Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #14

There is much in life that cannot be obtained from another. And whatever is highest—true and beautiful—there is no way to get it from someone else. What can be had from another has no ultimate value, because what we receive secondhand has not grown out of our own life-breath.

It is like bringing paper flowers from the market to decorate the house. Flowers that come from living trees are another matter; they are alive. Even if someone borrows flowers from a tree, they die in the process. For a little while, in a bouquet, they can deceive the eye as if alive, but they are not. And the flowers of truth are never available on loan. Therefore, whoever sets out to seek truth does not set out to seek a guru. Understand this well: one who goes in search of truth does not go in search of a guru. Yes, if someone sets out to seek untruth, then searching for a guru is very necessary. In the search for truth the guru is utterly unnecessary. The guru is unnecessary in the search for truth, but discipleship—the capacity to learn, the attitude of discipleship—is very precious.

Mahavira never made anyone his guru. In fact, if one is ready to be a disciple, there is no need to make a guru; then the whole of life becomes the guru. One who is ready to learn learns from everywhere—even from places where learning was least expected.

Those who make gurus are precisely those whose capacity to be disciples is small. Those who cannot be disciples of the Whole make a guru. Those who cannot learn from the Infinite catch hold of one and try to learn. And one whom the Infinite cannot teach—how could the one teach him?

The real question is the capacity to learn. One who has it does not make a guru; he simply goes on learning, because to make a guru is to bind oneself. It creates a kind of bondage. It is an attempt to say, “If truth is to be found, it will be through this person,” and thus one becomes blind to everywhere else.

Truth is not something that flows through a single person. Truth overshadows all of life. If we are ready to learn—eager, receptive—truth can be learned from everywhere. A guru may explain a thousand times that life is insubstantial, that death may come tomorrow—wake up! But if we cannot learn, the sound will enter the ears and pass away. And one who can learn may see a dry leaf falling from a tree and understand that life is ephemeral: what was green just now has withered; what was born yesterday dies today. Even a falling dry leaf can awaken in someone the awareness of life’s futility. But without the capacity to learn, no one can impart that awareness.

Because Mahavira had an extraordinary capacity to learn, he did not make a guru. He did not even search for one; he simply set out to learn, to seek. He did not want to put any person in between, because he had no desire for borrowed knowledge.

And can borrowed knowledge ever be knowledge? Many things may be borrowed, but not knowledge. Knowledge belongs only to the one who attains it; given to another, it becomes futile. Therefore there was no lack of gurus in Mahavira’s life—gurus were all around. There was no lack of scriptures; they were available. No lack of doctrines; they abounded. But Mahavira turned his back on all, because to turn toward scripture, doctrine, or guru is to be eager for the stale and the borrowed. He set off utterly on his own quest. It has to be found directly.

And what is not found by oneself—how could it be obtained by asking from another? What would even be the mode of receiving it? At most, words can be received from another, doctrines can be received—not truth. Hence Mahavira did not surrender to any guru.

This too is to be understood: if one must surrender, why to the petty, the limited? If one is ready to surrender at all, why not to the Whole? In truth, surrender to one person is not surrender at all; in surrender to one, there is a condition. When I say I will surrender to this person and not to that, I am imposing a condition: I judge this one right, the other wrong; this one has it, the other not; from this I will receive, from the other I will not; this one can give, the other cannot. Then what kind of surrender is that? It is a bargain. If surrender is done with the expectation of getting something, then it is a big transaction, a give-and-take.

Surrender means to drop oneself without condition, without expectation.

Then one can never be surrendered to any person; one can only be surrendered to God—the Whole. And by “God” I mean the Totality. If even God is conceived as a person, surrender cannot be. For example, if someone has taken God to be Rama, then his surrender is to Rama, not to Krishna.

There is a well-known incident: a famous saint, a devotee of Rama, was taken to a Krishna temple. He refused to bow to the flute-playing Krishna. He said, “I bow only to bow-bearing Rama. If you want me to bow, put a bow and arrow in his hand!” That is, the one who bows will set conditions! He will even set terms about how you should stand—bow and arrow or flute in hand; what your face should be like, what kind of eyes you should have. And can there be conditions in surrender? If someone says, “Become like this and then I will surrender,” what surrender remains? By its very meaning surrender is always unconditional.

