Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #3

From Mahavira’s birth up to the beginning of the period of his sadhana, no clear events are recorded. This is very significant. In the life of Jesus too, the first thirty years are not mentioned. There is a profound reason behind this.

Souls like Mahavira have already completed their journey in the previous birth. The world of becoming, of happenings, ended for them in a former life. In this life the impulse to come has no root in personal desire at all—only compassion remains as the cause. What they have known, what they have realized, they have come solely to share. Apart from that, they have no other work here.

Precisely understood, this is the meaning of being a Tirthankara.

Tirthankara means—such a consciousness that is born only to show the path. And one who is still seeking the path cannot show it. For one still searching, there is no sense in instructing others about the way. What the complete path is becomes known not by walking upon it, but by arriving at the goal. While walking, every path looks right; the one we are on seems right simply because we are on it.

And while we walk, where is the criterion by which to know that the path is right? For the rightness of the path depends on the attainment of the goal. The only meaning of a right path is—that it leads to the goal. But how can this be known before the goal is reached? Only one who has arrived can know it. Yet for the one who has arrived, the path is already over.

And to reach the goal is not as difficult as returning from the goal back to the path. Ordinarily there is no reason to return—one who has arrived would rest in the goal.

Thus there are many liberated souls in the world, for upon attaining the goal they dissolve into the formless. But a few souls return once more to the dark pathways. Those who arrive and then return to the world are called Tirthankaras. One tradition may call them Tirthankara, another Avatar, another Son of God, another Prophet. But the meaning is the same—such a consciousness whose own work is complete, for whom there is no reason left to return. This is very arduous, as I have said.

To find the goal is difficult; yet harder still is this—having reached the moment of supreme rest, to return upon those roads which were so painfully abandoned in order to be free. Therefore the few souls who, having attained the goal, return again to the road, have been accorded the highest reverence. Only such souls can be guides of the Way.

Tirthankara means—the ford where one can cross. Tirth means that shore or ghat from which the passage is possible. And Tirthankara means—both that ghat and the boatman upon it who shows the way across.

Mahavira has, in this life, no other purpose. Hence the entire childhood stands void of events. For events have now lost meaning; his life is utterly empty of happenings. Therefore nothing is recorded; there was no reason to record anything.

Jesus’ early life is utterly without events; nothing is there.

This is surprising, for those we ordinarily call great men have special happenings in childhood—yet those we call great are mostly ordinary. The truly extraordinary ones have eventless early lives.

Eventless—in the sense that they have returned for some other work; their own work is finished. Since they have no personal work left, there are no events of becoming, of growth. They simply grow silently. All around is silence; silently they grow—awaiting the moment when they may begin to give what they have come to give.

In my vision, this is why Mahavira was called Vardhamana. Not, as the stories say, because prosperity increased in his household—wealth increased, fame increased. To me, the name carries this meaning—that he grew silently, with no events around him. His growth was so quiet, like plants growing quietly, like buds turning into blossoms—no one knows when; no noise is made, no sound is heard. He began to grow in such silence. I read in that name this meaning—he who grows silently.

And this silent growing must have been felt, for the absence of events is itself a great event—no event at all! Even in the life of the smallest man, events occur, however small. In the life of a big man, big events occur, whatever they may be. But a person in whose life no events are happening, who grows so silently that no ripple arises—neither in time, nor space—he will appear unique; something extraordinary is there.

So when teachers came to instruct him, he refused—for what was there for him to learn? He was already learned. Teachers came and Vardhamana declined, because the teachers found that whatever they could teach, he already knew. Hence there was no education, no reason for it, no meaning. No event occurred; he simply grew.

And perhaps people also experienced something else—no one grows so silently. Jesus’ life is the same—he grew very quietly.

Another thing worth noting about Mahavira’s birth—meaningful indeed. The myth, the story, says he came into the womb of a Brahmin woman, and the gods shifted the fetus to a Kshatriya womb.

