Mahaveer Meri Drishti Mein #20

This question is truly deep. Sanskrit was never a people’s language; it has always been the language of pundits, philosophers, thinkers. Prakrit was the people’s tongue—of common folk, the uneducated, the illiterate, the rural. The very words are telling. Prakrit means natural, spontaneous. Sanskrit means refined, cultured. What later became refined out of Prakrit was called Sanskrit. Prakrit is the original, the root language; Sanskrit is its refinement.

So the word “Sanskrit” came to be used for a language that had been “samskrit”—cultured, cleansed of the roughness of ordinary speech. Gradually Sanskrit became so refined that it remained the language of very few.

But it serves the interests of the pundit-priest that whatever is valuable in life be kept in a language the ordinary person cannot understand. If everything of religion were expressed in the language people understand, the pundit, the priest, the guru would in a very real sense become unnecessary. Their primary necessity lies in interpreting scripture—explaining what the shastra says. If everything were already in the people’s tongue, what would be the use of the pundit? What would he interpret?

In old times a debate was called shastrarth—meaning: the meaning of the shastra. Two pundits would fight—not about what truth is, but about what the scripture means. All the old debates were not for truth, but for the interpretation of scripture. So abstruse, so refined a vocabulary was developed that it lay beyond the reach of ordinary people, who could not even make out the ABC of it. And the less people can understand something, the more those who can understand it automatically become the leaders and gurus of the masses.

Thus two traditions ran in this land. One wrote and thought only in Sanskrit. It belonged to a very few; not even one percent had any real hand in it—the rest were spectators. The serious movement of knowledge proceeded among a tiny group of intellectuals, an elite. The masses received only the leftovers that fell to them. The people were inevitably compelled to remain in ignorance.

Mahavira and Buddha both used the languages of the people; they spoke in what people actually spoke. And perhaps this is also one reason why the Hindu scriptures could not mention Mahavira’s name at all. There is a reason for the omission: he did not engage in shastrarth in Sanskrit, he did not develop a philosophy in Sanskrit, no scripture about him was created in Sanskrit in his time. So those who knew Sanskrit—as even today it can happen, when English in India is the elite language of two percent—it could happen that if I went on speaking only in Hindi, those two percent might never even know that I am saying anything at all. They are used to reading and hearing in English. And then it can also happen that some utterly ordinary person speaks in English and he becomes noteworthy to that two percent.

Because Mahavira spoke in a thoroughly people’s language, the class of pundits, the world of scholars, kept him outside. They saw him as rustic; they did not admit him within. Therefore in any scripture—in the Hindu scriptures—there is no mention of Mahavira. This is most astonishing. A person of Mahavira’s genius is born, and in the land’s greatest tradition, the main current of tradition, in its scriptures, in the written texts of that time, his name is not even mentioned—not even in opposition! One reading the Hindu scriptures would be left doubting whether a person like Mahavira ever existed. It seems inconceivable that even his name is not mentioned—leave aside any detailed account.

And I take one basic reason to be that Mahavira spoke in the language of the people. He likely had very little contact with pundits. It may be that thousands of pundits remained unfamiliar with what he was saying. For pundits have their own bourgeois snobbery, an aristocratic attitude; they are not common folk. They neither speak nor think in the language of the common. They are the extraordinary, the chosen few, and everything in their chosen world is apart from the ordinary. The common people are outside the mansion, outside the temple. Sometimes, out of pity, out of grace, they tell the common folk something—but the deep and serious discussion goes on inside the temple, where the illiterate and the ordinary are forbidden to enter.

One of the greatest revolutions of Mahavira and Buddha is also this: they brought religion straight into the marketplace, right into the heart of the village. It was no longer the private talk of a select few behind walls. It became everyone’s—whoever could hear, whoever could understand. And for this very reason they did not use Sanskrit.

And there are other reasons.

In fact, every language that becomes tied to a tradition acquires its own associations. Each word takes on a set meaning. Using any such word is risky, because the moment you use it, the entire mood of the tradition attached to it stands up behind it. In this sense the simple language of the people is wonderful. It is the language of work, of conduct, of life. It holds many rough-hewn words to which new meanings can be given.

Mahavira needed a new vocabulary in accordance with the meanings he was seeing. It was difficult to draw that vocabulary from Sanskrit, because for hundreds, thousands of years Sanskrit had been working in a specific groove of tradition-bound thought. Every word already had a fixed meaning. Even “Ishvara,” God, had a set meaning. To use that word was not free of danger, for that meaning would stand behind it. So it was proper to lift straightaway the uncut language of the people. New meanings, new polish, new edges could be given to it.

He took the plain people’s tongue and gave it an amazingly miraculous structure. This is useful for other reasons too. It also shows that Mahavira’s mind was not what is called scholastic or academic. There are people whose minds are scholastic: they think in scripture, understand in scripture, live in scripture. Outside the scriptures, they have no life. If you go to hear them, it seems life means scripture; nothing exists outside. And scripture is a very narrow thing; life is vast. Even their questions do not arise from life; they come from books. Even if they ask something, they ask because of what they have read. No question arises directly from their living.

