Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #2

I do not criticize them at all. I do not condemn the scripture, because I do not even consider the scripture worthy of condemnation. Far from being worthy of praise, I do not even consider it worthy of blame. For we criticize only that from which something could have been obtained but was not. We denounce that which might have yielded something—and did not.

From scripture nothing can be gained in that sense. To condemn it is meaningless. It is meaningless because not getting from scripture is its very nature. It is the nature of scripture that truth cannot be obtained from it; so why condemn scripture? If one were to get it from there, it would be astonishing—an impossible event.

So I do not condemn scripture; I only say that through scripture it is not obtained. Suppose a man is walking along a certain road and wants to reach a particular place, and we tell him, “This road does not go there.” That does not mean we are condemning that road. It simply means we are saying that the road does not lead to where he wants to go.

Nor am I saying that this road goes nowhere. It too goes somewhere. But it does not go where he wants to go; in fact, it goes in the opposite direction. For one who has set out in search of wisdom, scripture is futile, because the path of scripture does not lead to wisdom; it leads to erudition. And erudition is the exact opposite of wisdom. Erudition is borrowed; wisdom is one’s own. And it is impossible that however much borrowed wealth you accumulate, it could become your own treasure.

So when I say that one cannot travel by means of scripture, do not even mistakenly think that I am condemning it; I am merely stating its nature. And if that is the nature of scripture, then any scripture fabricated out of my words will share the same nature. That is, no one will ever be able to reach wisdom through them either.

If I were to say that through others’ scriptures no one can reach wisdom, but if a scripture is made out of my words, someone will reach wisdom through it—then that would be wrong. Then I would be condemning one man’s scripture and praising another’s.

No—I am speaking of the very nature of scripture, whether it be Mahavira’s, Buddha’s, Krishna’s, mine, or yours; it makes no difference. No one’s words are capable of taking you into truth.

Yes, but another thing is also true: if someone already sees, he may see it in the scriptures as well—but the seeing must come first. That is, scripture cannot make anyone see; but for one who sees, it may appear in scripture too. Let the seeing happen first. And then, what’s to speak of scripture? He will see it in stones, pebbles, walls, mountains—in everything. Then the question is no longer about scripture; one who has seen sees it everywhere, and thus he will see it in scripture too. And in scripture he will see exactly what he is already seeing. Yesterday, because he could not see, the scriptures were blind—because the darkness was within him, and only darkness was visible.

My meaning is that in the scripture we can see only what is already visible to us. Scripture cannot show more than that—cannot show more than that. Therefore in scripture we do not read what the speaker or writer intended; we read what we are able to read. In no sense does scripture increase our knowledge; it only reflects that much back.

Take it like this: there is a mirror. In the mirror we see only what we are—only what we are. The mirror does not add anything to us. If someone thinks that by standing before a mirror an ugly person will become beautiful, he is mistaken—utterly mistaken. If someone thinks that by standing before scripture an ignorant person will become wise, he is mistaken.

Yes, the wise will see wisdom in scripture; the ignorant will go on seeing ignorance. And the irony is that the wise do not go to look into scripture—when it is seen within oneself, what is there to look for from another? It is the ignorant who go to look into scripture.

It often happens that a beautiful person becomes free of the mirror, while an ugly person keeps hovering around it. Out of the awareness of his ugliness he wants, somehow, to get the mirror to certify that it has gone, that it is no longer there. The beautiful becomes free of the mirror. In fact, the more often we look into a mirror, the more it shows our sense of ugliness. We keep wanting to get it confirmed somehow that the mirror will say, “Now you are no longer ugly,” so that we may be convinced we are no longer ugly. But a moment later we have to look again—because that very sense of ugliness is what appears in the mirror again and again.

In scripture we see what we are.

Still, it is true that sooner or later my words will be collected and will become scripture—and the very day they become scripture, they will have been killed.

Even so, remember: I am not opposed to books; I am opposed to scripture—and I make a distinction between the two.

A book does not claim to give truth; a book claims only to be a collector—someone said something, it has been collected. Scripture does not merely claim to be a collector; scripture claims to deliver truth. Scripture claims, “I am the truth.”

A book that claims “I am the truth” becomes scripture. A book that is a humble compilation and makes no claim—as I said yesterday of Lao Tzu: before the book begins he writes, “What is going to be said will not be the truth; read this book with that understanding”—such a book is not becoming scripture. It is a humble book; it is only a collection. And if someone turns such a book into scripture, then he alone is responsible. The book was not preparing to become a burden on him; it was preparing to set him free—that was its whole intent.

So all my words are such that if they are not edited and manipulated, it will be difficult to make them into scripture; at most they can become a book. But scriptures can be made; it is not difficult to make them. Scriptures are not made because someone speaks; they are made because someone grasps and fixes. That is, scripture is not created by Mahavira’s speaking, but by the disciples’ seizing—and there are always those who will seize.

So our speech should contain every device to prevent the seizer from being able to seize it. It should be thorny, full of live embers, so that it is hard to grasp. Yet even embers burn out and one day become ash, and the grabbers will clutch that ash in their fists. This only means that time and again the living knower has to stand in enmity with the old knowers.

This is a paradoxical business: the living knower has continually to stand opposed to the old knowers. And yet this is not enmity—there can be no greater friendship than this, because there is no other way to pry loose the ash that has been clutched.

Therefore, one who truly loves Mahavira will have to stand against the Jains. If Mahavira himself returned, he too would have to stand against them. For what he gave was a living ember: it could not be grasped, only lived and understood. Now only ash remains, and people have grabbed it—and they sit clutching it!

So you see a kind of miracle in the world, something that appears astonishing: why does it sometimes seem that Mahavira stands against Krishna, that Buddha stands against Mahavira, that someone else stands against Buddha? How strange!
It ought to be that Mahavira supports Buddha, that Christ supports Buddha, that Mohammed supports Mahavira; that Mahavira supports Krishna and Rama. That is how it should be—but what has happened is the very opposite.

There is a reason. Before a new ray of knowing dawns in someone’s life, as soon as that ray appears, he sees that what is in people’s hands is ash. Once it was a ray, but now it is ash. And unless people are made to understand that it is ash, there will be no release.

Even so, neither is Buddha against Mahavira, nor Mahavira against Krishna. They are against things becoming scripture. Whenever something becomes scripture, truth dies.

