Jin Sutra #7

The first sutra: ‘saccammi vasadi tavo’—in Truth tapas resides. ‘saccammi sanjamo taha vase tesa vi guna.’ In Truth restraint, and all the remaining virtues, dwell. As the sea is the shelter of fish, so Truth is the shelter of all virtues.
It is essential to understand the meaning of Truth.
Ordinarily we think Truth is some object to be found—kept somewhere, ready-made; safeguarded like an idol in a faraway temple—you must travel, open the doors, and obtain Truth. To think so is to be in error from the very beginning.
Truth is not an object. Truth is an awakening, an experience. It is not kept ready somewhere. You will have to live it into being. It is not lying around, waiting to be uncovered. It is not that a key will be found, a lock opened, you will reach a vault—and wealth was always lying there; even when you had no key it was lying there; even if you never opened the lock it would have remained there forever. Not so. Truth is a living experience. Not a noun, but a verb.
Truth means: to live in such a way that there is no deception in life; to live so that inside and outside are in tune. Truth is a music—the harmony of within and without. Then each step must be watched, because Truth is conduct.
Hence Mahavira says: ‘In Truth is tapas, restraint, and the abode of all virtues’—because Truth is conduct.
One who has mastered Truth, everything is mastered. Then nothing remains to be mastered separately. The one who has begun a single life inside and outside—violence cannot occur in his life; falsehood cannot occur; anger cannot occur; competition cannot occur. Impossible. When Truth comes it is like light comes; darkness cannot remain.
But Truth is not an object— had it been an object it could be borrowed. Truth cannot be borrowed. Even if I have it there is no way to give it to you. Truth is not a doctrine either; otherwise, once someone discovered it, it would be available to all and forever. Truth is not a conclusion of logic, to be had by thinking alone—as if by thinking rightly it will be found. No. It is found by living rightly. Thinking is not enough—you will have to live.
There are two ways of living. One is what we may call the life of untruth. You are something, you want to be something else—untruth begins. You are something, you want to show something else—untruth begins. You are something, and you put on masks; being was one thing, display became something else—untruth begins.
If you understand this you will see that your so-called religions have not helped you move toward Truth; they have become obstacles. Because they all taught you hypocrisy. They all told you: become something.
Mahavira says: remain that which you are; do not try to become something else—otherwise untruth will begin. Let the lotus be lotus, the rose be rose; if the lotus tries to become a rose, untruth will begin. You are you. If you try to become a Mahavira, it will be untruth. If you try to become a Buddha, untruth will be born. Has there ever been another Mahavira? How many have tried! How many have not tried! In twenty-five centuries thousands have labored to become another Mahavira—did anyone succeed?
We do not see even the burning facts of history; we avert our eyes. Has there ever been another Buddha? On the path of life has there ever been another Ram? Has Krishna’s flute ever been heard again? Repetition does not happen here. Imitation is not possible here. Here each one is born to be only himself. And whosoever tries to be another becomes a hypocrite.
Ideals have made you untrue. This will seem difficult; you think an idealistic life is a great life. The life of the idealist is the life of untruth. The meaning of idealism is that I am something, and I am busy becoming something else. The life of the truthful means: whatever is, I have accepted it; now I live it simply; that which is—good or bad, auspicious or inauspicious; as I am, as the Infinite has wished me to be, as the Infinite has shaped me, as the Infinite has fashioned me—I am content with it.
Truth is the supreme acceptance of oneself. And then the remaining virtues come of their own accord; they follow like a shadow. You need not even seek the rest. The idealist keeps seeking and never finds. The truthful does not seek—and finds.
But once you understand Truth, first it means: do not condemn yourself as you are. Do not compare yourself with another. Because comparison starts competition. Accept yourself as you are, totally. Do not fuss even a grain’s worth, do not wander here and there. You are exactly what you can be. As Existence has desired you to be, so you are. There is no need of improvement. Cease the rush. Rest in this being. Otherwise you will keep vacillating—you will want to be Ram and pick up a bow; then you will want to be Krishna and begin to play the flute—neither will the flute play nor the bow be lifted. Then you will want to be Mahavira and stand naked—there will be exhibition. You may stand naked, but where will you bring Mahavira’s innocence from? Your nakedness will be imposed. Whatever is imposed is never innocent. Your nakedness will be contrived, achieved by effort. Whatever is achieved by effort is never innocent. Whatever is done by contrivance is violence against oneself.
Mahavira never became naked—he discovered it. He did not practice nakedness as Jain monks do. He made no arrangement, no plan for it. Suddenly he found that he was naked.
The story is: Mahavira left home with a single cloth. He thought: the less the possession, the less the inconvenience. The less I carry, the less the worry. He set out with one cloth. It served as wrap, as bedding, as garment by day. If it rained, it would cover his head as an umbrella. As he went along the road, a naked beggar asked for something. He had given away everything; only that cloth remained. He tore it in half and gave one part. He thought: one works, half will do.
For those who understand, even the least is enough. For those who do not, even the most is never enough. The question is not of things, the question is of understanding.
Mahavira said: Why even this long? I can draw up my legs a little and sleep. The body will not be fully covered, only less; what harm? The wind will pass, a few rays of the sun will touch the body.
But as he moved on, rushing toward the forest, half the cloth got caught in a rosebush’s thorns. He laughed. He said: It seems Existence does not consent that I carry this cloth. On the way someone had shared the load, taking half. Now this bush has come; it, too, asks: give me the other half. He offered half the cloth to the bush. He thought: I will manage without; after all, all the animals and birds manage without a cloth. Am I a man? What animals and birds can do, shall I not be able to do? And now it does not befit me to snatch it back from the bush.
One who has found the joy of giving has no heart to snatch. One who has tasted the juice of giving will not even rob from a bush. He offered the cloth to the bush—and he became naked. Thus was Mahavira naked.
It was no contrivance—it was an event. There was no plan behind it; no scriptures, no doctrines. There was no idea to be naked. It was not a discipline he imposed upon himself. In the spontaneous flow of life he found that even what he had brought was gone. Then he became naked. Then, in being naked, such a bliss was found that he never again sought to possess a cloth.