So I say: Mahavira’s surrender is there, but not to any person—to the Whole. And for one whose surrender is to the Whole, we cannot recognize it. How could we? We understand only surrender to individuals: if a man is devoted to a particular person, we grasp it. But if someone is surrendered to the Whole—to the stone lying on the road, to the star in the sky, to the flower, to the human being, to the child, to the animal—then his surrender will not be recognized by us, because our yardstick is narrow and transactional. It is the same with love: if I love one person, it can be recognized. But if my love is for the Whole, it becomes difficult to grasp—people may think this man perhaps loves no one. We recognize love only when it is bound to a person. If it is spread, unbound, infinite, we cannot recognize it.

Therefore those who thought they understood Mahavira kept thinking he did not surrender to anyone. This is untrue. In fact, precisely because surrender to one becomes non-surrender to the rest, he did not surrender to any one. If there is total surrender, it can only be to the Total. To the partial, the limited, there cannot be total surrender.

Until now no one has thought of Mahavira in this way—as a surrendered person. I say he was utterly, wholly surrendered. But a wholly surrendered person is not surrendered to anyone in particular. He will not bow before anyone—not out of ego, not because he cannot bow to someone, but because bowing to one becomes not bowing to another. And one whose head is already bowed before all, how can he go on selecting: to this one I bow, to that one I do not? For him the question of bowing to any particular person does not arise.

And remember: one who bows to someone is always stiff before someone else. One who touches somebody’s feet is eager to have others touch his feet. I once went to the ashram of a great sannyasin. On a big platform the head sannyasin was seated; below him, on a smaller seat, sat another sannyasin; below that, others were sitting on the floor. The head sannyasin said to me, “Do you see who is sitting beside me?” I said, “I don’t need to know; someone is sitting, that’s enough.” He insisted, “Perhaps you don’t know—he is the Chief Justice of the High Court. Not an ordinary man! But very humble—he never sits on the platform with me, always on the smaller seat below.”

I said, “That I can see. But below even that small seat some others are sitting—he is not humble towards them; he sits above them. And they are waiting for your death so they can move up. When you die, he will sit on your seat, those below will shift to his seat. And they too will tell people, ‘This man is very humble—he never sits with me.’ And if he is humble because he doesn’t sit with you, then what kind of man are you? Consider what kind of person you are: such a big egoist that if he sat with you you would take it as his immodesty—that he is arrogant because he sits beside you. What kind of man are you, that you take sitting together as arrogance and sitting lower as humility? But even he is not sitting at the very bottom; he is only waiting for you.”

All disciples wait for the day they become gurus. And all so-called surrendered people—surrendered to someone—demand others’ surrender. Because what they give on one side, they demand from another.

You must have observed: one who flatters someone will demand flattery from those behind him. One who will not flatter anyone will not demand flattery either. These two go together. The man who displays much humility will demand humility from others.

In this sense, Mahavira becomes difficult to understand. He is not surrendered to anyone; no one is his guru; he has not touched anyone’s feet, not sat at anyone’s feet, not followed anyone—so we find it difficult to understand him. But in my view, he is such a surrendered person, so bowed to the Whole, that to whom else should he bow—and why?

A man once came to me and asked, “Do you consider such-and-such person a mahatma or not?” I said, “If you had asked whether I consider a man a mahatma, I would have agreed quickly. But you say ‘such-and-such person.’ Hidden in it is this: if I call one person a mahatma, I must see others as inferior souls; otherwise the word loses meaning. To call one a mahatma requires calling others inferior.”

So I said, “I am not willing to regard anyone as an inferior soul; therefore the very idea of ‘mahatma’ departs from my mind. For me there is no mahatma, because there is no inferior soul. To make one a mahatma you must make thousands, millions into lesser souls; otherwise the scheme doesn’t work. To draw the line around a mahatma you have to ringfence crores as non-mahatmas.”

But we never see this! We never see that in making one man a mahatma we start to see millions as inferior.

Mahavira does not regard anyone as a mahatma, nor anyone as inferior. He does not enter that arithmetic at all. There is a direct surrender to the Whole of life; therefore the individual does not come in between.

Likewise—and this is related to your question—because Mahavira made no one his guru, all those who made Mahavira their guru have done him an injustice. They simply did not understand the man. One who never made anyone his guru can never even think of making anyone his disciple. These things are inseparable. For when he does not accept it as right for himself to place someone above as a guru, how can he accept that someone place him above as a guru?