Keep this in mind and the hope of turning things into scripture is dispelled—but still it can happen; therefore the struggle will continue. It will not end with any one knower. There will be knowers, and those who come later will have to refute those before.

It is a very harsh act—but love can be this harsh. It is a very harsh act. There have been Zen masters—Zen are Buddha’s followers—yet the Zen masters say to their own disciples, “If Buddha comes in between, slap him aside. He will come in between you. Before ultimate knowing is attained, Buddha will stand in your way; so give him a slap and move him aside.”

One Zen master even said, “If the name of Buddha comes to your lips, rinse your mouth first—cleanse it—and only then do anything else.”

His disciples would ask, “What are you saying? And you keep Buddha’s statue in your temple!”
He would reply, “Both are true. We love Buddha, but if Buddha gets in anyone’s way, then we are at war with him. And we have Buddha’s blessing for this. We have asked him, ‘Is it all right if we tell people that if your name comes to their lips, they should rinse their mouths and cleanse them?’”

Now it may be difficult for us to understand this man—but he is such a man, and he is speaking rightly. On the one hand he keeps a statue, and every morning he offers flowers before it; on the other hand he explains to people, “Beware of Buddha—no one more dangerous has ever been! If even his name comes to your mouth, rinse and cleanse it; the name is that impure, impure!” And he says, “We have checked with Buddha and received his blessing—yes, do this!”

What does this mean? It means that everything can become an obstacle. In truth, whatever is a step can also become a stone on the path, and whatever is a stone can become a step. It all depends on the maker. When an old step turns into a stone in the way, one has to speak of removing it, of destroying it. This struggle will continue—unceasingly continue. It is hard to stop this fight.

That is to say, what I say today—tomorrow someone with courage will have to declare it wrong. Someone who loves me will have to fight against me; there is no other way. Because the listeners will seize it and make it scripture, and tomorrow it will have to be dismantled. Whoever proves liberating for us, we turn them into a bondage; and once we have made them a bondage, we must be liberated from them too. And the one who liberates us again, we again turn into a bondage. It is a long tale of how liberating ideas become fetters, liberating persons become fetters, and how one must then be freed from them.

Therefore no idea can be everlasting. Every idea has a limit to its living influence. Those who come within that field and enter into living experiment—those pass through; behind them only ash remains.

Thus around all the tirthankaras, all the avatars, all those seers, piles of ash accumulate. Those piles of ash become sects, and then the piles of ash fight among themselves, quarrel, cause havoc. Then it becomes necessary for someone to stand up again and sweep away all the ash.

But that does not mean that this too will not become ash—it will. Whatever ember burns will be extinguished. A thought that is alive one day will be dead another day. When Mahavira himself passes, when Buddha himself passes, what has been said will pass too. In this world in which we live, nothing is eternal—no utterance, no idea, no person—nothing is eternal. Here, everything will vanish. Yet even after it has vanished, the obstinate grasper keeps clutching it.

And then someone will have to awaken them: “The wave has passed; your hand is empty—you are holding nothing. A new wave has come, and you are entangled in the old one. If you keep clutching it, you will miss this new wave as well—and the old one is already gone.”

If this much becomes clear to us, then you will see I am not condemning scripture; I am stating the factual situation of scripture. And what you say is right: much of what I say will be found in the scriptures—not because it is there, but because you will have understood me. If my words have been understood by you, you will find them in the scriptures, because in scripture you will find only what your understanding is. Whatever your understanding is, that is what you will find—because we project our own understanding into scripture.

Ordinarily we think that understanding comes out of scripture. It does not. We put our understanding into the scripture. That is why a thousand commentaries on the Gita are possible. If understanding came out of the Gita, how could there be a thousand commentaries? And if Krishna had a thousand meanings, then Krishna’s mind must have been deranged—Krishna’s meaning would have been one. A thousand commentaries, a hundred thousand even, can exist because each person will search out his own understanding there. And words are so lifeless that you can hammer and pound them into whatever place you want them to fit; they can do nothing about it. You throw a noose around their neck and pull, and they come wherever you want to bring them.

Thus from the same Gita, Shankara will extract that the world is all maya and the message is to be free of action; and from the same Gita, Tilak will extract that action is life and life is truth. Both will be drawn from the same Gita. From that same Gita Arjuna derives, “Plunge into battle!” Arjuna is the listener, the first hearer. Consider his the first commentary—he heard it. He did not merely hear, he interpreted what he heard, he mulled it over, he drew his own meaning. Arjuna draws the meaning, “Engage in war,” and the Mahabharata war ensues. And that same Gita, Gandhi reveres as his mother and derives the message of nonviolence.

Now this is very amusing: Arjuna descends into violence, while Gandhi keeps it in his hands all his life and walks in nonviolence. So is the poor Gita something in itself—or is it that we are putting something into it?

Scripture is a device for reading your own mind outside yourself. Reading inside is a little difficult, so we project it onto a screen; scripture becomes the screen. On it we write the inside of ourselves outside. Then we get a double satisfaction. First, we do not trust ourselves; so when we read ourselves in the Gita, we feel strong, certain: “Right—Krishna also says this.” Then we are not afraid of going astray: Mahavira says the same, Buddha says the same.

Do not fall into the illusion that a follower has ever supported Buddha or Mahavira; the follower has used Buddha and Mahavira to support himself. It appears to us that Mahavira’s follower is walking behind him; the truth is the reverse—the follower is dragging Mahavira behind him. And dragging him along, he feels reassured: “We cannot be wrong, because Mahavira is with us.” So he extracts anything he wants; he finds ways to justify everything.

There is no meaning in words. Words are bare sounds; we supply the meaning. Therefore it also happens that as words travel, they become vehicles for meanings opposite to what they once carried: the same word that meant something a thousand years ago means the exact opposite a thousand years later.

When the English first came to India, their first contact was with Bengalis. The smell of fish and the uncleanliness of their bodies gave off an odor to them. Because of that smell (bās), they used to say “babu.” Babu meant “with a smell”—someone from whom a bad odor comes. And now there is hardly a word more respectful than babuji: “Please come, babuji!” It began because of the smell—simply the dirt, the fishy odor that came from Bengalis, from their food and habits. Even now, no one else has become quite so “babu”; the Bengali babu is still the babu. But now it has become a term of respect. It became respectful because the English held power. Whoever they called “babu” became honored. And when an Englishman, a governor, called someone “babu,” he would strut out, “We are not ordinary—we are babu!” and then others too began to call him babu. Now babu has become a very valuable word.

