Ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, akama and apramada — all these words are negative. This is very significant. In truth, sadhana can only be negative. The attainment will be positive, creative. What is found will be real; what must be lost is precisely that which is not real.
Darkness is to be lost, light to be found. The false is to be lost, the true to be found. From this take to heart one more thing: negative words indicate that ahimsa is our nature. It cannot be attained — it already is. Violence has been attained; it is not our nature. It is acquired. To become violent, we had to do something. Violence is our achievement, something constructed. Ahimsa can never be our achievement. If only violence is not, then what remains is ahimsa.
Therefore sadhana is negative: letting go of what we have taken on, which was never worth taking. By nature no person is violent — cannot be. No one can will suffering, and violence leads nowhere but to suffering. Violence is an accident, circumstantial. It is not the stream of our life. Hence even the violent cannot be violent for twenty-four hours. The non-violent can be non-violent twenty-four hours. But the violent cannot be violent twenty-four hours; within some circle he must be non-violent. In fact, if he commits violence, he does so only so that with some he may manage to be non-violent. No one can be a thief twenty-four hours. And if he steals, it is so that for a while he may be without stealing. The thief’s goal too is non-stealing; the violent man’s goal too is ahimsa. That is why all these words are negative.
In the language of Dharma there are only two positive, creative words; the rest are negative. I have left those two aside till now. One is Satya — positive; and the other is Brahmacharya — positive.
It is crucial first to see that the five words I have chosen — which I am calling the five great vows — are negative. When these five fall away, what flowers within is Satya, and what flowers without is Brahmacharya.
Satya becomes the inner being when these five drop; Brahmacharya becomes the outer conduct when these five drop. These two are the creative words. Satya means: that which we will know within. Brahmacharya means: that which we will live without — conduct like Brahman, God-like conduct. Only one who becomes God-like can live God-like conduct. Satya means: to become as God — Brahman. And one who has become God-like — his conduct will be Brahmacharya, conduct like Brahman. These two words in the language of Dharma are positive. The rest of religious language is negative.
In these five days we shall inquire into these five negations.
Today, the first negation: Ahimsa.
If rightly understood, there can be no inquiry into ahimsa itself — only into violence, and into the absence of violence. Remember: ahimsa simply means the absence of violence — the non-presence, the lack of violence.
Understand it this way.
If you ask a physician for a definition of health — how do you define health? — the world has developed many sciences of health, yet none defines health itself. If you ask, what is health? the physician will say: where there is no illness. But that is about disease, not about health. It is the non-existence of disease. Disease can be defined; but health cannot be defined. At the most we can say: when one is not ill, one is healthy.
Dharma is ultimate health. Therefore Dharma cannot be defined. All definitions are of adharma.
In these five days we shall not discuss Dharma. We shall discuss adharma.
If through understanding, through insight, adharma drops — then what remains in no-thought is called Dharma. Hence wherever there is discussion about Dharma, it is futile. One can only discuss adharma. One cannot discuss Dharma. One can discuss disease, not health. Health can be known, can be lived, one can be healthy — but it cannot be discussed. Dharma can be known, can be lived, one can be in Dharma — but it cannot be discussed. Therefore all scriptures in truth discuss adharma; none discuss Dharma.
Let us begin with the first adharma: violence. And for all who are violent, the first vow is. We must assume today that we are violent; otherwise this inquiry has no meaning. In any case, we are violent. Our violence may differ in degrees. Violence has many layers and such subtle gradations that what we may be calling ahimsa could well be a very subtle form of violence; and what we may call violence might be a very gross form of ahimsa. Life is very complex.
For example, I call Gandhi’s ahimsa a subtle form of violence, and Krishna’s violence a gross form of ahimsa. When we explore this, it will become clear. It is the violent who must inquire into ahimsa. It is also relevant to understand that the thought of ahimsa in the world arose out of the community of the violent.
The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were Kshatriyas — a warrior clan. Not one was a Brahmin, not one a Vaishya. Buddha was a Kshatriya. The thought of ahimsa arose from among the violent. The notion of ahimsa was born where violence was dense and intense.
In truth, the violent were compelled to think about ahimsa. Those engaged in violence round the clock began to see clearly: this is not our innermost core. The sword in hand, the Kshatriya mind — it does not take long to see that violence is our pain, our misery; it is not our life, not our bliss.
Today’s vow is for the violent. Though those who think themselves non-violent will also join this reflection; yet I shall proceed assuming we are the violent gathered together. And as I speak of the many forms of violence, you will recognize in what manner you are violent.
The first condition for becoming non-violent is: to recognize your violence precisely where it stands. For one who recognizes violence as violence cannot remain violent. The only technique to remain violent is to mistake one’s violence for ahimsa. Thus untruth puts on the robes of truth, and violence puts on the robes of ahimsa. The deception arises there.
I have heard a tale — a Syrian tale — that when God created the goddesses Beauty and Ugliness and they came down to earth, their garments were covered in dust. Leaving their clothes by a lake, they went to bathe.
Naturally, the goddess of Beauty never imagined her clothes could be changed. Beauty has no awareness of its clothes; beauty is not even aware of its body. Only ugliness is self-conscious about the body; only ugliness worries about clothes, for ugliness arranges body and clothes to hide itself.
Beauty wandered far into the lake. Ugliness found her chance, came out, donned the garments of Beauty, and went away. When Beauty came out, she was shocked: her clothes were gone. She stood naked. The village was awakening and the road beginning to stir. Ugliness had fled in her garments. In helplessness, Beauty had to wrap herself in Ugliness’s clothes. And the tale says: since then she has been following Ugliness, searching — but till now they have not met. Ugliness still wears Beauty’s dress; Beauty still wears Ugliness’s garments in compulsion.
Whenever untruth wants to stand, it must borrow the face of truth. Violence too, to stand, must become ahimsa.
Therefore, the first necessity on the path of ahimsa is to recognize the faces of violence — especially those non-violent faces. Violence cannot deceive anyone directly. No sin can deceive directly. Sin must deceive from behind the veil of virtue. This is the glory of virtue. It shows that even when sin wins, it wins wearing the face of virtue — or as one’s own inner voice. Sin never truly wins; sin is defeated in itself. Violence cannot win. Yet violence does not disappear from the world because we have discovered too many non-violent masks for it. Let us first endeavor to recognize the faces of violence.
The very first form, the first dimension of violence is very deep; begin there. The first violence begins in taking the other as the other. The moment I say, you are the other, I have become violent toward you. In truth, it is impossible to be non-violent toward the other. We can be non-violent only toward ourselves — such is our nature. We can only be non-violent toward ourselves; we cannot be non-violent toward the other at all. The very acceptance of the other as other is the beginning of violence. Subtle, deep.
Sartre has said: ‘The other is hell.’ I agree with him to a point. His insight is deep. He is right: the other is hell. But his understanding is incomplete. The other is not hell; the otherness is hell. Therefore the few moments of heaven that we taste happen when we take the other as our own. We call it love.
If for a moment I take someone as my own, then the current flowing between us in that moment is of ahimsa; it is no longer of violence. That moment of taking the other as one’s own is the moment of love. But even the one we call our own remains, deep down, other. To call someone ‘mine’ is merely the admission: you are other, and yet I take you as mine. Therefore the depth of love also carries violence. Hence the flame of love sometimes blazes, sometimes dims. Many times in a day it changes. When the other drifts a little and appears other, violence enters between us; when the other comes close and appears our own, violence recedes a little. But even the one we call our own is other — the wife is other, however much she is ours; the son is other, however ours; the husband is other, however ours. In calling someone ‘mine,’ otherness persists. Therefore love cannot become wholly non-violent. Love has its own ways of being violent.
Love hurts in a loving way. The wife torments the husband lovingly; the husband torments the wife lovingly; the father torments the son lovingly. And when torment is loving, it becomes safe. It becomes very convenient, because violence has put on the face of ahimsa. The teacher torments the pupil and says, I do it for your own good. When we torment someone for their good, torment becomes easy, respectable, meritorious. Hence note: in tormenting others, our faces always look clean; in tormenting our own, our faces are never clean. Therefore the greatest violence in the world is not with strangers; it is with one’s own.
The truth is: to make someone an enemy, one must first make him a friend. To make someone a friend, there is no necessity to first make him an enemy. Friendship always precedes enmity.
Violence with one’s own is the deepest mask of ahimsa. Therefore one who wishes to awaken to violence must first awaken to the violence toward his own. But I said, for a few moments at times the other seems one’s own. Nearness and distance are very fluid; they change continually.
Hence we are not in love twenty-four hours with anyone. Love has only moments — not hours, not days, not years. Moments! But when from moments we spin the illusion of permanence, violence begins. If I love someone, it is a matter of a moment. Will I love in the next moment? Not necessary. Can I love? Not necessary. But if I promise that I shall continue to love in the next moment, and when the next moment we drift apart and violence has entered, then violence will take the shape of love. Therefore all institutions of ‘owning’ — like the family — are violent. None has perpetrated more subtle violence than the family.
If the sannyasin had to leave the family, this was the reason: to step out of the subtlest net of violence. No other reason. Only this one: the subtlest web of violence woven by those who call you ‘mine.’ To fight them is also difficult, for it is all ‘for your good.’ Society is the expanded family; to calculate the violence society has done is hard.
In truth, society has almost killed the individual. Remember: when you behave toward someone as a member of a society, you are violent. If you behave as a Jain toward someone — you are violent. As a Hindu — you are violent. As a Muslim — you are violent. Because now you are not dealing as an individual; you are acting as society. If the individual has yet to become non-violent, the possibility of society becoming non-violent is very far away. Society cannot be non-violent. Hence the great violences of the world have been done not by individuals, but by societies.