And in this respect it is striking that even the most rustic villager can raise questions related to life, whereas hoping for the same from a pundit is impossible. The pundit even borrows his questions—the question is not his own, let alone the answer. He has read the question in a book. And when he asks it, he already has the answer ready. He is not seeking an answer from you to a great question; he is perhaps only testing whether you know the answer or not.

He has the answer and the question both. Even before the question he is clutching the answer. The question he raises is not authentic; it does not come from his life-breath. Such scholastic people pass their lives within the closed pages of books.

Mahavira is a partisan of open life—standing naked under the open sky. Open life, raw life—raw like raw life itself—he wants to touch it, to feel it, to encounter life directly, face to face. Therefore he sets scriptures aside completely; he sets aside scholasticism and scholastic systems.

And from time to time there is a need for some people to remind us of life again. Otherwise books are very dangerous. Book, book, book—slowly we forget that life is one thing and book another. One horse is out on the road. Another is the horse written in the dictionary—the meaning of “horse” given in a dictionary. Those who are entangled in books all their lives may start to take the dictionary horse as the real horse—it would not be surprising.

Yes, there is at least this: nobody ever tries to mount the dictionary horse. But people keep making the mistake of praying to the God of the book! The God of the book begins to feel just as true as the real God. But the God of the book is something else entirely.

The word “fire” is not fire. Writing “fire” on a house will not make the house burn. Fire is another matter altogether. Fire is such that even the word “fire” would burn up in it; it would not survive.

But there is the danger that we may take the word “fire” for fire, and the word “God” for God. Those who live in the world of words inevitably make this mistake. They no longer remember when they slipped away from life and began wandering in a world of words. It is its own realm.

Mahavira wants to step out of that word-net too. Sanskrit was such a web of words. The people’s speech is plain. It has no nets, no exegesis, no definitions. Its words point toward life. He took those words and spoke directly to the people. In this sense he is a man of the people; he is not a pundit. And he did not even wish scriptures to be created about him.

Someone has also asked: long before Mahavira the art of writing had developed, and as the Jains say, the very first Tirthankara taught people the art of writing. So by then so much time had passed; people knew how to write and read; books could be made. Then why, during Mahavira’s very lifetime, was no scripture compiled of what he said?

We tend to think it is only the lack of writing that prevents scripture from being formed. If writing exists, scripture must be made. My own view is that because Mahavira’s intelligence was not scholastic, he would not have wanted his words to be turned into scripture. And for as long as his influence lasted, he would have tried to prevent it.

There are reasons for that too. The moment a scripture is made, a person’s consciousness separates from life, from existence, and enters the world of words—wandering in a fictitious realm that seems very real, but is not at all.

So Mahavira surely tried to stop the making of scripture. Therefore for two, three, even four hundred years after his death, as long as people clearly remembered that scriptures were not to be written, scriptures could not be written. But our attachment is heavy: we want to preserve everything. Lest what Mahavira said be forgotten; lest Mahavira be forgotten. So what is our device? We write it down, turn it into scripture—then it will not be lost. Mahavira will be lost; the scripture will remain!

But we should reflect: when even a living person like Mahavira is lost, how will you save Mahavira by saving a scripture? A person like Mahavira would deem it proper that when the person departs—and where everything is changing, where all things come and go—nothing should be fixed. Words and scriptures too should not be fixed; they too should be allowed to be lost. Because when the law of life is birth and death, arising and passing away—and when even Mahavira is not exempt from that law—why should it not apply to Mahavira’s speech as well? Why do we hope that by saving words we will save anything? What will remain in our hands?

An ember never remains. An ember inevitably goes out. Ash can remain. You cannot keep a live ember forever; you can keep ash forever. Ash is very convenient. An ember can be kept only for a little while because it is alive. The ember will go out; you cannot keep it continuously. In fact, the very moment the ember begins to burn, it also begins to die. One layer burns and becomes ash; a second layer burns and becomes ash; a third layer will burn and become ash. Layer by layer, in a little while the ember will have turned to ash. The ember will not remain; it will go—because it is alive. Whatever is alive must go.

But ash can be preserved for millions of years, because it is dead. The laws of life no longer operate on it. Life has left it. The law is completed; ash is what remains. Ash you can bind and keep. And the danger is that we may take ash to be the ember. Once it was ember, but it became ash precisely when it ceased to be ember.

Now there is something delightful to ponder: two statements—ash was ember, and ash was not ember. “Ash was ember” means that ash came from the ember; from the ember’s being alive the ash arose. But in another sense ash was never ember, because wherever ash has formed, the ember has disappeared. Ash is the residual shadow of the living ember, the line it leaves behind. The ember is gone; the ash is left in the hand. Ash can be stored.