Words have a journey; what we put into them depends on us. There is nothing in the word itself; we put it there. The meaning is ours; the word is bare, empty. The word is a container, an empty box. We put in the content—and the content is entirely in our hands.

Therefore every generation, every age, every person puts in his own content. Those who are especially skilled at inserting meanings can derive anything from anything; no word can bind them—no binding at all.

Therefore I say: if you understand what I am saying now, you will find it in the scriptures; and if the scriptures are within your grasp, you will find them in my words. But do not get into this at all; getting into it leads in the wrong direction. When I am before you, take me directly—do not bring scripture in between. Try to understand me directly. Do not compare, do not juxtapose, “Where is this said and where is it not?” If it is there, fine; if it is not, fine. The effort to understand directly is useful, because only then can we understand as much as possible. And what comes within our understanding will begin to appear to us everywhere.

Yes. In truth, life is woven of great opposites. And it is true that by reading and understanding, by listening, knowledge does not simply arrive. If the awareness remains alive in you that reading and listening alone do not bring knowledge, then reading and listening can become a means to invite knowledge within—provided that awareness stays clear that by these alone knowledge does not come. But if the notion takes hold that reading and listening themselves give knowledge, then knowledge will never dawn in you. Reading will not be a means; it will become a hindrance.

Now, on the surface these things look reversed. If it is firmly clear to you what reading can and cannot give, you can even gain something through reading—because then you won’t cling to the reading. It is already clear to you that nothing final is obtained by reading. Then you won’t clutch at listening either; you will keep thinking, inquiring, searching—the search will continue. And then reading, too, can become a means of your seeking.

So, the scriptures can benefit those who are not bound by the scriptures—those who are utterly free of them. Those who have no idea that knowledge can be obtained from a scripture can even draw benefit from it. But those who believe, “Everything is written in the scriptures; everything can be had there,” press the scriptures to their chest and simply drown; they can do nothing.

Many of my statements may look upside down to you, because life itself is upside down. And here there are very strange matters. Suppose a person becomes firmly convinced that by reading the scriptures everything is attained. Then he keeps reading and keeps accumulating. He may gather a great deal, and yet he will never attain anything—because he has handed the whole matter of attainment over to the scriptures, and his inner search has been abandoned. If it is to be obtained from scripture, what need is there of inner seeking? So he will pile up scriptures while the inner search grows weaker and dies. The more scripture he amasses, the more the inner seeking withers.

But another person is fully alert to what can be gotten from scripture—there are only words there. He has kept the inner search alive. As his inner search deepens, the more he begins to find in the scriptures—because the more he begins to see. After all, those who spoke these scriptures spoke from knowing. It cannot truly be said; it is difficult to say—and yet they did speak from knowing. The scripture is a code. Some knowers have left symbols there.

Take, for example, a temple with an idol inside. That too is a code; it is also a scripture. Here something is written in letters; there it is carved in stone. All temples are in a coded language. New temples are no longer like that, because the connection has been lost. The new temples being built today no longer relate to that language. We no longer know; we build according to a different logic—modern architecture, new design. But the older the temple, the more it speaks in a coded language.

A temple has its own language, born out of man’s compassion—and his difficulty. Those who once came to know want the knowing somehow to be preserved. They write in words; they also carve in stone—because a book can rot or burn, but what is carved in stone remains.

So into the temple’s stones a code has been carved. And the whole arrangement is such that for one who turns inward in search, the temple becomes immediately meaningful. It becomes utterly meaningful, because then entirely different meanings begin to appear.

If you observe a temple’s form, the temple is made square. The temple’s base is square, but the dome above is round. So the temple is divided into two parts: the lower part is square, the upper part is circular. Inside, where the idol is established, that place is called the garbhagriha, the womb-chamber. Why is it called the womb-chamber? The idol is placed there. You are to circumambulate that idol. Even the number of circumambulations is prescribed; you do them accordingly. The temple is square, the circumambulation is circular. At the exact center of that circular path stands the idol. Above, the temple is circular as well. This is a coded language.

The senses are our corners. If you move into a single sense, you go in a single direction. Beyond all the senses there is a circular state from which no direction proceeds, in which one has to turn within in a circle. A corner points toward a direction. If you move toward the east, you can go east endlessly. But in a circular ring nothing points toward any direction; there you must revolve within.

So one aspect of us is the body, in which there are directions; choose any one and you can go endlessly. And within the body there is a circular revolution—of the mind, the chitta—where you cannot go anywhere in a straight line; you can only go around. If you have ever watched thought, you will be amazed that thought always moves in circles; it never has a true direction. You think one thought, then another, and then you are back at the first. What you thought yesterday you find yourself thinking again today; and tomorrow again.

The orbit of thought is circular; it keeps revolving in a ring. You can never go straight in thought. Its circle is fixed. If someone analyzes the mind within even a little, he will be astonished to find he has been moving in circles—his whole life. That is circumambulation; thought is parikrama. And if you keep revolving in the circumambulation of thought, you will never reach God, because He is exactly within that circumambulation. Step out of that circle and you can reach. Keep circling in it thousands of times if you like…

Now two points have become clear. One: the square with directions, from which the body’s dimensions spread—one person goes into the taste of food, another into the taste of sex, another into music, another into beauty—these directions are endless. And the more you go into them, the further away from yourself you go. That is why the temple’s outer enclosure is not made round. Our body’s enclosure is not round; it has corners from which journeys can start. Travel by one corner and you will come into opposition with the others, and that one corner will grow and grow—while you go on becoming distant from yourself.

Then within us—inside the body’s enclosure—there is the mind’s circular circuit. Even if you keep revolving in that circuit for many lifetimes, you still will not reach God, will not reach truth. Someday you will have to step out of that circuit and go inward. And the idol—utterly still—is there. Therefore all idols are indicators of stillness.

This is why a certain wonder arises. Now, this also connects with what we were speaking of. The Jains have statues of twenty-four Tirthankaras; you cannot tell them apart, except by their emblems. If the emblems were removed, the statues would be exactly alike. Mahavira’s statue could pass for Parshva’s; Parshva’s for Nemi’s. Only a small symbol is below; remove that and there is no difference in any statue.

