Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #15

I say that love is always unconditional. Love is always unconditional, because wherever there is a condition, there is a bargain. Wherever we say, “I will love when such-and-such happens”—when I say, “I will love you if you do this, or become like that, or turn into this,” then I am binding love with a condition, and in doing so, I am losing love.

The conditions Mahavira speaks of are not in relation to love. Mahavira does not say, “If the world does this, then I will love; if the world gives me food, then I will love.” No—that is not the point at all; it is not a matter of love. Mahavira is saying, “If the world has love for me, if existence has love for me, how am I to know it? How am I to know that this whole existence wants to preserve me, considers me useful, and feels that if I live a moment longer it will be of benefit? How am I to know this? How can I come to know?” So Mahavira says, “I will lay down a few conditions whose fulfillment will inform me that I must go on living, that I am still of use.” You understand my meaning, don’t you?

Mahavira is not saying that if these conditions are fulfilled by the world, then he will love. Love for the world is already there; the question of any condition does not arise there. The condition is not being set to obtain love, but only to gain information: if there is to be a keeping-alive, let the world keep me alive—I will not continue on my own. Mahavira is saying, “On my side, I will not make the effort to live; it will not be my striving to go on living.” In fact, that is how it can be. For the one whose “I” has dissolved—what craving to live, what lust for life can remain? Then only this is possible: if there is a need...

Take it this way: I am speaking. There can be two reasons for speaking. Either speaking is my inner compulsion, so that I cannot remain without speaking—meaning I simply have to talk. If there were no one in this room, I would have to speak to the wall; then speaking would be my derangement. Because then there is no relationship at all with the listener. I am restless within and I have to say something, to unload something—like a madman who talks, who speaks even when alone on the road, who speaks to the wall. And just because listeners are sitting here, it does not necessarily mean the speaker is not mad; that is no guarantee. You would only know if we left him alone by a bare wall—and he did not speak.

If speaking is inner madness, then the listener is only a pretext, an excuse, someone on whom my speaking is being forcibly imposed. But if speaking is not inner madness—if I have no personal need—and I feel that you have a need, that I can be of use to you, then I will lay down conditions, so that I can know whether I am speaking for you, or merely going on speaking for myself.

So I will say, “Sit silently; only then will I speak.” Meaning, at least let me know that you are ready to listen, that you have come to listen. If you are not there to listen and still I go on speaking, then it is my inner insanity. So I will set a condition: you sit quietly and listen—sit and listen—then I will speak. And the moment you get up and stand, or start talking, I will stop speaking; I will take my leave. You follow my meaning, don’t you?

Mahavira is saying this to the whole of existence: if there is a need—for the trees, for the winds, for the sun, for the moon and stars, for the divine, for the Total... For Mahavira, “God” is not a person—the whole—if the whole has need of me, then let it be indicated that I am needed, and I will keep on walking. The day you say there is no need, then I have no need to go even an inch further.

So the condition Mahavira sets is not a condition set for love; it is a condition set for his very being: “I will dissolve this very instant. I will not say, even for a single moment, ‘Let me stay a bit longer. I still had something to say, I still had something to do.’ No. If your message comes, I will dissolve right now.”

Absolutely—it is the world’s need, only the world’s need. The moment a person attains bliss, the very life-breath of the whole world begins to call to him: share. Because the world is in so much sorrow, so much pain, so much suffering, whenever even a single person attains bliss, a cry rises from the souls of all beings and reaches him again and again: share. He returns only to share. It is that pressure to share, rising from all sides, that brings him back. This is not immediately visible to us.

People ask me, “Why do you speak?” Their question is fair—since I am the one speaking, they ask me. It is hard to imagine that someone has become eager to listen; therefore I speak. In the outer world the sequence seems reversed: I will speak, then listeners will come. But in the inner world the happening is entirely different: only when a listener calls do I speak.

Stand on a riverbank and you will see in the water that the head is down and the feet are up; yet in fact the one on the bank has his head up and feet down. The reflection in the river is inverted. The reflections of life are inverted; on the inner plane everything is reversed. On the inner plane the listener is present first, then the speaker comes. In the outer world the speaker appears first, then listeners gather. If this does not occur to us, we get into difficulty.

You cannot go to Mahavira and ask, “Why are you speaking?” Mahavira will say, “Why are you listening? You came first to listen; then I came to speak.”

But this will not be apparent to us, because the world in which we live is a world of shadows, of reflections. There things are not straight; they are reversed—completely reversed. We see everything as the opposite of what it is, and then we go on thinking accordingly.

If Mahavira were to come to your village, you would say, “Why have you come here?” And the irony is that it was you who called him. But you are not conscious of your own calling—not that conscious! And Mahavira has to bear the pain that you called him, and you will ask, “How did you come here?”

Buddha is going to a village at daybreak. As he is about to enter, a village girl, a farmer’s daughter, is carrying food to her husband in the fields. On the path she says to Buddha, “Do not begin speaking until I return.” Buddha says to her, “It is for you that I am hurrying here; if you are not there, what would I do by beginning to speak?” Ananda is quite nonplussed. He asks, “What are you saying? You are rushing from another village for this girl!” Buddha says, “For this very girl. And look—this same girl tells me, ‘Don’t start until I come back,’ and I am coming for her.”

The girl goes on. Buddha reaches the village; a crowd gathers. People say, “Now please speak, begin now.” Buddha looks around—the girl has not yet returned. Ananda says, “What will people think—that you are waiting for that girl? Please speak!” Buddha says, “I have come for the one for whom I came, and who also told me on the way to wait—how can I speak without her?” Evening begins to fall; people start to disperse. Then the girl comes running and says, “I got into great difficulty—my husband fell ill, perhaps an insect bit him, something happened. I was caught up there and was very worried that you might begin speaking.” Buddha says, “But what would I do by speaking without you? I have hurried here for you. You don’t know—you called me first; I have followed.”

But in the world where we live, things appear exactly reversed: there, Buddha seems to come first and only then the girl listens. And so all our questions are inverted, because from where our questions arise, things are completely upside down.

And in Mahavira’s love there is no condition. Perhaps such unconditional love has never been—utterly unconditional. But Mahavira sets conditions for his own existence. Those conditions are for his being, not for your love. They are to ensure that it never happens that your love has departed, existence has no need, and yet I go on living—then it all becomes meaningless. Not even for a single moment—inform me at once.

And Mahavira does not believe in a God who would send such a message. There is no God to say, “Now enough, return.” Only if the whole of existence, the totality itself, gives the signal will it be known; there is no other way. If Mahavira believed in some God, he would simply say, “Tell me when I should depart.”

But how will this total existence speak? How will the winds say it? How will the flowers say it? How will the trees say it? How will the moon and stars say it? How will existence say it? So Mahavira says, “I will set a condition, so that I can know: beyond this I should not go—the matter is over; my necessity is gone; I am finished.”

We cannot understand such compassion: they do not want to live as a burden upon us even for a moment. Not for a single moment do they want to become a burden—because one who stands with the longing to become liberation cannot be a weight. The condition is for their own existence; it is not for love. Love is always unconditional, but one’s own existence should always be conditional. If one’s existence becomes unconditional, it creates great difficulty; it will weigh upon love—very heavily.

Yes, yes, yes. In fact, I would say Meher Baba is wrong, because he wants to save himself.

That’s another matter; ask it later.

I would call Meher Baba wrong, because he wanted to save himself. If the inspiration had been God’s, he would not have allowed anyone to board that airplane. The airplane did crash, didn’t it? Meher Baba survived, didn’t he? The people on that plane died. If the inspiration had been God’s, he would have said, “I will not let the plane go. Kill me if you must, but I won’t let it proceed.” The impulse was for his own survival. So he saved himself while the plane went on. The house where he had gone to stay—he himself did not stay there, but he told no one not to stay in it. The house collapsed that night; someone could have been staying there. I would call Meher Baba wrong, because the urge to survive was his own.

And I will not call the Dalai Lama wrong, because he had no desire to save himself. For the Dalai Lama, the simpler way to “survive” would have been to remain there and side with the Chinese. It would have been much easier and more comfortable for him to save himself. Instead, the Dalai Lama landed in difficulty—he put himself in hardship to preserve something that is for everyone’s benefit.