Mahavira would have wished: do not polish and decorate even the ash. Because the real matter was the ember, and that you will not be able to keep; you will keep the ash. And then tomorrow this deception will take hold of your mind—that this is the ember. Then such a great delusion will arise as would not arise even if all of Mahavira’s words were lost.

They must have been men of courage. To make no arrangement for one’s remembrance takes great daring. In opposition to death we all make some arrangement: we shall die, but in some way a line of remembrance should remain behind us—whether it be words, a name engraved on stone, or scripture; it makes no difference.

Our mind, which is mortal, longs not to die. We know everything will die; so we arrange something so that it will not.

Mahavira, while alive, made no arrangement not to die. Because Mahavira’s vision is this: what is destined to die will die; what is not destined to die never dies. And those who try to save what is mortal fall into great illusion; they often mistake ash for ember.

What is religion in scripture—that is ash. What is religion in life—that is ember.

So in his lifetime he did not allow scripture to be made. For three or four hundred years, as long as people remembered the man, his prohibition, his refusal, they resisted the temptation. But when that memory weakened, was forgotten, slowly sank into the abyss of oblivion, then the biggest question before them remained: how do we safeguard whatever he said?

Remember this: up to now in the world whatever is truly important, true, beautiful—it has not been written; it has only been spoken. Whatever has been truly significant on this earth—has not been written; it has only been said.

There is a great living element in speaking; in writing everything becomes dead. When we speak, someone is in front of us, to whom we speak. You cannot speak into a vacuum. Someone living is present. In writing, no one is present; there is darkness.

We speak to someone; we write for no one in particular. Who will read? Anyone. In writing, no particular listener is present; only the writer is present. In speaking, not only the speaker is present; more than the speaker, the listener is present—and there is a living contact.

Because of this living contact he used neither the language of scriptures nor scholasticism, nor did he allow a trail of scripture to form behind him.

And the folk mind, the mind of the common person... This is a very old struggle; it is still not over. There has been a notion that religion is the affair of a few chosen people, and that truth is for the understanding of very few, not for all.

People keep coming to me saying: do not say such things to people; these matters are only for a select few. Do not say them to the ordinary man; the ordinary man will be led astray by them.

Now this is the great joke: that truth misleads the ordinary man, while untruth brings him to the path! And my view is that the poor fellow is ordinary precisely because he never gets any glimpse of truth.

From the standpoint of knowing, no one is unqualified. And who is the arbiter of who is qualified? Who will decide?

A flower does not say, “Only the qualified will see my beauty; only the qualified will be given my fragrance.” The sun does not say, “Only the qualified will receive my light.” Breath does not say, “I will move only in the heart of the qualified.” Blood does not say, “I will flow only within the qualified.” Existence does not demand qualification. Only the pundit says, with regard to knowledge, “First let the qualification be certified!” Why?

All of life is given even to the so‑called unqualified; will knowledge alone be reserved for the qualified? Then God must be quite foolish—he gives life to the unqualified! And the pundit must be very wise—he certifies qualification first and only then gives knowledge!

This talk of “qualification” is a commercial device, a trick. He wants to give only to those from whom he will get something in return—respect, reverence, faith, money, status, prestige. By some method or another he will give only where returns are assured. And he will give only to “his own,” not to all. He won’t keep his hands open so that the unfamiliar, the unknown, the stranger may carry it away. That is why the device arose of binding knowledge within the guru‑disciple tradition. It is the most dangerous device. Within that device, knowledge could never become expansive.

When Edison came to know how electricity is produced, that knowledge became everyone’s. Edison did not ask, “Who is qualified to have light in his house?” That knowledge became common property, available for everyone’s use. It became an open book—whoever wished to use it, could.

Science triumphed over religion for this very reason: religion remained in the hands of a few, while science placed truth in everyone’s hands. The reason for science’s victory is that, for the first time, it made knowledge universal. Religious people had confined knowledge to a narrow channel: calculating to whom it should be given and to whom it should not. Many times it happened that the one who knew died seeking a “worthy vessel,” never finding one.

I have heard of a fakir who lived in a Himalayan foothill and had reached ninety years. Many times people had come to him saying, “Give us knowledge.” But he would say, “Knowledge can be given only to the qualified. Bring a qualified one!” His conditions were such that to find such a person would be difficult even on the whole earth—such were his conditions! It is like a doctor saying, “I don’t give medicine to the sick; bring me a healthy person and I will give him the medicine!”

In my understanding, a healthy man will not go to a doctor. One who has become qualified will not go to ask from anyone. The very day qualification is attained, one’s own inner attainment happens. Who would go to anyone then? The day the vessel is complete, God himself descends. Who will go asking, searching, then?

Only the unqualified seeks; why would the qualified seek? The very question of seeking disappears. Qualified means: one in whom the right has arisen—knowledge will come to him; it is his due now. He can claim it directly. So the qualified never goes to anyone. It is the unqualified who goes—and the conditions are laid down for the unqualified!