Could these twenty-four men have looked exactly alike? Is it historically possible that all twenty-four had the same eyes, the same nose, the same face, the same hair? Impossible. It is hard to find even two people who look identical. And here all twenty-four are the same, with no difference at all!

No, this is not an historical fact; it is a more inward fact. Because as soon as a person attains knowledge, all differences dissolve and non-difference begins. There the face is one, the nose is one, the eyes are one. The meaning is only this: within us there is a place where nose, face, and such vanish—and only oneness remains, the same and the same.

How to speak of those who have become alike? So we made the statues alike—utterly alike, without any difference.

Statues are never alike—how could they be? That is why their outward likeness was not our concern. What Mahavira’s actual face looked like was not the question; we left that aside. Had there been a photograph, it could never have matched Mahavira’s statue. Because a photograph captures only the outer; in the statue we tried to capture the inner. Within, the men had become alike. Therefore to keep their outer statues different would have been misinformation.

It is delightful that here the inner has been made to triumph over the outer. In a photograph the outer triumphs over the inner; photographs differ. But these twenty-four Tirthankaras’ statues do not differ; they are exactly the same.

There is a circular circumambulation, and even if we keep going around it for endless lifetimes, we will not enter the sanctum. One has to step down from the circumambulation; only then do we go to where the deity is enshrined. And if we look closely at the deity there, everything is still, all is quiet. In that image everything is serene, utterly motionless—as if there is no movement at all, no vibration.

That is why stone images were chosen—because among what is available to us, stone is the most still, the most settled, through which a message can be given. And even within that stillness, the posture we have chosen is completely unmoving. There is no question of movement. Hence the hands are joined, the legs are together, the legs are crossed, the hands are joined, the eyes are half-closed.

Remember: if the eyes are fully closed, they will have to be opened; if they are fully open, they will have to be closed—because from the extreme one must return. No one can abide at the extreme. If you labor, you will have to rest; if you rest too much, you will have to labor. No one can remain at the extreme, therefore the eyes are kept half open, half closed—in the middle, from where there is no going here or there. It is simply a symbol of abiding. Everything has come to rest; now nothing goes or comes. There is no movement now—no returning back, no going forward. All is at a standstill, exactly at the center.

The temple is a symbol for each person, of what you can do with yourself. Either you can travel along the outer corners—that will be the journey of the senses; or you can keep circling within the mind’s thoughts—that will be circumambulation; or you can go into the midst of all and become still—that will be attainment.

A thousand attempts have been made—in dance, in music, in painting, in sculpture, in words. There are the pyramids of Egypt; great, wondrous secrets are in them. They carved it all so that whenever knowing people came, these stones would not perish. They labored, engraving how to reach the inner self. On the stones of the pyramids all the hints are carved—every hint is cut into stone.

Those who have known have tried in many ways to leave what they have known preserved, so that whenever another knower appears, he can immediately open what is there. They are keys by which many locks open. But you know neither the lock nor the key. So you sit holding the key while the lock hangs there—nothing opens. And first of all, if you clutch anything blindly and tightly, you will never open anything.

Therefore, do not grasp. The sum of what I keep saying is: do not cling to the scriptures—read them, but do not clutch them. Listen to someone, but do not become deaf. Read, but do not become blind. Listen—fully aware of what listening can do. I say: if you listen in this way, then through listening it can happen. If you read with such awareness, then through reading it can happen. “Can happen” means: it too can become a device for your inner journey. Anything can become a device; but if you grab it blindly, everything turns into an obstacle. Read, listen, but at every moment keep remembering: the search is mine, I must undertake it; in this I cannot take stale, borrowed truths. If this is remembered, then what I am saying will not become an obstacle for you; otherwise it too will become an obstacle—yes, that too.

You have seen the temples of Khajuraho. Those who understood tried with tremendous effort to carve the insight. On the outer walls they carved all of sex—all of kama: the yoni and the erotic. Something wondrous was carved into stone. But inside the temple there is no image of sex; everything is carved on the outer circumference. The meaning is simply this: the outer circumference of life is made of sex, of kama. And if you are to enter the inner temple, you must leave this circumference. If you wish to remain outside the temple, fine—this will do.

Kama is the outer wall of life; Ram is enshrined within. So long as you are entangled in kama, you cannot go within. But if someone keeps circling and looking at all those copulation figures—how long can one go on looking? He tires, he becomes bored; then he says, “Now the temple—let’s go inside.” And inside he finds great rest, because another world begins there.

So when, in the endless journeys of life, we tire of the life of sex—wandering outside and outside—one day the mind will say: enough now; enough seen, enough enjoyed; now, let us go within. This fact some carved and left in stone—those who knew, left it. From the experience of Tantra it became clear to them: there are only two kinds of life—either of kama or of Ram. And kama is the outer wall of Ram’s temple.

So it is not that kama is the enemy of Ram; it is merely the outer wall. It safeguards Ram on all sides. The house for Ram’s dwelling is made of it. Ram would have no residence if kama were not. Thus kama is not an enemy—yet it is a hindrance. If you keep roaming on the outside, you will forget that there was another place in the temple where kama is not—where something else begins, an entirely different journey begins. Only when you grow weary will you go within.

Even now, when I sit at Khajuraho and watch, those who come first wander outside; no one goes straight into the inner temple. No one has ever gone straight in. How could one? Sitting there I see: every traveler first goes outside. And the images are so amazing—why go inside? What “inside”? They are so engrossing, so wondrous; nowhere else in the world have copulation figures been carved in such a marvelous way. In truth, very few in the world have attained this deep experience; hence there was no way for others to carve it—they could not.

Now the West is arriving where we carved a thousand, two thousand years ago. There, the circumference of sex is now fully manifesting. So perhaps in a hundred or two hundred years they will also construct the inner temple. With such intense circumambulation of sex now, the inner temple will be built.

I watch the traveler outside: the sun grows fierce, and still he goes on looking at each and every erotic panel. Tired, drenched in sweat—he has seen everything outside. Then he says, “Come, let us also look inside.” Tired of the outside, tired, tired—then someone will go within. This too has been carved into stone—with what effort! It is also written in books. But in books one can only say this much: when you tire of the outside, when you tire of kama, then the attainment of Ram becomes possible. It may be that such a sentence makes no impression, that you read it and understand nothing—so a temple was built as well.