For in being naked—what was found? The Truth of his life.
Why are we afraid of nakedness? Even the body we show by hiding it. We show only that part which we think fit to show; only that which we think others will like. We hide what we fear others may not like. You do not wear clothes for yourself, but for others. That is why the day you sit at home, on a holiday, you wear anything. Go to the market—dress up. Go to a wedding, to a festival—dress up even more.
We dress for the other. We hide those parts of the body which we do not want another to know. These clothes are not simply for sun, cold, rain; behind them is a great mind, a great arrangement.
The day you want to lure a woman you linger long before the mirror. You shave more carefully, arrange your clothes, sprinkle perfume. It is an arrangement for the other.
We show our hands, our face; the rest of the body we veil. Veiling has two meanings. First, we think it is not fit to show. Second: what is veiled becomes more alluring. The other wants to unveil it. If women went naked, no one would even look carefully. In primitive societies women are naked; no one pays attention.
A woman, well-covered, walks along; whatever is covered, the mind wants to uncover.
So we both hide and attract. There is planning even behind our clothing. When we tire of these clothes, this exhibition, this show, this drama, we plan another drama—how to be naked! But that too is a plan. Will you allow anything to happen simply? Will you allow anything to be effortless? Will no innocent light kindle in your life? Must everything be for a purpose? Calculated? Weighed?
Now look at the Jain monk, standing naked. But his nakedness is like your gambling stake. He says: without nakedness there is no liberation. Therefore the Digambara Jains say women cannot be liberated; because to make a woman naked will be difficult—the society will be shaken, obstacles will arise. So a woman must first take birth in a male body; without a male birth she cannot become naked. If she cannot become naked, how liberation?
Just think a little! Even in being naked there is a stake, an arithmetic, a calculation. This nakedness is not pure simplicity. Mahavira became naked without any question of liberation—a beggar had asked for a cloth. Mahavira became naked without any question of liberation—a bush of flowers had taken his cloth. Mahavira became naked—he had never even thought of it.
But when you become naked, it is for liberation. Your nakedness is still a bargain.
We have draped our bodies in clothes. In the same way we have covered our minds with many layers. We speak only what we think will be pleasing. We speak selectively, sifted, what will enchant the other and carve for us a beautiful image. We do not say what arises within. Even though curses may arise within, outwardly we go on singing songs of welcome. Even though anger arises within, we stretch a smile across our lips. The smile is false. Anyone with a little eye will see it is false; the lips have been pulled, strained—nothing has flowed. The smile has not arisen from within. It has not come from anywhere; it is just painted on top. Our smile is false. Our tears are false. Our sympathy is false, our sadness false. Our whole life is a commerce in lies.
When Mahavira says ‘Truth’, he does not mean Truth as in mathematics—two and two are four, that mathematical truth. That is not the kind of Truth Mahavira speaks of. When he says ‘Truth’, he says: be as you are—utterly, nakedly—open yourself as you are. Do not worry what anyone will think. Do not arrange yourself inwardly. Stand, like trees, nude and natural—so you too become nude and natural.
Mahavira’s Truth is hard. But Mahavira’s Truth is deep. And Mahavira’s Truth alone is Truth; the philosophers’ truth is nothing—mere talk, a net of words. Perhaps even an attempt to hide something.
Catch hold of yourself. Trail yourself and see, at every turn, how much untruth you do in twenty-four hours! Unwittingly! It is not that you always lie knowingly, purposely—habit has grown so deep, entered the very fiber of your being, settled in every drop of your blood, that now you go on doing it without even keeping count. Untruth flows from you as leaves from trees. Nothing needs to be done; the skill has become so ingrained. Sometimes you will be startled: even where there is no need, untruth slips out. Even where no benefit is to be gained, untruth slips out. Even there Truth does not come—untruth comes.
Have you ever caught yourself? Even in those moments when there is no apparent benefit in lying—and yet the lie comes! This habit must be broken! However strong, however many hammers are needed—break it! And slowly, slowly, you must consent to be as you are! It may be that you lose your prestige; for it may be your prestige stands upon your untruth. It may be that you lose your respect; often it is likely that your respect stands upon those falsehoods you have spoken before society. If your foundation is display, pretense, drama, respect will also fall. Let it fall! This is what I call sannyas, which Mahavira calls Truth.
As you are, accept yourself without conditions. It will be hard. You will have to pass through fire. But the fire will refine. The trash will burn away; the pure gold will emerge. Pure, clear gold you will be. Gold that feared the fire was never purified. The man who fears the fire of Truth never becomes a man.
‘In Truth tapas, restraint, and the abode of all the remaining virtues.’
So the first Truth is this: let me accept myself as I am. Let me not even attempt to be otherwise; for into that very attempt the lie enters.
You are angry—what do you do? You practice non-anger. People come to me and say, ‘The mind is very restless; tell us some trick for peace.’ What will you do with a trick for peace? You will plaster the top; inside restlessness will go on boiling like a volcano. Above you will raise mansions of peace, sitting on volcanoes. Earthquakes will keep coming. You will not be able to be peaceful.
Far less is the need to be peaceful, more is the need to understand restlessness. First accept that I am restless. Then recognize what this restlessness is—without any condemnation. If you have already decided that restlessness is bad, how will you know it, how will you see it? Eyes already filled with prejudice, that have decided restlessness is bad and must be escaped—those eyes will not be able to observe it. Observation will not be pure, not authentic. You are already prepared—to battle, to fight. Who can look an enemy in the face? We hide our eyes from the enemy. We can look at a friend. We can look at a beloved. Into the beloved’s eyes we can gaze.