This is not a fact; no one took a fetus from one woman and placed it in another. But the story carries a deep, deep meaning. It conveys several indications we should understand.

First indication—Mahavira’s path, as I said this morning, is the path of the male principle, of assault, of the Kshatriya. Mahavira’s personality and the path of his inquiry are of the Kshatriya—of the conqueror.

Hence Mahavira was called Jina—Jina means the Conqueror. His only path is victory. Only in victory is his way. Therefore the whole tradition became Jain—from Jina. So this sweet story was chosen—that though conceived in a Brahmin womb, the gods had to transfer him into a Kshatriya womb. For that child was not to be a Brahmin.

Now, Brahmin too must be understood. The Brahmin has his own path. As I said—the male has one path, of assault; the female has one path, of surrender. The Brahmin’s path is to ask in alms. He says—will you fight the Paramatma? That would be unseemly. Will you surrender? To whom? He is yet unknown. But the Unknown surrounds us on all sides, and we are utterly small, poor, helpless. We cannot conquer, nor do we even have anything with which to surrender. Total helplessness. We are so helpless—what can we give? What can we snatch? Only one way remains—stretch your hands humbly and receive in alms.

So the Brahmin’s path, his temperament, is of the beggar.

The story says—if a being like Mahavira even comes to the womb of a Brahmin woman, the gods must transfer him to a Kshatriya womb. That personality is not of the Brahmin. And personalities are carried by the womb. His very nature was Kshatriya by birth—he who will conquer; he cannot ask. Mahavira cannot stretch a hand—not even before the Paramatma, before no one. He will conquer. Only victory gives meaning to his life.

And in those days the most influential tradition in this land was that of the Brahmin—the helpless one who asks.

That too is a wonder. Not as easy as one thinks. To become utterly helpless is a tremendous revolution. Absolute helplessness is also a path. But that path had gone astray—so much so that the helpless Brahmin had become very arrogant. A strange thing had happened: the original path was helplessness, but the tradition had grown dense and strong, and the so‑called helpless Brahmin was standing most stiffly on the roads. The original vision of helplessness was broken. The Brahmin became guru; the Brahmin became knower; the Brahmin sat above all. The very idea of helplessness was lost. That had to be broken.

In great symbolic language the story says—even if conceived in a Brahmin womb, the gods had to remove him. Meaning—the Brahmin womb had become incapable of giving birth to one like Mahavira. The import is that from the Brahmin direction no possibility remained of a Mahavira being born. The stream had dried, had stiffened, had gone wrong. Now from the Kshatriya stream...

Thus the conflict of that day was, at a deep level, a conflict between the paths of Brahmin and Kshatriya. This is worth contemplating.

Someone asks—can there not be a Tirthankara other than a Kshatriya?

No—there cannot. Even if the son is born of a Brahmin mother, he will be Kshatriya in nature. Only then can he walk that way. The way is of assault, of victory. Its language is of struggle and conquest.

People also keep asking—can the son of a poor man not be a Tirthankara? They were all princes—Kshatriyas and princes.

This too is meaningful—for he who has not yet conquered this world, how will he conquer the other? The way is of assault. If you have not secured even this small victory here, how will you go to the greater victory there?

Hence all twenty‑four are princes. Prince indicates—the one whose nature is to conquer will conquer anything. When he has conquered this world, then his eyes will turn toward that. On the path of victory, this world lies first.

The Brahmin will seek alms in this world, and in that world too. He believes that all comes as grace, as prasada. There is no talk of assault.

The conflict was not between two castes, Brahmin and Kshatriya, but between two traditions, two paths—both set out in search of truth. And when one path becomes stunted—and all paths become ego‑ridden at some point—then rebellion is necessary.

The Brahmin path is the most ancient. It had become stunted. Rebellion against it was needed. It was natural that the rebellion would arise from the opposite—Kshatriya. Rebellion always comes from the opposite.