Therefore those who think themselves disciples and followers of Mahavira are committing a fundamental injustice to him; they have not understood him. The Mahavira who gave no recognition to any scripture before him—those who turned Mahavira into a scripture have committed such adultery with him that it is hard to reckon. Mahavira never said of any person before him, “From him I shall get it,” or “He can give it to me.” He never raised that question: “I must attain it myself.” And yet behind that Mahavira stand millions who say, “You alone take us across; you alone grant it to us; you alone do our welfare; you alone are our boat, our helmsman—you are everything!”

Such talk is unseemly toward that Mahavira. But it doesn’t occur to us—because we have not understood Mahavira.

Certainly, he was seeking something that no one has ever received from a master. Yes, there are things that one does receive from a teacher. In fact, all external knowledge of life is always obtained from a teacher. If you want to learn mathematics, geography, history—none of these are self-knowledge. It doesn’t happen that a man just sits with his eyes closed and learns geography. Nor does one learn a language without going to a teacher. Whatever pertains to the outward expanse of life has to be learned from someone.

But there is also something that has nothing to do with the outward expanse, something hidden in the very depths of my own consciousness; that can never be learned from any master. If a geographer thinks he will close his eyes, take an inner journey, and know the geography of the world—he will be making a mistake. And the person who wants to take the inner journey and goes to a master, as one goes to learn geography—and tries to learn from a master—he will be committing the same mistake.

There are things that are learned from another and cannot be learned by oneself. And there are things that are learned only by oneself and can never be learned from another.

Mahavira was in search of that Supreme Truth; hence he did not go to anyone. He did not want to bring anyone in between. Because the very presence of an intermediary destroys the purity.

If I am in search of love, I will not want to put anyone in between. If I am in search of truth, I will not want to put anyone in between. If I am in search of beauty, I will want to see beauty with my own eyes; I will not want to borrow someone else’s eyes. For those eyes will be someone else’s; the experience will be someone else’s—what can it be for me?

Therefore, Mahavira is in search of that Supreme Truth which is hidden within oneself. He neither went to ask from anyone, nor to fold his hands before anyone, nor to pray to anyone.

Let no one take this to mean that he must have been very egotistical. Generally, we think that one who does not bow before anyone, does not salute anyone, does not sit at anyone’s feet, does not give respect or honor to anyone—that person is very egoistic.

But when a man refuses to give respect to someone, and the same man demands respect from others, demands honor—then there is a sign of ego. But the one who neither gives respect nor asks for it—how will you call him egoistic? One who neither makes anyone his guru nor becomes a guru himself, who neither accepts scriptures nor composes scriptures—how will you call him egoistic? He is an utterly humble person, set upon a direct quest, finding a direct path of his own, not wanting to take anyone along. No one could really accompany him anyway. These are paths for the alone; journeys for the alone.

Plotinus wrote a book in which he says: there were many journeys in which there were companions, many searches with friends, much property shared with partners and helpers. Then there came a quest where there were no friends, no companions, no partners—a flight of the Alone to the Alone. It was the alone taking flight toward the alone. And if even a little bit of the “in-between” were allowed, the wandering would begin—because the flight itself was of the alone, toward the alone.

Therefore Mahavira is very alert. If the lovers of Mahavira were equally alert, the world would be far better. If the lovers of Buddha, the lovers of Christ were equally alert, the world would be far better. Then there would be religion in the world—not Jain, not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian. Because Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—these are born of doctrines bound to gurus. If the very notion of the guru as an authority collapses, there will be humanity and there will be religion, but there will be no sects. And then the entire inheritance would be ours.

Today, for a Christian, Mahavira does not feel like “his own,” because some people have appropriated him as their own. And when some people claim someone as “theirs,” for all the rest he becomes “the other.” Today, Christ does not feel “one’s own” to the Jains, because some have claimed him. Which means that those who claim any great truth as their private possession deprive the rest of humankind of the wealth of that truth—of its inheritance, its legacy.

If the madness around gurus did not arise—if “faith,” blind devotion, and gurudom did not arise—then sects would bid farewell. Then Christ would be ours, Muhammad would be ours, Mahavira would be ours, Buddha would be ours—every awakened consciousness in the world would be ours. And then we would be so rich that to reckon it would be impossible.

But we are poor—and we are poor by our own hands. Mahavira did not wish to be poor; hence he clung to no one. Whoever clings to someone becomes poor. He became utterly rich, because everything was his. There was nothing to deny, nothing to reject, nothing to grasp. The one who grasps will deny. The one who grasps will reject. The one who clings to one will insist on abandoning another.

Mahavira is a man surrendered to the Whole.