Therefore love yourself, if you want to be true. However you are—good or bad—this you are; there could have been no other. Recognize this, examine it, probe it; untie each knot. If there is restlessness—so be it. What will you do? Restlessness is your fact. Just as fire burns, that is its property. Restlessness is the fact of your today. As you are today, there grow the flowers and thorns of restlessness. But see it, recognize it, understand it, accept it. Do not run. Do not fear. Do not attempt the opposite. If there is lust, then descend into it. Go down step by step into the deep well called lust. Seek its very bottom. From there Brahmacharya will arise. From wakefulness Brahmacharya arises. From the very recognition of lust Brahmacharya is born. In lust Brahmacharya is hidden—like the kernel hidden within the husk. Understand how to sow the seed into the soil, how then to guard it—out of it will sprout the tender plant. As the lotus arises from the mud, so from lust arises Brahmacharya.
Peace is the essence of restlessness. It must be extracted from within it. As perfume is distilled from flowers, so compassion is pressed out of anger.
So do not be busy becoming the opposite of what is with you. Let us transform what is with you; let us seek its essence, drop the non-essence; let us press it—let it become fragrance—and then you can be true.
This bargain is costly. Hence Mahavira says: Truth is tapas. You will have to be tempered in it. This is not that cheap heating of standing in the sun. Even fools do it. No intelligence is needed. The insensitive can do it. In fact, those who are dull-witted do it easily. The more dull-witted, the more stubborn. The more dull-witted, the less sensitive. They can stand in the sun; after a few days that too becomes a habit. They can fast; that too becomes a habit. Some stand for years—do not sit, do not lie down—that too has become a habit. But have you ever looked into their eyes? There you will not find the gleam of intelligence. You will not hear the music of joy and peace. Put your ear to their chest, near the heart—you will not hear the unstruck sound. You will find there dullness, ash—dead people.
Often the obstinate are dull. And what you call tapas is nothing but stubbornness, willfulness, anger, ego—but not Truth.
What is the tapas of Truth? It is this: I accept myself as I am, and I reveal myself as I am; I keep no gap between myself and my expression. Then let whatever happens happen—whether society calls it good or bad, whether people like it or not, whether they honor or insult—let it be. This is real tapas. Let people condemn—that too is accepted. Let people praise—that too is accepted. Let people forget, neglect—that too is accepted. This is tapas. To be true, Mahavira says, is tapas.
‘saccammi vasadi tavo’—in Truth tapas dwells. And restraint is there too.
Understand these two words well, because Mahavira uses them together.
Tapas means: there are many truths within you which will lead you into difficulty. To be ready to endure that difficulty—that readiness is tapas. There are many truths within you; because of them many activities you now do—you will no longer be able to do tomorrow. That not-doing—that is restraint.
Consider! Until now you have been giving alms. But a truthful man will wonder: ‘Has the feeling of giving arisen or not?’ Not all who give, give for giving’s sake; they give for other reasons. A beggar grabs you on the road—he puts your reputation at stake. He will not ask you alone, in private, because he knows you will scold him away. He catches you in the market. There your reputation is in question: ‘What will people say—that he cannot give even a few coins? They will laugh!’ There you give two coins and become a donor—because in those two coins is reputation, which you will use at your shop. Out of two coins you will extract two rupees. The one who saw you as a donor today will be the customer tomorrow; and whatever price you quote he will accept—the man is a donor! If a beggar catches you in the bazaar you must give.
A Marwari was once caught by a beggar in the market. The beggar wore a board: I am blind. He said, ‘Sethji, give something—been long since I went to the cinema!’ The Marwari was already looking for escape! He said, ‘Cinema—and you wear a board that you are blind! What will you do at the cinema? Trying to cheat me?’ The blind man said, ‘Donor! I will at least hear the songs! Now do not evade giving.’
A crowd gathered. The Seth saw there was no way out; he took out a five-paisa coin and was about to give. The blind man said, ‘Sethji, deposit it in the bank. Do not ruin my market! Five paisa?’
Beggars too are in the market; they too have a market rate. The Seth is in the market; he too has a market. If he does not give, his market spoils. People around will say: miser! stingy!
The Seth said, ‘How did you know it is a five-paisa coin if you are blind? I have not even given it yet—just holding it in my hand!’ The blind man said, ‘Master! What more proof do you want! I am begging from a Marwari—what greater proof of blindness is there?’
The beggar too is clever. He knows people do not want to give charity. But people are not honest enough to say, “We don’t want to give.” They want to show that they are donors. The beggar exploits that very thing. You are filled with shame—how to get away! To be free you give. But if you were honest you would say, ‘Brother, I have no wish to give.’ Even if your entire reputation in the market is at stake, even if your shop must close tomorrow, even if people call you miser, dishonest, deceptive, greedy—yet you will say, ‘What can I do? No voice to give arises in me.’
Tapas will be born. Restraint too will be born. Because many things you do simply because they should be done. If all are buying a certain item, a new piece of furniture, a new car, you too buy—without even wondering whether you need it. Have you ever thought—do you need what you bring home? But if the neighbor bought it, you too bring it.
Have you ever considered that much of what you do and display has no need? But since others display, how can you be left behind! If a person begins to look within truthfully he will find: suddenly many activities fall away—because they are pointless; others are doing them, and for their sake you too are doing them.
A daughter is to be married—people squander thousands—even when they don’t have it, they borrow and squander. Why? Because the others—the enemies, the neighbors—neighbor means enemy—they spent so much on their daughter’s wedding. Your prestige is at stake. Your ego is the question. You too must spend. You have nothing to do with the girl. Nor have you given out of love. Nor have you given to the girl. You have given to your ego. You wanted to raise your flag high—“Look!” If you recognize your truth carefully you will find: tapas comes, restraint comes.
Out of a hundred, ninety-nine of your desires are utterly futile. Who knows how you borrowed them. They infected you like a contagious disease. When suffering comes you will accept it—and many so-called pleasures which are not pleasures you go on living only because of others.