The Brahmin asks; the Kshatriya conquers. One will receive through charity and compassion; the other will take by destroying the enemy. For him there is no other meaning to taking.

Thus the rebellion was bound to come from the opposite; therefore they are Kshatriyas. The birth story is very sweet—it says the Brahmin womb had become barren. It could no longer produce a being like Mahavira. That tradition had withered, dried up—so much so that in that era not one man of the stature of Mahavira or Buddha arose from the Brahmin fold. The path had run dry. It produced men again after perhaps fifteen hundred years. Then the struggle returned. In those fifteen hundred years, the traditions left by Mahavira and Buddha themselves dried and became rigid; then, from the exact opposite, revolt again did its work.

These symbols are chosen with great meaning. Whoever clutches them as literal facts is misled; he cannot fathom their import.

When I say—there were no events in Mahavira’s life—still, a few things are worth pondering. For example, the Digambaras say Mahavira remained unmarried. A curious claim! The Shvetambaras say—not only was he married, he had a daughter.

However much things be distorted, it is impossible to attach a wife and daughter to a man who never married. Almost impossible. Yet it is equally impossible that if a man had a wife, a daughter, and a son‑in‑law, an entire tradition would call him unmarried. How can both be possible? If the marriage, the daughter, the son‑in‑law were facts, how could anyone deny them?

Here we must understand—facts need not always be truth. This is essential to grasp. Facts need not be truth. And for those whose grip is on truth, fundamental alterations often occur in the facts. Those who cannot see truths, collect only dead facts.

Therefore I hold—Mahavira must have been married, yet he lived as if utterly unmarried. Hence both assertions became possible. Those who saw the fact said—he married. Those who saw the truth said—this man is unmarried. Unmarried is a truth; married is merely a fact. One can be married without being married—by the mind, by the heart, by desire.

And what is the desire of being married? Understand this—marriage‑desire means: I am not enough by myself; the other is needed to complete me. What is the meaning of being married? Its profound meaning is—I am insufficient unto myself until someone comes, joins me, and makes me whole.

Man feels insufficient, half; woman must join—this is the longing for marriage, the inner state of being married. Woman feels incomplete without man; man should come and fill her, complete her—this is the longing for marriage.

To the Digambaras I say—they were right to declare Mahavira unmarried. In that person no desire remained to be completed by another; he was complete. Nowhere was there any incompleteness to be filled by someone else.

Hence, in my view, the Digambaras saw deeper than the Shvetambaras. They saw profoundly that this man is unmarried. To call him married on the trivial fact that a ritual took place with a woman would be unjust.

You understand me, do you not? It would be sheer injustice to call this man married, for he was wholly unmarried. Therefore those who saw deeply found him unmarried; those who saw the fact, the fact was correct—there was a marriage.

And the man was so whole unto himself that another could be near him, another could draw fullness from him if she wished, yet he had no need of the other. He had no expectation. Thus it may be that the wife found a husband, but Mahavira did not find a wife.

So the Digambaras had the deeper eye. They say—there was no wife with this man. It may be that a woman found in him a husband, may be that she even bore him a child—but Mahavira was no father, nor husband. If such an event happened, it was only on the most outer plane; within, this man was whole.

To emphasize this wholeness, the Digambaras said—no, this man never married. But gradually they too erred; they began to deny the fact itself. They forgot that there had been a factual marriage.

I also find it meaningful that Mahavira did not refuse marriage. Those who are eager for marriage, and those who refuse marriage—both give importance to woman. The refuser also gives her significance; he expresses fear, he escapes, he admits she is something such that if she is near, he will be changed.

Mahavira must not have said even no—hence the marriage happened. Had he refused, it might have been stopped. But he did not even say no. The man was so complete that even refusal had no meaning. If a woman came, fine; if she did not, fine. Both were meaningless. Other incidents also support this.