Understand this difference. Meher Baba is saving himself; the Dalai Lama is saving something that serves all. And in saving that, the Dalai Lama is staking his life. Are you getting my point? The Dalai Lama’s escape is a risking of his life. And in one sense, perhaps he can never return now. Had he stayed, compromised, he could have remained a king, kept his position. There would have been no difficulty; all the fame and splendor could have continued. It was only a matter of granting China recognition—“You are our masters; we are your colony”—and the matter would have ended.

No—he did not want to save himself. Losing everything, ruining everything, throwing his whole life into hardship, he fled to save something else that is more valuable than his own survival. Even if he dies, it does not matter; something will be preserved that can be of use in the future. We don’t take this into account.

So when I say “to save for the ego, to save for oneself,” it’s a two-bit matter. In that sense, one should live like a leaf—like a dry leaf, wherever the winds carry you. But wherever there is something that serves the good of all, something for everyone’s welfare, and there is a certain treasure that is not tied to my being or not-being and can still be of use later, then certainly some effort can be made to preserve it. Mahavira too undertakes that effort.

The distinction I am making is only this: Are you employing it for your self-interest, or do you have no self-interest at all? From that perspective I will call one wrong and the other right. The decisive point will be whether his interest is personal or larger.

If someone were to stab the Dalai Lama in the chest, it would not be a problem, not a difficulty; but what he holds—and surely he holds an esoteric science that at this time only two or four people on Earth can even understand, let alone possess. For the past fifteen hundred to two thousand years, Tibet, cut off from the rest of the world, has been conducting an experiment.

We don’t keep this in mind. We don’t keep it in mind. The Second World War happened; Germany could have won. Just one man left Germany and they had to lose—Einstein. Germany could have won. There was no reason for Germany to lose, but the secrets were in the hands of one man—Einstein. And he was a Jew. Because Jews were being persecuted, Einstein left Germany.

The atom bomb that was made in America would have been made in Berlin. The secret was in one man’s hands, just one man’s. That secret went and became useful in America. The bomb was made there and dropped on Hiroshima. It could have been dropped on London, or New York, or Moscow—nothing was certain. One thing was certain: without Einstein it could not have been dropped anywhere. Wherever Einstein was, there it would have come into use.

Today you would be astonished—never has the value of individuals been so great. Today the worth of ten or twelve scientists in the world is such that spending billions to steal a single scientist is a major coup. Even if trillions are spent, it doesn’t matter—luring one scientist is a huge thing. Getting one secret from one scientist is a huge thing. Because today the entire matter of the world lies in the hands of just ten or twelve people.

Just as this has become the situation regarding the science of matter, exactly the same is true of the science of the spirit. Today there are at most two or four people in the world who understand at that depth. But even they do not hold the entire distilled essence of thousands of years of experience.

Let me tell you an incident. There was a man, Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff devoted the early years of his life to an extraordinary search—such as no one in this century undertook, nor in earlier centuries. Fifteen to twenty friends decided that whatever spiritual truths were hidden in the corners of the world, they would each go to different corners, search them out, and when they found them, they would return and together share all their experiences so that a definitive science could be formed.

These twenty men went to the far corners of the world. One to Tibet, another to India, another to Iran, Egypt, Greece, China, Japan—they spread across the world. These twenty men searched deeply and spent their entire lives. For a single life is very short, and what there is to know is vast.

Now, if a man goes to learn with the Sufis, an entire lifetime is spent. Because the Sufi arrangement is that one fakir will teach you one sutra and will take a year or two; then he will say, “Now go to such-and-such a man; he will speak to you further.” So you go to the second fakir. And for a year or two you simply serve him: massage his hands and feet, do as he says. Because some things are such that they can be given to you only when you display that much patience; otherwise you are not worthy, not a vessel. If you do not have that much patience, your vessel will break; those things cannot be given to you.

Those twenty people combed the whole world and, growing old, more or less managed to gather again. Some died. Some never returned—who knows where they got lost. But the four or six friends who did return—on the basis of the information they provided, Gurdjieff erected an entire science. In his hands came the grasp of those sutras that are scattered all over the world.

In relation to the science of the spirit, Tibet holds the greatest treasure. And it is useful for the Dalai Lama to drop concern for everyone—even for Tibet; the rise or fall of Tibet is not that valuable. Whether Tibetans live under this regime or that is not of great value either. What kind of social or political order they create is not what is valuable. What is valuable is that in these fifteen hundred years, Tibet, like a laboratory, has done a certain work—the sutras of that work must not be destroyed; it is necessary to run and save them.

My point is only this. I have nothing to do with Meher Baba, nor with the Dalai Lama. My point is only this: one direction is where we are preserving something for the supreme welfare of all, and the other is where we are preserving something for our own welfare. It is essential to distinguish between the two.

From the very word ‘ahimsa’ comes the sense of the negative, the prohibitive, the “no.” It means: no violence. So the word itself is negative. Why did Mahavira choose that word? He could have chosen love. Love is a constructive, positive word.

Ahimsa means: do not cause anyone pain. Love means: give someone happiness. Because ahimsa means “do not cause pain,” it is prohibitive. That is, if I simply do not hurt you, I become nonviolent. Love is an affirmative word: it means giving happiness. So if I merely refrain from hurting you, the matter is not complete; did I also give you joy? Only if I give joy is love fulfilled.

Thus love is a constructive word. Jesus used love. Ahimsa is a negative word, and Mahavira used it. Therefore it needs to be understood very deeply. Why does Mahavira employ the formula “do not give pain to anyone”?

Great depths are hidden here. Superficially it may seem that the word love would have been more appropriate—and as far as society is concerned, perhaps much more appropriate. Because those who followed Mahavira made a formula of “do not give pain to anyone.” And in one sense, since they were not to give happiness to anyone, only to avoid giving pain, they kept shrinking into themselves: so long as an ant is not crushed underfoot, that is enough! If an ant dies hungry, what is that to us? The ant will reap the fruits of its own karma. That the ant might die of hunger is none of our business. We did not kill it by stepping on it; our duty is done!

Mahavira’s negative formulation proved costly for society—and even more costly for his followers. That is why in India it is hard to find people more self-centered than the Jains. Because the meaning of ahimsa that was grasped was simply: do not give anyone pain; the matter ends there. Beyond that, we have no concern with anyone. Concern arises only when we set out to give happiness—then paths are created between us.

All such paths broke. Those who went after Mahavira became like islands—each one a separate isle, closed within himself: we shall not hurt anyone; the story ends there. In this prohibitive form it proved dangerous. It would have been better—for the followers it would have been better—had Mahavira used love. But Mahavira did not, and that is something very precious. His vision is very deep.

To use the word ahimsa is extraordinary, and there are reasons. The first is this: not giving pain to anyone is no ordinary thing. It does not merely mean that we should not injure someone. If you look very deeply, there are moments when not giving someone happiness can itself be a way of giving pain. The followers did not catch it to that extent. “I will not hurt you” is fine as a crude formula: I won’t harm you, won’t strike you with a sword.

But there can be a moment when, if I do not bring you joy, you will certainly feel pain. Yet this is not easy to grasp ordinarily.

Mahavira could have said this plainly too, but he didn’t—and that also has reasons. His deep understanding is that sometimes the attempt to give happiness aggressively can end up giving pain. It is not necessary that because you want to give happiness, the other will receive happiness. Therefore, even in giving happiness, the mind must not be aggressive; even “giving happiness” should not be a project. For in the very attempt to give happiness one may inflict suffering.

In truth, if someone overdoes the attempt to make another happy, he is bound to cause suffering. If a father becomes obsessed with making his son happy—molding his character, arranging his life, his rules, all in the name of the son’s happiness—the likelihood is that the son will suffer. And because of that suffering, the son will go exactly in the opposite direction from what the father wanted.

Hence good fathers seldom produce good sons. A good son might be born in the house of a bad father, but being born in the house of a good father is a great exception. A good father becomes the cause of spoiling the son, inevitably. He wants to confer so much happiness, to make him so virtuous and so “good”—for the sake of happiness—that even this attempt becomes a burden on the son, a weight upon him.