And a thousand other forms were sought—through music, through dance—on all sides. Whoever has known will try, by every medium, to give you the message. Still, it is not guaranteed. If you clutch the message itself—like someone saying, “Fine. If the truth is that outside Khajuraho there is kama and inside there is Ram, then we’ll just stay with this temple—why bother?” If this is the truth and all truth is carved in it, then, “We’ll become its priests.” Then go ahead—become priests; you have missed the point.

If you had understood, you would have had nothing to do with this temple; the matter would have ended. If the indication had been grasped, then for you there would be neither inside nor outside in this temple—the matter would have ended. You would say, “Alright,” and you would tell people: “Be careful not to get entangled with the temple; nothing will be obtained from the temple.” And if the awareness remains that nothing will be obtained from the temple, then perhaps, searching, something may even be obtained from the temple.

So I have no enmity—there is no question of enmity. Nor is there any condemnation. What meaning could condemnation have? What I am saying, I am saying again; what meaning could there be in condemning what is said? What I say will be written; what meaning could there be in condemning what is written? But this warning is necessary: do not condemn, do not praise—understand. If understood, it leads toward liberation.

If there is anything more on this, talk it over now; then tonight we will speak further.

This is a very thought-provoking question. The twenty-four Tirthankaras’ idols are alike—so why not Christ’s, why not Buddha’s? And even if not theirs—as you rightly say—Buddha and Mahavira lived at the same time; at least their idols could have been alike!

But they are not—and could not be. There are reasons. The reasons are that this lineage of the twenty-four Tirthankaras formed a particular way of thinking, a code of expression—a coded language arose around that stream. And the stream itself is not created by the Tirthankaras; it forms around them. It arises naturally. A language, a style, a system of symbols comes into being—the definitions of words and a certain manner of speaking. No Tirthankara invents that manner; it is forged by their very being, by their presence.

Like the sun rising. The sun does not manufacture the flowers in your garden, yet because of the sun’s presence, flowers bloom. If the sun does not rise, your garden will not flower. Still, the sun is not directly responsible for making your flowers bloom.

Then, if you have planted one kind of flower in your garden and I have planted another, my garden will bloom one way and your garden another way—both with the sun, and yet different. And if you planted ten kinds of flowers, even among those there will be differences.

So in each stream—like the stream of the twenty-four Tirthankaras—a whole symbolic order arises. It has its own symbols, its own words, its own coded language. And the circle that forms around those words and symbols can neither understand nor recognize another set of symbols.

Buddha inaugurates an utterly new tradition—its symbols are new. And I say there is a good reason for that: old symbols, at a certain point, become rigid; new symbols are always needed. If Buddha had said, “What I am saying is exactly what Mahavira is saying,” then the benefit Buddha could bring would never be delivered. With Mahavira, a stream is ending—becoming rigid, petrified, and dying. Mahavira is the last of a language. That language had grown stiff, uprooted; its movement was gone; it was close to breaking. Buddha is the beginning of a completely new stream. This new stream must strive with all its might to declare: “This is not the Mahavira line at all.” The irony is that, while knowing perfectly well that what Mahavira is, that is what Buddha is, Buddha has to insist—loudly and repeatedly—lest, even by accident, this new stream get tied to that dying one. If it binds itself to the outgoing stream whose time is over, it will never be born.

Do you follow me? Buddha had to be very alert. That is why—notice—Mahavira never uttered a word against Buddha, never refuted him. But Buddha refuted Mahavira many times—spoke many words, even harsh words.

For this very reason I say Mahavira was old and Buddha was young; Mahavira was departing and Buddha arriving. And for Buddha it was absolutely necessary to draw a clear distinction: that arrangement has nothing to do with us; it is utterly wrong for us to link with it. In the popular mind that arrangement is in departure; any linkage would obstruct the birth of the new and nothing else.

There are further points. Any system—of thought, reflection, philosophy—however deep, can influence only a particular type of person. There is no system that suits every type. There has never been, and there cannot be. By now it is certain: it cannot be.

So the message that impacts Mahavira’s personality—the message of Parshva, of Nemi, of Adinatha—affects him because he is of that type. And it takes countless births to crystallize into a particular type; only a specific stream can influence that specific type.

Buddha is an altogether different kind of person. His inner journey has its own flavor. Those earlier modes do not appeal to him. But I say: Buddha’s teaching benefitted many who could never have benefitted from Mahavira.

Yet Mahavira and Buddha are one; Meera has her own contemplation and her own stream. Mahavira and Meera’s personalities are utterly opposite. If only Mahavira’s approach existed on earth, very few would reach the ultimate truth—because Meera-type people would be left out; they simply cannot attune to that. No resonance happens for them.

Thus countless streams run, because there are countless kinds of people. And the effort is that not even a single person should be left without finding a stream suited to them. Therefore, there are innumerable streams—and there will be. As humanity grows, the streams will multiply.

They should multiply—lest, for example, with Mahavira: his life-stream is entirely what we could call masculine. There is no method in it for the feminine. And the minds of man and woman are fundamentally different. The woman is a passive mind; her mind is receptive. The man’s mind is aggressive.

Therefore, even in love, a woman does not attack. Even if she loves and longs to go to someone, she will wait for him to come. She cannot initiate by going to him; she will wait. If you come, she is happy; if you do not, she is sad—but she does not take the initiative to go.

If a woman loves someone, she will never propose marriage; she will wait for you to propose. No woman has ever proposed. Yes, she will arrange everything so that a proposal happens—but the proposal must be yours. And even when proposed to, she cannot say an immediate yes, because even a direct yes is aggressive. An instant yes would reveal she was prepared—so she will not say yes at once. She will say no—and gradually, slowly, bring that no closer to yes. Her mind is negative. Even physiologically she is negative, not positive.

Hence women cannot stage a sexual assault on a man. Never. If the man is not willing, she cannot establish a sexual relation. But even if the woman is unwilling, the man can still have intercourse, can violate—because she is negative, he is positive.

Mahavira’s life-contemplation is wholly the masculine way. Therefore on Mahavira’s path there is no provision for a woman’s liberation. That is not without reason. It does not mean a woman cannot be liberated—it means: not by Mahavira’s path. There is no provision there.

