Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #6

The very first thing to understand here is that bondage does not end through austerity or self-restraint; bonds are not cut by them. Austerity and restraint can only replace ugly bonds with beautiful ones. Iron chains may give way to golden chains, but the chain as such does not get cut. Because the person who practices austerity and restraint is the very same person who previously indulged in laxity and excess; nothing essential has changed in that person.

A man is promiscuous. With the same consciousness, if tomorrow he starts practicing celibacy, promiscuity will be replaced by celibacy—but the inner consciousness that indulged in promiscuity is the very one now “practicing” celibacy. Therefore, just as promiscuity was a bondage, so too celibacy will prove to be a bondage.

So the question is not of austerity and restraint; through them there will be no dissolution of bondage. The question is of the transformation of consciousness, of a change at the very center. And for changing consciousness, no outer action has any real meaning. To change consciousness is a matter of breaking the inner stupor.

Consciousness has only two modes—stupefied and un-stupefied; asleep and awake. Just as action has two modes—restrained and unrestrained. If the change is made in action, restraint may come in place of un-restraint, but through that, consciousness will not move from stupefaction to wakefulness. Within, the person remains asleep, in heedlessness; how will he arrive at non-heedfulness?

Mahavira’s practices in his previous lives were practices of non-heedlessness—of awareness. He called it vivek, discerning awareness. That is why he says: rise with awareness, sit with awareness, walk with awareness, eat with awareness, even sleep with awareness. The meaning is: in every situation—standing, sitting, eating, drinking—consciousness should be awake, not stupefied.

It will be useful to understand this a little more deeply. When we walk on the road, perhaps we have never even noticed whether we are awake to the act of walking itself. When we are eating, seldom do we remember whether we are aware of what is happening while we eat. Things are happening mechanically. Stand by the roadside and watch people pass. They will seem to move like machines. You will see people waving a hand and talking to someone, but there is no one with them. You will see lips moving, conversation going on, but no one is there. Lost in some dream, drowned in a kind of sleep—so they seem. And it is not only others; if we can look at ourselves, if we can take note of our own state, the same will appear.

We live as if under a deep stupefaction. Those we have loved—we have loved in stupor. We do not know why. We cannot give a reason. Those we have hated—we have hated in stupor. When we have been angry, it was in stupor. The way we have lived cannot be called the living of an alert person—it is the living of one asleep.

There are people who get up even from nocturnal sleep and walk about. There is a disease—somnambulism. They rise in sleep, eat in sleep, wander around the house, even read a book, and then lie down again. In the morning, ask them, and they will say, “Who got up? No one got up.”

In America there was a man who used to rise at night in sleep, leap from his roof to the neighbor’s roof, and then back again. Eighty- or ninety-story buildings, with ten to twelve feet between the roofs! This went on nightly. The neighbors slowly learned of it. One night a hundred or a hundred and fifty people gathered below to watch. Poor fellow—he did it in sleep. Awake, he could never have attempted such a jump. As he was about to leap, the people below shouted loudly; his sleep broke, and he fell into the gap and died. He had been doing it for years, but he would never admit he did it.

We do many things in sleep, but even when we are “awake,” we live in a subtle sleep. Mahavira called it pramad—heedlessness. Even while moving about awake, even with eyes open, inside us there is a fine web of drowsiness spread.

Someone shoves you and you flare up with anger. Have you ever considered whether this anger was something you did knowingly, or whether it simply happened? Like pressing a switch and the fan begins to run—you cannot say the fan is running; it is being run. Someone pushes your button and anger starts whirring; you cannot say “I am doing anger.” At most you can say: someone pressed a button and anger started. The person who can truly say, “I am doing anger,” will never be able to do anger—for if he is the master, he will not do it. Only one who is not the master can do it.

All the activity of our life is sleepy. We are sleepwalkers. This is pramad—heedlessness. This is stupefaction. And there is only one sadhana: how to become awake in every act. Because the very moment we awaken, transformation of consciousness begins.

Have you noticed that at night, when you sleep, your consciousness becomes entirely different? It is not what it was in the waking state. And in the morning when you awaken, it is not what it was in sleep. In sleep, consciousness moves to entirely different planes. At night you can do what you could never imagine doing by day—kill your own father in a dream without the slightest pang. Your daytime relationships vanish in sleep. A millionaire becomes as ordinary as the destitute beggar sleeping on the footpath.

A fakir was once asked by the emperor of his land, “What is the difference between us?” The difference is obvious—you are a poor beggar and I am an emperor. The fakir said, “Certainly there is a difference—but only so long as we are awake. Once we sleep, there is no difference at all. In sleep, you forget you are an emperor and I forget I am a beggar. So the whole game is of waking.”

Have you ever noticed that in sleep you do not even retain the knowledge of who you are? Even what you were when awake is forgotten. Your age is forgotten. Your face is forgotten. Whether you are ill or healthy is forgotten. Clearly consciousness becomes active on another plane; it withdraws completely from this plane.

From the ordinary states of sleep and waking we can infer this much: if even our waking is itself a kind of drowsiness, then the one whose drowsiness breaks must be entering a totally new world.

The sole meaning of sadhana is: how to pass from living-while-asleep to living-while-awake. And Mahavira’s entire sadhana is simply this: do not sleep, be awake. What will be the process of waking? The process of waking is the effort to wake!

If someone asks us to teach him to swim, and he says, “Show me some method to learn swimming; I will only enter the water after I have learned to swim—without knowing how to swim, how can I go in?” It sounds logical, and in a way he is right; entering water without knowing how to swim is dangerous. But the teacher will say, “If you will not agree to enter the water before you can swim, how can you ever learn? There is only one way to learn swimming: swim. There is no other trick.” You will flail at first, splash, tumble about, sink and surface—but you must begin. From that beginning, slowly, swimming becomes orderly and you will be able to swim.

People ask, “What is the trick of awakening?” There is no trick—you will have to be awake. At first you will flail; right and wrong will get mixed; you will sink and rise; you will be awake for a moment and then fall asleep again—this will happen. But you must be awake. Through a continuous resolve to be awake, awareness gradually bears fruit.

So the so-called method of awakening boils down to this: whatever we do, let it be our effort and determination to do it while awake. If you make this attempt you will find the sleep is very deep; you cannot remain aware even for a moment before sleep catches hold of you.

Take a small task like walking on the road. Decide that today you will walk only while awake. Then you will know how deep the sleep is and what sleep means. You will manage to stay present for a second or two, take a step or two, and then the mind will slip; your attention will leave the act of walking and go elsewhere. Then you will recollect, “I have gone back to sleep; I had forgotten to remain awake to walking.” Even for a moment, walking fully awake proves difficult, because the sleep is very deep. But we do not realize the sleep, because we have no taste of waking with which to compare.

As we use the words waking and sleeping now: imagine a person born incapable of sleeping at night; he would never know that the condition he is in is the waking condition. He can distinguish between the two only if he experiences both.

When people like Mahavira say we live asleep, we do not understand, because we have not experienced even a moment of truly awake living. Where will the comparison come from? How to measure? Try a little. Even if for a single moment you walk two steps fully awake, you will find a completely different state of mind. But in a moment it dissolves and sleep catches hold again. As the clouds part for a few seconds—the sun scarcely appears before they gather again.

And we have practiced sleep for a long time. Not without reasons. There are reasons. The first reason is that living asleep is very convenient, very comfortable.

