? What can be said of it?

Only this much: ‘The Paramatma-tattva is unassailable’ — no obstacle can ever fall upon it. There is no opposite to it that can obstruct it. It is beyond all. Nothing can reach it. All things fall short of it. Whatever could hinder is left far behind. It is beyond the senses, for it is beyond the body.

‘Incomparable’ — understand this word. Incomparable means: like nothing you have known; like nothing you have seen. Neither heard by ears nor seen by eyes. That which never came into your experience. You have had many experiences of joy and sorrow, success and failure, tasteful and tasteless, beautiful and ugly — but this is incomparable. Not even can it be said ‘it is beautiful’ — for then you will be deluded that it is like the beautiful you have known. No — it is like none of your experiences. It is only like itself. Incomparable means: like itself. It admits of no comparison. It is immeasurable by comparison.

‘Without merit or sin, without return, eternal, unmoving, unsupported.’

We understand only those words that belong to our experience.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went one day to a tavern — boasting, as is his habit. He boasted before the owner: I can recognize every kind of liquor by taste; and not only that — if you mix even ten or five liquors in one glass, I can tell you which were mixed.

The owner said: wait. He went in and brought a glass mixing martini, brandy, rum, whisky — whatever he had. Mulla drank and named each one. The owner was astonished. He said, once more. He went in and brought a glass filled only with water. Mulla drank, stood restless — nothing came to mind. It was pure water. He no longer remembered the taste of pure water.

He said only this much: I do not know what this is — but I can tell you one thing: this will not sell.

All our experiences are of liquors. The taste of pure water we have forgotten — the taste of consciousness we have forgotten. We know intoxications; we have forgotten awareness. We know derangements; we have forgotten health. We know the mean, the futile, the essence-less; we have forgotten the essence.

Therefore Mahavira says: incomparable. By none of your experiences can you judge it. Do not think of it with the help of your experiences. That is the danger. If a knower says ‘great joy’, we think it will be our joy multiplied: a million-fold, billion-fold — but still joy. That is the mistake.

His compulsion is there — what can he say? In which words? He says ‘great joy’ — and even then trouble arises — for you think only of your joys. You can only multiply your joys — but your joy is not joy. Multiply it a million times and still it is not joy.

Say ‘bliss’ — and trouble. For the bliss you have known are strange blisses. Someone gambles at cards and says: what bliss! What to do now? Someone is drinking wine and says: what bliss! Someone is watching a courtesan’s dance and says: what bliss! Now if we say Paramatma is bliss, this man will think: perhaps it is like watching a courtesan, like drinking wine, like gambling — only bigger.

But the difference between your bliss and a siddha’s is qualitative, not quantitative. Not a difference of measure — a difference of kind. It is incomparable.

Hence Mahavira says rightly: it is incomparable. Do not think of it by any measure of your own. None of your experiences can become a standard.

This Nirvana is known only when it happens. Its taste is recognized only when tasted.

So, go to the presence of the wise carrying only thirst — that is enough. Listening to their words, experiencing their lives, sitting in their presence — take from them only thirst; that is enough. Because of them, if you become impatient, urgent to search — that is enough. Do not take doctrine from them — doctrines cannot be taken. Do not take scripture from them. If you make a scripture, you have gone astray. From them take a living thirst — and set out.

The clouds drum dhin-dhin dha, thunder-thunder
The lightning flashed
The clouds thundered, the throats of the frogs opened
The heart of the earth was washed
The clouds thundered, sandalwood became mud
The kadamba bloomed
On every twig, like balls, bloomed the kadamba,
Bloomed the kadamba
Who knows since when it has been raining so
For nothing you have been gazing with hungry eyes
Who knows since when you have been thirsting
The heart says: touch the kadamba,
Bloomed the kadamba
The clouds drum dhin-dhin dha, thunder-thunder
The lightning flashed
The clouds thundered

If, in the presence of the wise, something like this happens — clouds thunder, lightning flashes, some unique sound is heard, a call of the invisible begins to pull, a challenge comes — then do not only gaze with greedy eyes.

Bloomed the kadamba
Who knows since when it has been raining so
For nothing you have been gazing with hungry eyes
Who knows since when you have been thirsting
The heart says: touch the kadamba,
Bloomed the kadamba

When this yearning rises, this tide of longing arises — do not stop. Break all chains and go. Drop all bonds and go. Do not even look back. If this call is received from the wise, it is enough.

But people are strange. They take scriptures, not thirst. They take doctrines, not the challenge of truth.

It is a unique event — the most unique event of this world — when someone becomes siddha or buddha. The unparalleled happening of this world is someone attaining to jinahood, becoming a Jina. Near that unparalleled happening, bring your extinguished lamps to be lit. Give your heart the chance to throb again with the longing for the unknown. Then perhaps someday you will know what Nirvana is. There is no way to tell it.

This is not a matter of writing, it is a matter of seeing.

You will know only when you see. Do not get entangled in writings. Do not waste time. Enough has been wasted.

I have spoken on Mahavira’s sutras in this hope — that some inner tone may sound in you, you may begin to long, you may walk. Attainment is certain. You will attain — only walk. If you do not walk, you will remain deprived of that which has always been yours. If you walk, you will find that what is found is not something from outside — it was yours. It has always been yours. You were only forgetful, lost. You received news of your own treasure.

The clouds drum dhin-dhin dha, thunder-thunder
The lightning flashed
The clouds thundered, the throats of the frogs opened
The heart of the earth was washed
The clouds thundered, sandalwood became mud
The kadamba bloomed
On every twig, like balls, bloomed the kadamba,
Bloomed the kadamba
Who knows since when it has been raining so
For nothing you have been gazing with hungry eyes
Who knows since when you have been thirsting
The heart says: touch the kadamba,
Bloomed the kadamba.

That is all for today.