It is a very curious truth: we can receive happiness from someone only if we ourselves want to receive; no one can “give” it to us. Understand it well. I can receive happiness only if I want to receive it. Happiness is such a subtle state of consciousness that if someone wants to deliver it to me, he cannot; only if I am willing to receive will I take it. Therefore Mahavira did not put emphasis on “delivering” happiness; he left that whole talk aside. Yes, if someone wants to receive, then give—because if you do not give, he will feel pain.

Hence the insistence: do not give anyone pain. Your work is complete if you simply do not inflict suffering. If someone wishes to take happiness from you, give it—but only so that, if you refuse, it will cause him pain. Do not go about “making people happy,” because if you set out to make people happy, you will end up giving nothing but pain. The reason is that it is the aggression itself that hurts. If we try to make someone happy by force, we will make him more miserable than we ever could in any other way. In other words, no one can be made happy by compulsion. And coercion is violence.

So Mahavira’s grasp is very deep; he is speaking rightly. There is yet another depth which, I feel, has not been understood even by those who think they understand Mahavira. It is this: ultimately, in the supreme state where ahimsa is fully manifest—or love is manifest; call it what you will—for in the ultimate there is neither affirmation nor negation. The duality of negative and positive belongs to preliminary states; in the ultimate there is neither. So, in that highest state, take a person like Mahavira—why did he never offer assistance to someone’s body? Why did he never lift the fallen? Why did he never give water to the thirsty or bread to the hungry? Why did he never sit by a sick person and massage his legs? Mahavira never did any bodily service. The question is worth asking.

There is a reason for that too. In the state of ultimate nonviolence a person does not want to cause suffering to anyone, but neither does he want to give anyone happiness. Why? Seen very deeply, pleasure and pain are two forms of the same thing. What we call pleasure is just a form of pain; what we call pain is a form of pleasure. If you look profoundly, you will find that if you increase the dose of what we call pleasure a little, it turns into pain.

You are eating; it is delightful. You keep eating more, and a point comes when the pleasure turns into discomfort and pain.

You come to me with love; I embrace you—it’s very blissful for a moment or two. But suppose I do not let you go; then you start writhing: how to get free from these arms? Five minutes—and the pleasure has turned to pain. Keep it for half an hour and you will be calling a policeman, “Save me; this man won’t let me go!”

At what instant did pleasure turn into pain? It’s hard to say. Up to one instant there was a glimmer of pleasure; the next instant pain began.

A lover and a beloved meet for a moment—it is delightful. Then they become husband and wife, and it becomes very painful. In the West—and then throughout the world—where love marriages came, people discovered that the same lovers who could give each other the greatest happiness also could make each other equally miserable. Very strange. When pleasure turns into pain is difficult to say.

Every pleasure can turn into pain. And there is no pain that cannot turn into pleasure. Both can transform into each other. You have some pain—no matter how deep—within that very pain you can see possibilities of joy.

A mother carries a child in her womb for nine months; she endures only pain. Childbirth brings unbearable pain. Yet all that pain keeps turning into happiness. The hope of joy ahead empowers her to bear the pain. The very pangs of labor come like a kind of joy. The burden of the child too is felt as joy. To raise that child is a long process of pain, yet the mother’s heart turns it into happiness.

We can turn pain into pleasure if hope, possibility, aspiration, desire are intense. We can turn pleasure into pain if, within pleasure, all hope and possibility become extinguished. Meaning: there is no fundamental difference between pleasure and pain; the difference lies in our perspective. Everything depends on how we look. At our very way of seeing, pleasure and pain transform.

A man has a wound in his leg, and the doctor performs an operation; the pain of the operation becomes pleasure because hope is working—the hope to be free from the greater suffering. A man drinks the bitterest, most poisonous medicine because the hope of recovery is working.

If there is hope, pain can be made into pleasure; if hope withers, all pleasures become pains.

What Mahavira is saying is this: in the deepest, ultimate state, do not set out to give anyone pleasure, and do not give anyone pain either. Does that mean cut yourself off from everyone? Stand far away? Disappear for them? Create an endless distance between you and them?

No, it does not mean that. Here is something very astounding: the day a person reaches that state—where he neither wants to give pleasure nor pain—from that very day he inevitably becomes a source of bliss to all. Understand this well. Only one who is free of the cycle of pleasure and pain, who has the vision in which pleasure and pain have lost all value—only such a person becomes a cause of ananda, of bliss, for others.

But we do not know bliss. If someone causes us pain we recognize him as bad; if someone pleases us we call him good; but if someone radiates bliss to us, we cannot recognize what kind of person he is.

First, we do not even recognize bliss. We cannot even catch what bliss is or in what way it is being conveyed. Bliss begins to radiate spontaneously from that consciousness which has gone beyond the duality of pleasure and pain—where neither from one’s own side nor from the other’s side is there any intent to give pleasure or pain. From the life of such a person, rays of bliss spontaneously spread in all directions.

Of course, those who have eyes see that bliss; those who are blind do not. Yet whether someone sees the sun or not, the sun gives warmth to both alike. The only difference is that the one who does not see says, “What sun? Where is the sun?” The warmth is no different. Life that touches the blind is the same as that which touches the seeing; no difference there. But the blind man says, “What sun? Whom should I thank? I have never seen any sun; no one has ever given me any warmth.” If warmth is felt, he claims it is his own, because he has no notion of the sun. The one with eyes knows the warmth is from the sun and therefore feels grateful, offers thanks, gratitude arises.

But it is very difficult. We are satisfied only when we see Mahavira massaging someone’s feet; then we understand he is serving.

It is like small children in a home: a beggar comes to the door and I hand him a hundred-rupee note. Later the child asks me, “You didn’t give him even a single paisa!” For him a hundred-rupee note has no meaning; he recognizes coins. He says, “You gave him nothing; how hard-hearted! He came begging and you gave him a piece of paper? He was hungry—what will paper do? At least give him a coin.” And the boy runs off to the village saying, “What harshness in my house! A beggar came and they gave him a scrap of paper! Can a scrap of paper feed anyone? They could have at least given him a piece of bread, at least a coin.” The child recognizes coins; rupee coins mean nothing to him, a hundred-rupee note means nothing.

Mahavira walks down a road; a lame man lies by the side. We are people who recognize only small coins. If Mahavira were to get down and massage his legs, we would click a photograph and publish it: “What a marvelous servant of humanity!” But as Mahavira passes, what if he silently gives him a donation of another kind? We cannot see it; nor can the lame man. The fellow lying there would also say, “What a cruel man—he walked past while I lay here lame!”

And yet, through someone’s silent passing, so many rays can shower, so many waves can arise, such a gift can happen that Mahavira would have no need to use his hands at all. From Mahavira’s deepest vision: that which is not the body cannot be helped by the body.

The lame man is lame in his legs. But we never notice that suffering does not come from the lameness of the leg; it comes from the inner sense, from the self-sense that says, “I am lame.”

Nor is it necessary that if you fix that lame man’s leg any real benefit will come. What is necessary upon Mahavira’s plane, he knows. By knowing I mean: how much compassion can he pour upon that man? He will pour it and pass silently on. And even then, why make a show of it, why let anyone know from whom that compassion fell?

I have heard of a Sufi fakir. One night an angel appeared and said, “God is very pleased with you; ask for a boon.” The fakir said, “If God is pleased, what greater boon is there? The matter is finished. I have received all that can be received.” But the angel said, “No, that won’t do; ask for something—anything!”

The fakir said, “There is no lack left now. When God is pleased, what lack remains? When God himself is pleased, there is only joy—whence can sorrow come? What should I ask for now? Do not make me a beggar now; I have become an emperor. Since God is pleased with me, do not turn me into a beggar—forgive me; do not ask me to ask.”

But the angel would not relent. So the fakir said, “If you insist, then you give; I will not ask. Give whatever you wish.” Then the angel said, “I give you this boon: whomever you touch—if dead, he will come alive; if sick, he will be healed; if a tree is dried up, it will sprout green leaves and flowers.” The fakir said, “If you give that, that is fine—but do not give it to me directly. Not directly. Otherwise I may start feeling that it is by my hands that the sick are healed. Do not give it directly. The sick will benefit, but I will be harmed.”