Tell a Muslim as an individual to burn a temple — he will think twenty-five times. Violence is obvious. But place him in a crowd of ten thousand — now he will not think even once. The crowd is a society. Violence is no longer obvious. He may burn a temple for the sake of religion. Exactly so a Hindu might do to a mosque. Exactly so all societies do to one another.
Society means a crowd of one’s own. Violence will not vanish from earth until we stop insisting on crowds of our own. A crowd of one’s own is always against another crowd. Therefore every organization in the world is violent. None can be non-violent — perhaps, after millions of years, if the whole of man is transformed, a gathering of non-violent ones may happen.
As of now all gatherings are of the violent — even the family. The family is a biological unit set against other biological units. Society is a social unit against other societies. The state is a political unit against other states. These are units of violence. Man will be non-violent the day he consents to be purely an individual.
Therefore Mahavira cannot be called a Jain — to call him so is injustice. Krishna cannot be called a Hindu, and to call Jesus a Christian is sheer madness. They are individuals; their unit is themselves. They are not ready to be joined to any other unit.
Sannyas is a refusal to be joined with any unit. In truth, sannyas declares: society is violence, and standing with society one must be violent. The face of ‘one’s own’ is the subtlest form of violence.
Hence what we call love cannot become ahimsa. The ‘mine’ is not ‘I’; it too is the other. Ahimsa begins the day the other is not — the other is not. Not that he is mine — but that he is not. But how is it that the other appears as other? He must be other to appear so.
No — things are not as they appear. In darkness a rope appears as a snake; in light you see it is not. To the naked eye, a stone looks solid; to the deep vision of science, solidity disappears. The stone is no longer substantial; the stone is no longer matter — only energy remains. Things are not as they appear; appearances only reveal the capacity of the seer. Does the other appear because there is an other? No. The reason the other appears is not the other’s being; its reason is astonishing, and must be understood. Without that we cannot fathom the depth of violence.
The other appears because I am not yet. Perhaps this won’t strike immediately. I am not — I have no knowledge of myself. This not-being-known of me, this ignorance of the self, I have turned into knowledge of the other. We keep seeing the other because we do not know how to see ourselves. Yet we must see. There are two possibilities: either the arrow of attention is other-directed, or inner-directed. Either we look at the other, or we look at ourselves — two alternatives, two dimensions. Since we cannot see ourselves, have never seen, we go on seeing the other. The other’s appearance arises out of self-ignorance. This, in essence, is the dimension of attention.
A boy playing hockey is injured in the leg; blood is flowing. Thousands see it — except him. What has happened? Is he unconscious? He is fully conscious — he sees the tiniest movement of the ball. Is he in a faint? Not at all — he notices the slightest move of every player. He is not unconscious — he is running in complete balance. Yet why does he not see the blood from his leg? Why does he not feel the wound?
All his attention is other-directed. His consciousness has become one-dimensional — entirely flowing outward. He is so absorbed in the game that not a shred of attention is left to go within; all is flowing out. When the game stops, he sits holding his leg and begins to cry: I am badly hurt! Why did I not know?
Where was he for half an hour? He was — but centered on the other. Now he returned to himself. Now he feels pain, the wound. Attention has turned to his body. But even now he is other-directed: the body too is other; it is outside. He now knows the leg hurts; yet he does not know that which knows the hurt. He has no knowledge of the knower. Still, a further journey within is possible. He stands in between: the other is outer, I am inner — and between the two is my body. Our attention swings between the other and our body. Either we know the other, or we know our body — which is also other.
In truth, ‘my body’ means only that shore where the arrows of relation between me and the other strike — the bank on which the river of consciousness flows between my body and yours. And by you I mean not your consciousness — for one who does not know his own consciousness, how could he know another’s? I know my body and your body. If rightly said, violence is a relationship between two bodies. Between bodies, ahimsa cannot be. Between bodies, relationship will always be of violence — good or bad, dangerous or seemingly harmless. But it is hard to decide when the harmless becomes dangerous, and the dangerous harmless.
Someone presses another to his chest in love — seemingly harmless violence. In truth he enjoys pressing the other’s body. Increase the pressure a little, breath begins to choke; what was love turns at once into hatred, into violence.
There are lovers we call sadists — they cannot complete their love unless they have hurt the other. In fact, all lovers torment each other a little. What we call a kiss is one mode of torment — mild; violence is intact but slow. Increase it a little, start biting — violence is rising. Some lovers do bite. Even that may pass; but then if one starts tearing and clawing… Those who wrote on the arts of love even prescribed nail-marks as part of love — scratching the beloved with nails.
In India connoisseurs of Kama say: unless you scratch with nails, love does not arise. But if you must scratch with nails, why not use a tool? It can escalate. It does escalate. When nails become routine, the juice is lost — then a weapon is needed. From the man after whom ‘sadism’ is named — de Sade — we know: he kept a whip, a five-pronged hook, a stone, and other love-instruments in his bag. When he loved, he locked the doors and began with the whip. When the beloved’s body was bloodied, he pricked with the hook. All this was ‘love!’
You say: that is not our kind of love. But it is only a step further. The difference is only of degrees, not of quality. In all relationships between bodies, there is more or less violence. Many lovers have strangled their beloveds in moments of passion — even to death. Courts tried them. Courts could not understand what manner of love that is. But they should understand — it went a little further. The bond became intense. In truth all lovers press each other’s throats: some with hands, some with mind, some with other tricks. Pressing the beloved is our way; the rest is more or less.
Between two bodies, whether the act is stabbing or kissing and embracing — there is no fundamental difference. It may surprise you to know that the thrill some feel in thrusting a knife into another’s body — has it not sprung from the very idea of sexual penetration? The pleasure of plunging a knife or firing a bullet — is this not a perverted sexuality?
In truth, sexual pleasure is the pleasure of entering the other’s body. If a man’s mind becomes distorted, he may seek other avenues of entry — inventive, if you will. He may say: animals enter each other sexually — what is uniquely human in that? Man seeks other devices by which he may enter the other’s body. Those who search deeply say: the thrill of murder is perverted sex — the rapture of killing is the rapture of entering the other.
Notice small children: a crawling insect — they break it open to see; a flower — they tear it apart. Can it be that someone’s urge to tear open another human is the same curiosity? Can we say that science too, at a deep level, is violence — the attempt to cut things open? It is sanctioned. Kill a frog outside — you are condemned. But on the laboratory table, cutting a frog — nobody objects. Yet the pleasure may be the same.
It will be long before we truly understand the scientist’s mind; then we will find he has given his violent tendency a scientific bent — a socially sanctioned form. Our violent tendency can take many masks. Once we gave it the form of yajna — a religious mode of violence.
One wants to cut an animal. Cutting is sin. Make cutting meritorious: cut it on the altar of the deity. The fun of cutting is preserved.
But that madness has ended. We now know there is no altar of any deity; no sacred platform where cutting becomes holy. If you must cut, say honestly: I want to cut. Why involve God?
There is an incident in Ramakrishna’s life. A man came to him every year; at Kali’s festival he had hundreds of goats cut. Then sacrifices ceased; the feasts stopped. Years passed; he came again. Ramakrishna asked: Have you given up Kali’s worship? No more goats?
He said: My teeth have fallen. What is the use of goats now?
Ramakrishna said: So you sacrificed because of your teeth?
He replied: Only when the teeth fell did I know the relish was gone.
Such meat is hard to eat — in Kali’s name it is easy.
The old altar of religion has fallen. Today’s altar is science. On science’s altar violence proceeds — in many forms. Science can devise a thousand tortures — and we will not object. Just as once we never objected to violence on religion’s altar, for that altar was sanctioned, now science’s altar is sanctioned.
Enter a scientist’s lab and you will be shocked: how many mice are killed, how many frogs cut, how many animals hung upside down, how many are drugged into stupor, how many dissected. It all goes on. The scientist is certain he is not violent. He believes he works for man’s welfare. Thus violence dons the face of ahimsa — now it is permissible.
When you love, beware: does your inner violence take the shape of love? If so, it is the most dangerous form — because it is hardest to remember. You will go on believing you love.
The other remains other until I know myself. This I call the foundation of violence. Violence means: other-oriented consciousness. Consciousness blooming from oneself becomes ahimsa; consciousness blooming from the other becomes violence. But we only know the other. Whenever we look, we look at the other. Even when we reflect about ourselves, we go via the other — what others think about me. If I have any face at all, it is the face given by you.
Therefore I will always be afraid lest your opinion of me turns bad; otherwise my face will be ruined. For I have no face of my own. With newspaper clippings I have made my face. With your opinions I have sculpted my statue. If one slips away — a devotee starts abusing, a follower turns enemy, a friend doesn’t support, a son denies his father — the father’s statue begins to crack, the guru’s statue begins to fall. He panics: finished. For I have no face of my own. All of you had given me one.
A father has no knowledge of being a father — only that someone is a son. Because of a son he is a father. If the son denies being a son, the father’s fatherhood is in trouble. A husband has no sense of being a husband; he is a husband in reference to the wife. If the wife becomes a little independent, his being a husband is disturbed. We all depend on the other. He who depends will go on looking at the other.
In dreams we look at the other. Awake we look at the other. Even when we sit for meditation, we meditate on the other. Sit for meditation — and we think of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. The ‘other’ is present there too. The meditation in which the other is present is violent. The meditation in which only you remain may lead you into ahimsa.
The other is not seen because he is; he is seen because we are not. The day I see myself, the other will cease to appear as other.
