Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #1

I am not a follower of Mahavira, I am a lover. Just as I am of Christ, of Krishna, of Buddha, of Lao Tzu. And in my vision, a follower never really understands.

Ordinarily there are only two kinds of people in the world: either one becomes a follower, or one becomes an opponent. Neither the follower understands, nor the opponent. There is another way—love—without which we can never truly understand anyone at all. The follower’s difficulty is that he gets bound to one, and the opponent’s difficulty is that he gets bound in opposition. Only the lover has a certain freedom. The lover has no reason to be bound. And that which binds cannot be love.

So to love Mahavira is not to be bound to Mahavira. In loving Mahavira one can also love Buddha, Krishna, Christ—because that which we love in Mahavira has manifested in a thousand others as well.

We do not love Mahavira as such. We do not love that body of Vardhaman, that line in history tied to dates—born one day, died another. We love the flame that shone forth in this earthen lamp. Who this lamp was is of little significance. In many, many lamps that flame has appeared.

One who loves the flame will not be bound to the lamp; and one who clings to the lamp will never come to know the flame. If someone is clinging to the lamp, it is certain that he has not known the flame. And when the flame is seen, will the lamp even be remembered? Will the lamp be visible then?

One who has seen the flame forgets the lamp. Therefore, those who remember the lamp have not yet seen the flame. And one who loves the flame will not love this flame or that flame only; wherever there is luminosity—once he has seen it in one flame—there he will recognize it in every flame: in the sun, in the small lamp burning at home, in the moon and stars, in fire—wherever there is light, there he will see it.

But followers are bound to persons; opponents are bound to persons. Only the lover has no need to be bound to a person. And I am a lover. Therefore I carry no bondage to Mahavira. And only where there is no bondage can there be understanding.

It is also necessary to note why Mahavira has been chosen for our discussion.

It is just a pretext. Like a peg—what matters is to hang the cloth; any peg will do. Mahavira can serve as a peg for the remembrance of the flame—so can Buddha, Krishna, Christ. Any peg can be used. The remembrance is of that flame which can be lit in our own lamp.

I value remembrance, not imitation. And even when we remember Mahavira, it is not actually Mahavira that we remember; it is the essence that appeared in Mahavira. And once remembrance of that essence arises, immediately it becomes self-remembering. Only that is meaningful which leads toward self-remembering.

But this does not happen through the worship of Mahavira. Worship does not bring self-remembering. A strange thing—worship is a device for self-forgetfulness. Those who wish to forget themselves take to worship. And for them too Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna become pegs—they hang the garment of their self-forgetting upon those pegs. Followers, devotees, the blind imitators are using the pegs of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna for self-forgetfulness. Worship, prayer, adoration—all are forgetfulness.

Remembrance is a very different matter. Remembrance means to seek and to see the essence in Mahavira—in any form, anywhere—to catch one glimpse of it, to recall that such a thing has been, that in a human being such a flowering is possible. The very sense of such a possibility at once awakens a sense of our own possibility: that which is possible in one, why should it not be possible in me? Then we will not move toward worship; rather we will enter an inner pain, an inner suffering. As if, on seeing a burning lamp, an unlit lamp falls into a pain of the heart and feels: I am futile; I am only a lamp in name—where is that flame, where is that light? I am only an opportunity in which the flame could manifest, but has not yet.

But if an unlit lamp remains among unlit lamps, the thought never even occurs to it. Among a million unlit lamps there is no remembrance; but near one burning lamp, remembrance can arise.

For me, Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna have no more purpose than being burning lamps. And if their remembrance and the flash of the flame in their burning lamp flickers even once in our eyes, we can never again be the same as we were yesterday. A door opens to a new possibility of our being, of which we had no inkling that we could be. A thirst is born. Once that thirst is born, any pretext will do; it does not matter. So I shall use Mahavira as a pretext—and Krishna, Christ, Buddha, Lao Tzu as well.