It is comfortable because when you live asleep, there is no clear line: what is happening, what is not happening; what you are doing, what you are not doing. For an awake person, a line arises immediately—this is to be done, this is not to be done. And then, what is not to be done, he becomes simply incapable of doing.

In the life we are leading, ninety-nine percent of it is such that only in sleep can we do it; if we were awake, we could not. Whoever awakens becomes incapable of it. So somewhere deep within there is a fear that if we awaken, the whole familiar order will be upset. It seems more sensible to continue asleep.

Second: among sleeping people it is easier to remain sleeping. If one man wakes in the midst of sleepers, you cannot imagine what difficulty he will face.

A friend of mine went insane—around 1936. He ran away from home, was caught in a court case. The magistrate said he was mad and sentenced him to six months—but to be served in a mental asylum. He was sent to the Lahore asylum.

He told me his first two months passed in great joy, because he too was insane and everyone there—about three hundred of them—was insane. Sheer enjoyment! Outside he had suffered because he could not fit with anyone; everyone else was sane, he was mad. Whatever he did did not suit them; whatever they did did not suit him. Entering the asylum felt like entering heaven. He thanked God and the magistrate who sent him there. Everyone was like him—perfect!

But after two months great trouble arose. He had a six-month term. Somewhere in the asylum a can of phenyl was left; being insane, he drank it—drank it all. The phenyl caused such severe vomiting and diarrhea for fifteen days that his system was completely purged and the heat went out; he became perfectly well. After fifteen days he was completely sane—in the madhouse he became non-mad. He told the doctors, “Now I am all right—and now I am in great trouble.”

But who would believe him there? The doctors said, “Everyone here says he is all right. No madman ever admits he is mad!” The more he tried to explain, the less anyone agreed. He had to complete the full six months.

He told me his last four months passed in such agony that he would not wish it on anyone in hell. Everyone was mad and he was sane; someone pulled his leg, someone twisted his ear, someone shoved him, someone poured water on him; when he slept, someone dragged him a few steps. He must have done the same during those first two months, but then they were all companions; it never occurred to him it was wrong. Now it became impossible for him to behave the same way. He could no longer pull someone’s leg or pour water on someone. He was perfectly sane and they were all mad, and each did whatever he pleased to him. Someone would slap him as he walked, someone pull his hair. For four months he kept praying to God: either take me out quickly or make me mad again—this is too inconvenient, too intolerable.

The suffering of a sane man in a madhouse is the same as the suffering of one awake in a sleeping world. He cannot behave like the sleepers, while the sleepers continue with their ways.

We cannot gauge the suffering of people like Mahavira. We cannot, because we do not know what that suffering is. One man has awakened among sleepers. His and our language have changed. His and our consciousness have changed. He becomes a stranger—such a stranger as no stranger ever is.

If a Tibetan comes to India or you go to Tibet, the strangeness is only of words, very superficial; inside, people are the same. He gets angry and you get angry; he hates and you hate; he lives in jealousy and so do you. The difference is only that his word for jealousy is different from yours. In a few days you will understand; the words will match, and the strangeness will dissolve.

Ordinarily we call people strangers who come from distant corners of the earth; but that strangeness is small—it is only linguistic. Human beings are alike. But when someone becomes awake on a sleeping earth, the strangeness that begins is immeasurable; now it is not a matter of words—consciousness itself has become different. Everything has changed from the roots. If someone abuses us, anger arises in us; if someone abuses him, compassion arises in him. So great is the difference in consciousness. He sees that a poor man has sunk to the level of abusing—how much pain he must be in! And compassion begins to flow.

It is easy for us to understand this: if you abuse me and I abuse you back, I am your friend—I belong to your world. Abuse calls for abuse. But if in return for abuse I give you love, your rage against me will surpass the rage you have for the one you abused.

Nietzsche said a strange and profound thing—albeit in jest. Jesus says, “If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other also.” Nietzsche asks: can there be any greater insult to the other? A man slaps you and you turn the other cheek—could anything be more insulting? You have made him a worm. You did not even accept his humanity. Had you said, “All right, you slapped me, I will slap you once,” then you would have been equals. But you ascended to the heavens and he was left crawling like a worm. This insult cannot be tolerated.

Nietzsche wrote: this insult is beyond bearing. You have annihilated the man—you did not even accept him as a man. You behaved with him in such a way that cannot be accounted for. This is not good conduct, Nietzsche says—it is extreme ill-treatment. Good conduct would have been to act as an equal; then both of you would have stood on the same ground. You climbed a mountain and he fell into a ravine.

He is right—in his way. The one who abuses will not be as angry at a return abuse, because that is his own language. Abuse demands abuse. But if compassion returns in answer, his fury will know no bounds. We cannot grasp his pain and humiliation. He will take revenge.

So among sleeping people there is a tacit agreement: if you wish to live with all, remain quietly asleep. If you are to live among madmen, remain mad. Inside, too, we are afraid—everything would change, and we lack the courage to change everything.

That is why the first sign of a seeker is: gathering courage for the unknown, the unfamiliar, the unprecedented. We cannot usually muster that courage. We say we want peace, we want truth—but we say it as if everything could be attained while we remain just as we are. We should not have to change. The arrangements we have made, the house we have built, the relationships we have formed—let nothing be tampered with; let all remain as it is, and let something be added on top.

But we do not realize that if a blind man gains sight, all his relationships will change—because yesterday’s relationships were those of a blind man. The one whose hand he held to cross the road—tomorrow he will refuse to hold that hand. And the one whose hand he held may be offended, for there is a pleasure in giving support, an ego in being needed. The blind man had one kind of relationships; the man with eyes will have quite another. The sleeping man has built one kind of world; the awakened man will throw it into complete disarray. That is also our fear—we lack that courage.

But with a little courage, awakening is not difficult. For whoever can sleep, can awaken—however deep the sleep. Here a man may be sound asleep and we sit by him awake: we are in utterly different states. If danger comes to the sleeping man, he will not know it till he wakes; if danger comes to the awake man, he knows immediately. Both are in the same house—one asleep, one awake. The house catches fire. The sleeping man sleeps on, carefree; the awake man is seized with concern. Yet, even so, there is no fundamental difference between these two—because the sleeping one can wake in a moment, and the awake one can fall asleep in a moment.

This is how it is at the ordinary level of sleeping and waking. But at the supreme level of awakening, the difference is not one of degree—it is a qualitative transformation. Therefore a sleeping man can awaken; but an awakened man cannot sleep again. On that plane, no awakened one ever sleeps again.

This transformation is like turning milk into curd: milk can become curd, but curd cannot be turned back into milk. Water can become ice and ice can melt back into water—there the difference is of degrees, not of essence. Ice was water yesterday and can be water tomorrow—only a change of temperature is needed. What is water now can be ice tomorrow, or steam. These are graded states of the same thing.

But when milk becomes curd, there is no way to get milk back, because curd is not just a different degree of milk—it is a fundamental transformation; the thing itself has changed. Milk can become curd; curd cannot become milk.

From sleep, awakening can happen; from awakening, there is no way back to sleep. And the method of awakening is only one: try to be awake—whatever you are doing, try to do it with awareness.

Right now you are listening to me. You can listen in two ways. You can listen completely asleep. In sleeping-listening, I speak, sound strikes your ears, but you are not present. You will “hear” and yet you will not. You will hear in the sense that you have ears, so the blows of sound will strike; vibration will resonate inside, and you will assume you are hearing. But if you—the one within—are not present, if you are absent, elsewhere, then here you are asleep. You are asleep here.