Therefore when Mahavira avoids stepping on an ant, do not be in the illusion that your reason is the same as his. When you avoid an ant, you avoid the ant. When Mahavira avoids the ant, he avoids stepping on himself. There is a fundamental difference. Mahavira’s avoidance is ahimsa; yours is violence. The other is present — the ant must not die. Why do you care? Because you fear that killing the ant will earn sin, will push you to hell, will snatch your merit, will lose you heaven. Your mind is oriented to the ant; you are centered on the ant; you avoid the ant.
No — you do not feel what Mahavira feels. Mahavira’s avoidance is utterly different. It is not avoidance. Ask him why he avoids and he will say: how can one place one’s foot on oneself? This is not avoidance. In truth, placing the foot on oneself is impossible.
Ramakrishna was once crossing the Ganges in a boat. Suddenly he began to cry out: Do not beat me, do not beat me! No one around was beating him. All were devotees, massaging his feet; none would beat him. People said: Who is beating you? Ramakrishna kept crying. He bared his back: there were lash-marks, blood oozing. Everyone was shocked. Who did this? Ramakrishna said: Look, they are beating me.
On the opposite bank boatmen were whipping a man. The same marks appeared on Ramakrishna’s back. It was hard to decide who had been beaten originally. Ramakrishna’s injury was deeper, for the boatman would resist within; Ramakrishna accepted totally. He suffered more. But hear his words: ‘Do not beat me.’ Do you understand?
We have the word sympathy. Sympathy belongs to the violent mind — ‘Do not beat him.’ It means: I feel pity for the other. Pity is always for the other.
This was not sympathy; this was empathy. Not sympathy — empathy. Here Ramakrishna is not saying: ‘Do not beat him.’ He is saying: ‘Do not beat me.’ The other has fallen away.
In truth, the distance between us and the other is only of the body, not of consciousness. On the plane of consciousness there are not two. If we ‘save’ the other, it cannot be ahimsa — it is still violence. The day only ‘I’ remain and there is none to save, ahimsa blossoms.
Therefore to understand ahimsa deeply we must understand this root-violence: how to be free of the other. Sartre says: ‘The other is hell.’ It is better to amend it: the other is not hell — otherness is hell. If otherness drops, the other is no longer other.
Mahavira’s ahimsa could not be understood because we violent ones gave it the vocabulary of violence. We said: do not give suffering to others. Remember: as long as the other is, suffering will continue. Whether you thrust a knife into his chest, or thrust it through your gaze, it matters not.
Have you noticed? If you sit alone in a room and someone enters, you are no longer the same as when you were alone. Because the other has begun violence — his eyes, his presence. He is not striking you, not hurting you, saying pleasant things: ‘Are you well?’ But his seeing…
As soon as the other enters the room he has made you the other. His eyes, his inspection, his sitting, his being — his presence is violence. You are afraid — for we fear only violence. You grow cautious. In your bathroom you are one kind of person; in your drawing room, another. The drawing room is the place where we endure the violence of others — where we welcome, invite it.
We decorate the drawing room to reduce the violence of others. Smiles in the drawing room are reservations against the violence of the other. Polite words, etiquette, civility — these are arrangements, security measures to lessen the other’s violence. If you abuse, you give the other a chance to become more violent. You say: It is a grace you have come; the guest is God; please be seated — you are lessening his violence. He too lessens yours. Hence when two men meet for the first time there is much etiquette. After three or four hours it drops. After three or four days it ends. After three or four months they abuse each other — even in ‘love’ and ‘friendship.’
At first they say ‘you’ respectfully; after months, ‘you’ becomes ‘thou.’ What has happened? Their violence is now settled; such heavy safeguards are no longer needed.
The other’s presence becomes violence for you; your presence becomes violence for him.
There is a marvelous incident in Mahavira’s life. He wished to renounce. He asked his mother: may I take sannyas? She said: Never speak thus before me. As long as I live you cannot renounce; it will be great sorrow for me. Mahavira returned.
The mother had not imagined it — sannyasins are not usually so non-violent as to return so easily. Had Mahavira had a violent bent, he would have insisted: I will renounce at any cost; the world is illusion; who is mine? who is other? He would have said: who are you to stop me? But no — he fell silent and returned. The mother must have been surprised: such a sannyasin who, at one request from mother, father, wife — ‘don’t, we will be pained’ — returns and never brings it up again! Can such a man ever be a sannyasin? He already is.
The mother died. The father died. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira said to his elder brother: I had spoken once to our parents; they had said: as long as we live, do not renounce; we will be pained. May I renounce now? The brother said: Are you mad? Mother and father have gone, we are orphans, and you too will leave? I cannot bear this sorrow. Mahavira became quiet and never again mentioned renunciation. Such a strange sannyasin! Even this little sorrow to another seemed meaningless. What would he do with such a moksha that must be purchased by hurting someone? He stayed.
But something astonishing happened at home — perhaps never elsewhere on earth. Within a year or two the family began to feel unsure whether Mahavira was there or not. He was there — he rose, sat, came, went, ate, drank, slept — but they doubted: is he there? His presence became like absence; his being like non-being.
When the sense of the other as other falls, it becomes difficult to sense another’s presence. We have to make our presence felt — we do so in a thousand ways. The husband announces himself by his gait, his eyes, so that it is clear: it is I. The teacher announces himself to the class; the guru to his disciples.
Mahavira became like absence. He neither looked at anyone nor was he seen by anyone. How he moved silently through the house, how he lived… He neither obstructed anyone, nor took anyone’s obstruction. In one sense he entered living death. The family met and said: to stop him is meaningless. He is not here. To stop whom? Can air be held in a fist? A stone can be stopped — it declares: I am. Air does not — how can you throw air to hit someone? The existence of air is very non-violent; the existence of stone very violent.
Mahavira became like air. The family said: our fist is closing in vain — the more we clench, the farther he goes. Better we do not stop him. He is not here. Stopping makes sense only while someone stops or refuses to stop; now there is no one. They told him: if you wish to go, you may. He replied: It is too late now; I have already gone. I am no longer here.
Two deep wounds of violence must be recognized. Is there an other? As long as there is, violence will continue. And because of the other you will create a false ‘I,’ a false ego — which you are not — necessary to deal with the other.
Ego is a makeshift existence. We do not know who we are, yet we say ‘I am.’ To claim being without knowing the who is an excess. If I do not know who I am and yet say ‘I am,’ whence has this ‘I’ arisen? If it came from knowledge, it would be a joy — but whoever has known himself has ceased to say I. Whoever has found himself has declared: we are not. Whoever has found the self has lost the self. Those who have not found it say ‘I am.’ This ‘I’ has not arisen from within; it is a social by-product. Society has compelled it into being. To deal with the other, you needed a word — ‘I.’ As we give a name to a child — he is born nameless; we give him a name: Ram, Krishna, anything. The name does not come from within; society gives it. All life long he remains that name. He will even fight for the word; if someone abuses it, he fights.
Ramtirtha was in America. Some people abused him. He returned home laughing. His friends were angry: You were abused, and you laugh? Ramtirtha said: If someone abused me, I would reply. They abused ‘Ram.’ What have I to do with that? Without this name I would still be. I could have had another name, a third. What has abusing A, B, C, D to do with me? While they abused ‘Ram,’ within I was delighted: Ram, how you get abused — deserved it for insisting to be ‘Ram’! They gave the name, they gave the abuse; both sides of the game were theirs. Some people play cards alone, laying both hands — they belong in an asylum though thought very clever.
Society plays a double game — it gives the name and the abuse, the praise and the blame, the honor and the insult. In this double game man is ensnared. The other is false, and this ‘I’ is false. The day the other falls, the ‘I’ falls; the day the ‘I’ falls, the other falls.
When ‘I’ and ‘thou’ fall away, what remains is ahimsa. So long as we can say ‘thou,’ violence continues. So long as we can say ‘I’ — I am not saying you must stop using the word ‘I.’ The word must be used. Even Mahavira uses it. But then it is merely a word — a linguistic trick, a play of language — not an existential reality. It is just a useful word; many words are useful, yet have no existence.
Remember: the turmoil between I and thou is violence. Between two lies, only turmoil can be. Yes, sometimes pleasant, sometimes unpleasant — sometimes called love, sometimes hatred. But as long as ‘I’ and ‘thou’ persist, there is violence. This is the first and subtlest form. From it many forms spread outward — endless violences. To list them all is impossible.
Ahimsa is one; violences are infinite. Violence is multi-dimensional, yet it springs from one source: the fountain of I and thou, or say, the spring of self-ignorance.
Therefore if someone asks Mahavira: what is ahimsa? he will say: self-knowledge. What is violence? he will say: self-ignorance. Not knowing oneself is violence.
This is strange. We think giving suffering to the other is violence; giving pleasure to the other is ahimsa. Remember: whether you give pleasure or pain, what reaches the other is pain. All intentions to give are futile — no one can give pleasure to another. Pleasure can be given only to oneself. The day you are no longer you, and the other no longer other, only then can bliss flow from me to you. As long as I try to give you happiness, I give sorrow. But we do not notice.
Have you ever reflected that all to whom you tried to give happiness, you gave sorrow? People complain daily: those to whom we give happiness do not return it. You may be giving happiness; what reaches is sorrow. They too give happiness; what reaches is sorrow. A great misunderstanding — what we give never reaches.
Therefore we are not as angry with those who openly give us sorrow as with those who claim to give us happiness — for with the former, the transaction is clear. If I love someone and marry her tomorrow, I will try to give all happiness — and sorrow will reach.
What husband has given what wife happiness? What wife, what husband? I will believe that I give happiness and the other gives sorrow; the same error is on the other side.