And therefore, questions can arise: Why no guru? Why no scriptures? Why not acknowledge the ancient Tirthankaras? Such questions can arise. But they are futile. They arise from that mind of ours which cannot remain even for a single moment without making a guru, clutching a scripture, forming a sect.

There is an intention.

There is an intention behind it. Mahavira—as I said, and only if what I have been saying has been understood can this intention be understood—as I said, Mahavira’s search was already complete. In this birth he is not seeking; in this birth he has only come to share. In this birth he has no search of his own.

And therefore Mahavira undertook a very deep experiment—something no one in the human race had ever done. He experimented thus: If I have come only to share and I have no personal stake, then if the universal power wishes to give me food, fine; if it does not, why should I take food at all? If the universal power wishes to grant me life, fine; if not, what meaning does my life have?

Now Mahavira has no private interest left, no desire to be, no jijiivishaa—no lust for life. Therefore he did very unique things.

When Mahavira went out to accept food, first he would make a resolve in his mind: “Today I will take food only at such a house where, in front of the door, two cows are fighting, the cows are black in color; a woman is standing there, one foot outside and one foot inside; tears are flowing from her eyes and a smile is upon her lips”—something like that. He would form such an image in the morning and then go out for alms. If somewhere that image came true, he would accept alms at that door; otherwise he would return.

Its meaning is very profound. The Jains could not understand its meaning. The meaning is that Mahavira is saying: Only if it is the will of the entire existence do I live now; on my own, I do not live. So if food is to be given—meaning, I am not going to ask, nor will I accept just because someone offers—I am not going to feel obliged to anyone. If the power of the whole itself wants to give me food today, fine; otherwise I will return. But how will I know that existence has given me food? So I set a condition; if existence fulfills that condition, I will understand that the food has come from it. I will thank the one who does not give, because now the question itself no longer remains. I will thank the one who does not give, because the very notion of a giver no longer remains. I am not indebted to anyone.

And there is an even deeper point: once a person has attained to the whole and returned, for him there is no such thing as karma anymore. Karma arises out of desire, and desire is born of longing.

So now Mahavira says: I do not even desire that I must receive food; I leave that too to the power of the whole. This is surrender to the total. If all the winds, mountains, stones, hills, human consciousness, animals and beasts, gods and goddesses—whatever is—if the whole desires that Mahavira live one more day, then arrangements will be made; otherwise there will be no arrangement from my side. This is the inner meaning—therefore I lay down a condition, because how else will I know? How will I know whether some individual has given me food or existence itself has given it?

So Mahavira would lay down very intricate conditions, whose being fulfilled seemed almost impossible—unless the universal power consented. For example: “A woman should be standing with one foot outside and one foot inside, she should be a princess, shackles on her hands, tears falling from her eyes and a smile on her lips—if I meet such a one at some door, I will take food from that door.”

It is not necessary that at that door someone will be giving food. It is not necessary that at that door there will be anyone to feed Mahavira. It is not necessary that such a door will be found today. It is not necessary that such a situation will arise. Mahavira would leave home, go out for alms, with the image of something virtually impossible. If this impossibility came to pass, Mahavira knew in his heart that the universal power had granted him one more day to live. Meaning, I am not holding on by my own insistence. If existence needs me, I am here; otherwise I do not hope to live even a single day. To live on my own has no meaning.

That is why it is so meaningful. Such an experiment had never been made in the world—by anyone. It is utterly unique.

Even today Jain monks do it—but the lay followers tip them off beforehand: “Do this, do that,” or the monks tell the lay followers. They have fixed arrangements. “If two bananas are hanging at a door, I will take food there!” And everyone knows every monk’s preferences, so in ten or a dozen houses people hang two bananas at their doors! One woman stands with a platter! One woman stands holding a child! They have a few fixed rules; those fixed rules are arranged in ten houses, one house’s turn comes, and they take their food.

Even now it goes on: a Digambara Jain monk does the same before taking food. Twenty-five chowkas are set out; he walks before the twenty-five chowkas; in one of the twenty-five his condition gets fulfilled. And everybody knows everybody’s secrets. Everything gets managed; there is no difficulty in it.

But what Mahavira did was utterly unique. He would walk with such astonishing, improbable conditions that there was little chance they would happen on their own—unless the universal power agreed. Therefore Mahavira was living day to day— not for himself; only if the divine needed him.

And his whole life is proof that when existence needs someone, it arranges for him. The whole existence joins in to arrange for the one whose being, whose every breath, has consequences. From whose breath, whose being, whose living, whose eyes, whose walking—something is happening that, even if aeons pass, happens again only with great difficulty. Existence needs such a one—his very presence.

