Mahaveer Vani #10

Mahavira has divided tapas into two forms. Not because tapas can truly be divided, but because without dividing it we cannot understand it. Wherever we stand, from there alone our whole journey begins. And we are standing outside ourselves. We stand where we ought not to be; we are not standing where we ought to be. We have left ourselves, fallen away from ourselves, are far from ourselves. We are not strangers to others — we are strangers to ourselves, strangers to ourselves. Perhaps we know a little about others; we do not know even that much about ourselves. Tapas itself cannot be divided. But we are divided beings. We have split away from our own being; therefore indivisible tapas will remain beyond our understanding.

Mahavira divides it into two parts for our sake. Understand this rightly first — it is for our sake that he divides it. Otherwise, for a consciousness like Mahavira’s there remains no difference between outer and inner. Where difference remains, a consciousness like Mahavira’s is not yet born. Where there is division, distance, fragmentation, there Mahavira’s unbroken awareness does not arise. Mahavira is where all becomes whole — where the outer becomes but one end of the inner, and the inner becomes but one end of the outer. Where inner and outer are not two objects, but two aspects of one wave — hence this division is for us.

Mahavira speaks of bahya-tapas and antar-tapas, the outer austerity and the inner. Properly, the inner should have come first, because the inner is primary. But Mahavira did not place inner tapas first; he placed outer tapas first — for Mahavira can speak in two ways, and two kinds of people have spoken on this earth. There are those who speak from where they stand; and those who speak from where the listener stands. Mahavira’s compassion tells him to speak from where the listener stands. For Mahavira the inner is primary, but for the listener the inner is secondary — the outer is primary.

So when Mahavira places outer tapas first, it is only because we are outside. This brings convenience in understanding — but in practice it also brings inconvenience. Every convenience comes with its inconvenience. Because Mahavira placed the outer first, his followers came to take the outer as primary. There the mistake happened. A long stream began, occupied only with outer austerities. And today we have almost reached a situation where, since even the outer tapas is never completed, the question of entering inner tapas does not arise. The outer drowns life — and the outer can never be complete until the inner is complete. Keep this in mind.

Inner and outer are one reality. So if anyone thinks: first I will complete the outer tapas, then I will enter the inner — the outer will never be completed. Because the outer is itself only one half; as half, it cannot be whole. Jain sadhana wandered off exactly here: first complete the outer, then descend into the inner. The outer can never be complete, because the outer as such is incomplete. It will be complete only when the inner is complete. This means: only when both tapas move together can they come to completion; otherwise they do not. But the division has made us think we should first settle the outside, then we will journey within. If the outside itself is not being settled, how can the inner journey begin? Remember, tapas is one. Outer and inner are only a provisional division.

If someone wants to make only his feet healthy and thinks: first let the feet be cured, then I will heal the head — he is mistaken. The body is one, and the health of the body is a wholeness. Until recently scientists thought organs fall ill locally — the hand is ill, the foot is ill. But now the view is changing. Now they say: when one organ becomes ill, it is because the whole personality has become ill. Yes, the illness appears through the organ that is weakest, but it does not belong only to that organ. The whole personality becomes ill, though the symptom erupts at the weakest point.

So Hippocrates, who gave birth to medicine in the West, said — treat the disease. But in many Western medical colleges that plaque has been removed; now it reads — treat the patient. Do not treat the disease, treat the diseased person. Because the disease is localized; the diseased is spread throughout. The real issue is not the disease; the real issue is the diseased personality.

Inner and outer are parts of the whole personality. They have to begin simultaneously, together. In exposition we will always be one-dimensional. I will first speak of one limb, then the second, then the third, then the fourth. How can one speak of all four limbs at once? Language is one-dimensional. I will have to speak in a line: first the head, then the heart, then the feet. But that does not mean they are not together. They are together — your head, your heart, your feet — all simultaneously, not separate. In discussion we must divide, but in existence they are together.

The discussion I shall do is of twelve parts — six outer and six inner. For discussion there will be an order — one, two, three, four. But for those who practice, there will be no order. They must be practiced together; only then does fullness come — otherwise not. Language produces great errors, for language has no way to speak all at once.

I am here; if I go outside and report how many people sat in the front row, I will name first, then second, then third, then fourth. In my speaking there will be sequence. But in their sitting there is no sequence; they are present together. Existence is gathered, together. Language creates order; someone becomes ahead, someone behind. In existence there is no ahead or behind. Keep this in mind — then we shall begin with Mahavira’s outer tapas.

In outer tapas, Mahavira names the first austerity: anashan — fasting.