We are of many kinds. Often it happens that one who can see the flame in Lao Tzu may not see it in Buddha; one who sees it in Mahavira may not see it in Lao Tzu. Once one sees it within oneself, then it is no longer a question of Lao Tzu or Buddha—then one begins to see the flame in the ordinary man walking on the street. Then one no longer sees anyone without the flame. Not only men—one begins to see that same flame in animals and birds. Not only animals and birds—one begins to see that flame even in stones. Once it is seen in oneself, it begins to be seen in all. But until it has been seen within, it is not necessary that everyone will see the flame in Mahavira.

There are reasons. People differ in their ways of seeing, in their receptivities, in their inclinations and tastes. A beautiful young woman—there is no need that all will find her beautiful.

Majnun had been seized by the emperor of his town. The reports of Majnun’s anguish had reached him—his crying through the night under trees, the tears pouring from his eyes, the whole town talking of him. The emperor, out of pity, called him and said, “Have you gone mad? I too have seen Layla—what is there in her? She is very ordinary. I will arrange for you girls more beautiful than her.” He had ten of the city’s most beautiful young women brought and stood them in a row before the door: “Look!”

Majnun did not even look. He laughed heartily and said, “You have not understood. To see Layla, one needs the eyes of a Majnun. And you do not have those eyes. So it is possible Layla appears ordinary to you. Only I can see the extraordinary in Layla; I am Majnun.”

Majnun’s eyes give birth to Layla, discover her, reveal her. To have a Layla, a Majnun is needed. Otherwise Layla would not even be Layla—there would be no discovery.

Each person differs at the very roots. That is why there are so many Tirthankaras, so many avatars, so many gurus. It can happen that people like Buddha and Mahavira pass through the same village, stay on the same day, wander in the same region for years, and still some in the village recognize only Buddha, some only Mahavira, and some neither.

So when I see, the important thing is not just what is there to be seen; I also have a particular perspective, which is unique to each person. Someone may see the flame in Mahavira. Then the poor fellow is compelled—he may say there is nothing in Buddha; he may say, what is in Jesus? what in Mohammed? But it is his unawareness—he is in a hurry, lacking sympathy, not understanding. And when someone tells him there is nothing in Mahavira, he will be enraged. Even then he does not understand that just as he says, “I see nothing in Jesus,” someone else may see nothing in Mahavira. To see what is in Mahavira, a particular eye is needed.

There are many kinds of people upon the earth—so many that to make their categories is difficult. But once the flame is seen, all differences disappear. The differences belong to lamps, not to the flame. Lamps are different—many shapes, many forms, many colors, made by many craftsmen. One who has seen only one kind of lamp, on seeing another kind may exclaim, “What kind of lamp is this? Such a lamp cannot be!” But one who has seen the flame—even if it takes any form, any shape—he cannot say, “What kind of flame is this?” The experience of the luminous is not an experience of form. The experience of the lamp is an experience of form. The experience of the luminous is the experience of the formless.

The lamp is inert, matter—still, static. The flame is conscious, a power—alive, rushing. The lamp is placed; the flame is going. And have you observed, the flame always goes upward! Place the lamp as you will—slanted or tilted, upside down or low, small or big, of this shape or that—yet the flame rushes upward. Whatever flame, it rushes upward. In the flame there is the experience of the formless—an ascending movement. It is continually going higher and higher.

And how quickly the flame loses its shape—no time at all. We cannot even see when its shape is gone. We cannot recognize it; the shape is gone. How swiftly the flame takes a tiny shape and then dissolves into the formless. Go looking for it—you will not find it. It was there just now—and now it is not! But can that which was be not?

The flame is a meeting of form and the formless. Each moment form is passing into the formless. If we see only the form, we still have not seen the flame—because the very transition beyond form into the formless is the essence.

Thus those who recognize lamps go on quarreling about the flames. Those who catch hold of lamps create sects and creeds in the name of flames! What has the flame to do with the lamp? What affinity is there between flame and lamp? The lamp was merely an occasion where the flame happened.

And that shape we saw of the flame was also only an occasion from which the flame vanished into the formless.