The angel asked, “Then what is the way?”

The fakir said, “Give it to my shadow. Wherever I pass, if my shadow falls on a tree and it is dry, let it become green—but let it not be visible to me, because I will already have gone by; I would have seen it as a dry tree. I should never know when it became green. If it falls on a patient, let him be healed—but I should not know. I do not want to get into that complication at all. I do not want to enter into the entanglement of ‘I’ and ‘mine.’”

They say the angel granted the boon. Thereafter, when he passed by parched fields, they turned green. When his shadow fell upon dried-up trees, leaves appeared on trees barren for years. The sick recovered; the dead rose; the blind received sight; the deaf, hearing. All this began to happen around him—but he never knew. There was no reason for him to know, for it was happening through his shadow. He had no direct involvement.

In truth, those who attain the ultimate state, their very being is compassion; their mere presence. Whatever happens, happens through their shadow—they need not do anything directly. In fact, those who lack such a shadow are the ones who have to do things directly. But they are small change. We can keep accounts of how much such a person served, how many lepers he massaged, how many patients he treated, how many hospitals he opened where he massaged the sick. These are trifles; in the deepest sense they have no real value.

In the early days of India’s freedom movement, Sri Aurobindo was exceedingly ardent; perhaps no one of greater genius ever entered India’s struggle for freedom. Yet, suddenly after a court case, he left everything. Friends surrounded him: “The man from whom we drew inspiration—he has gone!” They said to Aurobindo, “So you have run away?” Aurobindo said, “I have not run away. The small-change work—you do it; you can. I will engage in a larger work, which I can do.”

“What great work will you do?”

He said, “Do not worry about that.”

It is hard for us to grasp, but as far as India’s freedom is concerned, as much work as Aurobindo did, no one did. Yet his name may scarcely be recorded in the history of India’s independence. Because those who keep accounts of small coins cannot keep accounts of what Aurobindo did. A man waking twenty-four hours, with all his life-force, trying to stir this nation in a certain way—how can we keep an account of that? How?

It may well be that the force in Gandhi was Aurobindo’s force—but that is hard to calculate. The strength in Subhas may have been Aurobindo’s. In the whole saga of India’s revolt and freedom, the most precious man’s name may never be recorded—take that as certain. Because he worked on a plane we cannot grasp. He was trying to generate those waves that would break the nation’s slumber, awaken the spirit of revolt, bring a wind of revolution. But we have no inkling.

And the day, perhaps a thousand or two thousand years from now, when science becomes capable of catching such subtle waves, we may have to rewrite history completely. Those who seem very great in history may turn out to be worth two pennies; and those whom we never counted may prove supremely valuable. As long as we cannot recognize the hundred-rupee note, it is very difficult.

Now scientists say that if a flower is blooming—imagine: in the morning the gardener waters and manures it, and goes home. A musician sits nearby and plays the veena. When tomorrow big blooms open, who will go thank the musician? What has the flower got to do with the musician? People will catch hold of the gardener: “You produced such a big flower—by your manure, water, and care!”

But now acoustics says: what can the gardener really do? The value of his doing is not very great. If, however, music is produced in a particular order, the flower will grow to a size it never reached before—the full, maximum potential inherent in its seed will manifest. Such music can also be played that the flower will shrink and stay small. It is a play of sounds.

If sounds can make flowers grow, there is no reason why the waves of a refined consciousness cannot raise a nation’s consciousness, create the movement of revolt, the current of freedom. But we will not be able to recognize it. How will we?

Now Russian and American scientists both are engaged in this effort: can such sound-waves be generated that a lethargy spreads over an entire country? And they are moving quite far in this direction. There is no difficulty in imagining that the coming wars may not be wars of bombs at all, but wars of sound-waves, of torpor. That is, Russia’s radio stations might project such sound-currents over India that the whole country falls into lethargy—no question of fighting even arises, no will at all. Soldiers simply go to sleep. And we won’t understand what has happened—or, introduced slowly, we may never know when it happened—bit by bit it set in; and our inner activity was completely stolen away.

Big work is going on in this. For we are surrounded on all sides by waves of sound; upon them depends what we do. But there are subtler waves still, which science does not yet quite know. There are people who work upon those waves.

Mahavira never served anyone physically—and this will remain a charge upon him. But it will remain only as long as we recognize small coins. The day we begin to recognize hundred-rupee notes, the charge will vanish. We will see that those who were massaging feet were doing so because they could do nothing greater and sought satisfaction by massaging feet. But what comes of massaging feet?

Mahavira’s ahimsa is on that plane where even the intent to bestow pleasure or pain has departed, where only Mahavira remains—a presence.

In science, these very elements are called catalytic agents—catalysts. Elements whose mere presence does something, although they themselves do nothing. They contribute nothing to the reaction, and yet without their presence nothing would happen; by their presence alone something happens.

For instance, bring hydrogen and oxygen close together—they will not combine; they remain separate; water does not form. But if a spark of electricity passes between them, they combine. Science has searched and found: the electrical spark contributes nothing of substance to the combining; it has no donation to make to their union. Only in its presence do they unite. Nothing is taken from it, nothing added to it; it neither gains nor loses; it is simply present, and they combine.

Just as on the material plane there are catalytic agents, catalysts, we have no idea that on the spiritual plane too there are people who have touched that state where their mere presence works, where they themselves do nothing. That is, Mahavira’s presence will accomplish so much in the world during the era he is present; and Mahavira will do nothing—he will simply be. His being is enough. On the plane of consciousness his presence will awaken and heal thousands and millions of consciousnesses—this will all happen.

But the scientific investigation of this remains to be done. On the spiritual plane the inquiry is ancient, complete; but we have never tried to explain it in the language of science. We have just never thought along those lines. You never notice that you are not the same in every situation; you change with every presence.

If you are in front of me, you are not the same person you were a moment ago; and when you are not in front of me, you will not be the same as you were when you were. Something arises within you that had never arisen before. And I am doing nothing in it. It can arise; it can arise in mere presence.

There are people who work on very deep planes; there is service at very deep levels. But since we recognize only small coins, difficulties arise. The charge upon Mahavira will remain; it cannot yet be erased. But I believe that the day it is erased, those because of whom the charge existed will turn out to be worth two pennies. And Mahavira will appear in a new light, in a sense by which it is difficult now to keep accounts.

Aurobindo certainly made an effort in this age, a great effort; he labored immensely in this direction. Yet it is hard to recognize him, and he does not receive support and cooperation. It is beyond our imagination that by the removal of one man from a village the whole village can change. The man did nothing—he just was—and still the village changes.

In Jabalpur there was a fakir—just yesterday Maunu was speaking of him—Magghe Baba. Such a wondrous man that even he gets “stolen”—he! If someone picks him up and carries him off, he goes! He has been stolen several times, lost for years, because some village abducts him. For his presence has effects. For the past two years he has been “stolen”—no trace; who carried him off?

It has happened many times: someone lifts him and puts him into a cart; he does not even ask, “What are you doing?” He does not even ask “Where are you taking me? Why are you taking me?” He says nothing.

But his presence has results. People have discovered this, so they steal him away. And the village in which he stays, the house in which he stays—the whole atmosphere there changes. And he does nothing; most of the time he lies down, sleeps! He seldom speaks, seldom moves; people come and serve him. It happens often that they do not let him sleep even for twenty-four hours, because some two or four people are always massaging his feet.

Once, I passed by him at about two in the night. I said something to him; he said to me, “Have some compassion on me—explain to people. They go on pressing me for twenty-four hours.” Two or four people are massaging at once! And that poor old man is lying down; one presses his legs, one his head. For there is joy in serving him, and there is simply joy in being near him. There is no need for him to say anything. He generally does not speak. We have no inkling of such things.

And so there is another question, related to this, which someone asked and which I will take up here. It was asked: the Jains have twenty-four Tirthankaras—but the earth is vast; why, on this vast earth, did these twenty-four appear in this small India, and within this small India in just two or three provinces? Why did they not appear everywhere?