Mulla Nasruddin was going somewhere. ‘Where are you going?’ I asked. He said, ‘To hear classical music.’ I said, ‘But you don’t know it.’ He said, ‘What to do! Everyone is going. If I don’t, it looks as if I don’t know classical music. Although I understand nothing. I am already worried—what will I do there? It nauseates me. When they go Aaaa— I feel when will I be able to get out of here!’ He told me once this had happened: ‘I went to hear classical music. When the musician went very Aaaa— I started crying. People next to me asked, “Mulla! We had never thought you are such a connoisseur!”’ He said, ‘Connoisseur? Not at all. The same had happened to my goat; that very night it died. This man will not survive. He is on the verge of death. That’s why I remembered my goat—poor goat—doing classical music like this!’
But he had to go—because the whole neighborhood was going. Reputation is at stake.
Have you ever watched yourself? You have been party to many things you never wished to go to—but what could you do! You are part of the crowd! You have sometimes even sacrificed your own needs—for things that were not your needs. You bought ornaments and kept your belly hungry. You built a big house—could not arrange medicine for the children. You bought a car—could not educate the children.
Have you noticed—you have done things that could have been left undone; and what should have been done, you did not do.
Restraint arises in the person who becomes truthful. He sees: I will do what is needed for me; what is not needed I will not do. Slowly such a person moves out of the crowd. This becoming alone—that is sannyas. He lives in the crowd, but alone. He lives in his own way. And he will not compromise his way under any circumstance. Whatever happens, one who longs for Truth is not a compromiser. He does not look here and there; he does not calculate what consequences may follow. He says: whatever consequences come, I will endure their tapas; whatever must be lost will become my restraint. But other than what I am, I do not want to be.
A great revolution happens when you are content with yourself. When you are content with yourself you begin to descend within. When you are content with yourself and you do not run here and there, do not follow others, you begin to dive into yourself—a plunge happens. Through that plunge you become acquainted not only with your surface, but with the depths within.
And a day comes when you are established at your center. That is religion—call it self-knowing.
‘In Truth, tapas, restraint, and the abode of all the remaining virtues. As the ocean is shelter to fish, so Truth is shelter to all virtues.’
Truth is like the ocean, all rivers fall into it. Truth is the supreme conduct of life; a synonym for Dharma; and all virtues fall into it.
But people do the reverse. They say: practice tapas, practice restraint—so that Truth may be attained. Mahavira says: practice Truth, and restraint and tapas arrive by themselves. How can even such a simple point be missed! It seems people want to miss. The statement is so clear—‘saccammi vasadi tavo’—yet ask a Jain monk and he will say, ‘Only if you do tapas will Truth be found. Has Truth ever been attained without austerity!’ Mahavira says exactly the opposite: has austerity ever happened without Truth! They seem to be enemies. This Jain monk does not seem to be a follower of Mahavira; he is doing the opposite. He wants to bring the cause by clinging to the effect—which is impossible. From the cause, the effect comes. You walk; your shadow walks behind you. Mahavira says: you walk, your shadow will follow. The Jain monk says: chase the shadow, lest it go astray!
If you chase the shadow you are on a reverse journey. The shadow has become your soul and you have become the shadow.
Mahavira says: in Truth dwell tapas, restraint, and all the remaining virtues. He does not even name them. No need to enumerate. If the ocean is said, all rivers are included—they will reach it sooner or later. Where will you chase each river? Catch hold of the ocean. When the ocean itself is attained why wander after rivers?
But if the Jain monk says this, what becomes of him! For he himself is wandering after rivers.
Understand this.
The Jains have a word: ‘upavasa’. A very lovely word! Upavasa means: to dwell near one’s innermost self. Up + vasa: to be near oneself; to be close to oneself. It has nothing to do with eating or not eating. What you call upavasa is anshan—fasting—not upavasa. What is the difference? Mahavira says: when you abide near yourself, in those hours food is forgotten, because the body is forgotten. When one abides near the Atman, when one sits in its company, when one sinks into that juice—who remembers hunger or thirst!
Have you noticed? If a long-lost friend arrives, do you remember hunger? thirst? Hours pass as you sit conversing—no hunger, no thirst.
If your beloved arrives—hunger and thirst are forgotten. Hours slip by like moments; days and nights pass as if they came and went—unnoticed.
Think then—when the inner Beloved, the inner Beloved arrives; as you draw near—how can hunger be remembered! how thirst!
Mahavira says: By upavasa, anshan happens. The Jain monk says: Practice anshan and you will come near the soul.
Now the matter becomes difficult. The one who fasts comes closer to the body. If you starve yourself you will remember only the body. Try it. Do what the Jain monk calls upavasa—what I call fasting. The day you do not eat, that day only food will haunt you. Walking on the road you will not see clothing shops, or shoe shops—you will read only the signs of restaurants and hotels. Your heart will surge: rasgullas arise! rasmalai spreads! messages of sweets keep coming!
A hungry man can think only of food.
Thus when the Jains fast during the paryushan days, they spend more time in the temple—because at home the memory of food is overwhelming. In the temple they somehow distract themselves—create a racket! And there sit others as hungry as they—seeing them one feels: “I am not alone! I am not the only one struggling—everyone is!”
They encourage one another. They keep the band playing. If they come home—there too food is remembered. There also only food is remembered. Whatever you force yourself against will prick you.
Mahavira says: Let upavasa happen—anshan happens by itself.
The Jain monk says: Do anshan and upavasa will happen. The entire current is reversed. The river flows uphill.
‘As the ocean is shelter to all rivers, so Truth is shelter to all Dharmas. Let there be mountains of gold and silver—Kailasha upon Kailasha, without number—still the greedy man is not satisfied, for desire is infinite like the sky.’
Let there be golden and silver Kailashas, Himalayas of gold and silver, countless mountains available to you—still the greedy man gains nothing from them. Because greed has nothing to do with what you have. Greed runs after what you do not have.
Understand the arithmetic of greed. What you have—greed does not see it; what is distant—that is what it sees.
A very fat man was advised by the doctor: if you don’t do something you will die. Start playing golf. He returned after seven days. ‘Very difficult,’ he said. ‘If I place the ball near me, I cannot see it—my belly is big. If I place it far, I cannot hit it. What am I to do?’