The inner conflict of human life arises from the attempt to give happiness and the reaching of sorrow. Everyone gives happiness; what reaches is sorrow. In truth, we cannot give happiness to the other; we cannot be non-violent with the other — it is impossible. Even if we throw a flower at him, when it hits, it becomes a stone.
Mansur was being crucified. People threw stones and embers. He laughed. The Sufi Junaid was present in the crowd — a saint. The crowd was large, everyone throwing something. Junaid felt sorrow, but lacked courage to protest. If he did not throw, they might beat him. He threw a flower. He thought: it will not hurt, Mansur will understand it is a flower; the crowd will think I threw something. But Mansur bore the stones; he could not bear Junaid’s flower. As the flower struck, Mansur began to weep loudly. Until then he was smiling. Junaid was frightened. He said: I threw a flower and you weep — you bore so many stones! Mansur said: You too threw — and at me. Throwing wounds. If someone throws a stone, the transaction is straight. But a flower — you throw and hide it, you want to hurt and not let it be known. The hurt goes deeper, Junaid. These are ignorants; they can be forgiven. But you too?
Remember: even flowers offered to an idol are violence — because we accept an other. A devotee is not one who offers flowers to an idol; he is one who searched and found nothing but God — in the flower too, in the stone too, in the one who offers, and in the one to whom it is offered. Then he asks: to whom shall I offer? for whom? how? and who will offer?
When one attains ahimsa, the other dissolves. And the other dissolves only when one knows oneself — not before. Then many violences are seen: in walking, in rising, in sitting, in speaking, in looking.
Therefore do not fall into the illusion that if we stop gross violences, much will change. A man may give up meat — good if he does, but do not fall into the worst illusion that ahimsa has happened. Say only: a little violence has ceased. Beware — it will seek another outlet.
It will. It will find a path. For violence has not been uprooted — it cannot be uprooted in this way. If meat is given up, often you will find the meat-eater appears kinder than the non-meat-eater. Strange, sad — but so it is. Ordinarily one who drinks, smokes, eats in hotels will seem more gentle; the one who does none of these becomes harsh. The violence not allowed expression collects within. Hence those we call ‘good men’ seldom prove good. Accidentally it happens that a bad man proves good, and the good often prove bad. Friendship with a ‘good man’ is difficult; friendship happens with the so-called bad, for friendship needs a little softness of heart — which the ‘good’ have lost. Friendship with saints is hard — even between saints it is hard.
You can be a saint’s follower or enemy — not his friend. The ‘good’ man loses friendliness, becomes hard. In societies that live simply, without making too much of good and bad, many good people are found. Where too much is made of good and bad, it is hard to find a good man. Evil stops outwardly and gathers within. Hence among rishis-munis the angriest are found — Durvasa can only be born among munis.
I have often thought: had Hitler smoked a little, eaten a little meat, danced a little at night-clubs — perhaps millions might have been saved. But Hitler did not smoke, did not eat meat, did not drink tea. A strict vegetarian, a puritan; slept and rose by rigid rule, in brahma-muhurta. A stern moralist — hard from all sides. All energy gathered within.
Sometimes even a good man needs a little innocent nonsense — then he becomes simple and humble. But good men strive so much to do good. To be good is one thing; to do good is another. No one becomes good by doing good; from being good, good action flows. But we always hold the stick from the wrong end.
We saw Mahavira did not eat meat — we concluded: if we do not eat meat, we will become like Mahavira. The logic is wrong. Mahavira has become something — therefore meat became impossible. By not eating meat no one becomes Mahavira. And if by not eating meat one could become Mahavira, then Mahavira would be worth two pennies — as much as meat. Dharma is not so cheap that by not eating or by not drinking at night one becomes religious.
I am not telling you to eat or drink. Do not misunderstand. Not drinking at night is fine — but do not fall into the illusion that you have become religious, non-violent. That is the great danger: a cheap act done, and a costly belief born. Picking pebbles and imagining diamonds have been found — this error has been made with ahimsa. We grasped it at the level of conduct, not of depth, not of the spiritual. If ahimsa is grasped as conduct, it becomes dangerous. And whoever grasps it as conduct becomes subtly violent.
One more point before I conclude.
When violence becomes subtle, it goes beyond recognition. I can coerce you in many ways. One is Hitler’s — to place a knife on your chest. Another is the ‘saint’s’ — not a knife on your chest, but on his own. One coercion says: I will kill you if you do not obey. The other says: I will kill myself if you do not obey. But coercion continues. Bad people coerce in bad ways; good people in good ways. But the bad are at least sincere; they know a knife is in their hand. The good think they hold a rosary — but one can hang a man even with a garland. They do not see it.
When violence becomes subtler it takes two forms: toward the other it wears the face of ahimsa and does the work of violence; and if subtler still, it starts torturing oneself. Note: ahimsa cannot torture — neither the other nor oneself. Violence ends in self-torture.
As I said, there are two common types: those who torture others — sadists; and those who torture themselves — masochists. As with de Sade, so with Masoch — unless he whips himself ten or fifty times each morning, the day will not be fresh.
Thus there have been sannyasins who whipped themselves, lay on thorns, wore shoes of thorns, kept wounds open. What kind of people are these? Is this sannyas? Is this Dharma?
If a man starves another, we say irreligious; if a man starves himself, we take out a procession. Strange! If torturing is irreligious, what does it matter who is tortured? Another could resist; oneself cannot. It is easier to torture oneself. Torturing another involves many difficulties — society, law, police, courts. As yet there is no law, police or court against self-torture. There should be, for some wicked ones torture themselves. In a truly good world, even for them there will be courts.
And remember: he who tortures himself will in every way torture others — for one who spares not himself, how will he spare another? If I kept myself hungry and had a procession in my honor, I will surely find ways to keep you hungry; I will not rest until your procession too is taken out. As violence becomes subtler it becomes masochism — self-torture.
Have you seen Mahavira’s image? Does he look like one who tortured himself? See that body — the majesty, the beauty. Does it seem he tortured himself? Either the stories are false or the image is false. I say the image is true; the stories false — written by masochists who are inspired by self-torture. They cast even Mahavira’s ecstasy as suffering; his play as renunciation; his supreme delight as austerity. In my vision Mahavira leaves a palace because the greater palace has appeared. In their vision he leaves a palace and sees no greater. I know he leaves gold because it became dust, and the supreme Gold has been found.
If some day Mahavira does not eat, it is not hunger-strike — it is upavasa. Hunger-strike means starving. Upavasa means: so blissful that even hunger is not felt. Upavasa means: nearer and nearer to oneself. When someone is deeply near within, he cannot be near the body; therefore he does not remember the body’s hunger and thirst. Attention to the body arises only if one is near the body. When attention is deep within, the body falls from attention. Upavasa is the inward journey of attention — not hunger-strike. The masochist turns upavasa into hunger-strike and says: without being hungry the soul cannot be found. What relation can there be between hunger and the soul? Does the soul love hunger?
There is no relation. Yes, in the hour of finding the soul, fasting may happen. Notice: the day you are joyous, you cannot eat much. When a beloved arrives and you are delighted, food reduces. Joy so fulfills that nothing is left empty to be filled with food. Mahavira’s joy is supreme — it fills so totally that no space remains empty. The unhappy eat more. On days of sorrow you eat more — you are empty. The more anxiety, the more food. Anxiety is emptiness; it hollows you. Food increases. Eating much is an indication of sorrow; eating less is an indication of happiness.
Joy is further still. When one is full of joy, months may pass. And remember — Mahavira’s months passed in upavasa. Not that he did not eat — rather, he could not. He was so full. But would the body not be damaged by months without food? Curiously, the body is harmed less by absence of food than by not getting food when desired. The deep harms to the body come from mental states.
In Bengal there was a woman, Pyari Bai, who did not eat for thirty years and suffered no bodily harm. All medical tests were conducted. No grain entered her belly. Her intestines had shrunk and dried — no harm to her health. A miracle? In essence, she was so joyous that we cannot imagine joy can become food. We know only the one end — food becomes joy; not the other end — joy becomes food. If water can become ice, ice can become water; if energy can become matter, matter can become energy; if food becomes joy, joy can become food. It has. Pyari Bai, thirty years unfed, testified that if Mahavira in twelve years ate only three hundred and sixty-five days, it was not hunger-strike — otherwise the body would have perished. Joy became food.
In Europe there was a woman on whom experiments were possible. She was extraordinarily healthy and for years ate nothing. She was not Krishna-intoxicated; Pyari Bai was Krishna-intoxicated. She was Christ-intoxicated. Every Friday, when Christ was crucified, blood flowed from her hands without any injury. Such empathy that she would not say ‘Jesus said’; she would say ‘I said — when I was crucified I said: forgive them, they know not what they do.’ Exactly on Friday her hands spread, eyes closed, and blood began to flow from the centers of the palms — stigmata. By Friday night the wounds disappeared; by morning the hands were whole. Hundreds of times blood flowed from her hands — and her weight did not drop. What happened?
Let me tell you a precious secret: there are keys by which joy becomes food. That is upavasa — not hunger-strike.
Ahimsa tortures neither the other nor oneself — ahimsa tortures not at all. Only violence tortures — at home and in sannyas; in good forms and bad. If we become alert to both, perhaps the search for ahimsa can begin.
For four days I wish to explore, one by one, these four sutras; and on the fifth, the last day, how to enter them.
Ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, akama — these four are fruits; and the fifth sutra, apramada — awareness — is the path to these fruits. What will be attained is Satya. What will flower in life is Brahmacharya.