So Mahavira is living on a day-to-day lease. Not that it is decided in one lump sum—enough for twelve years. No, it is a lease of one day each: today I will live; if a refusal comes, the matter is finished.

This is a sign that this man has no attachment anywhere to living on his own. That is a very precious thing. And anyone who wishes can live like that—but only when attachment to one’s own life has departed. Then the whole of existence becomes affectionate toward us—that is what I want to say. The very moment a person’s attachment to his own life departs, in that moment the whole existence becomes affectionate toward him. And the whole existence begins to make every effort to preserve him. It even accepts his odd and awkward conditions. Then his odd or not-so-odd conditions are no longer counted; what he says or does not say, how he gets up, how he sits—all receives acceptance. The whole universe surrounds him with a deep love and seeks to do whatever can be done for him.

About Buddha: the day Buddha renounced the home, there is a very sweet story. When Buddha left the palace, his horse was unlike any other in faraway lands. Its hoofbeats could be heard for miles and miles. It is midnight; Buddha mounts that horse and rides out. The hoofbeats would be so loud that the whole palace would wake, the whole village would wake. So the story says: the gods kept laying flowers under the hooves, so that the village would not awaken—because only once in many, many ages does such a great renunciation happen. Only rarely does existence get such an opportunity—that such a person…

Then he reaches the city gates. The gates have massive bolts, which not even mad elephants, ramming them, could open. And when those gates open, the sound is so great that the whole city hears it. In fact, the city wakes in the morning to the sound of those gates opening. Now the gate will open, there will be a noise, and it might be that Buddha is stopped, and what is to happen does not happen.

So the gods open that door as if it had never been closed. All these stories are symbols—only symbols. Nowhere did anyone lay flowers beneath a horse’s hooves. No. They only indicate this: we want to say that for such a person, the entire world, the whole existence, begins to provide only conveniences—because existence itself comes to need this man.

All of us need existence. We all need existence—for ourselves. We need air to breathe, water to quench thirst, the sun to give warmth. We need the whole existence for ourselves. But once in a while a person is born for whom existence itself begins to feel: we need that man to be. Let him be, let him stay a little longer, a little longer—and may no inconvenience come in his way.

And Mahavira knows this. He is playing a playful gamble with existence—no one has played such a gamble. It is entirely a wager: “All right now—if you want to keep me alive, let such-and-such an arrangement happen today; if not, I will turn back.” There is no complaint in turning back, no resentment. There is just this much awareness: if existence says, “Now you are no longer needed,” I will accept it and depart. With this attitude he moves. Neither…

But it could not be understood; it simply was not understood. Such a man is throwing a challenge at the divine. It is a challenge: “All right—if you want to keep me, then this much arrangement; otherwise, I go.”

What family or social discontent did Mahavira have? And isn’t his leaving home an escape from responsibility?

First of all, Mahavira had neither family discontent nor social discontent. In this life—the life by which the world knows Mahavira—he didn’t even have personal discontent. In this very life there was no personal dissatisfaction at all.

But in past lives… Generally there are three kinds of discontent: family discontent, social discontent, and utterly personal discontent. Family discontent can be economic, marital, to do with bodily comfort and discomfort. One who has such discontent never becomes religious, because he remains busy removing that very discontent. Such a person is what we would call highly material, a materialist.

Then there is social discontent. There is social structure, policy, rules, exploitation, wealth, state, property, distribution—this whole field; such discontent also exists. Such a person moves toward being a social revolutionary, a reformer. He too is not religious.

Religious is the person whose discontent has no relation to society, family, property, or body. The meaning of his discontent is only one: as I am, can I be content with that? His ultimate concern is: As I am, is that enough, sufficient? If I am violent—Is being violent enough? If I am angry—Is being angry enough? If I am restless—Is it all right to remain restless? I am unhappy, ignorant; I have no glimpse of truth, no taste of love—Is that enough?

There is a discontent that arises from the inner world, where one says: No—no ignorance, no darkness, no sorrow, no restlessness, no anger, no hatred, no enmity—none of these; I want a life where none of this remains, for while these persist, where is life at all? From this inner discontent the religious person is born.

In this life, even that discontent is not there for Mahavira, because the religious person has already been born. But in the previous life, in previous lives, his utter, essential discontent was spiritual—not social, not familial. Spiritual discontent is a thing of great value. One who lacks it will never set out on the journey where spiritual contentment can be found.