A young man is playing hockey. His foot gets injured; he is absorbed in the game. Blood is flowing. All the spectators can see drops of blood dotting the ground, but he has no idea. It is his own foot, yet he does not know. He is absent from the foot; he is present in the game. Where attention is, where presence is—there he is. Where attention is not, where presence is not—there is sleep. The game ends and suddenly he grabs his foot, “Oh! I am dying—what a wound, how much blood!” Why did he not know earlier?

We only know what we are present to. Properly understood, the absence of attention is sleep. Whatever we are doing—if attention is absent, there is sleep; if attention is present, there is awakening. Let attention be present in every act—then awakening has begun.

This is what Mahavira calls vivek. The presence of attention in every act is vivek. The absence of attention is pramad.

A devotee came to Mahavira—a king came to meet him. On the way, he passed the spot where a childhood friend of his had become a monk in Mahavira’s order and was engaged in austerities. The emperor thought, “Let me also see my friend.” He found him standing naked, eyes closed, utterly calm. The emperor bowed deeply and envied him, “When will such peace be mine!”

He then went on to Mahavira and asked, “I saw Prasannachandra standing there—so serene! What a wonder he has become! I feel jealousy arise. Tell me, if his body were to drop in that peaceful state, where would he go?”

Mahavira said, “At the very time you were passing, if Prasannachandra’s body had dropped, he would have fallen into the seventh hell.”

The emperor was stunned. “What are you saying—the seventh hell! Then what will happen to us? Is there any hell below the seventh? If Prasannachandra, standing in such peace, would fall into the seventh hell, what hope is there for us?”

Mahavira said, “No, you did not understand me. When you came upon him, Prasannachandra looked peaceful on the outside, but inside he was in great turmoil. Your ministers and soldiers had passed just before you. They too stopped and looked at him. One minister said aloud, ‘Look at this fool—he’s left everything to stand here! He has small children and has left everything in the hands of the ministers. They are gobbling it up. By the time the children grow up, everything will be finished. He had trust—and there, betrayal is going on. And he stands here like a fool!’ As soon as Prasannachandra heard this, his hand went to his sword—though it was no longer there. But it had always been at his side. He drew the sword within. He said, ‘What do these ministers think of themselves? I am still alive! Prasannachandra is not dead yet! I will cut off their heads one by one.’ When you arrived, he was busy cutting off heads. If at that moment he had died, he would have fallen into the seventh hell—because he was not where he appeared to be. He had fallen into deep sleep. His face was in one place, he himself in another. He was dreaming—for there was no sword, no ministers—yet he was beheading them. If he had died then, he would have fallen into the seventh hell. But if you ask now, at this very moment, he is worthy of the highest heaven.”

The emperor said, “It’s not even been a minute since I passed him!” Mahavira said, “When he put down the sword, as was always his habit after battle to adjust his crown, his hand went to his head. But there was a shaven skull—no crown. In that instant he awoke; the whole dream shattered. He said, ‘What am I doing! There is no sword by my side, no ministers before me. And I am no longer Prasannachandra who can lift a sword. I left that behind.’ And in a moment he returned. Now he is wholly present. At this moment he deserves the highest heaven.”

When we are asleep we are in hell; when we are awake we are in heaven. This effort to awaken must be continuous. It may take lifetimes; it may happen in a single instant. It depends on the intensity of your thirst, the intensity of your resolve.

So if Mahavira practiced anything in previous births, it was vivek—attention. And as the depth of this awakening increases, we become more and more free, for there remains no cause for bondage; we begin to live in virtue, because the cause of sin disappears; we begin to live in ourselves, because living in “the other” becomes illusory. One is peaceful to the extent one is awake; one is blissful to the extent one is awake. The day total awakening happens—an explosion—sleep vanishes from every particle, every corner of consciousness. After that there is no return—after that there is only perfect wakefulness. Such perfectly awakened consciousness is liberated consciousness. Sleeping consciousness is bound consciousness.

Therefore understand carefully: it is not sin that binds so that we may erase it with virtue; it is stupor that binds. Stupefied sin binds, stupefied virtue also binds. It is not un-restraint that binds; it is stupor that binds. Stupefied un-restraint binds; stupefied restraint also binds. Hence it is crucial to understand: if someone is engaged in turning un-restraint into restraint—nothing will happen; in turning sin into virtue—nothing will happen; in turning cruelty into charity—nothing will happen. He is only changing the act while the inner consciousness remains as stupefied as before.

Often the reverse happens. Sometimes an iron chain is better, because one at least feels like breaking it; a golden chain is worse, because one feels like preserving it. It is difficult to recognize a golden chain as a chain; it is easy to mistake it for an ornament.

Therefore, the sinner is often eager to awaken, while the so-called saint is not. It is like a painful dream and a pleasant dream: both are dreams, but the one in a nightmare wakes up with a start; the one in a pleasant dream wants to sleep a little longer. The sinner is seeing a painful dream; the virtuous man a pleasant dream. So often there is the danger that the sinner will awaken while the virtuous remains.

That is why I say: do not be concerned with how to turn sin into virtue, un-restraint into restraint, violence into non-violence, harshness into compassion. Do not get into that tangle. The question is not how to change the act; the question is how to transform the doer. If the doer changes, the act changes inevitably—for then he becomes incapable of certain things and capable of others. When the doer within changes, when consciousness changes… then I say: sin is that which an aware person cannot do. My definition is this: sin is that which a wakeful person is incapable of doing; and virtue is that which a wakeful person cannot help doing—it is his inevitability. Virtue is the inevitability of the awakened; sin is the inevitability of the asleep.

Therefore there are virtues that are hidden sins—because the man is asleep. What appears as virtue will be sin inside, for the man is asleep. How can a sleeping man do virtue? And it is also possible that an awakened person does something you take to be sin—and yet it is not, because an awakened person cannot commit sin. Both kinds of mistakes are possible.

One night such a thing happened with Kabir. Kabir is among the few who are a little awake. Every morning people came to Kabir’s house; there was singing and prayer, people sat with him. As they were leaving Kabir would say, “At least eat before you go!” Sometimes two hundred, sometimes four hundred. Kabir was a poor man. His son and wife were distressed. “This is beyond our capacity! How can we manage? Where will we arrange the food? You just say, ‘Eat,’ but where will we get the food?”

Kabir said, “Arranging food is not as difficult as not inviting a guest to eat. That is what is impossible for me—that someone come home and I say, ‘Do not eat.’ Somehow make arrangements.”

How long could it go on? Even borrowings were exhausted. One evening the son said, “Now it is beyond endurance. Should we start stealing?” Kabir said, “Ah! Why did that not occur to you till now?” The son had said it in anger; he was shocked to hear Kabir say, “Why did it not occur to you!”

The son, to test him, said, “Then shall I go steal?” Kabir said, “Yes. If you need me, I will come too.”

To test further, the son said, “All right, I am going; get up.” He could not fathom it—Kabir going to steal! Did Kabir understand what he was saying or not?

They went. The boy broke a wall, made a hole. He asked Kabir, “Shall I go in?” Kabir said, “Of course.” He went in and dragged out a sack of wheat. When the sack reached outside, Kabir began to lift it and then asked, “Have you told the householder that we are taking a sack?”