You have listened with such peace and love — I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, akama and apramada — all these words are negative. This is very significant. In truth, sadhana can only be negative. The attainment will be positive, creative. What is found will be real; what must be lost is precisely that which is not real.
Darkness is to be lost, light to be found. The false is to be lost, the true to be found. From this take to heart one more thing: negative words indicate that ahimsa is our nature. It cannot be attained — it already is. Violence has been attained; it is not our nature. It is acquired. To become violent, we had to do something. Violence is our achievement, something constructed. Ahimsa can never be our achievement. If only violence is not, then what remains is ahimsa.
Therefore sadhana is negative: letting go of what we have taken on, which was never worth taking. By nature no person is violent — cannot be. No one can will suffering, and violence leads nowhere but to suffering. Violence is an accident, circumstantial. It is not the stream of our life. Hence even the violent cannot be violent for twenty-four hours. The non-violent can be non-violent twenty-four hours. But the violent cannot be violent twenty-four hours; within some circle he must be non-violent. In fact, if he commits violence, he does so only so that with some he may manage to be non-violent. No one can be a thief twenty-four hours. And if he steals, it is so that for a while he may be without stealing. The thief’s goal too is non-stealing; the violent man’s goal too is ahimsa. That is why all these words are negative.
In the language of Dharma there are only two positive, creative words; the rest are negative. I have left those two aside till now. One is Satya — positive; and the other is Brahmacharya — positive.
It is crucial first to see that the five words I have chosen — which I am calling the five great vows — are negative. When these five fall away, what flowers within is Satya, and what flowers without is Brahmacharya.
Satya becomes the inner being when these five drop; Brahmacharya becomes the outer conduct when these five drop. These two are the creative words. Satya means: that which we will know within. Brahmacharya means: that which we will live without — conduct like Brahman, God-like conduct. Only one who becomes God-like can live God-like conduct. Satya means: to become as God — Brahman. And one who has become God-like — his conduct will be Brahmacharya, conduct like Brahman. These two words in the language of Dharma are positive. The rest of religious language is negative.
In these five days we shall inquire into these five negations.
Today, the first negation: Ahimsa.
If rightly understood, there can be no inquiry into ahimsa itself — only into violence, and into the absence of violence. Remember: ahimsa simply means the absence of violence — the non-presence, the lack of violence.
Understand it this way.
If you ask a physician for a definition of health — how do you define health? — the world has developed many sciences of health, yet none defines health itself. If you ask, what is health? the physician will say: where there is no illness. But that is about disease, not about health. It is the non-existence of disease. Disease can be defined; but health cannot be defined. At the most we can say: when one is not ill, one is healthy.
Dharma is ultimate health. Therefore Dharma cannot be defined. All definitions are of adharma.
In these five days we shall not discuss Dharma. We shall discuss adharma.
If through understanding, through insight, adharma drops — then what remains in no-thought is called Dharma. Hence wherever there is discussion about Dharma, it is futile. One can only discuss adharma. One cannot discuss Dharma. One can discuss disease, not health. Health can be known, can be lived, one can be healthy — but it cannot be discussed. Dharma can be known, can be lived, one can be in Dharma — but it cannot be discussed. Therefore all scriptures in truth discuss adharma; none discuss Dharma.
Let us begin with the first adharma: violence. And for all who are violent, the first vow is. We must assume today that we are violent; otherwise this inquiry has no meaning. In any case, we are violent. Our violence may differ in degrees. Violence has many layers and such subtle gradations that what we may be calling ahimsa could well be a very subtle form of violence; and what we may call violence might be a very gross form of ahimsa. Life is very complex.
For example, I call Gandhi’s ahimsa a subtle form of violence, and Krishna’s violence a gross form of ahimsa. When we explore this, it will become clear. It is the violent who must inquire into ahimsa. It is also relevant to understand that the thought of ahimsa in the world arose out of the community of the violent.
The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were Kshatriyas — a warrior clan. Not one was a Brahmin, not one a Vaishya. Buddha was a Kshatriya. The thought of ahimsa arose from among the violent. The notion of ahimsa was born where violence was dense and intense.
In truth, the violent were compelled to think about ahimsa. Those engaged in violence round the clock began to see clearly: this is not our innermost core. The sword in hand, the Kshatriya mind — it does not take long to see that violence is our pain, our misery; it is not our life, not our bliss.
Today’s vow is for the violent. Though those who think themselves non-violent will also join this reflection; yet I shall proceed assuming we are the violent gathered together. And as I speak of the many forms of violence, you will recognize in what manner you are violent.
The first condition for becoming non-violent is: to recognize your violence precisely where it stands. For one who recognizes violence as violence cannot remain violent. The only technique to remain violent is to mistake one’s violence for ahimsa. Thus untruth puts on the robes of truth, and violence puts on the robes of ahimsa. The deception arises there.
I have heard a tale — a Syrian tale — that when God created the goddesses Beauty and Ugliness and they came down to earth, their garments were covered in dust. Leaving their clothes by a lake, they went to bathe.
Naturally, the goddess of Beauty never imagined her clothes could be changed. Beauty has no awareness of its clothes; beauty is not even aware of its body. Only ugliness is self-conscious about the body; only ugliness worries about clothes, for ugliness arranges body and clothes to hide itself.
Beauty wandered far into the lake. Ugliness found her chance, came out, donned the garments of Beauty, and went away. When Beauty came out, she was shocked: her clothes were gone. She stood naked. The village was awakening and the road beginning to stir. Ugliness had fled in her garments. In helplessness, Beauty had to wrap herself in Ugliness’s clothes. And the tale says: since then she has been following Ugliness, searching — but till now they have not met. Ugliness still wears Beauty’s dress; Beauty still wears Ugliness’s garments in compulsion.
Whenever untruth wants to stand, it must borrow the face of truth. Violence too, to stand, must become ahimsa.
Therefore, the first necessity on the path of ahimsa is to recognize the faces of violence — especially those non-violent faces. Violence cannot deceive anyone directly. No sin can deceive directly. Sin must deceive from behind the veil of virtue. This is the glory of virtue. It shows that even when sin wins, it wins wearing the face of virtue — or as one’s own inner voice. Sin never truly wins; sin is defeated in itself. Violence cannot win. Yet violence does not disappear from the world because we have discovered too many non-violent masks for it. Let us first endeavor to recognize the faces of violence.
The very first form, the first dimension of violence is very deep; begin there. The first violence begins in taking the other as the other. The moment I say, you are the other, I have become violent toward you. In truth, it is impossible to be non-violent toward the other. We can be non-violent only toward ourselves — such is our nature. We can only be non-violent toward ourselves; we cannot be non-violent toward the other at all. The very acceptance of the other as other is the beginning of violence. Subtle, deep.
Sartre has said: ‘The other is hell.’ I agree with him to a point. His insight is deep. He is right: the other is hell. But his understanding is incomplete. The other is not hell; the otherness is hell. Therefore the few moments of heaven that we taste happen when we take the other as our own. We call it love.
If for a moment I take someone as my own, then the current flowing between us in that moment is of ahimsa; it is no longer of violence. That moment of taking the other as one’s own is the moment of love. But even the one we call our own remains, deep down, other. To call someone ‘mine’ is merely the admission: you are other, and yet I take you as mine. Therefore the depth of love also carries violence. Hence the flame of love sometimes blazes, sometimes dims. Many times in a day it changes. When the other drifts a little and appears other, violence enters between us; when the other comes close and appears our own, violence recedes a little. But even the one we call our own is other — the wife is other, however much she is ours; the son is other, however ours; the husband is other, however ours. In calling someone ‘mine,’ otherness persists. Therefore love cannot become wholly non-violent. Love has its own ways of being violent.
Love hurts in a loving way. The wife torments the husband lovingly; the husband torments the wife lovingly; the father torments the son lovingly. And when torment is loving, it becomes safe. It becomes very convenient, because violence has put on the face of ahimsa. The teacher torments the pupil and says, I do it for your own good. When we torment someone for their good, torment becomes easy, respectable, meritorious. Hence note: in tormenting others, our faces always look clean; in tormenting our own, our faces are never clean. Therefore the greatest violence in the world is not with strangers; it is with one’s own.
The truth is: to make someone an enemy, one must first make him a friend. To make someone a friend, there is no necessity to first make him an enemy. Friendship always precedes enmity.
Violence with one’s own is the deepest mask of ahimsa. Therefore one who wishes to awaken to violence must first awaken to the violence toward his own. But I said, for a few moments at times the other seems one’s own. Nearness and distance are very fluid; they change continually.
Hence we are not in love twenty-four hours with anyone. Love has only moments — not hours, not days, not years. Moments! But when from moments we spin the illusion of permanence, violence begins. If I love someone, it is a matter of a moment. Will I love in the next moment? Not necessary. Can I love? Not necessary. But if I promise that I shall continue to love in the next moment, and when the next moment we drift apart and violence has entered, then violence will take the shape of love. Therefore all institutions of ‘owning’ — like the family — are violent. None has perpetrated more subtle violence than the family.
If the sannyasin had to leave the family, this was the reason: to step out of the subtlest net of violence. No other reason. Only this one: the subtlest web of violence woven by those who call you ‘mine.’ To fight them is also difficult, for it is all ‘for your good.’ Society is the expanded family; to calculate the violence society has done is hard.
In truth, society has almost killed the individual. Remember: when you behave toward someone as a member of a society, you are violent. If you behave as a Jain toward someone — you are violent. As a Hindu — you are violent. As a Muslim — you are violent. Because now you are not dealing as an individual; you are acting as society. If the individual has yet to become non-violent, the possibility of society becoming non-violent is very far away. Society cannot be non-violent. Hence the great violences of the world have been done not by individuals, but by societies.