Vardhaman is the lamp; Mahavira is the flame. Siddhartha is the lamp; Buddha is the flame. Jesus is the lamp; the Christ is the flame. But we catch hold of lamps; in thinking of Mahavira we begin to think of Vardhaman. This is the mistake. Whoever clings to Vardhaman will never know Mahavira. Whoever clings to Siddhartha will never recognize Buddha. And whoever recognizes Jesus, the son of Mary, will never recognize the Christ, the son of God, the Paramatma. What relationship is there! They are entirely different matters. But we have tied them together—Jesus-Christ, Vardhaman-Mahavira, Gautam-Buddha—the lamp and the flame! We know nothing of the flame; we hold fast to the lamp.

I have nothing to do with lamps. I see no meaning in them. Besides, we ourselves are lamps. We need not worry about lamps—we all are lamps. We can become the flame, which we are not yet. The concern should be with the flame. So here, making Mahavira a pretext, we shall contemplate the flame. For those who can recognize the flame through Mahavira—good, let it be recognized there. For those who cannot, another pretext can be made. All pretexts can serve.

Mahavira is very special; therefore it is essential to think deeply upon him. But not special in comparison to anyone else. Usually, when we say someone is special, we ask, “Compared to whom?” When I say Mahavira is very special, I am not saying “compared to Buddha, compared to Mohammed.” I do not speak in comparisons. Special in the sense of what happened through him. That happening—the becoming luminous and dissolving into the formless—makes him special.

In that sense Jesus is special, Mohammed is special, Confucius is special. Special is he who has lost form and gone into the formless. This is specialness. We are ordinary—ordinary in the sense that that event has not yet happened.

There are only two kinds of people in the world: ordinary and extraordinary. By ordinary I mean those who are only lamps as yet, who can become flame. The ordinary is the opportunity, the seed of the extraordinary. And the extraordinary is the one who has become flame and has gone toward that home where peace is, where bliss is, where seeking ends and attainment is.

Therefore, when I say special, I do not mean “special than someone.” When I say special, I mean “not ordinary—extraordinary.” We all are ordinary, and we all can be extraordinary. As long as we are ordinary, all the distinctions we make among the ordinary—ordinary and less-ordinary—are sheer foolishness.

Ordinary is just ordinary; whether one is a peon or a president makes no difference. These are two forms of the ordinary—the peon on the first rung, the president on the last. The peon can climb and become president; the president can descend and become peon. Both things go on. It is the same ladder—the ladder of the ordinary.

On the ladder of the ordinary, all are ordinary, whichever rung they stand upon—number one, or number thousand, or number zero—it makes no difference. There is one ladder of the ordinary. Those who take a leap from it arrive in the extraordinary.

In the extraordinary there is no ladder. Therefore among the extraordinary there is no higher or lower. Yet people ask: Is Buddha higher or Mahavira? Is Krishna higher or Christ? They carry the arithmetic of the ordinary ladder into the realm of the extraordinary. And there are such madmen that they even write books—who is higher than whom! They do not know that the very idea of “higher and lower” belongs to the world of the ordinary. The extraordinary knows no higher and lower. In fact, one who has gone beyond the world of higher and lower—that one is extraordinary. So how to measure there—Kabir where, and Nanak where! And such books are written, such charts drawn—on which rung stands whom, even there! Who is ahead, who behind, who in which realm! This is the world of the ordinary, and the thoughts of the ordinary. They think the same there too!

There, no one is higher, no one lower. In truth, wherever higher and lower exist, there is the lamp. Wherever big and small exist, there is the lamp. The flame is never big and small. The flame either is, or is not. What meaning could “big” or “small” have for the flame?

And the capacity to dissolve into the formless is the same for a small flame as for the greatest flame. To dissolve into the formless is to become extraordinary. So who is small, who is big? Does a small flame dissolve slowly, a big flame quickly? This is a mistake... it is good to understand it a little.

For thousands of years it was thought that if one stood on a rooftop and dropped a big stone and a small stone together, the big stone would reach the ground first, the small one later. For thousands of years this was believed; no one dropped them and looked—because the notion seemed so clear and reasonable, so logical, that if someone had said, “Come, let us climb and try,” people would have called him mad: “Is this even a thing to be tested? The big stone will fall first. It has more mass; the small stone later.”

They did not know that in falling the question is not of big or small stone; the question is of gravitation, of the earth’s pull. And that pull works equally on both; for that pull there is no distinction of big and small.