Mahavira asked his father’s permission to take sannyas. The father said—not while I live. As long as I am alive, do not speak of it again. Mahavira fell silent.

What a wondrous man—one who wishes to take sannyas asks for permission in the first place! Sannyas means breaking attachments; and to ask permission for sannyas—who will grant it? Would anyone ask permission to commit suicide? Who would give it? Has permission ever been given for sannyas? Sannyas is taken. Yet Mahavira asked—may I take sannyas? What father would agree?

And the father of a son like Mahavira? There are sons whose fathers would agree; but for a son like him—who would consent?

The father refused—speak to me when I am dead; do not mention it. Naturally the father was ordinary, but this boy was extraordinary—he fell silent and never spoke of it again. Surely, for him taking or not taking sannyas made no fundamental difference. Therefore there was no insistence—fine, if it is not to be, let it be.

When the father died, returning from the cremation ground Mahavira asked his elder brother—now give me permission, since father is gone, to become a sannyasin. The elder brother said—are you mad? We are grieving our father’s death, and you will leave me now? We have not even reached home; do not ever speak of this to me.

And Mahavira again never spoke; he stayed at home. But within a few days the household realized—Mahavira is there and yet not there. His presence is like absence. He stands in no one’s way; he looks at no one; nor does he crave to be seen. He is as if alone in that big mansion—as if no one is there. Ask him for yes or no, he gives neither; he takes no side, enjoys no argument. What is happening in the house or not—he has no concern. He has become a guest.

Then the family felt—he has already gone; only the body remains. To hold the body would be improper. Since he has gone, why be partners in restraining him? They prayed—if it is your wish, take sannyas now; for from our side sannyas is already done. Whether you are in the house or not, it is the same. Why should we incur the sin of stopping you? And Mahavira departed.

Such a person—at the time of marriage he would not even have said no. For even a refusal gives value to woman, gives value to the other; it is fear. After marriage he would have lived exactly as before. Nothing would have changed. Those who saw deeply therefore declared—he is unmarried.

As I said yesterday—Jesus’ mother is a virgin and yet gives birth to a son. For only in such virginity can a Jesus be born.

How can one like Mahavira be a husband? Consider what husband means. The first thing in husbandhood is proprietorship. One who does not wish to own even inert things—how can he own a living being? Impossible. One who cannot say I am the owner of this wealth, who cannot commit such misconduct even toward a thing—how could he commit ownership toward a living woman? Husbandhood is a kind of misconduct—ownership, possession. Mahavira cannot be a husband.

Nor can he be a father—yes, a daughter might have been born, but fatherhood? What is the longing of a father? To continue oneself—one’s body, one’s being—through others. Why does one wish to be a father? The desire is that though this body dies, some part of it will go on and on. The sterile father is miserable, the barren mother is miserable. What is the misery? That the line ends here—beyond this nothing of us will remain alive. Like a branch from which no more leaves sprout; all has dried.

The ambition of a father is—though this body die, a part of it will fashion another body and live on. I shall live in others. Hence a father is anxious to shape his son—the father’s ambition and ego want to live through the son.

For one like Mahavira there is no question of continuing. No ego, no thirst to be. He is one who has returned from the experience of non‑being, where all is lost. Will he think of being a father? Yes, it may be that a girl was born.

Understand well—here the confusion arises. If a daughter was born, the fact‑lover will say Mahavira is a father. For the truth‑lover, the birth or non‑birth of a daughter is irrelevant. The wife—who considered herself a wife—may have wished to be a mother and become one. But Mahavira did not become a father.

Those who saw along one line denied altogether—this man was not such, the facts are false. But they denied the fact; others clutched the fact. Truth is hard to see; facts often become a veil.

A small story comes to mind.

Outside a village a naked muni was staying. The emperor’s wives were going to feed him. The river was in flood; no bridge, no boat. They asked their husband, the emperor—how shall we cross?