Whatever is commonly understood about fasting is wrong. There is a hidden sutra, an esoteric secret to anashan, which I want to share with you. Without it, fasting has no meaning. I want to tell you the occult process of fasting; understanding it will give you a sense of a new direction.

In the human body there is a double mechanism — two systems. This dual mechanism exists so that in emergency, if one system fails, the other can function. One system you are familiar with — our ordinary body. You eat; the body digests, makes blood, builds bones, makes flesh and marrow. This is the ordinary mechanism. But if someone gets lost in a forest, or a boat sinks in the sea and for many days there is no shore — there will be no food. Then the body has an emergency arrangement. The body will not receive food, but the need for food continues — because you must breathe, move your hands, live; fuel is needed. If fuel is not provided from outside, the body needs an arrangement to use the stored fuel within. So the body has a second, inner mechanism. If you remain without food for seven days, the body starts digesting itself. You need not carry food; your stored fat begins to turn into nourishment. In fasting your weight will drop about a pound a day — it is your own fat being digested. An ordinarily healthy person will not die for up to ninety days, because the reservoir is sufficient to keep the body alive that long without external food. So there are two sides to the body: the normal, daily arrangement; and a second, crisis arrangement — when no food can be obtained from outside, the body begins to digest its own stored provisions.

The secret of anashan is this: when the body transitions from one system to the other, in that passage for a few moments you reach where the body is not. That is the secret. Whenever you change from one thing to another, moving from one step to the next, there is a moment when you are on no step. When you leap from one state to another there is a gap, an interval, when you are in no state — and yet you are.

The body’s first arrangement is ordinary nourishment. If this is stopped, suddenly you must shift to the second. In the midst there are a few moments when you are established in yourself. Catching those moments is the use of fasting. Therefore one who practices fasting as a habit will not derive its benefit. Keep this in mind — if you make fasting a practice, its benefit is lost. Anashan is a sudden experiment — unexpected, abrupt. The more sudden, the more the gap is felt. If you are a practitioner, you become so skilled in shifting from one state to another that you do not notice the interval. For practitioners fasting brings no gain. And the very purpose of practice is that you should not notice the interval. If a man practices slowly he becomes so adept that the moment he changes state he does not know it. We change states every day, but through habit we do not notice.

At night you sleep — the body uses one mechanism for waking, another for sleeping. The mechanisms differ; the instruments differ. You do not wake by the same instrument with which you sleep. That is why if your waking mechanism is too active you cannot sleep. There is no other reason; you cannot enter the other arrangement. You remain stuck in the first. If you keep thinking of shop and business and work, your waking instrument keeps functioning and consciousness cannot withdraw from it. Only when you leave off there will consciousness immediately shift to the other mechanism — of sleep. But we are so practiced that we do not notice the gap. The moment between waking and sleep is the same as the moment between eating and fasting. Therefore you do not need food during sleep; you can sleep ten hours without needing food, but if you remain awake ten hours you will need it.

You know the polar bear in the polar regions, in Siberia. For six months the snow is intense and there is no food. So it sleeps — buried beneath the snow. That is its trick. In sleep hunger is not felt. It sleeps for six months, and wakes only when food becomes available again. The instrument of sleep requires no food; in fasting the same instrument is revealed — your emergency measure. In danger it is used. You will be surprised to know: when great danger arises, a man goes into sleep. If danger becomes so great that your conscious mind cannot face it, you fall into sleep, into unconsciousness. If there is too much pain, you faint — not for any other reason. The pain becomes unbearable for the waking brain, so consciousness shifts immediately into deep trance — you faint. Unconsciousness is a device to escape pain.

We often say: I have unbearable sorrow. Remember, sorrow never becomes unbearable. Before that you will become unconscious. As long as it is bearable you remain conscious; the moment it is unbearable, you faint. No one can ever suffer the unbearable; the arrangement is such that before that you will be unconscious. That is why before dying most people faint. Because the instrument by which you were living is no longer needed; consciousness shifts to the instrument hidden behind. Just before death you descend onto the second instrument.

In the human body there is a double body. One body is for daily work — waking, rising, sitting, talking, thinking, behavior. Another mechanism is hidden within, esoteric — for crisis. Anashan is a method to enter that crisis mechanism. There are many such methods by which the middle gap, the interval, becomes available. The Sufis did not use fasting; they used waking. It is the same matter — methods differ, the result is one.