Then for the first time a man climbed the Tower of Pisa and tried—he must have been a wondrous man—he dropped two stones, big and small. And when both fell together he himself was startled. He could not believe it. He tried again and again, to be sure—otherwise people would say he was mad: How can such a thing be!

When he ran to the university to report, the professors said, “It can never be. How can a big and a small stone fall together? The small is small; the big is big. The big will fall first, the small later.” They refused even to go. Scholars are the most inert of all. They were professors—pandits of the university. “It is impossible. There is no need to go. Who will go to see?” Somehow, after much pleading, he took them. When they saw both falling together, they said, “There must be some trick, some fraud—or the hand of the devil! How else can this be?”

I tell this story because there is a gravitation in the earth, a pull downward—and in Paramatma, in the formless, there is also a gravitation, a pull upward. That formless that spreads above draws things upward. We have recognized the earth’s pull because we all live upon it; but that pull above we have not recognized, because who goes there? And those who go do not return, so there is no news. That pull above—that is what is called grace.

This world’s pull is gravity; that one is grace. This earth’s gravitation, that One’s prasada—gift. Give it any name, it makes no difference. There, the question is not of big and small flames—only become a flame. A small flame goes with the same speed as the greatest flame—the grace draws it into the formless. Therefore there, big and small do not apply, because there they have no meaning.

So Buddha or Mahavira—who is big, who small—this is the arithmetic of the ordinary by which we calculate. The extraordinary cannot be weighed by the arithmetic of the ordinary; therefore there, there is no big or small. One who goes beyond the ordinary goes beyond calculation.

No greater delusion can there be than to weigh Krishna against Christ, Buddha against Mahavira, Kabir against Nanak, Ramana against Krishnamurti—who is higher, who lower. There is no higher, no lower.

But our mind is in great discomfort—the follower’s mind suffers. Whomever we have clung to must be the highest! Hence I said: the follower never understands—he cannot understand. The follower imposes his own things upon the one he follows. To understand requires a very simple, innocent heart. The follower does not have such simplicity. Nor does the opponent understand, for he is busy pulling down, the opposite effort to the follower’s.

The lover understands. Therefore, whoever would understand must love. And love is always unconditional. If you love Krishna so that he will take you to heaven, then love becomes conditional. If you love Mahavira so that he alone is your support to carry you across the ocean of becoming—bhavsagar—then the condition has begun and love has ended. Love is without conditions. Love does not say, “Give me something.” Where there is demand, there is bargain; where there is bargain, there is no love.

All followers are bargaining; therefore no follower can love. And the opponent is bargaining elsewhere; hence his opposition—because he sees no assurance of his bargain in Krishna, he rejects Krishna. Love means unconditional. Love means an eye filled with total sympathy that longs to understand; there is no demand.

So the first thing I would say for understanding Mahavira: no demand, no bargain, no imitation, no mood of following—only a sympathetic vision that a person was, in whom something happened. Let us see what happened; let us recognize what happened; let us inquire into what happened. Therefore a Jain will never understand Mahavira, for his conditionings are fixed. A Jain cannot understand Mahavira. A Buddhist cannot understand Buddha.

Around every flame, the group of followers that gathers becomes a collaborator in extinguishing the flame rather than in kindling it. It is hard to find a worse enemy than followers. Unknowingly, they do enmity.

What has Mahavira to do with being a Jain? Nothing at all. Mahavira could not even have known that he was a Jain. And if he knew, he was a very ordinary man—not of the extraordinary world we speak of. Mahavira could not even in a dream have known, “I am a Jain.” Nor could Christ have known, “I am a Christian.”

Those who know such things will never understand—for when we become something prior to understanding, that becoming obstructs understanding. We become first, and then we go to understand. To go into understanding requires an empty mind.

Therefore one who is not a Jain, not a Buddhist, not a Hindu, not a Mohammedan—he can understand. He can look with sympathy; his vision can be loving—because he has no insistence. He has no insistence on his own becoming. And the strange thing is that we become Hindu or Jain by birth! Which means that from birth our possibility of being religious is finished.