The son said, “But this is theft! We are not asking for alms or receiving a gift!” Kabir said, “That will not do. Go and inform the owner. Tell him we are stealing a sack. But he must be informed!”

It is a wondrous story. The next day people asked Kabir and he said, “A mistake happened. The mistake was that the feeling of ‘mine’ and ‘thine’ had vanished. Only afterwards did it occur to me that the notion of theft belongs to that feeling. When nothing is mine, nothing is another’s either. But there was this much: the sack was coming from their house; in the morning they would search and be troubled. So they should at least be informed that we have taken a sack.”

Such a man is difficult for us to understand. Even his theft contains such astonishing virtue—because for him the sense of “mine” and “thine” is gone. If a man like Kabir goes to steal, even that is virtue; and if a man like us gives in charity, even that is theft—because the very disposition and stupor in our charity is that of theft. Even in giving we feel, “It is mine and I am giving.” Kabir does not feel even in stealing, “It is his and I am taking.”

If this difference becomes clear to you, then you will understand: our charity is sin because “mine” is present in it; and no god sitting anywhere could call Kabir’s theft sin, because there is no “mine” there. Yes, there was just this—inform the householder, not because theft is bad, but so he does not search in vain in the morning. Kabir sent the boy to inform for that reason, not because he thought theft a bad thing, but to spare the householder needless trouble.

This has happened many times. It is difficult for us to understand.

Take Krishna. Arjuna could not understand Krishna. Had Arjuna understood, things would have been entirely different. Arjuna was running away, saying, “These are my dear ones; they will die.” Krishna says, “Fool—does anyone ever die? No one dies, no one kills.” On what plane is Krishna standing and speaking? Arjuna has no clue. Arjuna understands from the plane on which he stands: “They are mine—my gurus, my kinsmen.” Krishna says, “Who belongs to whom?”

Two entirely different planes. And I think readers of the Gita have continually remained in this mistake, because the dialogue is happening on utterly different levels.

Arjuna says, “They are mine—my dear ones, my gurus, my relatives—my in-laws, my uncles: they are mine.” From where Krishna stands he says, “Who belongs to whom? You are not even your own—who belongs to whom?”

Arjuna thinks, “Then it is fine—if no one is mine, they can be killed. The pain was because they were mine; if no one is mine, they can be killed.”

Arjuna says, “If they die, sin will accrue.” Krishna says, “Has anyone ever died? Has anyone ever killed? By killing the body, does that which is within die?” The words are spoken from a totally different plane. Arjuna thinks, “If no one ever dies, what harm is there in killing? Kill.”

This mistake has continued. I maintain: if Arjuna had understood Krishna, there would have been no Mahabharat. He did not, because Krishna’s consciousness was not Arjuna’s consciousness. The question was of transforming Arjuna’s consciousness, not of making him understand the words. Arjuna did only what he understood.

Similarly, if Kabir were to die and the next day there were no food at home, Kabir’s son might go to steal, saying, “Where is the sin? Kabir himself accompanied me in theft.” But the theft Kabir did was one thing; the theft his son might do is another. Two planes of consciousness. Mistakes are inevitable.

Therefore my emphasis is always this: do not get into changing your actions; get into changing your consciousness—because action flows from consciousness. When consciousness changes, actions change.

Mahavira’s entire sadhana is the sadhana of vivek, not of restraint. For with vivek, restraint comes like a shadow. But it has continually been understood that Mahavira practiced restraint—and that is the fundamental mistake.

First, not that compassion is a subtle form of desire; compassion is desire’s ultimate form. There is a difference. By “ultimate form” I mean the bridge between desire and desirelessness. If you wish, you can call compassion the final form of desire, or you can call it the first form of desirelessness. It is the link in-between where desire ends and desirelessness begins.

Compassion is not a subtle form of desire. If it were, there would be duality in compassion too. Desire is always dual. No one can be free of duality within desire. Therefore there is suffering in desire, because wherever there is duality, there is suffering. So however pleasurable desire may seem, its painful counterpart will always be standing right behind it; it cannot be avoided.

Thus every desire, at a certain limit, turns into its opposite. The opposite of each desire is present instantaneously; it is never separate. The moment we speak of love, hatred stands up. The moment we speak of forgiveness, anger arises. The moment we speak of pity, hardness appears. If we understand rightly, what we call pity is only a very, very slightly less hard form of hardness. The difference is like between hot and cold. What is the difference between hot and cold? Hot and cold are not two things; they are two poles of the same temperature.

So understand it this way and it will be very clear. In one vessel is hot water; in another, ice-cold water. Put your two hands in the two—one in the ice-cold water and one in the boiling water. Then take both hands out and plunge them into a single bucket that has ordinary, tepid water. You will be surprised: one hand will report that the water is very cold, and the other will report that the water is very hot. Yet the water in the bucket is exactly the same. What you call that water depends on the heat and cold of your hands, and you will be in a quandary as to what to call it, because one hand reports “cold” and the other reports “hot.”

Hardness and pity are like this: the difference is a matter of degree. So it can happen that what seems very merciful to a very hard person may seem very hard to a very merciful person. It is relative.

Something that appears very merciful to a man like Tamerlane may appear extremely harsh to a man like Gandhi. They are like the two hands—one hot, one cold—so they will report the water accordingly.

The moralistic person lives within this duality; he never goes beyond it. “Drop hardness, hold on to pity; drop exploitation, hold charity; drop violence, hold nonviolence”—this is his language. He says, “Abandon what is bad and cling to what is good.” But he forgets that what he calls good is only a very small, lesser, underdeveloped form of the same bad; it is not different from it, nor its opposite.

But as soon as one enters from the world of desire into desirelessness, there is an in-between, a buffer state, a kind of empty space between the two states—and in that space there is a bridge. Compassion is that bridge. Therefore compassion is not the opposite of hardness. Compassion and pity are not synonymous; pity is the opposite of hardness.

It is useful to understand this distinction clearly. When I pity someone, my attention is on the other person on whom I am having pity—he is hungry, poor, pitiable. The focus of pity is on the other’s wretchedness, his suffering, his poverty. The other is at the center. And when I am hard, the other is also at the center: the other is an enemy, the other is bad; he must be destroyed.

In both pity and the absence of pity the point of vision is the other. Compassion has nothing to do with the other. Compassion means it does not matter what the other is; what matters is what I am—I am compassionate. Like a lamp that is lit and pours out light—the lamp does not increase or decrease its light depending on who passes by. Whoever passes—good or bad, poor or rich, defeated or victorious—the lamp keeps burning. Even if no one passes, it keeps burning, because its burning does not depend on the other; its burning is its inner state.

If a beggar comes along the road, you will feel pity; but if an emperor passes, how will you be pitying then? If it is a beggar, you feel pity; if it is an emperor, you begin to crave his pity—because pity was tied to the other, not dependent on you. But with someone like Mahavira, whoever passes—a poor man, a beggar or an emperor—it makes no difference: compassion keeps showering. Compassion showers equally on the emperor and on the beggar, because compassion does not depend on the other. Mahavira has his own lamp that is burning, and from it light is falling.

Therefore, the way dictionaries constantly make compassion a synonym of pity is fundamentally wrong, simply wrong. Pity is a different matter altogether—and pity is not a very good thing. Yes, among bad things, it is the better; among bad things it is good. But it is not something supremely good.