Sufis used night-vigil — do not sleep, remain awake. Remain so awake that when sleep catches hold, do not go into it; remain awake, remain awake. If the effort to remain awake continues, and the waking mechanism is exhausted and stops, and even for a single instant you remain in the state where there is neither waking nor sleep, you will descend into the interval. Hence Sufis gave great value to night vigilance. Mahavira achieved the same by fasting. It is the same experiment.

There is a wondrous tantric scripture, Vigyan Bhairav. In it Shankar gives Parvati hundreds of such methods. Each method is in two lines. The result of every method is the same — that the middle gap is revealed. Shankar says: the breath goes in; the breath goes out. O Parvati, pause between the two and you will know yourself. When breath is neither moving out nor coming in, remain in the middle — and you will know yourself. You love someone and hate another — pause where there is neither love nor hate; stand between both and you will be available to yourself. There is sorrow and there is joy; pause where there is neither sorrow nor joy — in the middle — and you will attain knowing.

Anashan is one such systematic experiment. Why did Mahavira choose fasting? I say: to pause between two breaths is very difficult, because breath is non-voluntary — it does not move by your will; it moves without you. You sleep at night; it continues. Food cannot continue in sleep. Food is voluntary: it can stop by your will; it can proceed by your will. You can eat more or less; you can remain hungry for thirty days — but you cannot remain without breath. Without breath, even for a few moments is difficult — and if you remain without breath for a few moments, you will be so restless that in that restlessness the middle gap will not be visible. Restlessness alone will be there. So Mahavira did not suggest breath. He chose a voluntary function — food. The Sufis’ method of sleep is also difficult, because sleep too is non-voluntary — you cannot bring it by effort. When it comes, it comes; when it does not, a thousand tricks fail. Sleep is not in your power; it is outside you; it is very difficult to master.

Mahavira chose a very simple method that many could practice — food. One convenience is that for ninety days, even if you do not eat, no danger arises. If you remain without sleep for ninety days you will go mad; not ninety — even nine days without sleep will make you insane. Everything will blur; you will not know whether what you are seeing is dream or real. If you do not sleep for nine days, you will not be able to decide whether those sitting here are actually sitting or you are dreaming — the distinction will be lost. Sleep and waking will become so confused that nothing will be certain. What you hear — is it actually being spoken or only heard by you? And it is dangerous — there is full danger of derangement.

Today the followers of Mao in China inflict their greatest torture by not allowing opponents to sleep. You cannot harass much by starving, because after seven or eight days hunger stops. The body shifts to the other mechanism. After seven or eight days hunger disappears; the body begins to obtain nourishment in a new way, from within. But sleep? Very difficult. If someone is kept from sleep for seven days he becomes deranged, vulnerable. After seven or nine days without sleep, his intellect is so shaken that whatever you tell him he begins to accept. They keep him awake for a week or nine days, then they preach Communism, read Mao’s messages. He is no longer in a condition to resist, to say what you are saying is wrong; logic breaks down. With the distortion of sleep, logic collapses. He has to accept whatever is said.

Mahavira did not use sleep; he used fasting. Of all the experiments within human reach for pausing between the two mechanisms, food is the most convenient and simple. But if you practice it as a habit its meaning is lost. It is an occasional, sudden experiment.

You have not eaten — and when you have not eaten, beware — neither of food, nor of fasting. Attend to the middle point of when it arrives. Close your eyes and watch within for the moment when the body changes systems. In three days, or four, or five, or seven, a shift will happen. When it does, you enter another realm altogether. For the first time you will know you are not the body — neither the body that functioned till now, nor the body that now functions. Even a moment’s glimpse, between the two, that I am not the body, opens the door of the nectar of life.

But the tradition after Mahavira has practiced fasting. They have become habitual practitioners — and the more habitual, the more blind. They will not see. The way you become blind on the path you walk daily — nothing is seen there. But one who comes for the first time sees everything. If you go to Kashmir, you will see more of Dal Lake than the boatman who rows you; he is blind. Habit makes one blind. Understand this a little. He has seen so often that seeing is no longer needed; he rows without seeing. Thus the faces of those with whom we live are not really seen. If you meet a stranger in a train, his face may be remembered even later. But if you close your eyes and try to recall your mother’s or father’s face, it blurs. Even your own face, which you see daily in the mirror — close your eyes and try to recall it; it is lost. You look in the mirror like a blind man. Habit is fixed.

Habit blinds. Subtle things are not seen. And the point between food and fasting is very subtle, delicate, fragile. With a little practice you will miss it; it will not come to mind. Therefore do not practice fasting as a routine. Do it sometimes, suddenly — its use is precious, wondrous. As if you slept here in this room and upon opening your eyes you found yourself on Dal Lake — your presence would be so intense as it would not be if you traveled gradually from here to the lake. To open and suddenly find — you will be startled: where did I sleep, where am I? You will be so conscious there will be no measure for it.