So in Mahavira’s system a woman must take birth once more as a man—and then she can move toward liberation. Because Mahavira’s arrangement is of resolve, of will—of fierce aggression. In that system there is no place for losing, breaking, being defeated.

Mahavira says: If you must win, then win. Win with your total energy—do not hold back an inch.

Lao Tzu tells a disciple… The disciple asks: “Did you ever lose?” Lao Tzu says, “Never.” The disciple says, “At some point in life you must have lost.” Lao Tzu replies, “Absolutely not—I have never lost.” “What was your secret?” the disciple asks.

Lao Tzu says, “The secret was: I was always already defeated. So there was no way to defeat me. If someone climbed onto my chest, I would quickly lie down and seat him there. He would think he had won; I would know it was play—because I was already defeated. What victory is yours? No one can defeat me, for I am always defeated.”

This Lao Tzu is the leading figure of the feminine path. He never goes to defeat anyone. He will be totally defeated—and put you in a fix. The feminine does not set out to conquer; if she tries, she is in trouble. She will surrender wholly—total surrender: “I am your servant, the dust at your feet.” And you will be astonished how she ends up seated on your head without your noticing. Her way of winning is to lose—utterly lose, complete surrender. And the woman who cannot surrender completely will never win.

Therefore, in this age women grow increasingly unhappy, because their surrender is vanishing. They are making a mistake—trying to act like men. They will be defeated in that. A man’s way of winning is to win. A woman’s way of winning is to surrender. Their minds are entirely different.

So a woman trying to win will lose. Her life will be wasted, because she is pursuing a masculine possibility that is not hers. In the West women are badly losing, because they are trying to win as men do. They have abandoned the one thing that could win: surrender. There was only one way to win the man—surrender so completely that you are not even there, and you win the man. Then he cannot escape; he cannot win against you.

Lao Tzu says, “We were already defeated; hence no one could ever defeat us.” Lao Tzu and Mahavira’s paths are absolute opposites—no meeting point. Lao Tzu’s way is useful for those capable of losing; Mahavira’s way is for those capable only of winning.

That is why he was given the epithet Mahavira, the Great Hero—there is no other reason. By the supreme capacity for struggle and attack, he is called Mahavira. He left no room for fear or surrender of any kind. Hence Mahavira denies God—the Divine. Because if God is, surrender would be required. He cannot accept that anyone stands above him. The masculine mind cannot accept it. So Mahavira denies God. This is not a philosophical matter; it is not academic metaphysics. Mahavira denies any God “out there.” You are God, I am God; the soul, purified, becomes God. When the soul conquers completely, it is God. There is no God whose feet you bow to, whom you pray to. He denies God entirely—because if there is God, surrender and devotion would be required—hence the denial.

Lao Tzu denies himself. He says: “I am not; only That is.” Because if the “I” remains, even a little, combat continues; the fight goes on. If there is even an inch of “I,” it will fight. So Lao Tzu says: “I am not. I am a dry leaf. When the winds carry me east, I go east; when they carry me west, I go west. I am a dry leaf. If the winds drop me, I fall; if they lift me, I rise. For I am not; whatever the winds will, that is my will.” If he is that much a dry leaf, then only God remains.

And both paths lead to the same place; it makes no difference. Either I disappear entirely—then only God remains; or I extinguish God entirely—then only I remain. In the end only One must remain. If two remain there is trouble; it is untrue. One alone must be.

There are two ways to preserve the One. The man preserves the One in one way: he dissolves the feminine into himself. The woman preserves the One in another way: she dissolves herself completely. This is not a matter of higher or lower—it is simply the type of mind we have.

Mahavira has one way, one style. Buddha’s is another. A new language is arising around Buddha now—new symbols. To understand Buddha you must understand through those symbols. A new idol of Buddha is being fashioned.

Christ’s way is altogether different, a third kind. There is no one like Christ among these. Christ is not meaningful without the cross; and if Mahavira were put on a cross, it would be meaningless for those who think in Mahavira’s stream. But Christ finds no meaning without crucifixion. Krishna has yet another kind of personality—beyond reckoning. We cannot even imagine how to reconcile Krishna and Mahavira; there can be no reconciliation. And yet all are meaningful. Meaningful in the sense that you cannot know which personality will bring you the glimpse of light—only the one that matches your type will reveal it.

Therefore, I hold it wholly right that these are different types—different kinds of people. Through different lights, different kinds of seekers can have darshan. And perhaps many possibilities still remain unrealized; perhaps because of those remaining possibilities a large part of humanity has yet to become religious. The reason is that the person of their type has not yet attained the light.

Do you follow me? The one they could understand has not yet reached the place from which the light would be visible to them.

So difference will remain. Truth is one—but as I see it, and from my own experiment—and I do not think anyone has attempted it quite this way—my experiment has been to erase the “type” of my personality. My effort has been to remain only a person—utterly impersonal, with no fixed type.

As if a house has two windows. From this window you see one view; from that window another. Both views are parts of one vast panorama. If I describe the view from this window to someone standing at the other, he will say, “It is all false—sheer falsehood. What lake? Where is the lake? I see nothing like that. I too am at a window, I too am looking out—there is no lake, there are mountains.” And I say, “What mountain? There is nothing but a lake!” We quarrel—because going to the other’s window is very difficult. To go to the other’s window means becoming the other—there is no other way. Your entire personality must become like his to stand at his window; that is nearly impossible. There are a thousand windows in the mansion of life; the window nearest to a person’s type is where he can have his vision.

But there is another way: why not step outside the house altogether? Going to each other’s window is difficult—but stepping outside is not. And I hold that stepping outside is equally easy for people of all windows. If we cling to our window, we become enemies of the others’ windows; we will. If we come outside, we see that all the windows inside that house are showing the same vast view.

The panorama is vast; the windows are small. What you see through a window is never the whole. If someone steps outside—dropping all views, all standpoints—he sees that Krishna is a window, Rama is a window, Buddha is a window, Mahavira is a window—but windows.

Mahavira leapt out through those windows—but the windows remained. Those who followed him remained standing at the window. Mahavira went out—but went out via a window. He escaped; the followers stayed at the window and declared: “The window Mahavira used—that alone is truth.”