Greed’s belly is big. What is near cannot be seen. What is far alone is visible. But what is far is visible only so long as it is far. As you come close, your belly also comes forward. When you arrive near, it is again hidden beneath your belly. Now place it far again. If you have ten thousand—you do not see them; you see a lakh. You gain a lakh—you do not see it; it goes under your belly—now ten lakhs are visible. If you grasp this arithmetic, whether there is one Himalaya or a thousand Himalayas filled with gold—what difference does it make!
What you have—greed will not see; what is far, what is not— that alone it sees.
One who understands this knows there is no way to satisfy greed. The hit cannot land. Place it near—it cannot be seen; place it far—it can be seen—but how to strike what is far! You can strike only what is near. That is why greed is never fulfilled. Do not think the poor man’s greed remains unfulfilled while a rich man’s does. No one’s is fulfilled. The rich man becomes even more poor than the poor. The more he has, the harder it gets. So much already—and nothing has happened—and the restlessness grows. At least the poor has a solace: a hope that when it happens, all will be well. The rich is robbed even of that hope. For how long can he deny the fact: so much has happened—and nothing happened!
It is no surprise that the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were princes. It is no surprise that Buddha too was a prince. And Krishna and Ram and the Hindu avatars came from royal houses. If they saw it, there is a reason behind seeing it: they saw the race. So much wealth—and no essence; greed kept grabbing them!
One thing is certain: if you keep the company of greed, the shadow of discontent will remain. To seek contentment through greed is to seek the impossible—what never was, is not, and cannot be. If you want contentment, awaken from greed.
‘suvannaruppassa u pavvaya bhave, siya hu kelasakama asankhaya. narassa luddhassa na tehi kinci, iccha hu agasasama anantiya.’
Let there be countless Kailashas of gold and silver—still the greedy man gets nothing from them. Desire is infinite like the sky. The horizon seems to touch the earth just a few miles away. Move—never do they meet. As you move, the horizon moves with you. The distance between you and the horizon always remains the same. It does not change. What you have makes no difference. The distance between you and your greed remains ever equal. Between a poor man and his attainment, a rich man and his attainment—the distance is equal.
Ai sheikh! If this is the praise of Paradise—
I can never be a seeker of it.
The poet says: if your heaven is praised as a place where trees are of gold, where flowers are of jewels, where beautiful women dwell whose beauty never fades, where there are fountains of wine—if this is the praise, then: Ai sheikh! If this is the praise of Paradise—then I can never be its seeker. Because then it is the same stupidity as the world. There is no difference. Here there are small piles of gold and silver; there, mountains like Kailash. Here there are beautiful women whose beauty fades; there, women whose beauty will not fade. The difference is of quantity, not of quality.
I can never be its seeker!
One who has understood the process of greed will not ask for heaven. If you still ask for heaven, understand—you are asking for the world again and again. Your heaven is only an extension of your world.
Look at the praises of heaven! Look in the scriptures at heaven’s description! Those who wrote these scriptures cannot be intelligent. Those who made these praises cannot be free of greed. In truth, these longings for heaven are greed condensed. What does not get completed here, the horizons that never meet here—the desire is to complete them there. Greed, speaking of heaven, says: do not fear, there where you stand the earth will touch the sky. Kalpavriksha! A desire is born, and it is fulfilled. You desire to touch the horizon—and the horizon comes to you. You need not go.
These are not religious longings—they are the longings of worldly men. Greed lost in the world says: no harm, in heaven it will be done; what did not happen here will happen there.
Let that heaven be blessed for the pious clerics—
for I seek confrontation with You.
Those who know say: ‘Beloved! We want encounter with You.’
Let that heaven be blessed for the so-called renouncers!—who left here in the hope to get there—give it to them. Here they left women; they sit in postures, hoping for apsaras. They will not settle for less than Urvashi. They keep opening their eyes with a start—Menaka has not yet arrived! They heard she comes. When the rishi reaches the state of Samadhi—even in Samadhi he opens his eyes to check whether Menaka has come. Indra’s throne has not yet trembled! How will Samadhi happen to someone who is opening his eyes for Menaka? How will his Samadhi be?
Samadhi means: greed has become pointless. Such solution is called Samadhi. Greed has become pointless—not here, not there—greed itself has become pointless. Neither here, nor there—no more longing. One has known and recognized the essence of greed—that greed can never be satisfied—therefore greed is dropped. Not worldly greed is dropped—greed itself is dropped. Because as long as there is greed, it creates new worlds. Greed is the principle of samsara.
People say, ‘We are not worldly! We have renounced the world. We are seeking that joy which is eternal.’ But the seeking of joy continues. These whom you call sannyasins, rishis—they are worldly; more worldly than you. You are satisfied with a small hill of gold; they ask for Sumeru, Kailash, Himalaya! Their greed is bigger. ‘narassa luddhassa na tehi kinci!’ Their greed turns them into vultures. They sit, longing for the vain.
Have you seen vultures? Wherever there is a corpse, they hover. Greed is like a vulture hovering over the vain, the dead, the nonessential. And life slips by.
Let that heaven be blessed for the pious clerics—
for I seek confrontation with You.
One who has understood greed is freed of greed. It is not that he tries to be free—trying is born only of new greed. Understand: without greed you cannot even try.
People come to me and say, ‘Teach us meditation—but what gain will it bring? Any benefit?’ I send them to Maharshi Mahesh Yogi. He speaks of benefits. He says, even money will increase by meditation. Hence his influence in America. Who is concerned with meditation? They want money! Money increases by meditation! Never had anyone thought that meditation increases money. But if you want people to meditate, you must lure them with money. They are interested in money, not meditation. They do not know meditation at all.
Meditation means: a state of mind beyond the reach of greed.
And you ask: what benefit from meditation? None. Lotuses bloom—what benefit? The sun rises—what benefit? God is—what benefit? Buddha and Mahavira sit upon Siddha Shilas—what benefit?
Do you think in twenty-five hundred years Mahavira has gathered wealth sitting on the Siddha Shila— run some shop? Benefit?