People grew tired; the old man grew very old—very old. One day he called out to a passerby, “Listen! I haven’t many days left—I will die in three days. Go and spread the word in the village: whoever wants knowledge, whoever wants to hear what I have known, should come at once.” The man said, “But my village is very small and there is no qualified person there.” The fakir said, “Now the questions of qualified and unqualified don’t matter, because in three days I will be gone. Just go—bring whoever comes.”

The man went to the village and beat the drum. No one had ever managed to build any relationship with that old man. Still, someone whose shop had no business that day said, “All right, I’ll go.” Someone who didn’t get work that day said, “I’ll go too.” Someone’s wife had died; he said, “Let’s go.” For one reason or another ten or twelve people gathered and climbed the hill.

But the one leading them was much worried: “He’ll throw them all out at once—none of them is qualified.” He went in nervously and said, “Ten or twelve people have come, but will any of them meet your rules of qualification?” The fakir said, “Don’t bring that up at all. Bring them in one by one.” The man asked, “Have you dropped this doctrine of qualification?” The fakir said, “The truth is, as long as I didn’t have it myself, I protected myself with the excuse, ‘How can I give to the unqualified?’ I had nothing to give—but I didn’t have the courage to admit that I had nothing. So I invented this device: ‘Where is the worthy vessel to whom I can give?’ Now that I have it, my very life longs to share it—let even an unworthy one come, for the moment he receives what I give, he will become worthy. How could he remain unworthy then? So I have no concern whom you bring; just bring them. I only want to say it. Now there is no unworthy one. When I was ignorant, all were unworthy. Now that I am a knower, all have become worthy.”

Mahavira created a great revolution in this regard: he carried the whole thing straight into the marketplace. Naturally, it stirred anger. After all, there were trade secrets involved. The pundit’s trade depended on the matter being secret, esoteric, hidden. Once it became open to all, it became difficult.

You know a doctor writes his prescriptions using Latin and Greek. He doesn’t even use plain English, let alone Hindi! Drug names are written in Latin and Greek. The reason is that if you knew the exact name in your own tongue, you wouldn’t agree to pay five rupees for it—you’d say, “This could be had in the market for a few pennies.” The “secret” is that what he has written lies beyond your grasp. It may be that he has written “ajwain”—carom seed extract. If you saw “carom seed extract,” you might say, “We can make that at home—I won’t pay five or ten rupees for this.” But written in Greek or Latin, you have no idea what it is. You buy a two‑penny thing for ten rupees and return home most pleased, thinking, “I got the medicine!”

The whole medical profession is indulging in dishonesty; if things were written plainly, most medicine shops would be on the verge of closing, because medicines are very cheap and made from ingredients commonly available in the market. But a perpetual device is used: even the name is not in plain English—let alone Hindi—it is in Latin and Greek. So even an English‑educated person cannot understand. Then there is the way doctors write—their scrawl—so even the Latin and Greek cannot be read properly. Only the pharmacist understands it—who sells the drug! And even he may or may not truly understand—much work goes on amid great ignorance!

I have heard: a man received a letter from a doctor. The doctor had been invited to a feast at the man’s home, but could not come and had written to apologize. Out of habit, he wrote in the same manner as he wrote prescriptions. The man read and read; he could not tell whether the doctor was coming or not! He thought, “Leave it—let me show it to the chemist. At least he understands doctors’ language; he will tell me what is written.” He took the letter to the chemist. The chemist glanced at it and said, “Wait,” went inside, and brought back two bottles! The man said, “Forgive me—this is not about bottles. He has only apologized, and I can’t figure out whether he is coming to the feast or not.”

This whole game! The pundit has invented an old device: never speak plainly in the people’s language. Speak in such terminology that, for the public, it turns into a mystery—beyond their grasp. Then they will come to you for understanding.

So there have been two kinds of people in the world. One, those who want to make the secret of life open, so that the door is open to each and everyone. And the other, the mystifiers, who take what is not a mystery at all and, by circling it round and round, set it in such a way that it does not remain a simple, straightforward truth for anyone.

Omar Khayyam has written: when I was young I went to sadhus, to saints, to the wise, to the pundits—and came out of the same door wherein I went in—because nothing came into my grasp about what was going on there. I went to all of them, but had to return by the same door through which I had entered—meaning I returned exactly as I was, because I could not catch hold of what was happening there! What were they talking about? Whom were they discussing? They had no direct contact with life.

Among Mahavira’s revolutions, count this too: he made religion’s secret, esoteric form into something unveiled. So if the pundits remained angry with him, it is no surprise—he did a most “terrible” thing to their trade. It is as if a doctor were to start writing in simple Hindi, “Bring carom seed extract!”—then all the other doctors would be angry: “What are you doing? Are you going to ruin the whole business?” The pundits’ anger at Mahavira is very meaningful.

Therefore he used the plain language of the people, and he left aside the language of the scriptures—as if there were no scriptures at all. Mahavira speaks as if the scriptures had never existed; he doesn’t even mention them. It’s not that there was nothing in those scriptures—there was much. And if one searches, one will find what Mahavira says there too. But Mahavira did not want to bring the scriptures in, because the moment they are brought in, scholasticism arrives, punditry arrives, the whole shop, the entire apparatus arrives. He speaks as if he were the first man standing upon the earth, who knows nothing of any scripture. This is something to ponder.