Compassion is altogether different. There is nothing opposite to compassion. There is no duality in compassion. In pity, the opposite is always present, because pity is conditional: “That man is destitute, therefore have pity; that man is hungry, therefore give him bread; that man is thirsty, therefore give him water.” There is a condition in it; it depends on the other’s state.

Compassion is unconditional. It has nothing to do with how the other is. I can only give compassion—no matter who he is, what he is; it is irrelevant. Even if there is no one, and a compassionate person is standing alone—if Mahavira is standing alone beneath a tree and days go by and no one passes there—still compassion keeps streaming and waiting. It does not depend on anything.

A flower has blossomed in a wilderness; its fragrance is spreading. If a passerby comes, he receives it; if no one comes, the fragrance still keeps flowing. It is the nature of the flower to give fragrance; it does not look to see who is passing or whether they need it—that question does not arise. It is the flower’s joy.

Compassion is an inner state. Pity is a relationship; it is not my state, it depends on whom I am connected with. Pity can be received from that side or given from this side—the whole thing depends on whom I am related to.

Compassion is an inner state and the ultimate end of desire—ultimate in the sense that beyond it begins the world of desirelessness. Or call it the first end of desirelessness, in the sense that beyond it desirelessness begins.

And the world of desire is the world of duality. This needs a little understanding. Desire is the world of two, where nothing functions without two; everything stands on opposites—darkness and light, birth and death. Desire is duality. And the bridge between desire and desirelessness is nonduality. Desire is duality, where we clearly say, “There are two”; the bridge between is nonduality, where we say, “There are not two.” For the moment we will still use “two”: earlier we said “there are two,” now we will say “there are not two.” And as for the world of desirelessness, there we cannot even say “nonduality,” because even to raise the word “two” there is wrong.

Desire is duality, and in desirelessness the question of number does not arise at all. There even to say “not two” is incorrect. On the bridge in between we can say “not two,” because desire has dropped and desirelessness has not yet come. In that small interval, there is compassion. Compassion is nonduality. Beyond nonduality there is a realm where even to say “nondual” is wrong, where we would say “not two.” “Two are” had a certain significance; then “not two” had a certain significance; and now anything said is difficult—silence is best. There the question of one, two, or three does not arise at all—that is desirelessness.

But before we reach numberlessness from number, the finite to the infinite, there is a moment of negation, a journey of negation—that is compassion. Compassion has no opposite. Pity has an opposite; compassion has none.

Buddha called it compassion. Mahavira called it ahimsa, nonviolence. Jesus called it love. These are preferences of wording, but they point to the same bridge. “You must pass through compassion,” says Buddha; “you must pass through nonviolence,” says Mahavira; “you must pass through love,” says Jesus. These are only differences of words. There are not two bridges there—there is only one, from which we drop duality and enter the freedom from duality. In-between there is a place—I have called it compassion, ahimsa, love, whatever we wish to call it—and it has no opposite.

Everything has an opposite; some things have none. And that which has no opposite becomes the bridge. And beyond, there is neither for nor against—no one at all. Beyond, there is no for and no against; the question of the opposite does not arise, because that too is not there to which an opposite could be.

In fact, it is we who dream...

There are many points here to be understood. First, understand this: a dream is not untrue; a dream is also true. A dream has its own being. It has its own existence. When you see a dream at night, ordinarily upon waking in the morning we say, “It was all a dream, nothing was there.” But that which is not cannot appear even in a dream.

There is a great misunderstanding about dreams. A dream is not unreal; it has its own kind of reality, its own kind of truth. It is a realm of extremely subtle atoms, extremely fluid atoms—of psycho-atoms, mind-atoms. It is not unreal. Unreal means: that which is not at all.

So there are three things. The unreal, which is not at all. The real, which is. And between the two is the dream: we cannot say of it that it does not exist in the sense that “hare’s horns” or “the son of a barren woman” do not exist; nor can we say it exists in the way a mountain exists. It is in between—something that, in a subtle sense, both is and is not.

This is exactly what Shankara means by maya. A great mistake has been made about Shankara. By illusion or maya he means precisely this. Shankara says there are three realities—sat (being), asat (non-being), and, in the middle, maya.

There is something that simply is not. There is something that absolutely is. And there is something that lies in between, where the qualities of both are present. A dream is not untrue. Yes, it is not truth the way waking is truth; it is the truth of another plane.

So first, I do not call the dream false; a dream has its own truth. And if someone were to inquire into the truth of dreams, as much truth can be found there as can be found in the outer world. But we cannot even go deeply into the outer world—then entering the dream world is far more difficult. Entry into the dream world is difficult because it is entirely a realm of shadows, extremely fluid, where it is hard to close your fist on anything.

One can inquire in dreams; people have done so, and still do. Those who have gone into the depths of the dream realm have been astonished: what we call dream is, in a very deep sense, much more connected with our realm of truth than we imagine. It is not absolutely untrue.

Many dreams are memories of past lives, which once were true. Many dreams are glimpses of the future, which will one day be true. And many dreams are our inner journeys in the psychic realm, of which we have no inkling—because those journeys do not happen with this gross body; they happen with subtler bodies.

So, I do not call the dream false. The only distinction I am making is this: the truth that appears in a dream does not come from the dream’s being true; it comes from our being the doer. If our sense of doership dissolves, then for us the dream will dissolve. The dream’s truth will remain on its own plane; for us the dream will vanish.

Do you understand what I mean? If the feeling of doership dissolves—if I wake up in sleep and remember, “This is a dream, and I am only seeing”—the dream will instantly dissolve. This does not mean the truths within the dream are destroyed. The dream’s truths remain on their own plane. Suppose I put up a telescope and looked at the sky and saw stars that are not visible to the naked eye. Then I put the telescope away and no longer see those stars; I would not say the stars vanished because I set the telescope down. No—they became manifest through the telescope, and now they are unmanifest.

Through doerhood a truth became manifest in the dream; now it has become unmanifest. Exactly so in waking: the things we see—they are. They have their own existence; they are not illusory; they have their own being. Even if Mahavira has to go out, or Shankara has to go out, they will go through the door; they won’t go through the wall. Even Shankaracharya, if he has to leave, will not go through the wall saying, “It’s illusory; what can it do?” He will go through the door.

To call it illusory has a very different meaning; to call it maya has a very different meaning; to call it dream-like has a very different meaning altogether. The point is this: the wall has its own truth; the objective thing has its own truth. But that truth is one thing, and we, becoming doers—infatuated, ego-bound—project further truths onto it that are not there at all.

For example, this house: it has its own truth. But “this house is mine”—that is not true at all. This “mine” is purely our projection. The house itself would not even know, nor will it come to know in three times—past, present, future—whose it was.

And often our delusions are deeper—like when we say, “This body is mine.” You should remember that in this body millions of microbes live, and each of them feels this body is theirs. Not one of them knows that you are in it too; there is no notion of you. If you develop cancer, or a wound—a sore—and ten worms are feeding there, you think, “They are eating my body.” But the worms cannot even have such a thought; for them it is their body in which they live. When you remove them, you are depriving them of their rightful possession. You think it is your body.

How many are “making” this body! Billions upon billions of microbes and cells compose the body—and all assume it is their body.

So when I say the object has its own being, this body has its own being, I also say: “Mine” is dream-like. And the day you awaken, the body will remain, but “mine” will not. And if “mine” disappears, the body will reveal itself in very different ways, in ways it never had; because of “mine” it had assumed a very different form altogether.