Bertrand Russell has written: this moksha of the East frightens me—he is a clear, mathematical man—it frightens me. What will they do there for eternity? Once liberated, done; and there is no way back. There is a way out of the world, no way back into it. Think before going out—once gone, you are gone. However much you knock, the door will not open. None who attained moksha has returned. The intelligent say: what hurry? They say, first enjoy this.
See this spectacle of the world to your heart’s content, Nazir—
why would you need to come back to this garden?
Look well—fill your heart! None returns. Therefore people postpone moksha—what’s the hurry!
People come to me and say, we are still young. How long will you remain young? Postpone! The old man says: I am still alive. Postpone! When you die—then? Some excuse or the other man goes on seeking. But the real excuse is that you see no benefit in religion. You hear the words of Mahaviras and Buddhas—become charmed. You hear the praise of that supreme state—and greed arises in you: let me have this also! But let it come along with what you are already getting, or hope to get. This too becomes your greed.
And meditation?—Tulsidas says: For the joy of my own heart I sing the song of Raghunath. Someone asked: why do you sing the songs of Ram? For the joy of my own heart. No benefit in the future. Here, now—it delights. I am speaking to you— for the joy of my own heart. I speak—there is no benefit, no greed. I speak as the birds sing in the trees. If only you could listen as I speak! Meditation would happen.
For meditation there is no question of doing. It is a state of understanding, a station of prajna. Where greed falls, there is meditation. Where you have known the futility of greed totally and wholly—that it is an impossible desire, it will not be fulfilled. It is not a question of your weakness. Even if you are mighty it will not be fulfilled. Napoleon did not fulfill it, Alexander did not, Genghis, Nadir, Taimur—none. It is not a question of weakness or strength. It is like trying to press oil out of sand. Strength or weakness is not the question. There is no oil in the sand—how will it drip?
One who tries to extract joy from greed gets entangled. The effort continues, the hands never catch anything.
‘Let there be countless mountains like Kailash of gold and silver—still the greedy man gains nothing from them.’
There is no satisfaction—because desire is infinite like the sky. And in this race of greed you are losing something—even though you gain nothing. One thing is sure—you gain nothing. But you lose much. You are losing yourself. You will collect potsherds of wealth and sell your soul—piece by piece; because without selling yourself this wealth will not be accumulated. Without selling yourself you cannot run the race of greed. Every step taken in the direction of greed is self-slaughter. On the day when the lamp of life begins to flicker, you will repent, you will weep—but then it will be too late.
The storms of pain and sorrow could not snuff it out—
but the lamp of life went out in the breath’s faint breeze.
Great storms and sorrows cannot extinguish it; life goes out with a mere puff of breath.
The storms of pain and sorrow could not snuff it out—
but the lamp of life went out in the breath’s faint breeze.
And when the lamp of life begins to go out in that slight breeze, you will repent, beat your chest, weep. In my seeing, the wailing of a dying man, his pain, is not due to death—it is due to a life wasted. The whole life went to waste; now death arrives. What all did I desire! What desires I nourished! What rainbows of longing I spread! Nothing came into my hands. Only death came—the one thing I never desired. What I never asked for—that is what I got. What I never wished, never prayed for, for which I never knocked on God’s door—that I received. And what I had desired—that never came. In trying to obtain it I lost the life that I had.
Therefore the religious man does not trust tomorrow. He does not postpone to tomorrow. To postpone is greed. Greed means: it will come tomorrow. The religious man says: I will live now, here. Where is the future? The future is your mind’s game. What is—has always been the present. The day greed leaves your mind, that day even the future disappears. Greed is the future. Fear is the past. Out of fear you clutch the past. Because you need some support—otherwise you will fall into the abyss. You cling: who am I—caste, clan, religion, family, lineage, prestige, position, titles, the summary of all you have done—you clutch. You hold to the past, for it seems that by clinging you can hang on; otherwise the Void is vast. If there is no support behind, you will fall into the Void.
You cling to the past—because of fear. And you keep the future alive—because of greed. Greed and fear are two sides of the same coin. Therefore the greedy can never be free of fear, and the fearful can never be free of greed.
Have you seen— as wealth accumulates, fear increases. Strange! People gather wealth so that fear may end; but as wealth collects, fear increases, not decreases. A new fear arises lest someone rob you. A new fear arises: what if it is lost! Though you have gained nothing, the fear that it may be lost grips your life. Then you run more, to earn more, to gather more. That is why you fear giving—if you give you will stand in fear again. As it accumulates, miserliness grows. The richer, the more miserly. A poor man can perhaps give; he says: even if I give, what harm—there is nothing anyway; if there were, I would save it. When nothing is there—what to save! The rich cannot give. He accounts for every paisa. He fears that if even one coin slips, there is that much less. See the joke: you gained nothing; but the fear of loss holds you. Someone may snatch! The hunger for wealth arises from fear—and having wealth, fear doubles.
The religious man lives now.
I do not trust tomorrow, cup-bearer—
perhaps the goblet will remain, I will not.
I do not trust tomorrow, cup-bearer—
perhaps the goblet will remain, I will not.
Today is enough. This moment is enough. One who lives in this moment—he is in meditation. One who asks, what is the profit of meditation—he has slipped into tomorrow. He asks: what will I get? Krishna’s whole Gita says just this:
I do not trust tomorrow, cup-bearer—
perhaps the goblet will remain, I will not.
Krishna says: without hankering for the fruit, engage in action—that is meditation, that is Dharma. Fruit-hankering means greed. Do not ask what will be gained. The moment someone begins to live without greed, there is a rain of meditation in his life; every particle becomes saturated with meditation. Remove the cloud of greed—the sky of meditation becomes available.
‘As the lotus born in water is not stained by water, so the man born in the climate of sensuality who is not stained by it—him we call Brahmin.’
Mahavira’s definition of a Brahmin:
Just as the lotus, born in water, is not touched by the water,
so one untainted by desires—we call him Brahmin.
Understand this.