If ever man is to be religious, then religion must be severed from birth entirely. How can one be religious by birth? One who is seized by a religion from birth—how will he understand? What chance remains? His insistences—prejudices—are already formed. He cannot understand Mahavira, for before understanding, Mahavira has already become a Tirthankara, the supreme guru, the omniscient, the Paramatma. Now the Paramatma can be worshiped, not understood. A Tirthankara can be praised, but not understood. Understanding requires an utterly simple vision without prejudice.

Therefore I can say that I have been able to understand Mahavira, because I have no prejudice, no insistence. But it may be that my understanding will not be found in the scriptures. It will not be found—the reason is clear: the scriptures were written by those who are bound, by followers, by Jains, by those for whom Mahavira is Tirthankara, omniscient—by those who believed something about Mahavira before understanding him.

My understanding may not match the scriptures—and I want to tell you: understanding never matches scriptures. There has been a fundamental conflict between understanding and scripture. Scriptures are composed by the un-understanding—un-understanding in the sense of being prejudiced; un-understanding in the sense of being eager to prove something; un-understanding in the sense that there is not so much eagerness to understand as to prove.

There is a man who researches the rebirth of the soul. Someone introduced him to me. He told me—he has spoken in countless universities here and abroad. Here he is attached to a university where an entire department is devoted to research on rebirth. Some friends brought him to me. Twenty-five friends had gathered. As soon as we spoke I asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “I want to prove scientifically that the soul is reborn.”

I said to him, “May I submit one thing? If you say you want to prove scientifically, you have already become unscientific. The first condition of being scientific is that we do not want to prove anything; we want to know what is. If you are to be scientific, you should say, ‘I want to know whether there is rebirth or not.’ You say, ‘I want to prove scientifically that rebirth exists’—then you have already assumed that it exists; only the proving remains; and you are going to prove it scientifically. So you are already unscientific.

“Do not bring the name of science in vain. The scientific mind seeks to know what is, not to prove. The scriptural mind has become unscientific because it wants to prove something, not to know what is. What is may be utterly different from, even contrary to, what we believe, conceive, think.”

The mind tied to scripture, to tradition, to sect, is afraid—who knows what truth will be! It is not necessary that truth will be convenient to us. If it were convenient, we would have merged with truth long ago. The likelihood is that it will be inconvenient. We are untrue; it will be contrary. But we want to tailor truth to our convenience—and then truth too becomes untruth. All scriptural minds lead toward untruth.

Therefore what I say may not match on many levels. If it matches, that will be the wonder. If somewhere it matches, it is coincidence. Not matching will be quite natural.

Then too, I have no hold upon scriptures.

One method to seek Mahavira is to go through the traditions, the scriptures, the words, the collected sayings—dig through that mountain and catch hold of Mahavira somewhere within. It has been two and a half thousand years since Mahavira. In these twenty-five centuries, everything written about him—let us pass through all that and reach him. This is the scriptural route by which most go. But I hold that by that way one can never arrive—never. Wherever you reach will have nothing to do with Mahavira. There are reasons. Let us understand them.

What Mahavira experienced—what any one has experienced—is difficult to say in words—first thing. One who has any deep experience immediately realizes the impotence of words: a great difficulty has arisen. The experience of Paramatma, of truth, of moksha, is very deep—but even in an ordinary love-experience, one finds: what to say, how to say?

No, it cannot be said in words. About love, often those who have not loved go on speaking. One who speaks about love with great assurance—know well, he has not loved. Because after the experience, hesitation comes; assurance disappears. He trembles: how to say, what to say? If I speak, all goes awry; what I want to say is left behind; what I never even imagined slips out as word. The deeper the experience, the more hollow and useless words become, for words are coined on the surface, by those who have lived on the surface.

A language of the sages has not yet been born. The language that exists is of the ordinary. To pour an extraordinary experience into the ordinary language is as difficult as if a deaf man says, “I cannot hear music—paint it for me, make a picture, then perhaps I will understand.” What can be done to paint music? How to paint it?

Attempts have been made. Ragas and raginis have been painted. But even those are intelligible only to those who have heard music; to the deaf they say nothing. Clouds may be depicted as gathering, raindrops falling, the peacock dancing; a girl whose sari is blown by the wind running toward the house; the anklets on her feet sounding.