He said—go and tell the river, if the muni has fasted all his life, then give us a way. Let the river part if the ascetic has been fasting his whole life. They went and said so. The story says the river parted and gave them a way.

They had prepared delicious foods, sweets. They placed the platters before the muni. He finished every plate, left nothing. When they were to return, they were worried—for on the way they had told the river the muni has been fasting for life; now what? They asked the muni—what shall we do? We cannot say that again—you have eaten before our eyes.

The muni said—what difference does it make? Go and say the same—if the muni has fasted all his life, let the river part.

The women were in great difficulty. The food was not little; he had polished off everything. Yet he says—go say the same! With great doubt they went and spoke to the river. They felt foolish—it cannot be. But the river parted again.

Returning, they told their husband—what happened while going was a small miracle; what happened on return is beyond compare. The river parted even then! And the muni who ate everything is yet fasting!

The husband said—the one who is fasting, that alone do we call a muni. Fasting has nothing to do with food.

The craving to eat is one thing; the body’s need to eat is entirely another. Craving for food is one thing—it can exist even if you do not eat. And eating to fulfill a need is another—it may happen without craving. When craving breaks, only the body’s need remains—then the man is fasting. As I said in the morning, he abides within. The body’s need he hears and fulfills—no further purpose. He himself has never eaten.

If this is possible, then Mahavira too can be called a father even if a daughter exists—and yet he is not a father. He can be called a husband even if there is a wife—and yet he is not a husband.

Facts often cover the truth. We all see only facts; we imagine facts are precious. But facts can have many faces.

I have heard—there was a case in court. A man had committed a murder. One eyewitness said—it happened under the open sky; I was present, and there were stars. Another said—the murder occurred inside a house; I was present; there were enclosing walls; I stood at the door; it was inside.

The judge said—you put me in a quandary. One says under the open sky, the other inside a house.

A third eyewitness, who had seen it himself, said—both speak true. The house was half‑built—only the walls were up; the ceiling not yet laid. So there were stars in the sky and the murder was indeed under the open sky; and there were walls around, and it was in a house—both are true.

Life is complex. A single fact can be seen in many ways. Deeper still—fact need not be truth. Truth can be something else entirely, even the opposite of fact. But since we know only facts and have no relation with truths, we clutch the facts and then get into trouble. Great difficulty arises.

For example, the Jains speak of a Tirthankara whom the Shvetambaras declare female and the Digambaras declare male. How can such a dispute be? It can be. Two traditions can argue over whether a person was woman or man. Such plain facts—and still disputes occur. For facts can lie, and when truth is opposite, the trouble deepens.

It may be that the Tirthankara in question was bodily a woman. But no one can be a Tirthankara unless there is aggression, the male principle—unless there is struggle and resolve. It may be that the struggle and resolve transformed the whole personality—perhaps even the body. Perhaps when renunciation was taken, she was a woman, and upon liberation became a man. Understand me—such a complete physical transformation is possible.

This happened in the time of Ramakrishna. He practiced all paths—Christian, Sufi, Vaishnava, bhakti, yoga, hatha yoga—everything, to see whether each path leads. Among them he undertook the sakhī tradition, wherein the seeker assumes the complete mood of being Krishna’s consort—becomes a sakhī, a gopī—even if a man. He sleeps with Krishna’s image as a wife with her husband.

Ramakrishna accepted that path totally. For months he lived in the mood and desire of a woman. A strange event occurred—his voice changed into a woman’s voice; his gait changed; he could no longer walk as a man, he walked like a woman; his breasts began to swell. Then there was fear—his whole body might be transformed; his gender might alter. His friends and devotees stopped him. But he had gone beyond—he would say, what man? Which man? Which Ramakrishna? He is no more.

Even after the sadhana ended, for six months the signs of womanhood remained. People would be amazed—what has happened? If such a thing is possible, then anyone who saw him in those days could have written—he was a woman.