There is a Buddha-window too; there, people declare the same.

Now a possibility has arisen in the world: we can lead human beings out of the doors—beyond the windows altogether. From there we will see all as one and the same—because we will be standing outside the windows.

To me there is not an iota of difference between Buddha and Mahavira—but only if one stands outside the house. Otherwise there is great difference—created by the windows through which they leapt. Those windows remain in our eyes—and they are utterly different.

Mahavira’s way is of intense resolve, of fierce will. He says: if there is total resolve in anything, attainment will be. Buddha says something entirely different: resolve is conflict—how can truth come from conflict? Drop resolve; become quiet. Do not resolve at all—then, in that silence, it will be found. That too is right. That too is a window; it can be found that way as well. Mahavira too says: that is right; it can be found that way too.

So let us see: these different idols, different temples, mosques, their differing symbols, different languages and codes—all that was quite natural. And yet, no separation truly is. A time could come when we might build one temple in the world in which we cast identical images of Christ, Buddha, and Mahavira. There is no difficulty in that. The real difficulty is this: if you love Mahavira, what will you do with Christ’s idol? You will cast it like Mahavira’s—and then the point is missed. If a lover of Christ casts Mahavira’s image, he will hang him on a cross—because as yet that code and language that could serve all images together has not arisen. But that too is possible—possible.

For long after Buddha’s passing, no image of Buddha was made, because Buddha had forbidden it. In place of an image, the Bodhi tree served as the symbol. If one needed to “make” a Buddha, one made the Bodhi tree. Gradually, Buddha appeared under the tree—very gradually—some four, six, seven, eight hundred years later. It became difficult to keep only the tree as symbol; the image returned.

If we wish to peer within for the common, we must drop images altogether. Then we must develop a new code. As with Muhammad—no image. That is an experiment, a brave one. With Buddha the courage failed after five or six or seven centuries and the image returned. The Muslim showed great courage: fourteen centuries have passed; the image has not been allowed in. They have kept the space empty.

It is very difficult; the mind craves form. It asks: some form—how did he look? People have tried with many forms. Some for whom all forms appear false tried removing form altogether—dismissed Muhammad; the mosque remains empty. That too can suit certain personalities. Many temples and mosques were built; some dismissed temples and mosques too, dismissed pilgrimages.

There are all kinds of people on this earth—countless varieties, countless desires, countless arrangements. To ensure a suitable path for all, it is appropriate that distinctions remain. But a time will come: as humanity develops, we will abandon insistence on windows—on personalities.

Earlier too it must have been hard; it is not so easy. Therefore a few marks were retained. There are twenty-four Tirthankaras among the Jains. It would have been best if even the symbols were not retained. But the mind made a small arrangement: “How can we make them entirely one? Let us keep at least some small mark—who is who?” Even that little mark created difference. It brought distinction.

So Parshva’s temple gets built separately; Mahavira’s temple separately. Even that slight emblem creates separation. Those emblems too need to be dropped—but only when the human mind changes; not before.

So you ask rightly: the experience is one. But it has been expressed in different words.

For example, Mahavira says: to realize the soul is supreme knowledge; there is no higher knowing. And Buddha—present in the same time and region—says: to believe in a soul is the greatest ignorance. And both are right. And I know neither could agree with the other on this point—yet both know well there is no real difference.

Do you follow me? They cannot “agree”—out of compassion for us. If they agree, they become useless for us.

This is why Mahavira could not influence as broad a class of people as Buddha did. The reason is: Mahavira’s symbols came from the past; Buddha’s symbols from the future. With Mahavira, twenty-three Tirthankaras lay behind him; the symbols were worn, familiar, conventional.

Thus, however revolutionary Mahavira’s personality, it could not appear so revolutionary—because the symbols he used came from behind. Buddha’s personality is not as revolutionary as Mahavira’s, yet he appears more revolutionary—because his symbols are of the future.

That makes a great difference. The language Buddha chose is of the future. In truth, Buddha’s influence is still to grow. One can predict that in the coming hundred years Buddha’s influence will keep increasing—because the symbols Buddha chose will come closer and closer to the human mind in the next century. They are drawing very near. Hence, in the West today Buddha’s impact is the greatest—rapidly growing. Christ…

Now, as I’m saying—as I’m saying, for example: I call Mahavira’s discipline the discipline of total resolve, the Practice of the Total Will. And the Jain tradition calls it the discipline of repression.
The word repression is worn out—no longer meaningful; it is dangerous. After Freud, any discipline that speaks in terms of repression can have no place in this world. It simply cannot now. After Freud, any method that employed repression will be buried with that very word; it cannot survive.
And it isn’t that Mahavira’s discipline was a discipline of repression. In fact, the meaning of repression was different then. Freud, for the first time, has given repression a new meaning that it never had.
So once it could pass—we might have used the word kaya-klesh, mortification of the body; now we cannot. Now if someone says “kaya-klesh,” he’s finished. With that very word, his whole line of thought will sink, completely. Because the term kaya-klesh is not meaningful for the future—it is meaningless. And yet what kaya-klesh was meant to point to is still meaningful. And in Mahavira’s method, what has been called kaya-daman, repression of the body, is still meaningful—the content is.
But the word has gone stale—and become outright dangerous. Because after Freud, anyone who prescribes kaya-klesh is a masochist, a person who enjoys tormenting himself. He is morbid, mentally ill—a person who takes pleasure in hurting himself. There are two kinds of people: those who enjoy hurting others are sadists; and those who enjoy hurting themselves are masochists.
Now if you talk of kaya-klesh, in the coming future Mahavira will end up being proved a masochist. That is, through the Jains’ lack of understanding, Mahavira is going to get trapped. And he now has no way to defend himself; he can’t stand up and say what is being said!
And if you look at Mahavira’s body, you’ll see that your talk of kaya-klesh is sheer foolishness. Yes, look at your monks and you can tell that mortification is real there. But seeing Mahavira’s body, it seems there has hardly been anyone who carried such a body. That’s how it appears when you look at Mahavira. Such a beautiful body—perhaps never… neither Buddha nor Christ had such a beautiful body.