Someone has painted a raga. But the deaf man has never heard the thunder of clouds; so in the picture clouds seem utterly silent; there is no question of thunder. He has never heard anklets, so anklets can be shown—but what will the anklets do? For that which is seen as an anklet is not the anklet. The anklet is something else—what happens. The seen is other. The anklet is heard. And there is a vast difference between what is seen and what is heard. Something is seen—the anklet tied to the foot—but one who has never heard anklets—what is he seeing? He is seeing a thing that has nothing to do with anklets.

Such a picture is dead, for from it no sound can be born in the one who has never heard.

Yet even this is easy, for ear and eye are senses on the same plane. Still difficult—but not as difficult. When one knows a truth beyond the senses, all senses become useless and incapable of answering. One must speak through the senses—while what was known was known where no sense was the medium. If a sense is the medium in knowing, another sense cannot become the medium of expression. And if no sense was the medium of experience, then how can a sense give passage to expression?

Therefore one who knows falls into immense difficulty. Many times he becomes silent. Silence too burns, for he feels the urge to say. He longs to speak, for he sees around him those in whom it can also happen; he sees them unhappy, eyes full of tears, exhausted faces, hearts anxious; all around him, diseased and deranged human beings—and within, he sees where supreme bliss has happened. He feels: it can happen to the one standing near me—there is no reason, no obstacle. Let me say it. And words prove impotent.

So with a person like Mahavira, the first untruth occurs when he speaks. And what he speaks is not even one percent of what he has known. Still he gathers courage and hopes: if not a thousand rays reach, perhaps one will. Some hint may touch. He speaks.

But even if one holds only to Mahavira’s very words and goes to search for Mahavira, he will not be found. Hearing Mahavira directly—even then, if one clings to the words and goes searching, the angle will change completely. One who holds to the words will arrive somewhere Mahavira is not—will miss by the side. For that which Mahavira knew was known in the wordless; we have caught the word. Where the word leads cannot be where the knower of the wordless has gone.

And then, after twenty-five hundred years... Those who heard Mahavira—among them, those who understood even a little—went into silence. Those who did not understand set about collecting words. So near Mahavira, whoever understood would have gone into silence; whoever did not would have become a ganadhara.

This is quite the reverse of what we commonly think—that the ganadharas were those who understood most. No greater untruth. The one who understood most would have gone into silence—to seek there. The one who understood the least became busy organizing the transmission of “what Mahavira said.” The ganadhara is not...

A parigrahi—one with the possessive tendency—collects all things, whether wealth, words, or fame; it is the same. There is a possessive drive within man to accumulate. Some things have a little meaning in being accumulated: money, for instance, arises from the possessive drive; it is its vehicle, its currency of exchange. Money is the invention of the parigrahi. So to collect money is sensible—for money is for possession. But the experience through which Mahavira passed happened in aparigraha—non-possession. And one who collects his words is a man of possession.

Hence it has often happened that Mahavira is not keen about collecting words, nor is Buddha, nor Christ. Otherwise Mahavira too could have written books. But Mahavira did not write, nor Krishna, nor Buddha, nor Jesus. Only Lao Tzu among such extraordinary ones wrote a book—and that too under compulsion.

Lao Tzu did not write till the age of eighty. When urged, he would say, “What I would write will become untrue; and what needs to be written cannot be written. I will not enter into that trouble.” To that age he escaped, but the whole country became anxious: “He is growing old, he will die, and what he knows will be lost.” In his last years he set off toward the mountains; no one knows when he died. He left everything behind: “Before death snatches me, I should go. Why wait? Why be so dependent on death?”

As he was leaving China’s border, the emperor had him stopped at the customs post: “We shall not let you pass without paying tax.” Lao Tzu said, “What tax? I carry nothing out or in; I go alone, empty. Truly, I have been empty all my life; there has never been any baggage upon which to pay tax. What tax?”

The emperor joked, “You carry taxes by the tons! No one has ever carried such wealth. Everyone leaves something behind; you do not even speak of what is within you. Pay at least the tax; if not the treasure, at least its due. Otherwise what shall we say—that a man had and took all without a whisper!”