My own understanding is—this person may have begun as a woman when entering the world of sadhana; but the path chosen was masculine, and it transformed everything—personality and body. And now we also know scientifically that the body can change through intense states of mind, and totally through total states. Those who seized the fact wrote—she was a woman. Those who saw the transformation—wrote he was a man.

To clutch fact blindly is dangerous. One must have an eye for truth; facts change every day. That you are a man or woman is a fact, not a truth. Truth is that which does not change. Men can become women, women can become men. Deeply, no person is entirely one—every woman has a man within, every man has a woman within—the difference is one of proportion. The one we call man is sixty percent masculine, forty percent feminine. The woman is sixty percent feminine, forty percent masculine.

This proportion can be very slight—on the edge, even fifty‑one percent. Then a small shift of mind transforms the whole personality. Two percent change—and the person changes entirely.

Humanity has always been hindered by its blind clutching of facts. Facts can lie deeply.

Regarding Mahavira too, things are said—for instance, one group believes he wore clothes—whether given by the gods or invisible to the human eye—yet clothed; another believes he was utterly naked. Both are true together.

It is true Mahavira abandoned clothing, that he became completely naked. Yet his nakedness was such that it needed no covering—his nakedness itself was a garment.

Understand this. A person can be clothed in such a way that he is naked. Clothes can reveal nakedness rather than cover it. In truth, a naked body is not as naked as clothes can make it.

Looking at animals, the thought rarely arises that they are naked. But men and women can wear garments that immediately suggest their nakedness. Clothes that reveal are preferred; those that truly cover are not liked. Clothes that reveal just enough to awaken the desire to see more—such clothing makes one naked even while dressed.

The reverse is also possible. A person may stand naked, so wholly revealed that nothing is left to uncover; there is no desire to reveal, no invitation—come, uncover me. Then even nakedness becomes a garment. If one can be naked in clothes, why can one not be clothed in nakedness?

Mahavira was utterly naked; yet his nakedness did not appear as nakedness to anyone. Therefore it was natural for stories to arise that he must have been wearing garments invisible to the eye—gifts of the gods. The idea would naturally occur—some unseen vesture must be covering him, for though the body seems unclothed, the sense of nakedness is absent. And then stories are born; facts are bent; truth becomes hard to see.

Nonetheless, Mahavira was absolutely naked. Only the absolutely naked can be free from nakedness. For one covered by clothes, freedom from nakedness is very difficult. What we consciously cover, consciousness makes naked; what we consciously conceal, others consciously want to see revealed.

Only a naked person can be free of nakedness. This will seem paradoxical. Yes, it is possible to be free while clothed—as Buddha or Christ were clothed. It is possible, but much harder.

It is possible because one may wear clothes for two different reasons. The inner reason—there is something to hide, or fear of being seen. Or the entirely outer reason—why should others be made to see what they do not wish to see? Then clothes are not for me; they are for you. In that sense, I am unclothed; I have clothed your eyes.

Those like Buddha or Christ, who wear clothes, are as capable of nakedness as Mahavira. They have nothing to hide. But perhaps others are not ready to see nakedness—why assault them? To veil the eyes of others, the simplest way is to put cloth on one’s own body.

I have heard—when thorns first troubled people’s feet, a king summoned wise men to find a protection. They proposed—cover the whole earth with leather. The king said—where will you find so much leather? The earth is vast. A servant suggested—cover the feet with leather; then wherever you go, there will be leather. Likewise, the simplest way to cover everyone’s eyes is to cover your own body. Going to cover all eyes is impossible.

Even so, this remains hard. Hence two opinions arose about Mahavira’s nakedness. Certainly he was naked; there is no second option. Yet many may have gone to him, and drowned in his face, in his eyes, and returned without noticing that he was naked. For in a person we see what is most significant. If sex is what you see, that is what is most significant there to you. If greater events have happened in him, if a greater radiance shines—then perhaps hundreds saw Mahavira and went back saying—who says he was naked? We must look again. Perhaps some invisible robe covered him—something divine, from the gods—so that though naked, he did not appear so. Then tales arise, facts break, and truth becomes hard to behold.