So when I say that if we awaken and the doer dissolves and only the witness remains, then too the truth of objects will remain—but then it will remain only as object-truth. I will not project anything onto it.

Then a very large portion of the world will vanish at once. The one you now call your son—you will not be able to call him your son; perhaps not even call him “son.” If you become an absolute witness, you will remain only a passage, only a doorway through which that person came. But you will not remain a father.

And if you look very deeply: you shake off the filth of your body; you are not called the father of this filth—how then can you be the father of your semen-cells? This filth is produced in the body just as semen-cells are produced. You cut off your nails and throw them away and never say, “I am their father.” You cut your hair and throw it away and never say, “I am their father.” You never look back at them. The same body that produced all these also produced semen-cells. Who are you? Where are you? I am saying: if true witnessing dawns, then who is a father? Who is an owner? What is “mine”? All this will depart.

If all these inner relationships depart at once, the world will reveal itself in entirely different meanings. The world will be; you will be; but there will be no relationship in between. All that we bind will depart.

So when I say that if you awaken the world will become dream-like, I do not mean the world will become false, that it will not remain. The world will remain, but in other meanings; it will not remain in the meanings it has today. The dream also remains; it does not get lost; it has its own significance. And you will be surprised: with a little effort, you can enter the same dream a thousand times.

Why do dreams appear illusory to us? Because you cannot re-enter the same dream a second time. And you wake up again and again in the same house, so the house begins to seem real—because every morning you wake up in the same house. The same house again, the same shop, the same friend, the same wife, the same son—again and again…

Suppose that every morning you woke up and the house had changed—then the truth of the house would become as doubtful to you as that of the dream: who knows what will happen tomorrow morning! In dreams you go only once; you cannot continue the same dream. Because you are not even the master in your waking; mastery over sleep is much further off—so how can you go back into the same dream?

But there are methods and arrangements by which one can enter the same dream again and again. Then you will be astonished: the dream will feel as real as this house. Today in your dream a certain woman was your wife; tomorrow she will not be. However much you search, you will not find where she went. But it can happen—and it can be arranged—that every night you sleep and a particular woman appears night after night as your wife in the dream. If this continues for ten years, then in the eleventh year can you say the night is false? You will say, “As the day is real, so is the night.”

There are ways to stabilize dreams. One can enter the same dream night after night; then it begins to feel real. And if we observe closely, we do not even wake each day in the very same house in which we fell asleep yesterday, because the house changes fundamentally. If our vision were subtle enough to see change, the wife you left at night is not the same wife available in the morning: her body has changed, her mind has changed, her consciousness has changed; everything has changed.

But our vision is not that subtle, not so deep, that we can examine and see that everything has changed—that it is another person. Therefore you get into trouble by expecting continuity. Yesterday she was very calm and very happy; in the morning she is angry; you say, “How can this be?” Because you are sitting with yesterday’s expectations. Yesterday she loved greatly; today she has turned her back. You feel something is going wrong. But you do not realize that everything has changed.

The day we enter very deeply into this—meaning, I am saying: if you go deep into dreams, the dream will feel the same; and if you go deep into this so-called truth, you will discover that nothing is the same, it is changing every day. My purpose is only this: in all these states—dreaming or waking—if witnessing awakens, a completely new consciousness begins. But from this it does not follow that the world becomes false or untrue. It only means that the world we had made till yesterday departs, and a completely new world—objective for the first time, a purely object-side truth for the first time—stands before us. What we had made departs. What we had created ourselves disappears.

For this very reason Mahavira does not wish to use the word maya, because maya makes it seem as if everything is false. So he does not use it. He says: that is true, and this is true. But between those two truths we have fabricated many lies; they should depart. Then matter is true in itself, and the divine is true in itself. And very deeply, they are the two ends of the same truth.

Shankara uses the word maya for it; there is no harm in that either; that too can be used—because the way we are living is entirely make-believe, entirely like maya.

There is a man counting money, piling it up as he counts, locking it in the safe. He counts daily and locks the safe. If we were to enter his psyche, he is living in the counting of rupees. And what is there in rupees that one should live in counting them! Tomorrow the government changes and declares the old coins invalid—and the man’s entire psychic world vanishes in an instant. He stands utterly naked; there is nothing left for him to count.

We are living in a make-believe world. And we have minted such coins everywhere—of family, of love, of friendship—minted such coins all around. Tomorrow morning if all the rules change…

A friend wrote me a letter. A very fine letter. Some people who were with me are no longer with me, so he wrote about it. We all have the delusion that whoever is with us will be with us forever. This is sheer madness. As long as there is togetherness, it is enough. The day separation happens, it happens. Just as being together was a truth, separation is a truth. If togetherness must continue, then we begin to live in a world of maya—of expectations. It is enough that you are my friend. But that you must be my friend tomorrow too—then I have begun to live in imagination. Then I will also receive sorrow and suffering—because I have created an expectation. Who knows about tomorrow! What may happen tomorrow! Paths sometimes come near, sometimes go far. Sometimes they cross. Sometimes great distances open.

A few friends have left me; so a friend wrote me a story. He wrote that once in Greece a certain thing happened: there was a monk. In the city of Athens that monk was put on trial. The judges of Athens said that his words could corrupt people, therefore we banish you from the city.

The monk was expelled from the city. He left Athens and went to another town. The people of that town welcomed him, for the monk’s beliefs matched the beliefs of that town.

The town had a rule: whenever a new person came to dwell there, the whole town would build him a house. So the king added bricks, the brick-maker supplied bricks, the stoneworker brought stone, the carpenter brought wood, the thatcher brought thatch. The whole town labored, and soon a splendid house was built.

On the day he was to enter the house—everything was ready, the monk stood at the door—the whole village suddenly fell upon the house. The thatcher took away the thatch, the brick-maker pulled out his bricks, the door-maker began to remove his door. Everything became a shambles; the whole house began to come apart.

The monk stood and asked, “What is the matter? Have I made some mistake?”

The people carrying things away said, “No question of your mistake; our constitution has changed. Until last night our statute said that whenever a new person came to the town and lived, we would build him a house. In last night’s assembly we repealed it. The constitution has changed. So we are taking our own materials back; the matter is finished. We must hurry—if your entry happened, the old constitution would take effect. Since you haven’t entered, we are taking it away.”

That friend wrote me this story and asked me: Was the monk at fault?

I replied: The monk had only one fault—he gave too much value to rules made by men. Those who make rules can break them at any time. That is, those who decide to build a house can decide tomorrow to demolish it. The monk’s fault was only this much: he even asked at the doorway, “Have I made some mistake?” He should not even have asked. He should have known: those who build can bring it down. The rule changed; the whole matter ended. And the monk mistook respect for the rule as respect for himself—that was his mistake. It was not his honor; it was only the rule’s honor. The rule changed; the whole thing was over.

We live a life made of our own rules, our own beliefs, our own arrangements. The moment we awaken, it will all appear illusory.

The wife will at once appear illusory; the woman will remain true. There will be a woman, but “wife” will appear pure maya—that is our constructed arrangement. A young man will remain, but his being a son will vanish. The house will remain, but its being “mine” will dissolve. The heap of wealth will remain, but the relish of counting will vanish; it will have no meaning. The world will remain objective; but what we have poured into it subjectively, from the self, and believed to be there—that will dissolve. As if one awakens from a world of magic and everything disappears; the tree, and the fruit on the tree—both depart—and things remain as they are. The object will remain, but our imagined object will depart.