They cannot appear everywhere, because each one’s presence creates the climate for another’s being. It is a chain. It is not as if in one area there is an isolated case. The one who was present lifted the consciousness of that region, that province, that milieu. Only in that heightened consciousness can another Tirthankara be born; there is a series in it.

You will be surprised to know that when great ones are born in the world, they tend to encircle the whole earth like a chain—and the reason is this chain. For instance: in China, within a span of five hundred years, Lao Tzu, Mencius, Chuang Tzu; in Iran, Zarathustra; in Bihar, within those same five hundred years, Mahavira, Buddha, Goshalak, Ajit, Sanjay, Purna—so many arose, and only in that small province! In those same five hundred years, in Athens—Socrates, Aristotle, Plato. In those five hundred years, one chain circled the earth.

When one—what science now calls a chain reaction—when one hydrogen atom is exploded, its heat explodes the neighbor; that heat explodes the next; the next, the next. If a single hydrogen bomb goes off, the earth will not remain, for in chain action all the hydrogen atoms of the earth will begin to break.

The sun gives heat in this way. In the beginning, one hydrogen atom must have exploded, eons ago. How did it happen? That is another matter. Perhaps it too happened due to the presence of some immense star passing close by, so hot that its nearness cracked an atom; that one broke the neighbor, and so on. Since then, the helium gas around the sun has been breaking apart; from that we receive heat. Therefore scientists say that in four thousand years the sun will cool—because the remaining atoms will be exhausted in that time. The chain explosion is running.

Just as on the plane of matter there are chain explosions—this house catches fire, then the neighbor’s, then the next; maybe someone lit a single lamp and from that the fire caught and burned the whole village—so when there is an explosion of consciousness, a chain is caught at once. That is, if one man of Mahavira’s caliber is born, he creates the possibility of hundreds of that caliber.

On the surface it appears that Buddha and Mahavira are enemies, yet Buddha is the fruit of Mahavira’s explosion—fruit in the sense that without Mahavira, Buddha’s happening would be difficult. On the surface Ajit, Purna Kashyapa, Goshalak, all seem opponents—but no one thinks that they are all parts of the same chain. Once the one explosion happens, a climate is created, the presence gathers up all the scattered consciousnesses, and the fire catches. In this catching fire, those with the greater potential will explode with greater intensity.

Therefore it often happens that in one age a single type of people are born all over the earth, and in one moment, in one region, genius bursts forth suddenly. Genius has its own inner laws and reasons. The birth of twenty-four Tirthankaras in a limited area, in the same land, has its cause: for that kind of explosion of genius, a certain climate is needed—a chain.

Yes, there is a reason. The reason—it has nothing to do with numbers. In fact, there can be twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven; there can be any number. It is not related to that.
But when, in a chain, a person of great genius is born—in one chain; for example, in the chain of the twenty-four Tirthankaras, Mahavira is the most brilliant—he is so brilliant that the people around him feel that now there is no need for anyone else in that chain. The ultimate has become available to us. What was to be known has been known; what was to be recognized has been recognized; what was to be said has been said.
And the follower is always afraid. He is afraid that if you keep the doors open for further genius, genius is always rebellious and always throws things into disorder; it is anarchic. So the follower becomes frightened; for his own security he sets up an arrangement. He says, now, enough.

Yes, it is indeed little. Compared to Mahavira, there is no one. Among those twenty-four, there is simply no one who can stand against Mahavira. It is not without reason that Mahavira became the center— it is not without reason. Among those twenty-four, there is no one comparable to Mahavira. The same knowing is available to all, but there is no teacher equal to Mahavira; no one can express it as he can.

I can't explain; I can't get the message across.

It goes on happening. Only, if the Jains refuse, then the one who would have been the twenty-fifth becomes number one of another series. There is no inherent reason for it. If a twenty-fifth were allowed, Buddha would not have needed a separate lineage—he would have been the twenty-fifth.

The difficulty—the difficulty is that whenever a tradition feels it has reached its ultimate man, peak upon peak, then it closes the doors for others afterward—naturally, because it does not want the upheaval. A new genius brings a new upheaval. So it settles down; it says, “Our message is complete, our scripture is complete. Now we are codified; now we will not give another a chance.” Therefore that “twenty-fifth”—individuals are born continuously—has to become the first of a new series. Buddha would have been the twenty-fifth; there was no reason, no obstacle, had they kept the doors open.

But there was another reason: since Buddha was present at the same time, closing the doors became absolutely necessary—for the followers. Because if Buddha arrives, everything will be thrown into disarray. Disarray in the sense that much of what Mahavira is saying he would unsettle and give a new ordering. That new ordering would put them in difficulty. So precisely because of Buddha’s presence, the door was shut outright: there cannot be more than twenty-four, and the twenty-fourth is already ours.

That is why, after Muhammad, Muslims closed the door! In their lineage an unparalleled man had appeared in Muhammad. After Jesus, Christians closed the door. Before Jesus there had been many prophets, but after Jesus they shut it completely! This business of closing the door...
After Buddha, the Buddhists closed it; now no enlightened one will be born. There is the notion of a Maitreya—that someday Buddha himself will take another incarnation as Maitreya—but even that would be Buddha taking it; it is not going to be someone else.

Yes. Here, in the past two–three centuries, the most influential figures have been Ramana and Krishnamurti. But no lineage could form behind Ramana, and behind Krishnamurti it will not form either. Krishnamurti is opposed to creating one. And behind Ramana it could not form. A man of that caliber was not found who could carry the matter forward or add something to it.

Ramakrishna found Vivekananda. Vivekananda is a very powerful person, but not experienced. Because of his power he did set the wheel in motion, but there isn’t much life in that wheel, so it is not going to go far. Ramakrishna is deeply experienced, but he is not in the position of being a teacher, of being a Tirthankara. He cannot be a teacher.

So for the first time... It happens many times that when someone cannot be a teacher, he places the work of teaching on another’s shoulders. Ramakrishna placed the teaching on Vivekananda’s shoulders and had the work of teaching done through him.

But a mess arose. The mess was this: Ramakrishna simply could not be a teacher himself—that possibility wasn’t there. And Vivekananda is not experientially realized, so Vivekananda became Ramakrishna’s mouthpiece. And what Vivekananda said has not a penny’s worth of connection with Ramakrishna. It got very muddled. The whole matter became so disordered.

Then Ramakrishna died, and Vivekananda remained. And the shape that Vivekananda gave to the entire setup is Vivekananda’s. Vivekananda is a great organizer, a great administrator. If he himself had the experience, a chain could have started, but it could not. Because Vivekananda has no experience of his own, and the one who has the experience is not an organizer. It broke.

It could have happened with Ramana, because he is of the same caliber as a Buddha or a Mahavira; but it could not, because no person was available. Krishnamurti is against it, so the question does not arise.

There is a lineage in the West too; there is also a lineage of mystics in the West. For example, Jesus’ lineage continued for a while; then the door of that lineage closed. After that, another lineage began.