They compelled him to stop. He laughed, “Perhaps you are right—I do take. But there is no way to give, hence I take. I also wish to give. If you insist...”

He wrote a small book. Among such extraordinary men, he alone wrote. But his first sentence was: “A great mistake is about to be made. That which is to be said cannot be said; and what can be said is not that which should be. Truth cannot be spoken; and what can be spoken cannot be truth. A great mistake is happening. Knowing this, I write. Whatever you read further, read it knowing this.” The Tao that can be said is not the Tao. Understand this first—then read.

So none wrote. The one who wrote put this condition at the door. In truth, one who understands will not read beyond the first line—the matter is finished. The emperor thought he was exacting a duty; he was mistaken. Whoever understands will stop there. Those who do not will go on reading; that is their affair. The unknowing read books; the knowing stop.

Buddha, Mahavira and the like did not write. There are reasons. It is not certain that what must be said can be said. Still, they spoke. They chose speaking, not writing. There is a reason: speaking is direct, face to face. I am here, you are here; then it is gone. Writing is permanent, not face to face; it is indirect. I will not be, you will not be, it will be—independent of us.

Error occurs in speaking, yet the person is before you. If I say something, you look into my eyes—you see my tremor, my pain—you see my difficulty that there is something which cannot be said; perhaps you may understand a little. But with a book—there is no eye, no tremor, no pain. All neat and clean. Then the book remains.

None of them cared to remain. Their concern was to say—and end it. Not to preserve it. But preservers arose: “We must preserve this; it is precious.” They tried to preserve. But such preserving could not be done in the presence of Mahavira; perhaps he refused—Buddha refused: “Not in front of me—do not write.” So it happened three, four, five hundred years later. Which means what was written was not even heard firsthand. Someone heard; someone told someone; a few generations passed—and only then was it written. Then commentaries upon that writing, and debates. These are the scriptures we have. If one wants to miss Mahavira utterly, there is no easier way than to enter these scriptures—he will never reach Mahavira.

Therefore I neither advise going to Mahavira through scriptures, nor have I gone by that path, nor do I believe anyone can ever go that way. I am utterly unscriptural—not merely non-scriptural, scriptural-averse.

Then what is the way to reach Mahavira? The scriptural way looks like the way; hence monks and sannyasins open scriptures to search for him. What other way is there? And if all scriptures are lost, then according to monks and pandits Mahavira will be lost. What safeguard is there? If scriptures go, will Mahavira go?

But can the experience of truth be lost? Is it possible that the realization of Mahavira occur and it not be safeguarded in the very fabric of existence? Is it possible that a Krishna be born and his safeguarding be only in books written by men—if the books are lost, Krishna is lost?

If so, then neither Krishna nor Mahavira has any value. If the clerks’ records—ganadharas’ records—are all, then yes: the books will be lost and these men will be lost.

But the matter is not so cheap. Such great events take place—once in billions of years, among billions of people, one attains the supreme truth—can the safeguarding be left only to weak men and their weak language, with no provision in existence itself? It is not so; it cannot be so.

Therefore there is another way. Whatever is significant that happens in the world—indeed even the insignificant—at certain planes is safeguarded. The significant is safeguarded without fail; it never perishes.

Hence, whatever has ever been significant is not left to man to preserve. It would be like, in a society of the blind, one man gets eyes, sees light—and it is left to the blind to preserve his experience: “Make Vedas, compose Agamas, write a Gita—preserve it. Make a Bible—keep it safe.”

And the blind preserve it; and then commentaries by the blind upon the blind; and after a thousand or two thousand years, the words seen by the one-eyed are preserved by the blind and explained by the blind; and we go to seek the vision of the one-eyed through them—no greater stupidity could there be.

I say to you: nothing is lost in existence. In truth, even what I am speaking now will never be lost. Even what you speak will not be lost. Once a sound is born, it never disappears.

Today we know: someone speaks in London; through radio we hear him in Srinagar. Two hundred years ago this was impossible—and no one could believe it could ever be. But do you think that what was spoken in London then was not passing by Dal Lake in Srinagar? If it did not pass then, how do you catch it now? Even now, all waves that are spoken anywhere pass by you. Only a device is needed by which to catch them.