Yes, if you look at Digambara Jain monks today, it becomes clear that yes, this is afflicting the body. Not a single Digambara monk has, till now, been able to present a body like Mahavira’s. So somewhere a mistake has crept in. Mahavira meant something else by kaya-klesh. A man who exercises an hour every morning is also doing kaya-klesh. Do you understand? He too is doing kaya-klesh—he works out for an hour, sweats, tires the body. And a man who lies in a corner without eating or drinking, without bathing, is also doing kaya-klesh. But the first does kaya-klesh for the body itself, and the second does it out of enmity toward the body. If both keep at it for ten years and then you stand them side by side, the first will turn out to be a person with an amazingly beautiful body, and the second will become a wretched, lifeless man.

What is kaya-klesh for? Mahavira says: the labor of the body should be for the body itself. The body cannot become what it can become unless effort is made.

So the word klesh, as it is now used, sounds fatal and hostile. For Mahavira it is not fatal or hostile. If we cling to that word, we will destroy Mahavira’s entire orientation. The word has to be changed.

Now, Mahavira uses the word upavasa. Upavasa means: to be near oneself—to be near one’s own self. It has no other meaning. To dwell near the soul—upavasa. Just as Upanishad means: to sit near the master. So upavasa: to be near oneself. But upavasa has come to mean “fasting,” a hunger strike. Upavasa is being taken to mean not eating.

This “not eating” kind of upavasa cannot work. And if you put emphasis on not eating, that is repression; that is the body-torturing kind of thing. Can anyone remain without food for four months? But one can remain in upavasa. Upavasa means a person becomes so absorbed in his own soul that he has no awareness of the body; so he does not even eat, because one eats only when one is aware of the body. He becomes so engrossed within that the body is not remembered—days pass, nights pass, the body is not noticed.

A sannyasin once came to me. He was staying close by; he came to see me. I said, have your meal before you go. He said, today is my upavasa. I asked, what kind of upavasa do you do? He said, what’s there to it—don’t you even know what upavasa is? One doesn’t take food for the whole day. I said, and you call that upavasa? Then what is anshan? He said, both are the same. What difference does a name make? I said, then you are doing anshan; you do not yet know upavasa.

And when you do anshan, remember, your entire residence will be with the body; there will be no being near the soul at all. The very meaning of anshan is: you did not eat—there is the thought of eating—you did not eat, you refrained. So the mind will circle around the body the whole day. Hunger, thirst, thoughts of what you will eat tomorrow, the day after—constantly...

So I said to him, anshan is the exact opposite of upavasa. In both, food is not taken, but the two are contrary. In anshan a man remains with the body twenty-four hours a day—more than even one who eats. The one who eats, eats twice and the matter is finished. The one in anshan eats all day long in his mind; inside, the food goes on.

Upavasa means that some day you are in such a rejoicing within yourself that there is no memory of the body at all. And Mahavira’s preparation of the body is precisely so that when there is no memory of the body, the body is so capable that it can endure ten days, fifteen days, a month, two months. Otherwise how will it endure? This monk’s body cannot endure at all.

If this man were to go within like that, he would die. Because he lacks in the body what is extra and needed to endure; he has no storage at all. If the body is very strong, it can easily survive without food for three months; it will not be destroyed.

So if Mahavira undertook upavasa for four months at a stretch, it is proof that he had a very powerful body—no ordinary body—extraordinary: even though he did not eat for four months, the body survived; it did not get annihilated.

This body-torturer cannot do it even for four days; if upavasa were to happen to him, he would die in four days. Upavasa means his soul and consciousness go so totally inward that he has no awareness of the outside; then his body will immediately drop its support.

But words have sucked the life out of things. So I told that sannyasin: some day when you meditate, and you become so immersed in meditation that you don’t feel like getting up, then don’t get up. Get up only when you feel like it; if you don’t, don’t. I was guiding him in meditation for two or three months. A young man stayed with him. One morning he came and told me: he went into meditation at four o’clock; it is now nine and he has not yet gotten up, and he has said, “Even if I never get up, don’t make me get up.” But I’m very frightened; he is lying there. I said, let him lie.

At two in the afternoon the young man came again and said… now a little panic had set in, because he is just lying there—no turning over, no moving his hands. Could something go wrong? I said, don’t be afraid; today upavasa has happened; let it happen. At nine at night he came again and said, now it’s beyond our courage; please come. I said, there is no need to go; let it be.

At eleven at night that man got up and came running to me. And he said, today I understood what upavasa and anshan mean! What a difference! Upavasa happened today—to the utmost. I had never even imagined that such could be the meaning of upavasa.

When you go within, the remembrance of the outer falls away. In that slipping of remembrance, even water is forgotten. And the body is such an amazing mechanism that when you are within, the body becomes automatic; it begins to make its own arrangements. You need not worry at all. And the meaning of discipline of the body is that the body be such that when you go within, it does not need you; it makes its own arrangements; like an automatic mechanism it keeps doing its work, and waits for you—that when you come out, then it will inform you: I am hungry, I am thirsty. Otherwise it will silently endure; it will not even inform you.

So kaya-klesh means such a training of the body that the body no longer remains an obstacle; it becomes a co-seeker, a ladder. But words are very dangerous; therefore do not call it kaya-klesh—call it kaya-sadhana—and then it can be understood. If you call it klesh, the very word is so absurd that it sounds as if you are tormenting, torturing; then there will be harm.

And do not call upavasa fasting; do not call it anshan. Call upavasa being near the soul. Certainly, when you are near the soul the body is forgotten. That is another matter, a secondary matter; a not-eating will happen. But by doing not-eating, upavasa does not happen; by being in upavasa, not-eating happens.

And if this is understood, then there is no reason to lose Mahavira’s current—although it stands on the verge of being lost. And if it remains in the hands of Jain monks and sadhus and sannyasins as it is, it is going to be lost; there is no remedy for that. And remember too: a man like Mahavira is very difficult to be born again—extremely difficult. Because the whole air and atmosphere needed for the birth of such a man is no longer possible. The kind of time, the kind of milieu needed will not be possible again.

Therefore I say, no one should ever be lost. Whoever has preserved anything of value must be preserved, so that for those who are attuned to it he can become a vision of light.

Zoroaster should not be lost, Confucius should not be lost, Milarepa should not be lost—no one should be lost. From different angles they have reached that which must be preserved. That is the true wealth of humanity. But those who are losing it are the very ones who seem to be its guardians; the protectors are the ones letting it slip away.