In this sense I said: a dream too becomes true if we become absorbed in it. And what we call truth becomes dream-like if we break our absorption.

No, the attainment of perfection does not include the means of expression. The perfection of expression is a perfection totally different from the perfection of realization. In fact, perfection is not one; there are innumerable perfections. This creates great difficulty for us. Perfection is not a single thing—there are infinite perfections. Mahavira even says “infinitely infinite.” If a person becomes perfect in one direction, it does not mean he has become perfect in all other directions.

A person may paint and become perfect in painting; that does not mean he will be perfect in music, that he will be able to play the veena. The veena has its own perfection, its own direction. And if someone becomes perfect in playing the veena, it does not mean he will be perfect in dancing. Dancing has its own perfection. Perfection is multidimensional; it has many dimensions.

No, it is impossible. It is simply impossible for any person to be perfect in all perfections. Some perfections are such that if you are perfect in one, you cannot be perfect in the other; they are opposing perfections.

For example, suppose a virtuous person becomes perfect—then he cannot be perfect in the perfection of sin. Sin, too, has its own perfection. Yes, sin has its own perfection! And if someone becomes perfect in sin, how will he be perfect in virtue? So not only are perfections infinite; they are also mutually opposed. One cannot even think that a person could be perfect from every angle. It cannot be.

The concept of God is precious in this sense. The meaning of the concept of God is that only God is perfect in all directions. Because God is not a person; through all persons he is attaining perfection in infinite directions. If God were a person, he too could not be perfect in all directions. But from the sinner he is attaining one kind of perfection, and from the virtuous another.

That is why, in paintings, we see God with innumerable hands. With infinite hands he becomes perfect; therefore it is possible. How will we, with two hands, be perfect? If all hands are his, then it is fine—there is no difficulty. Then if Mahavira is perfect in one direction and Hitler becomes perfect in another, it creates no difficulty for God, because Hitler’s hands are also his, and Mahavira’s hands are also his.

Leaving God aside, no one can be perfect in all directions. And God is not a person—that is precisely why. He is energy—the aggregate name of everyone’s energy. So leave him aside; no person is ever perfect in that sense. Each has his own direction; in that he becomes perfect.

Realization has one direction, expression quite another. And what must be done for realization is almost the opposite of what must be done for expression. Therefore both can be cultivated, but not simultaneously. If one is mastered, then the other can be cultivated.

Hence the perfection of expression never accompanies the perfection of realization, because realization requires going within, and expression requires coming without. These are completely opposite dimensions. In realization one has to drop everything, and become purely oneself—having left everything, a single point. In expression one has to expand, to connect with everything. In expression, the other is important; in realization, the self alone is important. They are opposite directions. Knowing is in silence; telling is in speech. So the one who knows will have to be silent, and when he goes to tell, he will have to cultivate the discipline of words.

Therefore it is not necessary that the one who gives expression also knows. It is not necessary. It may be only expression; then it is borrowed. Someone else has known, and he is merely giving expression. That is why very often a man of expression alone appears very wise. He has no realization at all. He has only collected borrowed realizations. By “pandit” I mean such a man—one who has expression but no realization. There are also those who have realization but not expression.

One day someone asked Buddha: You have been explaining for so many years—how many are there who have attained the same truth that you have? Buddha said, many; they are sitting right here. The man asked, but none of them appears like you—so full of glory! Buddha said, there is only a small difference: I have also mastered expression. In realization they have reached where I have reached. Expression! Until expression is mastered, you will not even come to know of them. Because only when they speak to you will you know. That it has happened to them will not make you know.

This is the difference between a keval-jnani and a tirthankara. A tirthankara is not more than a keval-jnani; he only has expression in addition. The keval-jnani is not an inch less than the tirthankara; in realization he is where the tirthankara is; only expression is not with him.

The completeness of realization happened to Mahavira in his previous birth; for the completeness of expression he had to do sadhana in this life. And I say that the perfection of realization is not as difficult a thing as the perfection of expression is. It is very difficult indeed. Because in realization I am alone; whatever I have to do, I have to do with myself. In expression, the other is involved. Therefore one must know the other, understand the other, reach the other; there is the other’s language, the other’s experience, the other’s personality. There are millions upon millions of kinds of personalities; life is distributed across countless forms of birth (yonis). For the resonance to be possible in all of them, for the news to reach all of them—so that even a stone may hear and a god may hear—cultivating the care and discipline for all that is a very great matter.
Therefore keval-jnana is available to many, but very few become Tirthankaras. The reason is this: keval-jnana becomes available to countless beings; the experience of perfect knowledge happens to millions, but one whom we can call a teacher, a Tirthankara—who can also tell how it happened—such a one is rarely found.
Therefore I said yesterday: in the earlier birth he… but what happens with us is that we take perfection in a very totalitarian sense.

Yes, that’s why things go wrong.

Completely differently, one must say it completely differently...

One does have to make distinctions, because a person may be complete in experience and yet have no expression at all. Many have known and remained silent; they did not say anything. They could not find a way to speak. They simply could not find it.

As I said yesterday: suppose you go now to Dal Lake and behold its beauty. It may happen that you have a complete experience of beauty—but that does not mean you can come back and make a painting in which you paint Dal Lake. It doesn’t mean that. And it may also happen that someone with less experience than you comes back and paints it, because the skill of painting is a different matter. You get my meaning, don’t you?

The skill of painting is entirely different from the skill of experiencing. You may go to Dal Lake and be soaked through with the beauty, your whole being drenched, but if someone asks you to pick up colors and a brush and paint it, you will say, “That I cannot do.”

There are more dimensions, aren’t there! More dimensions, more dimensions—because when you went to Dal Lake you must have thought you were only seeing. That beauty was not just for the eyes. If you had been deaf, that much beauty would not have been visible to you. Hidden in it was the birds’ song, the plash of the waves—everything was woven together. Had you been deaf, you would still have seen, but your seeing would have been lacking. The fragrance drifting all around was also part of that beauty.

We never realize it: when a man loves a woman, he never thinks that the scent of her body too accounts for perhaps thirty percent of the attraction—no less. However beautiful she may be, if her scent does not harmonize with him, no tuning is possible—never. Her body has a particular scent that draws him from within. It is a very particular scent that attracts particular people, otherwise it does not. However beautiful she may be, if her scent is slightly contrary, harmony will never happen; friction will persist, trouble will go on, and you will never even guess that it is her body’s scent that is obstructing.

So, just as beauty is a vast thing—fragrance was included in it, sound was included in it, color was included in it—everything was included. It was a total thing. Even if you come back and paint, and I ask you, “Now play the music you experienced at the lake,” you will say, “That I cannot do.” Even then, by painting you only paint what the eyes saw; what was known by the ears you cannot render; what was known by the nose you cannot render. So even that so-called completeness is not complete.

Hence my point: if we wait for total completeness, perhaps no person has ever been complete on the earth, nor can be. It is impossible. And there are very inner reasons for this, which we do not see. For example, when a man’s eyes begin to see colors very deeply, his ears slowly lose power. That is why the power of hearing that the blind have, the sighted never have. That is why a blind person can be the kind of musician a sighted person cannot be. The reason is that inside there is a limit to energy. If it begins to flow entirely through the eyes, it draws from the other senses; if it begins to flow entirely through the ears, it draws from the other senses.