Now, what is your question? Speak.

Hmm, hmm, that too is something to understand. Mahavira even attained enlightenment in gaudohasana! Just as one squats, the way you would sit while milking a cow—squatting on the haunches—it was while sitting like that that Mahavira attained supreme knowledge. These are very strange postures. He was not milking a cow—so it seems a very inverted situation. Why was Mahavira sitting like that? In meditation—yet nowhere is there any insistence that meditation requires such a posture. This should be understood.

There are three things to understand here. There are three essential points. First, it seems to us that gaudohasana is very unnatural. It is not so. For someone it can be perfectly natural. What we call natural or unnatural is a matter of habit.

Bring a Westerner here and sitting on the floor becomes most uncomfortable; to sit cross-legged can be so awkward that it might take a Westerner six months to learn. And even then, with six months of massage and with him pulling in his limbs miserably, only then will he manage a decent cross-legged seat—and still it will not feel natural. He will keep fidgeting. In the West no one sits on the ground; everyone sits on chairs.

So what seems utterly natural to us—sitting on the floor—is utterly unnatural for those who never do it. What is natural? That which we are practiced in feels natural to us. What we have not practiced begins to feel unnatural.

It is quite possible that in the mountains and forests, in rain and sun and heat and cold, with no house, no door, no mat to sit on, no chair, no cushion—nothing at all—Mahavira would, quite naturally, have sat squatting every day. That is not difficult to imagine. And Mahavira had another unique outlook: he said, the less pressure one places on the earth, the better—because the less the possibility of violence.

Mahavira slept at night without turning over! Because if one can sleep on a single side, then the other side is a luxury, isn’t it? The second turn is sheer luxury, indulgence. When one can sleep on one side, why turn needlessly and risk crushing an ant or a little insect? What is the need? One side is enough. There is the least violence in keeping to one side. With the second turn, some violence is bound to happen—it will happen. And perhaps we might not, but Mahavira surely would! If you are sleeping under a tree in the forest, with one turn fifty ants may be killed.

So Mahavira said, it is unnecessary, it is luxury, it is indulgence. What is the need? One side is enough. So he would sleep all night without turning.

For such a person, it seems to me that squatting puts the least pressure on the earth, because only the two feet touch. Sitting cross-legged occupies a larger area on the ground, and the possibility of harm increases. So it is no surprise that Mahavira would sit squatting. His vision, his understanding, was: why needlessly injure any life?

So if it looks awkward to us, the first point to understand is: do not conclude that it is awkward because it feels awkward to us. It may not be habitual for us; it may be habitual for someone else. People all over the world stand up, sit down, sleep, eat, and drink in different ways. What seems utterly natural to us may not seem natural to another at all.

We fold our hands in greeting; it feels completely natural. There are tribes who greet by sticking out their tongues! Two people meet and both stick out their tongues! We cannot even imagine greeting someone by sticking out the tongue—and if we did, a fight would be more likely! For us it feels utterly absurd—what madness is this, two people meet and stick out their tongues! But two people meet and join their hands—what is that? If hands can be joined, tongues can be shown.

There are tribes who greet by rubbing nose to nose. It must feel natural to them. But if we see two people on the street touching nose to nose, we will be surprised—has something gone wrong with their minds? In the West a kiss is a very simple, natural thing; for us it is a major quandary if someone kisses another in the street. A kiss is not a greeting for us; in the West it is part of a natural greeting.

What becomes habitual feels natural; what is not habitual feels unnatural.

Mahavira, from the standpoint of nonviolence, would have sat on his two feet. That posture contains the minimum possible harm. And second, it may well have been natural for him. If you watch ten people sleeping at night, you will see all ten sleeping in different ways. We don’t usually notice this, but in America a laboratory was set up; they have observed ten thousand people sleeping over twenty years of experiments, and they arrived at strange conclusions: no two people even sleep in the same way! Everything else is unmatched as well—but even the way of sleeping is one’s own. The way of sleeping, the way of getting up—each has his own.

Second, note that in this world nothing is inherently unnatural. Conditions—favorable or unfavorable—the person’s way of thinking and understanding, the way of living—can bring about different situations. Generally, Mahavira either meditated standing—which itself does not seem “normal,” because people ordinarily meditate sitting. Mahavira meditated standing. Perhaps his method of meditation worked more easily while standing, because there is no chance of faintness or drowsiness.

And it may be that the same consideration applied to squatting. You cannot fall asleep while squatting. The more “at ease” you become, the greater the chance of drowsiness. Sleep can come. Mahavira says, one must remain inwardly fully alert. His tireless effort was for total wakefulness. It may be that through continual experimentation he found that squatting leaves no room for sleep—and so he began to sit squatting.