Tell a Muslim as an individual to burn a temple — he will think twenty-five times. Violence is obvious. But place him in a crowd of ten thousand — now he will not think even once. The crowd is a society. Violence is no longer obvious. He may burn a temple for the sake of religion. Exactly so a Hindu might do to a mosque. Exactly so all societies do to one another.
Society means a crowd of one’s own. Violence will not vanish from earth until we stop insisting on crowds of our own. A crowd of one’s own is always against another crowd. Therefore every organization in the world is violent. None can be non-violent — perhaps, after millions of years, if the whole of man is transformed, a gathering of non-violent ones may happen.
As of now all gatherings are of the violent — even the family. The family is a biological unit set against other biological units. Society is a social unit against other societies. The state is a political unit against other states. These are units of violence. Man will be non-violent the day he consents to be purely an individual.
Therefore Mahavira cannot be called a Jain — to call him so is injustice. Krishna cannot be called a Hindu, and to call Jesus a Christian is sheer madness. They are individuals; their unit is themselves. They are not ready to be joined to any other unit.
Sannyas is a refusal to be joined with any unit. In truth, sannyas declares: society is violence, and standing with society one must be violent. The face of ‘one’s own’ is the subtlest form of violence.
Hence what we call love cannot become ahimsa. The ‘mine’ is not ‘I’; it too is the other. Ahimsa begins the day the other is not — the other is not. Not that he is mine — but that he is not. But how is it that the other appears as other? He must be other to appear so.
No — things are not as they appear. In darkness a rope appears as a snake; in light you see it is not. To the naked eye, a stone looks solid; to the deep vision of science, solidity disappears. The stone is no longer substantial; the stone is no longer matter — only energy remains. Things are not as they appear; appearances only reveal the capacity of the seer. Does the other appear because there is an other? No. The reason the other appears is not the other’s being; its reason is astonishing, and must be understood. Without that we cannot fathom the depth of violence.
The other appears because I am not yet. Perhaps this won’t strike immediately. I am not — I have no knowledge of myself. This not-being-known of me, this ignorance of the self, I have turned into knowledge of the other. We keep seeing the other because we do not know how to see ourselves. Yet we must see. There are two possibilities: either the arrow of attention is other-directed, or inner-directed. Either we look at the other, or we look at ourselves — two alternatives, two dimensions. Since we cannot see ourselves, have never seen, we go on seeing the other. The other’s appearance arises out of self-ignorance. This, in essence, is the dimension of attention.
A boy playing hockey is injured in the leg; blood is flowing. Thousands see it — except him. What has happened? Is he unconscious? He is fully conscious — he sees the tiniest movement of the ball. Is he in a faint? Not at all — he notices the slightest move of every player. He is not unconscious — he is running in complete balance. Yet why does he not see the blood from his leg? Why does he not feel the wound?
All his attention is other-directed. His consciousness has become one-dimensional — entirely flowing outward. He is so absorbed in the game that not a shred of attention is left to go within; all is flowing out. When the game stops, he sits holding his leg and begins to cry: I am badly hurt! Why did I not know?
Where was he for half an hour? He was — but centered on the other. Now he returned to himself. Now he feels pain, the wound. Attention has turned to his body. But even now he is other-directed: the body too is other; it is outside. He now knows the leg hurts; yet he does not know that which knows the hurt. He has no knowledge of the knower. Still, a further journey within is possible. He stands in between: the other is outer, I am inner — and between the two is my body. Our attention swings between the other and our body. Either we know the other, or we know our body — which is also other.
In truth, ‘my body’ means only that shore where the arrows of relation between me and the other strike — the bank on which the river of consciousness flows between my body and yours. And by you I mean not your consciousness — for one who does not know his own consciousness, how could he know another’s? I know my body and your body. If rightly said, violence is a relationship between two bodies. Between bodies, ahimsa cannot be. Between bodies, relationship will always be of violence — good or bad, dangerous or seemingly harmless. But it is hard to decide when the harmless becomes dangerous, and the dangerous harmless.
Someone presses another to his chest in love — seemingly harmless violence. In truth he enjoys pressing the other’s body. Increase the pressure a little, breath begins to choke; what was love turns at once into hatred, into violence.
There are lovers we call sadists — they cannot complete their love unless they have hurt the other. In fact, all lovers torment each other a little. What we call a kiss is one mode of torment — mild; violence is intact but slow. Increase it a little, start biting — violence is rising. Some lovers do bite. Even that may pass; but then if one starts tearing and clawing… Those who wrote on the arts of love even prescribed nail-marks as part of love — scratching the beloved with nails.
In India connoisseurs of Kama say: unless you scratch with nails, love does not arise. But if you must scratch with nails, why not use a tool? It can escalate. It does escalate. When nails become routine, the juice is lost — then a weapon is needed. From the man after whom ‘sadism’ is named — de Sade — we know: he kept a whip, a five-pronged hook, a stone, and other love-instruments in his bag. When he loved, he locked the doors and began with the whip. When the beloved’s body was bloodied, he pricked with the hook. All this was ‘love!’
You say: that is not our kind of love. But it is only a step further. The difference is only of degrees, not of quality. In all relationships between bodies, there is more or less violence. Many lovers have strangled their beloveds in moments of passion — even to death. Courts tried them. Courts could not understand what manner of love that is. But they should understand — it went a little further. The bond became intense. In truth all lovers press each other’s throats: some with hands, some with mind, some with other tricks. Pressing the beloved is our way; the rest is more or less.
Between two bodies, whether the act is stabbing or kissing and embracing — there is no fundamental difference. It may surprise you to know that the thrill some feel in thrusting a knife into another’s body — has it not sprung from the very idea of sexual penetration? The pleasure of plunging a knife or firing a bullet — is this not a perverted sexuality?
In truth, sexual pleasure is the pleasure of entering the other’s body. If a man’s mind becomes distorted, he may seek other avenues of entry — inventive, if you will. He may say: animals enter each other sexually — what is uniquely human in that? Man seeks other devices by which he may enter the other’s body. Those who search deeply say: the thrill of murder is perverted sex — the rapture of killing is the rapture of entering the other.
Notice small children: a crawling insect — they break it open to see; a flower — they tear it apart. Can it be that someone’s urge to tear open another human is the same curiosity? Can we say that science too, at a deep level, is violence — the attempt to cut things open? It is sanctioned. Kill a frog outside — you are condemned. But on the laboratory table, cutting a frog — nobody objects. Yet the pleasure may be the same.
It will be long before we truly understand the scientist’s mind; then we will find he has given his violent tendency a scientific bent — a socially sanctioned form. Our violent tendency can take many masks. Once we gave it the form of yajna — a religious mode of violence.
One wants to cut an animal. Cutting is sin. Make cutting meritorious: cut it on the altar of the deity. The fun of cutting is preserved.
But that madness has ended. We now know there is no altar of any deity; no sacred platform where cutting becomes holy. If you must cut, say honestly: I want to cut. Why involve God?
There is an incident in Ramakrishna’s life. A man came to him every year; at Kali’s festival he had hundreds of goats cut. Then sacrifices ceased; the feasts stopped. Years passed; he came again. Ramakrishna asked: Have you given up Kali’s worship? No more goats?
He said: My teeth have fallen. What is the use of goats now?
Ramakrishna said: So you sacrificed because of your teeth?
He replied: Only when the teeth fell did I know the relish was gone.
Such meat is hard to eat — in Kali’s name it is easy.
The old altar of religion has fallen. Today’s altar is science. On science’s altar violence proceeds — in many forms. Science can devise a thousand tortures — and we will not object. Just as once we never objected to violence on religion’s altar, for that altar was sanctioned, now science’s altar is sanctioned.
Enter a scientist’s lab and you will be shocked: how many mice are killed, how many frogs cut, how many animals hung upside down, how many are drugged into stupor, how many dissected. It all goes on. The scientist is certain he is not violent. He believes he works for man’s welfare. Thus violence dons the face of ahimsa — now it is permissible.
When you love, beware: does your inner violence take the shape of love? If so, it is the most dangerous form — because it is hardest to remember. You will go on believing you love.
The other remains other until I know myself. This I call the foundation of violence. Violence means: other-oriented consciousness. Consciousness blooming from oneself becomes ahimsa; consciousness blooming from the other becomes violence. But we only know the other. Whenever we look, we look at the other. Even when we reflect about ourselves, we go via the other — what others think about me. If I have any face at all, it is the face given by you.
Therefore I will always be afraid lest your opinion of me turns bad; otherwise my face will be ruined. For I have no face of my own. With newspaper clippings I have made my face. With your opinions I have sculpted my statue. If one slips away — a devotee starts abusing, a follower turns enemy, a friend doesn’t support, a son denies his father — the father’s statue begins to crack, the guru’s statue begins to fall. He panics: finished. For I have no face of my own. All of you had given me one.
A father has no knowledge of being a father — only that someone is a son. Because of a son he is a father. If the son denies being a son, the father’s fatherhood is in trouble. A husband has no sense of being a husband; he is a husband in reference to the wife. If the wife becomes a little independent, his being a husband is disturbed. We all depend on the other. He who depends will go on looking at the other.
In dreams we look at the other. Awake we look at the other. Even when we sit for meditation, we meditate on the other. Sit for meditation — and we think of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. The ‘other’ is present there too. The meditation in which the other is present is violent. The meditation in which only you remain may lead you into ahimsa.
The other is not seen because he is; he is seen because we are not. The day I see myself, the other will cease to appear as other.