Those who went to Gurdjieff for sadhana — this man was very precious in the last fifty years — Gurdjieff would do the same work, but in the opposite way. No Jain could imagine any kinship between Gurdjieff and Mahavira. Yet, if you went to Gurdjieff he would first feed you a great deal — so much you would feel you might die. He insisted. Many fled because they could not agree to eat so much. Till two in the night he would keep feeding. And when someone like Gurdjieff insists, or if someone like Mahavira keeps placing food on your plate, it becomes difficult to refuse. Gurdjieff would say — more, and more — till you were overflowing. For ten days he would feed you so much that you became utterly disgusted with eating. Remember, fasting can create fascination for food; overeating creates aversion. He would feed and feed till you were frightened, ready to run away — saying, I will die. Your mind remembered only the stomach twenty-four hours. Then suddenly he would make you fast. The gap became big. From eating too much to not eating at all — a sudden shove — the in-between space expands. Ten days he fed you till you wept and begged — on the eleventh morning he said: no food. He enlarged the gap. Till now there was only the memory of food; now suddenly no food.

Gurdjieff would bathe you in hot water till you felt burned, then stand you under a cold fountain and say: be aware of the gap. From the heat where the body is sweating, to the ice-cold shower — he often did this — he would sit you before braziers while snow fell outside; you would be drenched in sweat, crying out that you would die, be burned — he would not relent. Suddenly he would open the door — run, jump into the icy lake — and say: be aware of the gap. Between the extremes — scorching and freezing — the moment of transition, be mindful. And countless people saw that gap. You will see it.

Mahavira’s anashan is the same experiment. If the middle point is noticed — when we shift from one body to the other — like changing boats: for a moment both boats are left, for a moment you are in between, the jump is made — just so is the inner leap in fasting. In that moment of the leap, if you are full of alertness, if you watch, then for the first time, for a brief moment, a slight experience, a glimpse, a door opening will be felt. That is the use of fasting. But a Jain monk, practicing fasting, will never receive this. It is not a matter of practice; it is an occasional, sudden leap — from one extreme to the other, so that the middle is noticed.

If you want to go into relaxation, there are books telling you — just lie down and relax. You will ask — how? If it were so easy, we would have done it already. ‘Just lie down and relax and go into rest.’ How to go? But Zen masters in Japan do not advise like this. To one who cannot sleep, cannot relax, they say: first, be tense — as much as you can. Stretch your hands and feet; stretch your brain; give your body as much tension as possible, behave like a madman with your body. Tense as much as you can — do not merely relax, be tense. They say: contract the brain as much as you can; create as many wrinkles on the brow as possible; contract every limb as if the final moment has come; gather all your strength and pull. When the peak of tension comes, then the Zen master says: now relax, drop. From one extreme you will fall into the other. And when you fall from one extreme to the other, the middle moment comes — where the first taste of oneself is received.

There are many experiments, but all are ways of moving from one extreme to the other. From anywhere — move from one extreme to the opposite. If it becomes habitual, the middle point becomes so small you cannot notice it. Then there is no awareness of it.

A few more points about anashan. Mahavira’s emphasis on fasting was great — why? One reason I have told you — its esoteric, inner secret. But there are others. Mahavira knows — as do all who have experimented in this direction — that your connection with this body is through food. Food is the bridge between you and the body. If one wants to know ‘I am not this body,’ it will be easiest to know at that time when there is no food at all in the body. When the linking element is not there, it is easy to know that I am not the body. The more the linking element is present, the more difficult it is to know. Food connects; therefore after ninety days, in its absence, the connection breaks — the Atman falls apart from the body. The linking element in between has fallen away. So Mahavira says: as long as there is food in the body there is a link. Bring yourself to a state where there is no food in the body at all, then you will easily know you are separate from the body. Identification will break.

This is true. The more food in the body, the greater the identification with the body. That is why after eating, sleep comes immediately. When identification with the body increases, stupor increases. When identification breaks, awareness increases. Therefore in fasting it becomes difficult to sleep — on an empty stomach sleep does not come easily; it becomes difficult.

A third point — Mahavira’s whole experiment is one of awakening, of de-hypnotization, of awareness. Food increases stupor, creates drowsiness; after a meal sleep becomes inevitable — therefore if food is not taken, the opposite will happen: awareness will grow, wakefulness will deepen. This is everyone’s experience. After eating, sleep increases. And if you sleep on an empty stomach, you will see sleep becomes difficult, it breaks again and again.