On the very plane of our discontent, that is the plane of satisfaction that can be attained. If your discontent is about wealth, at most you can gain the satisfaction of more wealth. And here is the interesting thing: on the plane where our discontent lies, on that very plane our life lies. Each person should find out: What am I dissatisfied with? Then he will know on what plane he is living.

It may be that one man lives in a palace, in luxury and indulgence; and another stands like a mendicant in a loincloth, naked in the sun, in cold, in rain—this shows nothing about who is religious. What reveals it is: What is this person’s inner discontent?

It may be that the one in the palace has only one discontent: What is the point of this palace? What is the point of this wealth? He is seized by the question: How shall I find That—my own nature, my ultimate bliss—how shall I find That? He sleeps in a palace, but his discontent runs on that plane—then he is spiritual, he is religious.

And another, wrapped in a loincloth, stands on the street, prays in the temple, but in prayer asks only for this: today may I get good food, a place to stay, respect, followers, devotees, an ashram. If even in the temple he prays in this way, he is not religious.

Our discontent reports our location. In this life Mahavira has no discontent at all, but through his past lives there runs a long journey of discontent—one continuous quest: Where is that state of my being, my truth, where I am utterly free—no limits, no bondage? Where is it, how to find it? The search is on.

A person with such a search—even one in whom that search has come to fruition—may still be eager to help others remove their familial discontents, their social discontents. Such a person may remain a pure saint, or may become a revolutionary, a reformer. But his own concern is not on those planes. His concern is on an altogether different plane. Very few people have spiritual discontent in their lives. If we could open people’s heads we would be shocked to see how low their discontents are. And as the plane of discontent, so the person.

Nietzsche has said something very striking: “Wretched will be the day when man becomes satisfied with himself. Wretched will be the day when the arrow of human aspiration no longer turns from the earth toward the stars.” But the arrows of our aspirations rarely go anywhere beyond the earth. And—how strange—we are dissatisfied with everything except ourselves. One man is dissatisfied with his house and wants a bigger one; another with his wife and wants another; another with this son and wants another; another with his clothes and wants new ones. But try to find a person—rarely will you meet one—who is not dissatisfied with house, clothes, wife, or sons, but with himself; who says: This “me” is not right; I need to be another kind of human being. When someone becomes dissatisfied in this way—with himself—then the journey of religion begins.

Mahavira certainly had discontent; that very journey brought him to where fulfilment and contentment are available. For the day one transforms oneself and realizes what one truly is, the moment of ultimate contentment arrives. After that there is no dissatisfaction. If he lives even for a single moment more, it is only to guide others’ dissatisfaction toward the path of fulfilment. His own journey is over.

You also ask: Isn’t his home-leaving an escape from responsibility?

Mahavira never renounced home at all. Home is renounced by those who cling to it, who are attached. Mahavira simply left what was not home. This is hard for us to grasp, because we think houses of brick and stone are home. He left only what was not home—so “home-renunciation” is a misleading term.

In truth Mahavira set out in search of home; he left the un-home to seek the Home. He left what was not a home and went to find what is Home. We clutch what is not home; and toward what could be Home we keep our eyes shut. We are the escapists.

What does escape mean?

If one man clutches stones and gravel and shuts his eyes to diamonds, and another drops the stones and sets out in search of diamonds—who is the escapist? Is the search for bliss escape? Then would living in misery not be escape? Is the search for knowledge escape? Then would living in ignorance not be escape? Is the search for ultimate life escape? Then would clinging to the petty not be escape?

First, Mahavira did not renounce home—he went in search of Home. Second, this word “escape”—we scarcely consider what it means.

Ordinarily we think the man who runs from duties, from responsibility is an escapist. That is a reasonable thought. But are we sure what responsibility is?

Would it be responsibility toward life and the world for a man like Mahavira to sit and run a shop? Would it be responsibility for him to sit at home and raise his children? What could be greater irresponsibility for a person like Mahavira than to stand confined within such paltry circles and squander himself on the petty?

When great responsibilities call, the small must be dropped. Because the call of the great is absent in our lives, we find it so hard to understand. We think: this man is leaving all responsibilities and going away. The truth that he is taking on far greater responsibilities does not occur to us.

How great the responsibilities a man like Mahavira assumes is hard even to imagine. He leaves one little home; the people of millions of homes become his own. He leaves one courtyard; the vast sky becomes his courtyard. He leaves one wife, one son, one dear one; the whole world becomes his beloved and his friend. But we have always thought in the language of what he left. We have not thought of the vastness into which he expanded. And when he left the one, where did he go?