So the blind always have greater strength in hearing, because the power that is saved from the eyes flows out through the ears. If someone becomes very skillful in music, the ears will be trained, but the eyes will grow dull, the sense of touch will be weakened. In other directions he will shrink.

Energy is limited and experience is infinite. Therefore, except for the divine, the sum total of all power, no person will ever be complete. Yes—but by attaining perfection in a single direction, one dissolves into the divine; and by dissolving into the divine, one becomes complete in the Whole. That is a totally different matter.

Keep this a little in mind. A river will never be complete, but by losing itself in the ocean, it becomes complete. So long as it remains a river it will not be complete, because it will have banks, shores. But in the ocean it becomes complete.

As long as there is a person, he can be complete only in one direction, or two, or three directions—but he cannot grasp all perfections. Yet if even in a single direction someone becomes complete, he stands at the very door from where entry into the divine is possible—even in a single direction. That is, whatever the direction from which perfection is brought, it brings you to the divine’s threshold. And if from there he drops himself and is lost, he becomes one with the divine. In that sense he is now whole. But now he is no more. The river is no more; it has become the ocean.

If we keep in view the vision of infinite, infinite perfections, we will understand many things. Then we will understand what “omniscience” might mean. Then we will not fall into madness. Then we will say only this: Mahavira has known, in knowing himself, all that can be known. That is what “omniscient” would mean. It will not mean that if a bicycle tire bursts he knows how to patch it; it will not mean that if a man gets tuberculosis he knows its medicine. That is not what omniscience means.

But those who have laid claim to Mahavira have taken “omniscient” to mean that whatever can be known, he knows it all—he knows Einstein too, Mozart too, Beethoven too, everyone. This is utterly foolish, wrong.

“Omniscient” means only this: in the single direction of perfection he has realized, within that he is omniscient. In the direction of self-knowledge he is omniscient. Whatever can be known in the direction of self-knowledge, he has known it all. But it does not mean he knows your illness; it does not mean he knows what will happen in the future; what will happen tomorrow; what happened yesterday. None of this is the point. These have nothing to do with it.

And in this way many kinds of people can be “omniscient,” because, as I said, perfections are infinite—so infinitely many kinds of people can be omniscient.

Yes—exactly that. The very word keval-gyan is quite wondrous; we don’t usually consider it. Keval-gyan means... what does keval-gyan mean? It means simply this: where the known is no more, where the knower is no more—only knowing remains. Just knowing. Keval-gyan means: just knowing. Nothing is left to be known, and no one is left as the knower. Only knowing remains. Only the capacity to know remains.

It means that now, whatever song he wishes to sing, he can sing. But when he sings one song, he will not be able to sing another. Then one song will bind him. As long as he is not singing anything, he can sing any song. It is only capacity. That is to say, keval-gyan is just knowing—a capacity.

No, no, no! You can know.

Yes, his capacity to know has become utterly pure and crystal-clear; he can know anything.

Yes—about its manifestation, we will speak later.
It is simply a matter of knowing—like a mirror. What does a mirror mean? It has the capacity to mirror. It is not necessary that, at this very moment, some image is forming in it, some person’s face is appearing; it may be lying empty. But whoever’s face comes before it can be known. A mirror holds the capacity to know. That is its potentiality. It is not necessary that someone be standing before it right now for it to know. Yes—if anyone stands before it, it will know. But if one person stands there, it becomes difficult to know the second; if two stand there, it becomes difficult to know the third. And if ten men surround it, and behind them there are millions in a crowd, it will be difficult to know them. Yet whoever stands directly before it—that one it can know.

Keval-gyana means the purity of knowing has been attained. Not knowledge—knowing. Understand the difference. Not knowledge has been attained—knowing. Yes, the capacity to know has become available. Now, whichever direction it is applied to, in that very direction it will know totally. Yes, it will know in totality—whichever direction it is turned to. But if it is turned to one direction, it is immediately deprived of the others.

And the wonder is that living in the capacity of pure knowing is so blissful that then no one applies it anywhere. Being a pure mirror is so blissful—who would bother to create reflections!

Therefore the keval-jnani drops all knowing. The moment the purity of knowing is available, he drops the act of knowing. Because any knowing, layered on top, will cloud his capacity to know, make it impure, become a covering.

So here is the paradox: the keval-jnani, who can know anything whatsoever, drops all knowing. He no longer knows anything. He abides in the very capacity to know. That itself is so blissful—why take on any hindrance! The capacity to know is so blissful—why go out to know something? Ignorance goes out to know; knowledge comes to rest. Ignorance goes to know because ignorance has the curiosity to know. And when the capacity of knowledge becomes available, knowledge comes to rest—it does not go out to know, because the very question of knowing no longer remains.

Ignorance makes you wander, sends you on journeys. Knowledge makes you still. So here is the irony: the ignorant will be found “knowing,” while the keval-jnani will become utterly silent—he won’t even appear to be knowing. Because the ignorant is constantly striving—“let me know this, let me know that, let me know that.”

This conception of keval-gyana is truly astonishing, but it has been distorted beyond measure. We have taken it to mean “one who knows everything.” No—one who can know everything. The difference is absolute. And it is not necessary that the one who can know will actually know. Generally, it is precisely the case that he will not. He will not get into that entanglement at all.

So if I say to you that the keval-jnani can know everything and knows nothing, do not see a contradiction in it. He can know everything, and he knows nothing. He no longer goes in any direction; he stands in silence.

This standing is itself so blissful, so liberating! And understand one more thing: if he goes in any direction, he will not be able to go into the divine. Because the divine is the sum of all directions; and one who goes in one direction becomes opposed to the remaining directions.

Therefore, the person who attains the capacity of perfect knowing will immediately drop all directions and dissolve into the divine. Paramatma means nowhereness. And direction means somewhereness. If you are going in any direction, you are going somewhere. And God means you are going nowhere—you have dissolved into all somewheres. So the one who reaches that perfect state where only knowing remains simply disappears into it.

Jesus has said, those who try to save themselves will be destroyed; those who lose themselves will gain all. Do not save yourself—lose yourself. But only one can lose himself who no longer has any banks; one must have the courage to let the banks go. If the river keeps clutching its banks, how will it enter the ocean? Then it will just stand at the delta, lamenting, “Everything is being lost, every bank is slipping away!”

Directions have boundaries, but the Divine is dimensionless, without any dimension; therefore there is no boundary there. The capacity to lose that much—that very capacity is called kevala-jnana, where only knowing remains and one is immersed. Then one no longer gets into the effort to know.

Here there are two possibilities: either he is drowned in the Divine, which is what generally happens; or, for one life, he returns and brings news of the capacity he has reached. That is what I am calling compassion. And if that compassion arises, it must attain the perfection of expression. He will have to find another means, because now he has to speak to the other.

A mute too can know the truth, but cannot speak it. A mute too can love, but cannot say it. And if a mute has to tell his beloved, “I love you,” he will have to learn speech. To love, there is no need to learn speech. Loving is another matter; even a mute can love. A mute can also convey some things through gestures. But if he has to say, to tell, what he has known in love, then he must attain another kind of perfection as well.

Mahavira, in this life, is engaged in the practice of that second kind of perfection.
Tonight we will talk about what that practice is like.
Then tomorrow we will talk further.