Yes, yes—there is! When someone like Eckhart appeared in Germany, he was a man of tremendous worth, but not a teacher. A chain catches momentum only when a thousand conditions come together; otherwise it doesn’t. Eckhart is a man of great worth—of the worth of Jesus—but the chain could not take hold because he was not a teacher. He says things that become unintelligible; he cannot make them understood.
And the things are unintelligible. Unless one has a great art of explanation, they cannot be explained at all. They are downright contradictory; only with great understanding can their contradictions be dissolved and brought closer to comprehension.
Boehme appeared in Germany—he too could have become a chain, but he didn’t.
The Catholic chain, in a certain sense, is alive and moving slowly; but there is no very gifted person to give it momentum.
All chains slowly die. For instance, in Japan the Zen chain has been running; there was still a gifted man in it, Suzuki, but he has died. He tried hard to impart momentum, but that momentum did not come.
And then what happens—what is the difficulty? When a great soul gives birth to a lineage, if very small people gather around him and become his claimants, a double harm is done. First, they themselves cannot carry anything forward; they can only kill it. The second harm is that if some talented person is born within that chain, they immediately throw him out. That crowd of the uncomprehending expels him at once!
In fact, Jesus could have been part of the Jewish chain. The Jews have had tirthankaras—utterly wondrous ones. John himself, who baptized Jesus, was a very precious person, a man of the worth of Jesus. He took Jesus close and gave him satsang. But the Jewish crowd could not tolerate Jesus, such a precious man; the crowd threw him out. So the son of the Jews went outside the Jews, and Christianity began!
Christianity—now, whenever a valuable man is born within Christianity, Christianity immediately throws him out! What happens is: that crowd of the uncomprehending that gathers can no longer bear any genius. And the very genius who could keep the chain alive is expelled; then new chains begin. In this way perhaps fifty chains in the world have run and died. They run a little, then break and disappear.
Therefore I say: the spiritual benefit that could have reached the world through all this has not reached. And now we should break the entire machinery of sects, so that there is no way left anywhere to throw talent out. The very possibility of expelling disappears.
For example—any, any… take the Theosophy chain: it was a very precious chain. Blavatsky started it, and it came up to Krishnamurti. But Krishnamurti proved so bold, so courageous, that the theosophists themselves could not tolerate him! So the theosophists threw Krishnamurti out! The theosophist chain died—died because the precious man who could have given it further momentum was expelled.
If sects vanish from the world, if boundaries melt, the explosion can be far more widespread. As it is, the explosion cannot touch. Suppose this house catches fire; the neighbor’s house can catch fire only because it is connected to this one—if there is a lane in between, it cannot; there is a gap. Now, even if a Ramana is born, no connection is made with a Christian, because there is a gap; the houses are separate.
So many times a chain is born—a chain of fire—but because separate pieces are kept apart, it wanders within itself and dies; there is no way out. And if once again a talented person appears, the very crowd of house-owners throws him out: “Don’t let him live in our houses; he will set them on fire.” Then he has to build a new house. And a new house is difficult. Which means that in his whole life he can gather only a few people with great difficulty—and then the same thing happens to him.
So the damage that has been done in the spiritual realm to humanity so far has been because there are sects and boundaries—they become very hard and strong. A twenty-fifth tirthankara can be born continually; there is no difficulty. The twenty-sixth will be; there is no question at all. There is no limit, no number.

Work never ends here. What work does Mahavira have! Mahavira has no work. The work here is the struggle between ignorance and knowledge. The work here is between unconsciousness and awareness. Mahavira has no work.

Yes, of course! After Mohammed many arose, but the Muslims threw them out. For example, when Bayazid appeared, they instantly cast him out; when Mansur appeared, they beheaded him! So whoever of value came after Mohammed became a separate stream—the Sufis. It became a distinct fragment, and Muslims don’t bother to acknowledge them. They immediately set them apart. Whoever is precious gets separated.

And then even within the Sufis, the lineages kept multiplying. For example, when Mansur appeared, among those who revere Mansur, if someone was born among them who Mansur...

Now, for example, after Muhammad a rule took shape that there is only one Allah and that Muhammad is His only prophet. The Sufis said, “That there is only one Allah—this is absolutely true; but Muhammad is not the only prophet. There are thousands of prophets.”

And the quarrel began. The Sufis said, “Prophets are in their thousands—what counting is there of prophets! God is one—that is fine.” So when a Muslim offers namaz in the mosque he says, “There is one God and one prophet, Muhammad.” A Sufi too offers namaz in the mosque, but he says, “There is one God, but there are thousands of prophets.” Meaning: how can you count the messengers? Those who bring the message are countless.

But the Muslim cannot tolerate this. Because this says: Mahavira is fine, Buddha is fine, Jesus is fine—these are all prophets! There is no problem in it. Many bringers of the same news. But this is beyond the Muslim’s tolerance.

Recently, one of my talks was published as a book. In it I mentioned Muhammad and Jesus along with Mahavira. A great Jain muni, who has many devotees—someone gave him that book, and he threw it away, saying, “Muhammad’s name alongside Mahavira? Where Muhammad, and where Mahavira! Mahavira is omniscient, a Tirthankara—and Muhammad an ordinary ignoramus! How do you match these! Just taking both names together—that itself is a sin!” Then he said, “I cannot read it any further.”

Likewise, a follower of Muhammad will say, “You placed Mahavira’s name alongside Muhammad? Where Muhammad the Prophet, and where Mahavira! What is there in Mahavira?”

So when the Sufi says that all are His prophets, that becomes intolerable.

In the crowd of the ignorant, knowledge is always intolerable; hence difficulties arise.

And lineages begin and die. Until now no such lineage has been able to be formed...

No, no—not to unite them. Their consciousness is of the same quality; they are already together.

Completely alike; there is no question of bringing them together. Even if you bring them together, what difference would it make...?

Not in the least, not in the least. Their consciousness is exactly the same.

Expression is absolutely different; it is bound to be. Mohammed is Mohammed, Mahavira is Mahavira—the expression will be different. What Mohammed will speak is Mohammed’s speaking: it will be his language, the words of his tradition. Mahavira will have his own language, the words of his tradition. The expressions will be different; the experience is absolutely one.

It has to be done—yes, certainly, certainly. In fact, it keeps happening that way anyway. For example, when I speak about Mahavira, that amounts to a complete analysis of Mahavira’s path. Tomorrow, when I speak about Muhammad, his path will be analyzed. The day after, when I speak about Christ, his will be. When I speak about Krishna, his will be. It will go on happening. I want to speak by choosing individuals, and I also want to speak by choosing the scriptures. For instance, the Gita, the Quran, the Bible—I want to take those up as well. If in one whole lifetime even this much work can be done, it is greatly satisfying.

Yes.

What you say is right. Yes, what you say is right. It is also true that life is uncertain. And it is also true that the work is so vast that whether one man can complete it in a single lifetime or not is uncertain. My only trust is that I have no personal stake in the work; if life so wills, it will take the whole work; if not, it will not. I have no insistence that it must be completed. What is there to be stubborn about? To say it must be completed—there is no such demand in me.

And what you say is right: among these very people, slowly, those who come close to me—if they gain some momentum in their sadhana—certainly work can be taken from them; yes, work can be taken from them. And that too only if life wants to take it.

Even about that, I have no accounting for tomorrow. When you speak to me, I speak; but in my mind there is no plan even for tomorrow. When tomorrow comes, whatever work life wants to take, it will take. If it doesn’t want to, fine—tomorrow will not come. I have not the slightest insistence. Therefore I am utterly at ease. There is no tension about it.

For example, what I am saying about Mahavira now—I have never sat down and thought it out. As I speak with you, I think along. What I will say about Christ tomorrow, I myself do not know—I will think along then. My inner state is simply this: I am totally let-go; wherever the divine takes me, wherever it carries me, and whatever it has me do. And if it does not want me to do something, that too is its will—there is no insistence of any kind from my side. And when it wants to take work, it can do so in a thousand ways. If it intends to make use, it will bring it to completion in a thousand ways.

And what you say is also right: some people can be prepared as well. That too is in its hands.

Let us take one or two more questions.

It will arise of its own accord.

If, just by listening, you do not arrive—and I have to emphasize it—then that emphasis becomes coercion. What I mean is: if simply by listening to me you arrive somewhere, good; but if I still have to push from behind, then it is no longer right.

Which side?

If you grasp in a new way—then what is my new way? Not to grasp at all. Do you understand what I’m saying? My point is: as long as there is grasping, it is the old way; only when there is no grasping is it the new way. And as you listen to me, if the grip drops, if the clinging drops, the matter is finished.
Fear is always there. As you say, fear is always there. Fear is always there because people are fearful—there is no other reason. So they see fear everywhere. If fear is in the mind, fear appears everywhere; if fear is not in the mind, then it appears nowhere.

Hmm, this is a very fine question. Is violence against animals justified from a human‑utilitarian point of view?

It is not only from the human‑utilitarian point of view that it is considered justified; from all other, lower points of view it can appear justified. Violence against animals is not justified only from a human‑utilitarian standpoint—yet from every other standpoint beneath the human it is.

Therefore, on planes below the human we neither call animal‑killing unjust, nor can we. On that plane, life itself is everything, and whatever is done for the sake of survival is considered right.