Also, he does not have a traditional mind; understand this too. Mahavira is not a traditional thinker. He is what one would call a nonconformist—free of tradition, even, in a sense, negating tradition. He will not imitate anyone in anything. Whatever feels natural and blissful to him, that is what he will do. Whether anyone in the world has done it or not is not the question. So, why not here as well?

But we all are followers of tradition. We sit as everyone sits; we stand as everyone stands; we wear clothes as everyone wears; we talk as everyone talks—because we have to live among all, and to stand apart is extremely difficult. So tying ourselves to uniformity with all seems easy.

Mahavira is not such a person. He says, what others do is not the question; what feels right to me is the question. And it may be that before me no one felt like doing it; and it may be that after me no one will feel like doing it; but what feels right to me—I have the right to do it. I will live that way; I will do that. In this sense he is a rare advocate of sheer individual freedom—complete individual freedom. Even in such matters where we would say, what need is there for freedom here?

Another thing to understand in this context: between the states of our body and of our mind a kind of association is formed. As you may have noticed, when a person is worried he begins to scratch his head. Not everyone scratches his head; but someone who does—if he starts scratching his head without any reason, you will find he becomes worried.

This association gets established. Everything becomes linked. In a person’s bodily activity his mental activity also gets linked. If you change the bodily activity it helps to break the pattern of the old mind.

So many times a seeker arranges things so that the old mind cannot find expression. Because whatever habits the old mind had, he starts doing the very opposite. He does not give that old mind a chance to grow strong.

We do not realize how our small things are connected. We do not realize that when we wear a particular type of clothing we become a particular type of person; and when we wear a different type of clothing we become a different type of person. Sit one way and you become one kind of person; sit a different way and you become a different kind of person. Because our mind lives and moves by these small signals. It has grasped very tiny cues!

Now it may be that Mahavira’s squatting is a strange occurrence. Ordinarily no one squats like that. This squatting—this going into meditation in gaudohasana—in my view carries this deep meaning: in such a bodily position the old mind has no hooks; it cannot assert itself. And it may become easier to be led toward a new mind.

And the final point to keep in mind is this...

There was a Zen monk; his death was near. He was close to dying. Friends and loved ones gathered. He was very renowned; millions loved him; thousands got the news. A fair-like crowd gathered around his hut. The closest disciples stood around his cot. He got up from the cot and said, I want to ask something—have you ever heard of anyone dying while standing?

They said, dying while standing! Why would someone die standing? People die lying down, because just before dying people lie down. Then someone in the crowd said, No, no, that’s not quite so. I have heard of a fakir—though I’m not certain—that he died standing.

He said, Then let that pass. Have you ever heard of anyone dying while walking? People asked, Why are you asking these things? Dying while walking! Why would someone die walking? Actually, walking stops—that’s why one dies. Still, someone in the crowd said, No, we have heard this too. Once, in ancient times, there was a man who died while walking.

The monk said, Let that pass too. It means I must find a way to die such that no one else has died that way. People said, What are you saying? The monk said, All right then—have you heard of anyone dying while doing a headstand? People said, We have never heard nor imagined that anyone would die doing a headstand!

The monk said, Then let’s agree on that. Why die like others? Even in dying there should be authenticity! One’s own authenticity. Why die like everyone else! Everyone dies like this...

That man stood up in a headstand and died. But people were very frightened. A fear also arose: who would bring his corpse down? Because what did it mean—had the man really died? He was still in a headstand. He had died; people checked his breath, put their ears to his heart—no thump, breath stopped. Yet even then it seemed absurd to them: to tie to the bier a man who is still doing a headstand!

So doubt spread through the crowd. People said, “All right, wait a little—don’t do anything to him. His sister lives nearby; she’s a nun in a temple close by. Call her. She’s his elder sister and knows his habits well—she’ll know what to do.”

The sister came running. She gave him a hard shove and said, “You still won’t drop your mischief, will you? Must one play such pranks even at the time of death? All your life you raced to be yourself—will you cling to it even while dying?” The man giggled, laughed, toppled over, and died. He hadn’t died till then—he was joking, joking even his way into death!

At first glance you’ll immediately think, “Such a man—wouldn’t he be egoistic?” But can one who can joke even with his own death be egoistic? We can’t even joke with our lives. In fact, we always joke at the other. Ego always jokes at the other; only the egoless can joke at themselves. As for life—leave life! At the time of dying he is so non-serious. An egoist is never non-serious; an egoist is always serious, always grave. Everything is grave there. And this man takes the matter like children’s play—death itself! And he plays with it! When he fell, laughing, a fountain of laughter burst from the crowd: “What a marvelous man! Even while dying...!”

And his sister, having said her piece and given the shove, walked off. “What mischief is this? From childhood you’ve been impish—and still you persist? A monk should be serious! What is this non-seriousness? If you must die, die properly—die as people die.” She pushed him; he laughed out loud, fell, and died.