The Hindu shastras also say: by birth all are Shudra. By birth all are Shudra; because birth happens in the mud—birth itself is in lust. Without lust there is no birth. Thus all by birth are Shudra, mud. From among them anyone can become a Brahmin—if he desires. All can, if they desire. But one becomes Brahmin only when he, like a lotus, rises far from the mud—so far, so beyond, so untouched that water cannot touch him; so innocent that nothing can corrupt him; such a flower of merit that sin cannot touch him. He will stand in sin, for where will he go? Where can you flee from the world? Wherever you go, there is world. Wherever there is coming and going there is the world. That is why we call it samsara—coming and going. Where will you go? Where will you come? Wherever you go, wherever you come—that is the world. Stop! Drop coming and going. Stop where you are. Go within! Go so deep within that even the noise from without does not reach. Go so deep within that the bazaar goes on and on—and you do not even know. Go so deep within that the wife is near, children are near, the house, the home, all are there—but you are alone within.
He who becomes alone amidst all—that is the sannyasin. He who in the crowd is no more part of the crowd—that is the sannyasin.
Like the lotus in water—Mahavira says—this is my definition of a Brahmin!
Therefore a Brahmin is not by caste, not by birth. By birth and caste all are Shudra. Brahmin is by attainment. Hence Mahavira did not accept the varna system. Mahavira said: how can anyone say “I am a Brahmin by birth!” By birth none is a Brahmin—by awakening one becomes Brahmin. By awareness one becomes Brahmin.
‘The Jiva is Brahman. The conduct of the muni, freed from attachment to the body, for the sake of Brahman—this is Brahmacharya.’
A very lovely definition! The conduct of a Brahmin is Brahmacharya. And in each person is Brahman.
‘The Jiva is Brahman. The conduct of one freed from attachment to the body—this is Brahmacharya.’
The moment you do not live through the body, though you use the body—you live as master; the body becomes the servant, you become the lord— in that very moment the Brahman within is revealed; you have known who you are. And the conduct that follows that knowing is Brahmacharya. To reduce Brahmacharya to the small meaning of semen-control is not enough. It is a part, not the whole. The full meaning is concealed in the word Brahmacharya—conduct like Brahman, God-like living. When you live from the God within you, that is Brahmacharya. Naturally, semen-control arrives on its own; you need not bring it. It is a concomitant that arrives with it.
At present we live as if we are the body. Not: we are in the body—but: we are the body. If someone cuts your body you think you are cut. If someone kills the body you think you die. You have not known even a hair’s breadth of your being separate from the body.
Cut the wings, O hunter—do not sit at ease,
for the soul of the bulbul intends to fly.
Such a moment has not yet come to you that you can say to death—
Cut the wings, O hunter—do not sit at ease;
for the soul of the bulbul intends to fly.
Do not be complacent after cutting the wings—my soul intends flight. What have wings to do with it? The soul will fly into the sky. Cutting the wings do not sit at rest. The moment comes when you can say to death: cut the body—but do not sit assured, for I remain uncut. It did not run because of the body—the body ran because of me. I will go on. It did not fly because of the body—the body flew because of me. I will fly on.
Cut the wings, O hunter—do not sit at ease;
for the soul of the bulbul intends to fly.
When you can recognize your soul as distinct from the body, then even with death you can speak smilingly.
‘The Jiva is Brahman.’ One who goes within finds this. But what you have come to know as religion does not take you within; it chases you about in temples and mosques. It places false religions into your hands. Because of these religions there is so much irreligion in the world.
We became illumined only when we became religion-less—
after seeing the ignorance of all religions.
Seeing all this tumult and ignorance in the name of religion, many truly religious people become irreligious.
You must be led within; there is no other temple. You must be engaged in your own worship and adoration; there is no other deity. You must be awakened at that source from where your consciousness springs—at that very Gangotri.
Slowly, slowly, go within. See the body and recognize: it is my sheath, the wall of my house. Go further in—catch hold of thought and recognize: thought is not you, for you can see it. Go further in—catch hold of desire, of emotion, and recognize: this too is not you, for you are the knower, the seer, the witness. Continue thus—until only the seer remains and nothing is left to be seen—pure seeing!
That beyond which you cannot go—that you are. That beyond which you cannot go—that you are. Go back, back, back—until the witness comes into your grasp. Beyond it none can go. You cannot be the witness of the witness. The last moment has arrived—the foundation of existence. The ground appears upon which all stands. He who catches hold of this foundation of existence, who grasps the soul—he is the Brahmin. And his way of living is Brahmacharya.
‘The fire of lust, kindled by the trees of objects, burns the forest of the three worlds; but blessed is the great one whom it cannot burn, who is skilled in walking even upon the grass of youth.’
‘The night that passes does not return. The nights of one who lives in adharma pass fruitless.’
The fire of lust, stoked by the trees of objects, is burning the forest of the three worlds. The three worlds are burning with a single craving. The hell is on fire—you have heard the stories of hell—flames leaping and people being burned. But look carefully around you—what is happening here! Flames are here too, and people are being burned! The flames are subtle—of desire, of lust—not visible. Perhaps hell’s flames are grosser. With gross flames something can be done, for they are visible.
I have heard: a rich man died. He was a great miser. At the time of death he told his wife, ‘There is no need to dress my corpse—keep the clothes for the children.’ The wife said, ‘What are you saying—do you plan to go naked?’ The rich man said, ‘I know where I am going. It is quite hot there. Don’t worry.’ He died, but the very next night he knocked at the door. The wife was frightened. ‘Listen, give me my coat, shirt—everything,’ he said. She said, ‘You said you were going where there is heat enough.’ He said, ‘I went there indeed; but all the rich are there—they have air-conditioned everything. I am dying of cold—shriveling. Give clothes; give all the warm ones!’
A ghost has come for clothes!
So perhaps in hell air-conditioning can be arranged; because the flames are outside. But on this earth the flames are invisible. Not so much outside as inside. In every hair. No one is throwing you into the fire—you stand in the fire yourself.