What, then, is the difference between animal and human? There is only one difference: the human has become conscious, awakened, self‑aware, self‑conscious. He has begun to see into things. For him, food is not as important as the means by which food comes. He can miss a meal once, but he cannot afford to miss his humanity. To be human means that humanity itself has become something so precious...

I have read a story. During the partition of India and Pakistan, a riot broke out in a village. A family fled: a husband, his wife, and one child with them. Two children were lost somewhere. They had cows and buffaloes; all were lost—only one cow they managed to bring along. But that cow had a small calf, and the calf too was lost. They hid in a forest. Enemies were nearby; torches could be seen. Lest they be discovered! The child began to cry. The mother panicked. First she covered his mouth, pressed it, tried to stop him. But the more she pressed, the more he cried. Then the mother and father pressed his throat, for to save their own lives there was no other way. If he cried out, the enemy would hear and death would come. They strangled the child.

Just then the sound of the cow’s calf was heard from some trees farther away, and the cow began to bellow loudly. Hearing the cow, the enemies drew near. It had been easy to smother the child’s throat, but the cow’s throat would not be pressed. How to kill the cow? There was no way to do it either.

So the woman said to her husband, “How many times did I tell you not to bring this brute along! How many times I told you, don’t bring this animal! Now you’ve put us in trouble.”

And the husband said, “I am thinking—who is the brute, we or this cow? Who is the animal? We killed our own child to save ourselves! Then who is the beast? I have fallen into this worry.”

The enemies’ torches came closer. The cow ran toward them because her calf’s voice came from that direction. She rushed into the midst of the enemies. They set her on fire. She burned, but kept crying for her calf. Then the husband said, “I ask you, who is the animal? For the first time in my life the thought has arisen: whom should we call human, and whom should we call animal?”

This is a very fine question. It asks, “From a human‑utilitarian standpoint...” Perhaps the questioner thinks it is necessary for man to kill animals; otherwise man cannot survive.

In one sense, that is quite true. If man wants to survive only at the level of the body, then perhaps he does, and will continue to, kill animals. But if man wants to preserve his humanity at the inner, spiritual level, then by killing animals he can never be saved—that is impossible.

Once it becomes clear to us whether it is the embodied human we seek to save—only his physical body—or whether it is humanity itself, disembodied humanity, that we wish to preserve, then the questions become entirely different. If we are merely saving the embodied human, we are not above the beast. But if we think in order to preserve the humanity within, then perhaps violence against animals cannot be supported in any way.

You will say, then how will man survive? Man finds ways to survive the moment his survival becomes difficult. Synthetic foods can be made. From the sea alone, food can be derived in quantities a billion times what the earth now gives. Food can be obtained directly from the air.

Once it is decided that humanity is dying, then we can find a thousand ways to save man. If it is not decided, then very well—we may save the human body that appears before the eyes, but something deep within is lost. That deep element is lost the moment we become ready and eager to inflict pain on another. The very impulse to cause suffering drags us down. To hurt another and yet remain human—these two things are hard to reconcile.

It is true that until now no such condition has arisen where meat‑eating and animal‑killing could be stopped at once and man still survive. But it has not arisen only because we have not brought that matter into our awareness; otherwise it could arise—there is no great difficulty. And in the coming two to four hundred years it can arise, because we now have the scientific means by which there is no longer any need to kill animals; we can manage without it.

Now even what we call artificial meat can be made. After all, what does a cow do by eating grass? She eats grass and makes meat. Why can there not be a machine that eats grass and makes meat? There is no difficulty in this.

Milk can be made artificially; meat can be made artificially; everything can be made artificially. Since all this can be made, I say—let us leave the past aside, when all this could not be done—but now that it can be done, a new choice stands before man: now that everything can be made, what meaning does animal‑killing have?

Earlier there were hardships. It was difficult even to save the body—I understand that. Perhaps in the past man could not be saved. The body itself could not be saved; and if the body could not be saved, what soul would you save? The body was fundamental: save it, and the soul and humanity might follow. The body could not otherwise be saved.

Therefore Buddha made a small compromise. He allowed that the meat of a dead animal could be eaten. That compromise belonged only to that situation. It was thoughtful, but because of it Buddha could not establish a relationship with the animal world—as I have said earlier.

Mahavira did not agree to compromise—not for any other reason, but simply this: if the message had to reach the animal realm, such a compromise could not be acknowledged. Buddha accepted the compromise that the meat of a dead animal could be eaten.

But great difficulty arose, because giving people compromises proves very costly. Today in China and Japan, it is written in all the shops: “Here only the meat of dead animals is sold”—just as in our country it is written, “Here only pure ghee is sold.”

There is a great difference. A great difference. The animal is evolved—far more evolved than the plant. It has completed two stages of evolution. First, a plant has no movement, no mobility—except for a few plants that are in transit between plant and animal. There are plants that move along the ground, that change their place; they are here today and will have inched away by tomorrow. After a year you will not find them where they were a year ago; over the year they will have journeyed a little. But such plants exist only in very marshy terrain. In some African swamps there are plants that make their own way and move about in search of food.

Otherwise, a plant is stationary. Because it is fixed, deep bonds have formed around it. Being fixed, it cannot explore anything. Whatever comes is fine; beyond that it has no recourse. If water is below, fine; if air is above, fine; if the sun comes out, fine—if not, it is finished.

In that rooted, stationary state, life has indeed manifested—more than in stone. Stones too grow, they become bigger; and at some level even a stone has the sensation of pain. But in the plant the capacity to feel pain has grown a lot. When it is injured, it suffers. Perhaps it loves; perhaps it feels compassion. Yet being bound to the earth, its dependence is very deep. Because of that dependence, its consciousness can develop only so far...

We do not realize that consciousness evolves through movement. The more freely we can move, the more new challenges consciousness receives; new opportunities; new pains and new pleasures; the more it awakens. One has to encounter the new.

A tree does not have that much consciousness. The tree is in a state akin to the state you enter under chloroform. If you give chloroform to an animal or a human being, for those ten minutes of unconsciousness you are in the state of a tree. You cannot move, cannot lift a hand, cannot walk; even if someone cuts your neck, you can do nothing.

Nature gives only as much consciousness as you can bear to act with. If a plant were given so much consciousness that, when someone cuts its “neck,” it suffers as much as a human being does, the plant would be in great trouble—because its neck would be cut every day by someone. Therefore it needs a chloroform-like stupor so that even if its neck is cut, it can still go on.

The animal is a further form beyond the plant, where movement has been gained. Now if you cut its neck, it is no longer in the plant’s condition. Its pain has increased, its sensitivity has increased; its joy has also increased. Movement has evolved it.

Yet the animal still moves in a kind of sleep—somnambulism. Not the chloroform state, but a state of sleep. It has no sense of itself. It lives always in challenge, stimulus, and response. You scold a dog, and it runs away: your scolding is the significant thing; its running is only a response. You throw it bread, it eats. You show affection, it wags its tail. Whatever it does, it does not act; it only reacts—only reaction, not action. By itself the dog does nothing; no animal does anything by itself. It merely participates in whatever is happening. When hungry, it prowls; when thirsty, it prowls. No dog can undertake a fast. If it is not hungry, that is another matter—it cannot eat then. If a dog is sick, it will at once fast; it won’t eat that day and will even eat grass and vomit.

If the conditions for eating are not there, the dog cannot eat. A human being can eat even when conditions are not congenial. If conditions are there, a dog cannot fast unless compelled. A human being, even when famished, can still fast. Which means a human being can act; a dog only reacts. The dog only reacts; the human being acts.

But not all human beings act. Very few are truly worthy of the name ‘human.’ Most only react. Someone loves you, and you love in return—that is reaction. If someone abuses you and you still love, that is action. When someone loves you and you love back, it is reaction—just like a dog wagging its tail when you throw it bread; there is no fundamental difference. But if someone abuses you and you can love, then it is action.

So I am saying: some plants have begun to move; they are entering the direction of the animal. Some animals even act a little—very little; such animals are moving toward the human. Some human beings truly act; they are moving toward higher planes of consciousness. The difference is in freedom. The lower we go, the more dependent it is: stone the most dependent, plant less, animal less than that, the so-called human less still, and people like Mahavira and Buddha least of all. If we understand rightly, we can measure all evolution in terms of freedom.