Ego occurs to us very quickly, because our notion is: whenever someone tries to be a person, an individual, he is egoistic. The real irony is that the person who lacks individuality is the one who has ego. Understand this a little. Ego is a substitute for individuality. By proclaiming what isn’t, we soothe our own minds. But the one who has individuality has no ego. It may often look otherwise, because that person will be authentically individual. He will be as he is, and he won’t care what the world thinks. But his “not caring” is not a motive, not an intention; he simply is what he wants to be. If in that the whole world is denied, let it be denied—he hasn’t gone out to deny it. Only when someone becomes what he was born to be does he become free of ego.

And what is ego, actually? Ego is the substitute for the soul that should be within, but isn’t. In its place we have propped up ego. Ego’s job is to counterfeit the soul. Like a man who has no real diamond and wears a fake diamond ring. The fake ring creates the glint of a real diamond in others’ eyes. But one who has a real diamond—why would he wear a fake? He’ll throw it away; it’s worth two pennies. One who has soul has no connection with ego. Ego was needed only because there was no soul within, so we erected a false entity: “This is me.” Ego said, “This is me!” and he didn’t even know who he was. The one who comes to know who he is throws it away. What has he to do with ego?

But recognizing such a person becomes very difficult for us. We understand only two languages: either he is egoistic, or he is humble. And humility is the subtlest form of ego. Such a person will be neither egoistic nor humble. He won’t go folding his hands before anyone, nor will he be concerned that anyone fold hands before him. He will live as he is. And he will say to the world, “Live as you wish.” Yet recognizing such a person will be very difficult for us. Many times he will seem egoistic to us, because his very presence will hurt our ego. And because he will not adopt humility, our ego will get no satisfaction from him.

What is humility? Feeding the other’s ego. The person who feeds the other’s ego, we call him humble. But how do we recognize his humility? Because he bows so low and greets me. Me! He bows to me—he’s gratifying my ego; for me he becomes humble.

In fact, the language of humility was invented by egoists. They tell others, “Become humble; humility is very exalted.” Because only if all become humble can they erect their egos—otherwise, where will their egos stand? If everyone becomes un-humble, there will be trouble.

But for the one who is in the search for being, the search for the individual, there is neither ego nor humility. He says, “I am I; you are you. Where’s the quarrel in that? Let me be me; you be you—there is no quarrel to be had.” He cultivates neither humility nor ego—both are one and the same. He says, “I am I; you are you. Why create a fuss in-between? You be you; let me be me.”

This will seem very difficult to us. Because what he is saying to us finds no connection with our ego. We want either that he press our necks so we can think he is something, or that we press his neck so we can think he is something. But he says, “Let no one press anyone’s neck. You are you; I am I. Please—live as you wish; let me live as I wish.” But neither can we live as we ought to live, nor do we wish to let the other live!

And then, one who can joke about himself—that person is most extraordinary. To make fun of oneself is very difficult. We joke about others. And we joke about others precisely because a joke is a polite device to insult another—a polite device, a way in which the other cannot even quarrel, because after all we are only joking; and yet we inflict a deep wound, we humiliate. The polite method of insulting is joking.

So we can satirize the other, laugh at the other. But one who laughs at himself, laughs at his life, and even at his death, is very rare—very rare. Because he is giving a fundamental message: now the other is no issue; we ourselves find ourselves in a state fit to laugh at ourselves. Meaning, this personality of mine is itself laughable; there is nothing in it to be taken seriously.

But in the world, monks and saints sit very serious—ultra-serious! And there is a deep reason for their seriousness: they have stopped joking about others, and they have not learned to joke about themselves. Deep down the reason for their seriousness is: how to laugh? They stopped mocking others because it was wrong, and to begin mocking oneself is very difficult—it doesn’t happen. So they became serious, heavily serious.

This seriousness seen in a sadhu is for this reason. Otherwise he would become utterly light—weightless. Utterly light—because what’s the issue? He could laugh at anything. And one who can laugh at himself, if he ever laughs at another, does not hurt. The one who can laugh at himself, if he laughs at another, does not hurt; rather, the other feels, “He takes me as his own—otherwise he wouldn’t laugh at me.” You understand what I’m saying, don’t you? Don’t grab the notions that arise in you too quickly. Go deeper and deeper to search what might be so.

I narrated that fakir’s incident precisely to say: there are individuals who want to give even death an authenticity and an individuality—their own way of dying! And among such individuals, Mahavira is extraordinary. He gives to everything his own individuality—as it seems to him. That is, let the scriptures of the world say, “In the cow-milking posture someone attained knowledge?”—Mahavira will sit in the cow-milking posture and attain knowledge!

When Kabir’s time to die came, he was in Kashi. A little distance from Kashi is a village called Maghar. The legend is: in Kashi, even if a donkey dies, he becomes a god; and in Maghar, even if a god dies, he becomes a donkey. So people come to Kashi to die. People from Maghar all come to Kashi to die, because there is great fear about Maghar. If someone is near death—ten, five days—the family brings him so that the last breath breaks in Kashi.