Lust burns—have you not seen? How badly it burns! It never satisfies. And whatever you arrange for satisfying it—works like ghee poured into the fire. It increases; it flames higher. One woman does not satisfy, two do not, three do not—who is satisfied with whom!
A great Western thinker, Marshall, has written: after a lifetime of experience, I say—even if I were to get all the women in the world, I would not be satisfied.
No one can be satisfied, because what you do for satisfaction proves to be fuel. Practice strengthens habit; the roots of stupidity grow stronger.
‘The fire of lust, kindled by the trees of objects, is burning the forest of the three worlds.’
Hell burns—its flames are clear. Earth burns—its flames are not as clear. Heaven burns—its flames are even subtler. On earth the flames are of sin. In heaven the flames are of merit—even subtler. The gods too are burning. The gods are also in a rush—the same lust, the same uproar, the same dance and song. There too is anxiety; there too there is no contentment.
There is the story of Urvashi: she came to earth and fell in love with Pururava—a mortal. Not satisfied with the gods. The gods could not satisfy. Whoever you get, there is no contentment. The apsaras long for men of earth. This is the tale of Urvashi. Men on earth long for apsaras. It seems the situation is such that wherever one is, one is discontented. If only elsewhere—then contentment!
‘But blessed is the great one whom it does not burn or shake, who is skilled in walking even upon the grass of youth.’
The three worlds burn. He who stands aloof in this vast conflagration—unburned, unmoved—within whom no flame of lust rises—blessed is he.
Mahavira knows only one blessedness—that is freedom from the race of desire. For the moment you are free of it you are steady in the soul. Desire is like gusts of wind that shake the flame of your lamp. To be free of desire is like the winds falling still, and the flame becoming unmoving. Desire means the trembling of the soul. Soul means freedom from desire. The tremble is gone; one becomes unshaken. Blessed is that person!
‘Each night that passes does not return. The nights of one who lives in adharma pass fruitless.’
Bahadur Shah Zafar said before dying:
I am the light of no one’s eyes,
I am the solace of no one’s heart;
I, who am of no use to anyone,
am a mere handful of dust.
Man’s condition! When animals die, they are of some use. An elephant dead is worth thousands. Alive its price is less; dead it fetches more. Who will keep an elephant! No kings remain, no mahants—who will keep an elephant! Even dead, it has a price—its bones sell. Man is the only creature whose death is of no use; all is fit only to be burned; all proves vain.
Of no use to anyone—
I am a handful of dust.
Day and night pass by—
Beyond the grave no footprints remain. No one goes further. Only till here has every traveler found the destination.
See people—their feet reach only up to the cremation ground. And there everything is lost.
Beyond the shroud there are no footprints—
only till here has every traveler found the destination.
But is death the destination? Is the grave the goal? If you walk and fall into the grave, what meaning, what significance has life? No—there have been a few, blessed few, who found the way beyond death. We are speaking of them—Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu. A few blessed ones, who so mastered life that they slipped past death.
What is the art of their mastery?
Mahavira gives the formula:
‘Blessed is he whom the fire does not burn, who is skilled in walking even upon the grass of youth.’
One who, while living, goes beyond life’s desires—he finds the path beyond death. For death is only of desire, not of you.
If you have dropped desire while alive, then there is no death for you. Otherwise, what you call life is only in name—a mere label. What is life there? Where are the embers? Only ash.
If you ask me—well, thanks to it all—
my life has somehow gone by; like this, like that.
Things go by like this.
People say, all is well. But have you seen—when they say, “all is well,” what sadness on their faces! When they say, “all is well”—as if they say, “nothing is well—but what is the point of telling!” All is well.
If you ask me—well, thanks to it all—
my life has somehow gone by; like this, like that.
Somehow it goes—with give and take. This you call life?
If you call this life, some day you will weep, you will writhe, and you will say:
I am a handful of dust—
useful to no one!
Do not drag—live! Do not hack through—live! Do not waste—live!
‘ja ja vajjai rayani, na sa padiniyattai. ahamman kunamanassa, aphala janti raio.’
Each night that passes does not return.
‘The nights of one who lives in adharma pass fruitless.’
Do not let them pass fruitless! These days and nights are precious. They are obtained with great difficulty.
The human birth is rare. After millions of wombs one is born human. With how many desires, with what longings have you become human! Now do not let it slip by like this! After wandering through so many bodies, so many forms, after the journey of so many births, the moment of good fortune has come—you have become human. Do not waste it! These days do not return. These nights once gone are gone. Let each moment be lived in such a way that while the moment passes it gives you the taste of nectar. The moment will pass; but squeeze it so that it goes, and its essence remains with you. The moment will pass; but let it open the door of immortality. Life will go; but before it goes, use it so that climbing on its shoulders you can see beyond it. What is beyond—that is true life.
Man is a passage, a bridge. Behind you is the past—of animals, birds, stones, mountains. Ahead is God. You are the bridge. This human life is not a home where you are to settle—it is a roadside inn; you halt for the night and move in the morning.
Remember, the journey is yet to be—the happening is not yet. Something is still to happen—it has not happened.
You are only an opportunity. Do not mistake the opportunity for the Truth. You are only a possibility—an infinite possibility—if the preparation goes rightly, if you can make yourself a temple, then one day—call it Truth, call it Brahman, choose any name you love—the Godly essence of life will descend in you.
So do not take this life to be mere indulgence—this life is Yoga as well. Bhoga means: pass time—do this, do that; enjoy this, enjoy that. Yoga means: do not merely pass—refine. Yoga means: adorn yourself, for a Guest is on the way! The Guest draws near. Do not let Him come and find you unprepared. Be ready—doors open! The throne prepared! Incense, lamp, worship, flowers, festoons! Let your moments be employed in the preparation of nectar! Let your days and nights become meditation. Slowly, slowly, the music of Samadhi arises and resounds within you. Only then will you one day know—That which you are! You will know That which is the meaning of life, its purpose! You will know That which is the destination of life. Without knowing That, those who live—live only in name. Knowing That, even those who die—attain the immortal.
Enough for today.