There is a sweet incident in Buddha’s life. He returned home after twelve years. His wife was angry, furious. With sarcasm she pushed their son—Rahul, who had been a day old when Buddha left—now twelve—before him and said: “These are your father. Recognize him. This man with a begging bowl—he is your father. He gave you birth and ran away the very next night. Ask him what he earned and left for you. Ask him what duty he fulfilled. Here stands your father, with the begging bowl—the gentleman who, having given you birth, fled the next night. He did not even wake me to say he was going. Ask him for your due, your share. He is your father!”

The monks fell silent. Ananda grew nervous, thinking: this madwoman—does she know to whom she speaks? To Buddha! But Buddha, delighted, said to Rahul: “Yes, son, I am your father. Hold out your hands, so I may give to you the wealth I gathered for you.” But his hands were empty. His wife laughed: “Do you have anything in your hand? I see nothing. Still, son, hold out your hands.” In that crowd, how she was trying to humiliate Buddha! Rahul held out his hands. Buddha placed his alms bowl in them and said, “You are initiated. You are initiated, for a father like me can give you only such wealth as will make you a Buddha. You are initiated. I wandered long; why should I make you wander? It took me time to find; why should I delay you?”

Yashodhara began to weep. People shouted, “What madness is this! You left a son when you fled home and disturbed the whole order, and now you are taking the boy as well?” Buddha said, “Any others who wish to come, I am ready to take them too. For what I have found there—how could I not take my son? I will take him; and whoever else wants to go, let him come.”

It may seem to us that Buddha fled his duty. But as Buddha was, what could he have fulfilled by staying? How many fathers have there been, and how many sons—who has fulfilled his duty? Buddha fulfilled his. Whatever a father could do at the utmost for his son, Buddha did. He opened before him what he had known and found.

But to recognize such duty is hard for us. Perhaps we take “duty” to mean only passing on the burden of misery; perhaps we take “duty” to mean only speeding up the journey of ignorance. Then Mahavira and Buddha may appear escapists—but they are not.

One more point to understand: Escape is done by one who is unhappy; one who is afraid; one who doubts he can win. Such a man looks like he is running away. If there is a fire in the house and a man steps outside, you would not call him an escapist. No one would say: “He is an escapist—there was a fire and he came out!” No one will say, “You should have stayed in the house when it was on fire; then we’d know you’re not an escapist!”

When a house is on fire, no one calls the one who comes out an escapist. Because where there is fire, there is no “running away”; the very idea is absurd. With a fire, it is simple wisdom to get out.

Wherever Mahavira steps aside, he does not run—he steps aside where there is fire. Stepping aside is pure intelligence. They step aside from places where sorrow is born, where sorrow arises and spreads needlessly. What is the point of standing there? They step aside only because there are better places—where there is no fire.

Suppose you fall ill and go for treatment, and the doctor says, “You are an escapist—you are running away from illness!” Would you say, “Now that illness has come, let me suffer it; why run?” You would say, “I am not running from illness; but neither is it intelligent or meaningful to stand in it. I am seeking health—that is joyful.”

We never say to a sick man, “Don’t go to the doctor; that would be escape.” If a man stands in darkness and turns toward the sun’s light, we don’t accuse him of escape. Why then do we want to call people like Mahavira escapists?

There is a reason. If we can prove that people like Mahavira are escapists, we need not move from where we are. We can relax, thinking: “That man went wrong. We, where we stand, are perfectly right.” We all agree that he is just a runaway, fleeing life; we are the brave ones, standing in life.

In what “life” are we standing—where there is no life at all? And what is this bravery? What does it bring us?

Those who called Mahavira “Mahavira,” the Great Hero, did not take him to be an escapist. Perhaps the real reason is this: we cannot leave because of our weakness; Mahavira leaves because of his courage. But we hide our weakness and justify it; we find righteous reasons for it. No one wants to admit he is weak. So if a truly brave man departs from among us…

It is very hard to muster such courage. If a house is on fire and there are fifty people inside, and none accepts that the house is burning, then the man who sees the fire and steps outside—what will the others say? “Escapist! Where are you running?”

We have always called the best human beings escapists. There is a reason. Stefan Zweig committed suicide. But before he did, he wrote a letter: “Let no one think I am an escapist. Let no one think I am a coward. My conclusion, after a lifetime, is that people keep living only because they don’t have the courage to die. I too could not find the courage for a long time, so I kept on living. But now it is clear to me that if this is the life I must live every day, I will break it. And remember, I break it because I am courageous; you do not break it because you are not. But I know that after my death people will say I was a coward, a weakling, an escapist—he ran away from life.”