So if Krishna spoke ever, today the sound waves of his voice are passing near some star.

Remember also: what is spoken in London is not heard by you at the exact same moment—sound waves take time to come. So you hear a little later. Which means the waves travel to you.

Whatever has been spoken travels on, passing by some stars. If there are instruments there, they can be caught. On some star today, Mahavira’s words could be heard—they are being heard.

What does this mean? More meanings follow. In this infinite sky—because it is infinite—nothing is lost; whatever is born travels on.

I am speaking of sound, but there are subtler waves where the vibrations of experience remain. When we speak, sound waves arise; when we experience, an event also happens, and waves are born that travel in a subtler ether. With radio you can catch sound waves in the gross sky; with another inner arrangement you can catch the waves of experience in the subtler sky. Which means: the deepest experiences that have occurred in this world are recorded on the deeper strata of the akash forever. They never perish. They are not left to men to preserve in books.

Which means: if we descend into those depths within, with a particular attention, we can connect directly with the experiences of particular beings. If we descend without the attention toward any particular being, we enter our own inner experience. One who goes deep within can also make those tunings by which he can be linked with Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Krishna.

To be linked does not mean that Krishna is sitting somewhere to connect with. That lamp is broken; that flame too is gone. But the vibrations of that flame’s experience are still safeguarded in the depths of existence. Descend to those depths—with a specific attention.

If you descend with total attention toward Mahavira, doors open where the subtle vibrations of Mahavira’s realizations become available to you. Whenever anyone has ever connected to such experiences, it has been only in this way. Therefore even if all books are lost, it makes no difference—none at all.

There was a continent—Atlantis. Long ago it sank into the ocean. Now it is not on the earth. Once it was. No record of it remained, for records too sank with it. If all Asia were to sink, and its records with it... In those days, there was no London and New York where some records could survive.

But some who descend into depths have continually reported that an entire continent sank. They kept a record—not outer, but inner—of a continent having sunk long ago. Seekers in Egypt, in Tibet, kept recording: “In my inner experience I find that a whole continent has drowned—long ago.” And some who pursued the inner search labored to discover: what was that island? what people? what order?

You will be surprised: some, by sheer inner endeavor, reconstructed maps of that continent—the faces of the race, their religion, beliefs, ideas, experiences. If one person had made such maps—how to be sure it was not fantasy? But different people experimented and arrived at close agreements: the map would be such. Under the pressure of these people...

Scientists first utterly denied: it is impossible—no record exists—such a continent never was. But these men continued. Under their pressure scientists were forced to inquire—and discovered that such a continent indeed sank, lying now on the ocean bed; and nearly where the mystics had indicated. Above it lie great depths of water. The mountains are there where they said. Scientific research has gone on; now great research continues about Atlantis—what might be recovered.

Yet the first news came from those who had no worldly motive, whose words were taken as sheer falsehood. In the Atlantic Ocean lies Atlantis.

I say this to give you a sense that my path has nothing to do with scripture. And I also understand that by that path there is no path at all. Those who have taken it have misled; they have not led anywhere. Reading a book is easy—what could be simpler? Though for some even that is difficult. But these Akashic records—of which I speak, that experiences remain safeguarded in the depths of existence—there one can recapture them, and reestablish living contact with them.

So in what I shall speak here, do not try to align it with scriptures; there is no connection. I try from another door. Whatever I see through that attempt, I will keep saying to you. Therefore, unless some are ready to undertake the experiment with me, there is no way to decide whether my words are authoritative or not. There is no other method—until some agree to experiment with me. Then I can write beforehand: “You will have this experience,” and if it happens, then something is established.

In that hope I speak—that perhaps some will come forth. There is no scope for debate here. With whom to debate? But it may be that some are inspired and gather courage—then discovery is possible. Only then can any weighing be done—how far, to what extent, what meaning my words carry. Otherwise the matters will become so contrary—and you will have no way to handle them!

In the West there was, recently, a fakir—Gurdjieff. The whole history of Christianity says that Judas got Jesus killed—that Judas sold Jesus for thirty coins, and Judas is Jesus’ enemy. For one who has someone killed, of course, is an enemy.