And that is why my constant emphasis is on freedom.
The more freedom a person attains in life, the more they move toward consciousness. And freedom is of many kinds—many kinds: freedom of movement, freedom of thought, freedom of action, freedom of consciousness; all of these should be there. As they become complete, one moves toward liberation—toward moksha. In religious language, one moves toward being liberated while living. The lower we go, the more unfree it is.

How unfree a stone is! You kick it and it can do nothing—not even react. You give it a kick and it lacks even the capacity to retaliate; even if it felt like cracking your skull, it could do nothing. It takes the kick and lies there. Where it falls, there it remains. It has no means. That is the most bound state.

The stone is a bound soul. Mahavira is an awakened soul, a liberated soul. From bondage to liberation, from fetters to freedom—this is the journey, with many levels along the way. We have divided it into broad steps, but there are exceptions on every step.

Imagine there are fifty steps, and people are climbing. Someone stands on the first step, someone on the second; someone has left the first but has not yet set foot on the second—he is in between. Someone stands on the third, and someone else is between the second and third—foot lifted from the second, not yet placed on the third.

Seen in this broad way, it seems there is stone and there is plant. But some stones are reaching the condition of the plant. That is why some stones look exactly like plants—in their design, their leaves, their branches. They are moving toward the plant. Some plants are just like animals. Some plants even hunt their prey. A bird flies in the sky and they fold their leaves like fans from all sides and trap it within. Some plants lure their prey; they fill the plates of their leaves with very sweet, fragrant nectar so that birds are attracted, and as soon as they alight, the surrounding leaves close. Some plants thrust their leaves into the bodies of birds and draw blood. Such plants are no longer in a purely plant-like condition; they are moving toward the animal.

Some animals are moving toward the human. In such animals you will see many human-like traits—in many dogs, many horses, many elephants, many cows. The very reason human beings form relationships with certain animals—and not with all—is this. With those we call pet animals, we connect because on some plane they resonate with us; in some emotions they are in tune with us. Yet even within the same species, not all are on the same level: some are further ahead, some have fallen behind.

Yes, there are reasons. There are reasons. If you have become vegetarian out of compassion, then it is a different matter. But if you are vegetarian simply by birth or custom, then it has nothing to do with compassion. What you eat has no inherent relation to compassion; rather, your compassion can determine what you eat.

In this country the vegetarian is vegetarian under compulsion. There is no vegetarianism in his consciousness, no compassion in his heart.

As for the meat‑eater, much of the hardness of his mind gets expressed through his food and his way of life, and he can be more kindly disposed toward human beings. You, on the other hand, have no such outlet; there is no channel for your hardness to flow—so it turns only toward human beings.

Let me put it this way: a vegetarian has, say, half a pound of hardness in him; a meat‑eater also has half a pound of hardness. The meat‑eater will prove more compassionate in life than the vegetarian, because his half‑pound of hardness flows away in other directions; your half‑pound has nowhere to go, so it flows only toward people—it ends up sucking the life out of people.

That’s why, in Eastern countries where vegetarianism is widespread, there is great exploitation, great harshness, and relationships between people are very tense. A man looks devilish toward other people—and yet he carefully watches that he doesn’t step on an ant, he filters his water before drinking! All the other possible outlets for his hardness are closed, and only one remains: his relationships with other people deteriorate.

So I support vegetarianism not so that you become vegetarian, but so that you become compassionate—so that you arrive at an inner orientation from which harshness toward life begins to thin out. When your harshness diminishes, it will diminish toward animals and toward human beings alike.

But if the harshness does not diminish and a man becomes vegetarian merely by birth, it creates difficulty. Life is a balance, a coordination of many forces; if any forces remain blocked within, there will be trouble.

For example, all over England there is no student rebellion. On the whole earth England is the one country today where there is no student unrest. The sole reason is that English children play no less than three hours a day—hockey, football. They tire them out so thoroughly that in those three hours the entire tendency toward mischief gets a release; the child returns home quiet. Ask English boys to create trouble and they’re not in a condition to do so. In countries where there are hardly any games—like ours, like France—there is a lot of unrest.

We don’t realize the balance: there is a definite quota of mischief a boy needs to expend. Games are organized mischief—nothing else. A man striking a ball with a stick gets the same juice out of it as if he were striking a skull; there’s no difference. If you arrange organized mischief, unorganized mischief will decrease. If you don’t, unorganized mischief will rise. Within us there is a set measure that must be released at a certain age. It is very necessary that it comes out at the right time.

Consider our work as well. A man who cuts wood in the forest can be more compassionate than a man sitting in a shop. Why? Because he does so much cutting and pounding that the tendency to cut and pound is released. The shopkeeper cannot cut or pound anything, so he looks for ways to cut and pound people. He could have done it in the forest.

Look at a shepherd grazing sheep. You will find a certain peace on his face. Why? Because in his dealings with animals—waving his stick, shouting, abusing if he does—the animals don’t retaliate. You want to behave like that too, but whom can you do it to? You do it to your wife, to your son; you invent excuses—“I am improving the boy”—but the inner reasons are quite different.

Often a farmer in a village appears more tranquil. The reason is not something mysterious: throughout the day he gets so many tasks of cutting and pounding—cutting trees, trimming plants, hitting animals—that he becomes light. If you had the same outlets, you would feel light too. If not, you start looking for new paths. You also want to lash someone—how to do it? Then these tendencies search for new ways, new devices—and those new devices prove even more dangerous.

Therefore I say: know your tendencies. The emphasis on changing outer conduct is misplaced. I don’t tell anyone to become vegetarian. I say, if you want to eat meat, eat meat. I only add: that is not a very elevated state of consciousness; there are higher states—seek those. In seeking them, meat‑eating may drop; that will be right. But if meat‑eating drops while your inner state remains the same, you will begin other kinds of “meat‑eating” that will prove more costly.

India has become hard. And in India, those who are non‑meat‑eaters are very malicious. We say a Muslim is very malicious. He may be malicious at times, but having been malicious, he becomes light and calm. An ordinary Muslim may seem malicious, but only occasionally: when the occasion arises he practices his malice fully, and then he is released.

A Jain, on the other hand, never gets the occasion to be malicious; he is malicious twenty‑four hours a day—diffuse malice, not intense. When intensity cannot discharge, it spreads. And diffuse malice is more dangerous. If a man is malicious once in two or four years, it is all right. But if a man is malicious twenty‑four hours a day, always up to some mischief—and he finds such mischief that you cannot even reproach him—then it will prove far more costly.

So it is a great surprise: there are barbarians who will catch and eat a raw man—yet they are very simple, utterly simple and innocent.

Go and look at prisoners in a jail. Whenever I have gone to a prison, I have been astonished. The prisoner appears utterly simple compared with those who sit as magistrates. It is astonishing!

Look at a magistrate’s face and, in front of him, the face of the man he has sentenced to ten years. You will find the one with ten years more innocent. And the magistrate who has never stolen, never murdered, appears very hard. It may be that in handing out a ten‑year sentence this man is enjoying his inner juices—the law is fine, but the law is only a pretext, a device, a peg—this man has inner tastes and is seeking a way to torment people.

Psychologists ask: why doesn’t everyone become a magistrate? Some people are eager to be magistrates. Why doesn’t everyone become a teacher? Some are eager to be teachers.

Psychologists say those who want to be teachers are the ones who want to torment children; they have a tendency to torture. And where else will they get children in a bunch? If you torment someone else’s child—trouble; your own child—trouble. Thirty children come free, you get a salary on top, and you can torture them properly! And the children can do nothing; they are utterly helpless.

I hold that the world will improve first when, before a man becomes a teacher, there is a full psychoanalysis to see whether he is a tormentor. Seventy out of a hundred teachers will be found to be tormentors—that is, if you didn’t allow them to become teachers, they would torment somewhere else; here they torment.

And after tormenting children all day, the teacher becomes quite simple. When he returns home, he appears a very good man. So to the parents he seems so nice—because he has poured out all his badness in five hours. The parents say, “Your teacher is a very good man.” The son says, “How can I believe it? He torments me twenty‑four hours.” And there are reasons—only they are not visible.