Zweig says something precious. He stands at that point from which a person either commits suicide or turns to spiritual practice. He stands where what we call life has become futile: the same waking in the morning, the same sleeping at night, the same work; the same repeated desires, the same repeated indulgences; the same repeated anger, lust, greed—again and again, like a machine. Zweig reached the point where he says: if this is life, I end it. And remember—I am not a coward.

I too say he is not a coward. Yes, he errs, but he is not a coward. He missed the point that Mahavira does not miss. All those in whose lives revolution happens reach that point where only two options remain: suicide, or sadhana—either destroy what we are physically, or transform what we are spiritually so we become different.

Zweig commits suicide. He is brave, but mistaken. What will suicide accomplish? Life’s deep craving will create new life again. People like Mahavira do not commit suicide; they set about transforming the soul. They say: What will suicide do? Let us transform the soul itself—create a new soul, a new life.

To us, both may look like escape. And there are reasons, because ninety-nine out of a hundred sannyasins are indeed escapists. Because of those ninety-nine, it becomes very hard to recognize the hundredth. Ninety-nine flee because there is illness, quarrel, the wife has died, bankruptcy—some such reasons push them to get away. But if such a man runs from one entanglement, he creates new ones; nothing changes. He is the same man, and will manufacture new traps.

Such a person can rightly be called an escapist—not a person like Mahavira. He raises no new entanglements and flees from no fear; out of understanding, out of a knowing consciousness, he changes staircases—he goes to another step.

I see it like this: if someone runs out of fear from something, that is one thing; if someone runs to gain something, that is entirely different. The man with a gun at his back runs; and the man who has seen a diamond mine runs. Both run. But one runs out of fear of the gun; the other runs because he has seen diamonds.

You cannot call the second one an escapist. You can call him one who is in motion, running—but not fleeing. He is not running from something; he is running to something. The emphasis of his vision is not on what he leaves but on where he goes. In both cases the old place is left behind, but there is a fundamental difference.

Mahavira is not running from anywhere. But among ninety-nine who are running away, recognizing the one who is going toward is very difficult—almost impossible. That difficulty creates obstacles in our understanding, and we then choose one of two easy routes: either we call all hundred “goers” toward the goal, or we call all hundred “runners” who fled. What is needed is careful discernment: Is the person going to gain something, or merely leaving something out of flight? If he goes to gain, some things will fall away.

When you climb stairs and place your foot on the second step, the first step is left behind. You are not fleeing the first step; it is simply left, because you must set foot on the next. Those who place their feet on higher steps leave the lower steps—not because they are fleeing.

And one who flees the lower steps out of fear, he cannot reach the higher; he descends to even lower steps. For one who is afraid of such a little height—how will he go higher? His flight only brings him down.

Often, if a householder runs away and becomes a sannyasin, he becomes an even bigger householder. His webs of householding grow more hypocritical. He still hoards money—yesterday he earned and hoarded; today he traps earners and hoards. His net becomes deeper, subtler, more cunning. Yesterday he built houses; today he still builds—yesterday he called them houses, today he calls them ashrams, temples, and so on. Yesterday he stood in court; today he still stands in court. Yesterday he fought for personal property; today he fights for the ashram’s property—his litigations.

A runaway descends to lower steps. But the one who goes upward also leaves steps behind. The distinction is fine and must be seen with care. And it will be understood only when we recognize in our own lives whether we are running from somewhere or going toward somewhere.

All of you have come here. Some may truly have come; some may have fled here. One may have fled because he was disturbed—restless, harried, with a nagging wife, difficulties at the office, work not going well: “Let me forget everything for fifteen days.” Such a person can come to me too. He is a fugitive. He will appear to have come, but he cannot truly arrive—what he fled from will pursue him. His fears and anxieties will surround him even on this mountain. For a little while, in conversation with me, he may forget; but when he returns, the tangle will not have loosened in fifteen days—his absence will have tightened it. After fifteen days he will stand in the same knot, with double trouble.

But someone else may truly have come—he is not fleeing anything; he has felt there is something to gain, and so he has come. He will be able to arrive here. Arriving here, he will forget the back-story, because he has come somewhere; he has not fled from somewhere. And from here he may return a different man. When a man changes, all circumstances change.

I do not call Mahavira an escapist.