Therefore when Mahavira avoids stepping on an ant, do not be in the illusion that your reason is the same as his. When you avoid an ant, you avoid the ant. When Mahavira avoids the ant, he avoids stepping on himself. There is a fundamental difference. Mahavira’s avoidance is ahimsa; yours is violence. The other is present — the ant must not die. Why do you care? Because you fear that killing the ant will earn sin, will push you to hell, will snatch your merit, will lose you heaven. Your mind is oriented to the ant; you are centered on the ant; you avoid the ant.
No — you do not feel what Mahavira feels. Mahavira’s avoidance is utterly different. It is not avoidance. Ask him why he avoids and he will say: how can one place one’s foot on oneself? This is not avoidance. In truth, placing the foot on oneself is impossible.
Ramakrishna was once crossing the Ganges in a boat. Suddenly he began to cry out: Do not beat me, do not beat me! No one around was beating him. All were devotees, massaging his feet; none would beat him. People said: Who is beating you? Ramakrishna kept crying. He bared his back: there were lash-marks, blood oozing. Everyone was shocked. Who did this? Ramakrishna said: Look, they are beating me.
On the opposite bank boatmen were whipping a man. The same marks appeared on Ramakrishna’s back. It was hard to decide who had been beaten originally. Ramakrishna’s injury was deeper, for the boatman would resist within; Ramakrishna accepted totally. He suffered more. But hear his words: ‘Do not beat me.’ Do you understand?
We have the word sympathy. Sympathy belongs to the violent mind — ‘Do not beat him.’ It means: I feel pity for the other. Pity is always for the other.
This was not sympathy; this was empathy. Not sympathy — empathy. Here Ramakrishna is not saying: ‘Do not beat him.’ He is saying: ‘Do not beat me.’ The other has fallen away.
In truth, the distance between us and the other is only of the body, not of consciousness. On the plane of consciousness there are not two. If we ‘save’ the other, it cannot be ahimsa — it is still violence. The day only ‘I’ remain and there is none to save, ahimsa blossoms.
Therefore to understand ahimsa deeply we must understand this root-violence: how to be free of the other. Sartre says: ‘The other is hell.’ It is better to amend it: the other is not hell — otherness is hell. If otherness drops, the other is no longer other.
Mahavira’s ahimsa could not be understood because we violent ones gave it the vocabulary of violence. We said: do not give suffering to others. Remember: as long as the other is, suffering will continue. Whether you thrust a knife into his chest, or thrust it through your gaze, it matters not.
Have you noticed? If you sit alone in a room and someone enters, you are no longer the same as when you were alone. Because the other has begun violence — his eyes, his presence. He is not striking you, not hurting you, saying pleasant things: ‘Are you well?’ But his seeing…
As soon as the other enters the room he has made you the other. His eyes, his inspection, his sitting, his being — his presence is violence. You are afraid — for we fear only violence. You grow cautious. In your bathroom you are one kind of person; in your drawing room, another. The drawing room is the place where we endure the violence of others — where we welcome, invite it.
We decorate the drawing room to reduce the violence of others. Smiles in the drawing room are reservations against the violence of the other. Polite words, etiquette, civility — these are arrangements, security measures to lessen the other’s violence. If you abuse, you give the other a chance to become more violent. You say: It is a grace you have come; the guest is God; please be seated — you are lessening his violence. He too lessens yours. Hence when two men meet for the first time there is much etiquette. After three or four hours it drops. After three or four days it ends. After three or four months they abuse each other — even in ‘love’ and ‘friendship.’
At first they say ‘you’ respectfully; after months, ‘you’ becomes ‘thou.’ What has happened? Their violence is now settled; such heavy safeguards are no longer needed.
The other’s presence becomes violence for you; your presence becomes violence for him.
There is a marvelous incident in Mahavira’s life. He wished to renounce. He asked his mother: may I take sannyas? She said: Never speak thus before me. As long as I live you cannot renounce; it will be great sorrow for me. Mahavira returned.
The mother had not imagined it — sannyasins are not usually so non-violent as to return so easily. Had Mahavira had a violent bent, he would have insisted: I will renounce at any cost; the world is illusion; who is mine? who is other? He would have said: who are you to stop me? But no — he fell silent and returned. The mother must have been surprised: such a sannyasin who, at one request from mother, father, wife — ‘don’t, we will be pained’ — returns and never brings it up again! Can such a man ever be a sannyasin? He already is.
The mother died. The father died. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira said to his elder brother: I had spoken once to our parents; they had said: as long as we live, do not renounce; we will be pained. May I renounce now? The brother said: Are you mad? Mother and father have gone, we are orphans, and you too will leave? I cannot bear this sorrow. Mahavira became quiet and never again mentioned renunciation. Such a strange sannyasin! Even this little sorrow to another seemed meaningless. What would he do with such a moksha that must be purchased by hurting someone? He stayed.
But something astonishing happened at home — perhaps never elsewhere on earth. Within a year or two the family began to feel unsure whether Mahavira was there or not. He was there — he rose, sat, came, went, ate, drank, slept — but they doubted: is he there? His presence became like absence; his being like non-being.
When the sense of the other as other falls, it becomes difficult to sense another’s presence. We have to make our presence felt — we do so in a thousand ways. The husband announces himself by his gait, his eyes, so that it is clear: it is I. The teacher announces himself to the class; the guru to his disciples.
Mahavira became like absence. He neither looked at anyone nor was he seen by anyone. How he moved silently through the house, how he lived… He neither obstructed anyone, nor took anyone’s obstruction. In one sense he entered living death. The family met and said: to stop him is meaningless. He is not here. To stop whom? Can air be held in a fist? A stone can be stopped — it declares: I am. Air does not — how can you throw air to hit someone? The existence of air is very non-violent; the existence of stone very violent.
Mahavira became like air. The family said: our fist is closing in vain — the more we clench, the farther he goes. Better we do not stop him. He is not here. Stopping makes sense only while someone stops or refuses to stop; now there is no one. They told him: if you wish to go, you may. He replied: It is too late now; I have already gone. I am no longer here.
Two deep wounds of violence must be recognized. Is there an other? As long as there is, violence will continue. And because of the other you will create a false ‘I,’ a false ego — which you are not — necessary to deal with the other.
Ego is a makeshift existence. We do not know who we are, yet we say ‘I am.’ To claim being without knowing the who is an excess. If I do not know who I am and yet say ‘I am,’ whence has this ‘I’ arisen? If it came from knowledge, it would be a joy — but whoever has known himself has ceased to say I. Whoever has found himself has declared: we are not. Whoever has found the self has lost the self. Those who have not found it say ‘I am.’ This ‘I’ has not arisen from within; it is a social by-product. Society has compelled it into being. To deal with the other, you needed a word — ‘I.’ As we give a name to a child — he is born nameless; we give him a name: Ram, Krishna, anything. The name does not come from within; society gives it. All life long he remains that name. He will even fight for the word; if someone abuses it, he fights.
Ramtirtha was in America. Some people abused him. He returned home laughing. His friends were angry: You were abused, and you laugh? Ramtirtha said: If someone abused me, I would reply. They abused ‘Ram.’ What have I to do with that? Without this name I would still be. I could have had another name, a third. What has abusing A, B, C, D to do with me? While they abused ‘Ram,’ within I was delighted: Ram, how you get abused — deserved it for insisting to be ‘Ram’! They gave the name, they gave the abuse; both sides of the game were theirs. Some people play cards alone, laying both hands — they belong in an asylum though thought very clever.
Society plays a double game — it gives the name and the abuse, the praise and the blame, the honor and the insult. In this double game man is ensnared. The other is false, and this ‘I’ is false. The day the other falls, the ‘I’ falls; the day the ‘I’ falls, the other falls.
When ‘I’ and ‘thou’ fall away, what remains is ahimsa. So long as we can say ‘thou,’ violence continues. So long as we can say ‘I’ — I am not saying you must stop using the word ‘I.’ The word must be used. Even Mahavira uses it. But then it is merely a word — a linguistic trick, a play of language — not an existential reality. It is just a useful word; many words are useful, yet have no existence.
Remember: the turmoil between I and thou is violence. Between two lies, only turmoil can be. Yes, sometimes pleasant, sometimes unpleasant — sometimes called love, sometimes hatred. But as long as ‘I’ and ‘thou’ persist, there is violence. This is the first and subtlest form. From it many forms spread outward — endless violences. To list them all is impossible.
Ahimsa is one; violences are infinite. Violence is multi-dimensional, yet it springs from one source: the fountain of I and thou, or say, the spring of self-ignorance.
Therefore if someone asks Mahavira: what is ahimsa? he will say: self-knowledge. What is violence? he will say: self-ignorance. Not knowing oneself is violence.
This is strange. We think giving suffering to the other is violence; giving pleasure to the other is ahimsa. Remember: whether you give pleasure or pain, what reaches the other is pain. All intentions to give are futile — no one can give pleasure to another. Pleasure can be given only to oneself. The day you are no longer you, and the other no longer other, only then can bliss flow from me to you. As long as I try to give you happiness, I give sorrow. But we do not notice.
Have you ever reflected that all to whom you tried to give happiness, you gave sorrow? People complain daily: those to whom we give happiness do not return it. You may be giving happiness; what reaches is sorrow. They too give happiness; what reaches is sorrow. A great misunderstanding — what we give never reaches.
Therefore we are not as angry with those who openly give us sorrow as with those who claim to give us happiness — for with the former, the transaction is clear. If I love someone and marry her tomorrow, I will try to give all happiness — and sorrow will reach.
What husband has given what wife happiness? What wife, what husband? I will believe that I give happiness and the other gives sorrow; the same error is on the other side.