I say all this so that something becomes clear in our minds—that only the unwise lay emphasis on facts; the wise always emphasize truth. Truth is such that you can see it through facts—but if you clutch the facts, you will never see it. You will stop at the doorway. A door brings one into the room, but if you hold on to the door, you remain at the threshold. Fact is not truth; it is merely an opening through which you may pass. Cling there, and you may be stuck forever. Our eyes see only facts.

In my view, a materialist is simply one who sees only facts. Materialism means—he who sees only facts, who says—here are the facts, beyond them all is fiction. He counts the facts, sums them, and declares—there is nothing further.

The irony is—facts are the outermost rampart of truth. Whatever is, lies within. The deeper we go inward, the more fact falls away and truth draws near.

Hence the language of truth cannot remain the language of fact. To speak truth a new language is needed—the language of myth. If you speak truth in the language of fact, it turns into history.

For instance, a curious thing—Mahavira is never old. Nor is any other Tirthankara ever old. Nor Buddha, nor Rama, nor Krishna. Have you ever seen an image of their old age? Did they remain forever young? Did they not grow beyond youth? They must have. It is impossible they did not. As a fact, Mahavira must have grown old. He must have been old to die.

But truth says—that man never grows old. What he has discovered is so youthful, so eternally alive, that where is old age? Those who emphasized fact would also portray Mahavira as old. Those who looked toward truth had to create myth—Mahavira never becomes old.

Have you noticed—none of them is ever shown old? Where is this possibility of unending youth? Not in fact or history—but in myth.

Therefore I say—mythology penetrates deeper than history. It grasps those truths—but to speak them it must leave fact and create fiction. Thus it says—Krishna never grows old. He is child, he is youth, and then he remains. He does not age.

For the consciousness that knows truth, that is ever fresh—how will it become aged, how will it decay? It does not. It has attained that greenness which never fades. Hence the journey is up to youth—until he attains that point where truth is realized, which is forever young. Thereafter the journey of the body stops for us. The body’s journey does not stop—it will grow old and die—but we deny that fact. We say—the fact is secondary; it has no meaning. The man within is young—he remains young; he never grows old.

Therefore many such wondrous ones have no mention of death. Not that it did not happen as a fact—but myth denies it. It says—such a man does not die; he attains the supreme life; do not speak of death.

Thus in this land we celebrate birth days; in the West, death days. In the West the day of death is of value; in the East, the day of birth. The reason is—we accept birth and deny death. In the West, death is more accepted than birth—because birth happened earlier; death is later, more recent, more valued.

We keep speaking of birthdays. The reason is—we accept birth; we do not accept death. Life is; death is not.

If these are grasped as mere facts, trouble begins. But if we go to their depth and unlock the coded language of myth, great veils lift.

We have started observing the death anniversary of Gandhi—that is Western imitation. Even if we observe the day of Mahavira’s passing, we do not call it the day of death—we call it the day of Nirvana. He does not die; he attains the supreme. Even then we do not say death day—we say Nirvana Day: the passage from the small life to the great Life.

But nowadays people have entangled us in useless fact‑accounting which cannot be settled. And those who emphasize truth stand today like defeated men. They stand defeated because they themselves have surrendered to fact, they too feel some great mistake has occurred in not keeping count of facts.

In my vision, what value have facts? If they can indicate truths—good; otherwise none. If they point toward the eternal—good; otherwise none. Facts are milestones saying—go further. But some fools cling to the milestones. Of what value are milestones except to say—onward, onward, onward?

Facts are milestones—on the journey to truth.

Therefore, if we take the initial episodes of Mahavira’s life not in their outer shell but in their essence and extract, only then will Mahavira be revealed. Only then will we later be able to understand what Mahavira becomes and how. A vision to understand can be born.