Kabir lived all his life in Kashi. When his time came to die, he said, “Take me to Maghar.” People said, “Have you gone mad? From Maghar people come here to die. You lived here all your life, and now you go to Maghar to die? If a man dies in Maghar, he becomes a donkey!”

Kabir said, “That’s fine. If by dying in Kashi one becomes a god—then what becomes of me? If I become a god because of Kashi, what did I accomplish? If by dying in Maghar I can become a god, then there is something to it—I’ll feel that something was done. And if by dying in Maghar I become a donkey, that too will be because of Maghar; and if by dying in Kashi I become a god, that too is because of Kashi. There is no difference; in both cases it happens because of something else. The difference should be because of oneself. How will I know that I became a god because of myself? In Kashi there will be the tangle of Kashi’s credit.” And Kabir died in Maghar! Such people...

So Mahavira is saying: it’s not a question of meditation happening in this posture or that posture. There is no relation between posture and meditation. This is the third thing I wanted to say: there is no relation between posture and meditation. Meditation can happen in any posture. Because meditation is an inner event; posture is the outer position of the body. And understand “asana” correctly: that which is easy is asana. So, whatever is easy for you—that is your asana. What is easy is not the same for everyone.

So Mahavira also wants, by this, to give the hint that to say, “Only in padmasana or siddhasana will meditation happen and enlightenment be attained,” is wrong—because in that way you tie knowledge to the body’s way of sitting. What has the body to do with it! That which is within can happen in any posture.

That cow-milking posture of Mahavira in which he attained omniscience—the Jains did not dare to keep such images in their temples. All the images have been made in padmasana, because the old notion is that the enlightened one attains knowledge in padmasana!

Now, these are the amusing things: the man upset everything, and you arranged it all again, just as before—the same old! He sat in such a posture and attained omniscience...

The real happening is only kevala-jnana (omniscience); nirvana and the like are not the real value. The real event is kevala-jnana—when kevala-jnana happens. As for nirvana, we don’t consider it proper to say a good man “died,” so we say he attained nirvana and so on. Meaning, when a good man dies, how can we say he simply died? So we call it nirvana. That is only the dropping of the body. But deeper than that, the body had already been dropped earlier—that is the event of kevala-jnana.

But we have not had the courage. Because Mahavira would even seem absurd to us, sitting in such a gaudohasana (the cow-milking posture)! It would strike us as something that doesn’t quite look right. So we make Mahavira into what we think should look right. And this is how it always goes, in everything—how it should “look.”

Now, even the Digambara Jains will make nude images of Mahavira—see how deep our weakness runs—but they will place him beside a tree and hide his nakedness in the branches! The loincloth he discarded, we will have it put back on him! But we won’t be able to show him standing naked, upright. We will paint a picture, stretch out the branches of a tree, and hide his nakedness in them! These people are more clever than Mahavira!

Either Mahavira must have stood only next to a tree all his life so that his nakedness wouldn’t show—then what was the problem? In that case a loincloth would be better; you can go anywhere wearing it! This business of having to stand with a tree is far more troublesome. But our mind—extremely petty—instantly molds everything to its own measure. And then the form we create, the arrangement we impose, is ours; it is not true.

If a man has the courage to be naked, his followers will not let him be naked. And if he refuses to comply and remains so, they will devise some trick and later plaster it over and set it right, declaring that the man was not naked! It goes like this in everything. That is why revolutions are born and die. That is why there is a need for revolution again and again—people who come and break things open once more.

And it is most unfortunate, but this is what has kept happening: the greater the revolutionary, the more he will be whitewashed. Therefore keep this in mind: those who were not great revolutionaries are available to us in their authentic state—as they were. But those who were great revolutionaries—we plastered them over; we have no idea what they were really like! The image we have is entirely different, as if they had never been as they truly were.

So the question is right. Such people do what seems right to them in everything. They will not ask any god, any guru. They won’t say, “Not in this posture. How are you sitting? Has anyone ever attained knowledge like this?” They will say, “You go your way. If knowledge is to come, it has to come on my terms; I am not going to accept terms for knowledge.” Meaning: on my terms—just as I am, it has to come to me as I am. And if a person is that courageous and daring, then the divine will have to come on his terms. Terms mean: it has to come to him as he is. No hindrance can come in the way.

If this is understood, the notion of individual freedom becomes clear. Then I say: in any posture—sleeping, sitting, lying down, standing—meditation can happen, in any way. It is a matter of one’s own choice, what feels easy to one. Because even in gaudohasana someone has attained moksha, there is no cause for worry anymore. Now this happening can occur in any posture. But you will hardly find even a single Jain monk sitting in gaudohasana. He sits bound in the traditional manner and is driven along by it.

These are only symbols of breaking tradition. Such a person will want to break tradition even in small matters. Even in such petty things he will say, “No, I am as I am.” Only when this much courage arises in a person can one be a seeker. And the day supreme courage manifests, there is not a moment’s delay in becoming a siddha.