The inner conflict of human life arises from the attempt to give happiness and the reaching of sorrow. Everyone gives happiness; what reaches is sorrow. In truth, we cannot give happiness to the other; we cannot be non-violent with the other — it is impossible. Even if we throw a flower at him, when it hits, it becomes a stone.
Mansur was being crucified. People threw stones and embers. He laughed. The Sufi Junaid was present in the crowd — a saint. The crowd was large, everyone throwing something. Junaid felt sorrow, but lacked courage to protest. If he did not throw, they might beat him. He threw a flower. He thought: it will not hurt, Mansur will understand it is a flower; the crowd will think I threw something. But Mansur bore the stones; he could not bear Junaid’s flower. As the flower struck, Mansur began to weep loudly. Until then he was smiling. Junaid was frightened. He said: I threw a flower and you weep — you bore so many stones! Mansur said: You too threw — and at me. Throwing wounds. If someone throws a stone, the transaction is straight. But a flower — you throw and hide it, you want to hurt and not let it be known. The hurt goes deeper, Junaid. These are ignorants; they can be forgiven. But you too?
Remember: even flowers offered to an idol are violence — because we accept an other. A devotee is not one who offers flowers to an idol; he is one who searched and found nothing but God — in the flower too, in the stone too, in the one who offers, and in the one to whom it is offered. Then he asks: to whom shall I offer? for whom? how? and who will offer?
When one attains ahimsa, the other dissolves. And the other dissolves only when one knows oneself — not before. Then many violences are seen: in walking, in rising, in sitting, in speaking, in looking.
Therefore do not fall into the illusion that if we stop gross violences, much will change. A man may give up meat — good if he does, but do not fall into the worst illusion that ahimsa has happened. Say only: a little violence has ceased. Beware — it will seek another outlet.
It will. It will find a path. For violence has not been uprooted — it cannot be uprooted in this way. If meat is given up, often you will find the meat-eater appears kinder than the non-meat-eater. Strange, sad — but so it is. Ordinarily one who drinks, smokes, eats in hotels will seem more gentle; the one who does none of these becomes harsh. The violence not allowed expression collects within. Hence those we call ‘good men’ seldom prove good. Accidentally it happens that a bad man proves good, and the good often prove bad. Friendship with a ‘good man’ is difficult; friendship happens with the so-called bad, for friendship needs a little softness of heart — which the ‘good’ have lost. Friendship with saints is hard — even between saints it is hard.
You can be a saint’s follower or enemy — not his friend. The ‘good’ man loses friendliness, becomes hard. In societies that live simply, without making too much of good and bad, many good people are found. Where too much is made of good and bad, it is hard to find a good man. Evil stops outwardly and gathers within. Hence among rishis-munis the angriest are found — Durvasa can only be born among munis.
I have often thought: had Hitler smoked a little, eaten a little meat, danced a little at night-clubs — perhaps millions might have been saved. But Hitler did not smoke, did not eat meat, did not drink tea. A strict vegetarian, a puritan; slept and rose by rigid rule, in brahma-muhurta. A stern moralist — hard from all sides. All energy gathered within.
Sometimes even a good man needs a little innocent nonsense — then he becomes simple and humble. But good men strive so much to do good. To be good is one thing; to do good is another. No one becomes good by doing good; from being good, good action flows. But we always hold the stick from the wrong end.
We saw Mahavira did not eat meat — we concluded: if we do not eat meat, we will become like Mahavira. The logic is wrong. Mahavira has become something — therefore meat became impossible. By not eating meat no one becomes Mahavira. And if by not eating meat one could become Mahavira, then Mahavira would be worth two pennies — as much as meat. Dharma is not so cheap that by not eating or by not drinking at night one becomes religious.
I am not telling you to eat or drink. Do not misunderstand. Not drinking at night is fine — but do not fall into the illusion that you have become religious, non-violent. That is the great danger: a cheap act done, and a costly belief born. Picking pebbles and imagining diamonds have been found — this error has been made with ahimsa. We grasped it at the level of conduct, not of depth, not of the spiritual. If ahimsa is grasped as conduct, it becomes dangerous. And whoever grasps it as conduct becomes subtly violent.
One more point before I conclude.
When violence becomes subtle, it goes beyond recognition. I can coerce you in many ways. One is Hitler’s — to place a knife on your chest. Another is the ‘saint’s’ — not a knife on your chest, but on his own. One coercion says: I will kill you if you do not obey. The other says: I will kill myself if you do not obey. But coercion continues. Bad people coerce in bad ways; good people in good ways. But the bad are at least sincere; they know a knife is in their hand. The good think they hold a rosary — but one can hang a man even with a garland. They do not see it.
When violence becomes subtler it takes two forms: toward the other it wears the face of ahimsa and does the work of violence; and if subtler still, it starts torturing oneself. Note: ahimsa cannot torture — neither the other nor oneself. Violence ends in self-torture.
As I said, there are two common types: those who torture others — sadists; and those who torture themselves — masochists. As with de Sade, so with Masoch — unless he whips himself ten or fifty times each morning, the day will not be fresh.
Thus there have been sannyasins who whipped themselves, lay on thorns, wore shoes of thorns, kept wounds open. What kind of people are these? Is this sannyas? Is this Dharma?
If a man starves another, we say irreligious; if a man starves himself, we take out a procession. Strange! If torturing is irreligious, what does it matter who is tortured? Another could resist; oneself cannot. It is easier to torture oneself. Torturing another involves many difficulties — society, law, police, courts. As yet there is no law, police or court against self-torture. There should be, for some wicked ones torture themselves. In a truly good world, even for them there will be courts.
And remember: he who tortures himself will in every way torture others — for one who spares not himself, how will he spare another? If I kept myself hungry and had a procession in my honor, I will surely find ways to keep you hungry; I will not rest until your procession too is taken out. As violence becomes subtler it becomes masochism — self-torture.
Have you seen Mahavira’s image? Does he look like one who tortured himself? See that body — the majesty, the beauty. Does it seem he tortured himself? Either the stories are false or the image is false. I say the image is true; the stories false — written by masochists who are inspired by self-torture. They cast even Mahavira’s ecstasy as suffering; his play as renunciation; his supreme delight as austerity. In my vision Mahavira leaves a palace because the greater palace has appeared. In their vision he leaves a palace and sees no greater. I know he leaves gold because it became dust, and the supreme Gold has been found.
If some day Mahavira does not eat, it is not hunger-strike — it is upavasa. Hunger-strike means starving. Upavasa means: so blissful that even hunger is not felt. Upavasa means: nearer and nearer to oneself. When someone is deeply near within, he cannot be near the body; therefore he does not remember the body’s hunger and thirst. Attention to the body arises only if one is near the body. When attention is deep within, the body falls from attention. Upavasa is the inward journey of attention — not hunger-strike. The masochist turns upavasa into hunger-strike and says: without being hungry the soul cannot be found. What relation can there be between hunger and the soul? Does the soul love hunger?
There is no relation. Yes, in the hour of finding the soul, fasting may happen. Notice: the day you are joyous, you cannot eat much. When a beloved arrives and you are delighted, food reduces. Joy so fulfills that nothing is left empty to be filled with food. Mahavira’s joy is supreme — it fills so totally that no space remains empty. The unhappy eat more. On days of sorrow you eat more — you are empty. The more anxiety, the more food. Anxiety is emptiness; it hollows you. Food increases. Eating much is an indication of sorrow; eating less is an indication of happiness.
Joy is further still. When one is full of joy, months may pass. And remember — Mahavira’s months passed in upavasa. Not that he did not eat — rather, he could not. He was so full. But would the body not be damaged by months without food? Curiously, the body is harmed less by absence of food than by not getting food when desired. The deep harms to the body come from mental states.
In Bengal there was a woman, Pyari Bai, who did not eat for thirty years and suffered no bodily harm. All medical tests were conducted. No grain entered her belly. Her intestines had shrunk and dried — no harm to her health. A miracle? In essence, she was so joyous that we cannot imagine joy can become food. We know only the one end — food becomes joy; not the other end — joy becomes food. If water can become ice, ice can become water; if energy can become matter, matter can become energy; if food becomes joy, joy can become food. It has. Pyari Bai, thirty years unfed, testified that if Mahavira in twelve years ate only three hundred and sixty-five days, it was not hunger-strike — otherwise the body would have perished. Joy became food.
In Europe there was a woman on whom experiments were possible. She was extraordinarily healthy and for years ate nothing. She was not Krishna-intoxicated; Pyari Bai was Krishna-intoxicated. She was Christ-intoxicated. Every Friday, when Christ was crucified, blood flowed from her hands without any injury. Such empathy that she would not say ‘Jesus said’; she would say ‘I said — when I was crucified I said: forgive them, they know not what they do.’ Exactly on Friday her hands spread, eyes closed, and blood began to flow from the centers of the palms — stigmata. By Friday night the wounds disappeared; by morning the hands were whole. Hundreds of times blood flowed from her hands — and her weight did not drop. What happened?
Let me tell you a precious secret: there are keys by which joy becomes food. That is upavasa — not hunger-strike.
Ahimsa tortures neither the other nor oneself — ahimsa tortures not at all. Only violence tortures — at home and in sannyas; in good forms and bad. If we become alert to both, perhaps the search for ahimsa can begin.
For four days I wish to explore, one by one, these four sutras; and on the fifth, the last day, how to enter them.
Ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, akama — these four are fruits; and the fifth sutra, apramada — awareness — is the path to these fruits. What will be attained is Satya. What will flower in life is Brahmacharya.
You have listened with such peace and love — I am deeply obliged. Finally, I bow to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.