Why does a full stomach bring sleep? The scientific reason: for the body’s survival, food is most important — more than your intellect. One can do without intellect once.

I have heard: once thieves surrounded Mulla Nasruddin. They said, ‘Empty your pockets, or we will put a bullet in your skull.’ Mulla said, ‘It will do without a skull — but how will it do with empty pockets?’

He said, ‘Without a skull it will do. I see many managing without skulls — but not with empty pockets. Shoot the skull.’

The thieves must have been amazed — but Mulla was right; we too know it.

There is a tale that Mulla underwent a brain operation. A doctor had developed a new technique by which he would take out the brain, fix it, and put it back. He removed Mulla’s brain and took it to the next room. When he returned, Mulla had gone. Six years later Mulla came back. The doctor was upset. ‘Where were you so long? How did you run away? How did you survive? Your skull is with me.’ Mulla said, ‘Greetings! Without it I managed very well — I was elected to Parliament; I was in the capital. Now no need — please excuse me. I came only to say — do not worry; you keep it.’

Nature too is not concerned about your intellect; it is concerned about your stomach. As soon as food enters the stomach, the body’s energy rushes to digest it. The energy that keeps your brain awake moves toward the stomach. Therefore drowsiness is felt — the energy that would have served the brain is now engaged in digestion. Hence those who work with the brain eat less and less; those who do not, eat more, because that remains their life.

Mahavira noticed: when the body is without food, prajna is at its purest, because then the body’s whole energy is available to the brain; the stomach has no demand. This will become clearer later — Mahavira would say: let food stop; let the body’s activities stop; let the body remain still like a statue; let not even a finger move without purpose; let everything come to a minimum — then the body’s energy, otherwise divided, becomes available to the brain, and for the first time the brain is capable of waking. Otherwise it is not.

If Mahavira also preferred vegetarian food — not meat — it was not only for ahimsa. Ahimsa was one reason. But more important was this: meat demands more power to digest; it makes the body heavier; it makes the stomach more important; it depletes the brain’s energy and deepens stupor. If ahimsa alone were the reason, Mahavira could have said: there is no harm in eating the flesh of animals who have died naturally — Buddha even allowed this. If only nonviolence were the cause, then do not kill; the violence lies in killing, not in eating. An animal has died — we did not kill; we eat — where is violence? In eating the flesh of the dead there is no violence. Buddha permitted it. But Mahavira did not permit even that. Because his purpose was not only ahimsa. Deeper was this: meat requires more energy to digest; it burdens the body; it centralizes the stomach; the brain’s energy diminishes; torpor deepens.

Therefore Mahavira advised light foods, requiring the least power, so that the brain’s energy is not reduced. Only if the flow of energy to the brain remains can you remain awake — in the state in which you are now. That is why he called this bahya-tapas, not antar-tapas. One who has attained inner tapas remains awake even in sleep — that is another matter. One who has attained inner tapas — even if you make him drink alcohol he remains conscious. Give him morphia — the body may slacken, but within his flame remains lit. His prajna is not affected.

But our condition is not so. Even a morsel of food alters our consciousness — a small piece disturbs us; we become inwardly dull. So Mahavira has called this the first austerity in the outer. If you want to increase consciousness, when there is no food in the body it will be easier to do so. Small things have consequences — because where we live, we are bound and filled with small things. The day we can make man free of the need for food, on that day man will be filled with consciousness. We are not bound by the earth; we are bound by the belly. Our deep bondage is not to matter as such — more truly, it is to food. To the degree you are anxious for food, to that degree you will be in stupor, sleepy; it will be difficult to bring awakening within.

So the matter is not merely that you give up food. That is only the outer form. Within, awareness must increase. How it increases we shall understand under inner tapas. But by leaving food occasionally, the experiment of increasing awareness is precious. Yet when we leave food, awareness does not increase; only thoughts of food increase. Because we do not know why we are leaving food. We are told that just leaving food is merit. That is sheer foolishness. Leaving food alone is not merit. The merit lies in the secret behind leaving food. If you think only leaving food is merit, you will sit and think of food — for you do not know the inner element. And remember: thinking of food is worse than food itself — because thinking takes the brain’s work to the belly’s task, creating confusion. It will make your whole personality sick. We shall speak of this later, for in the second sutra Mahavira emphasizes it.

Thinking of food is worse than food, because food is the stomach’s business; thinking is the brain’s. Better to let the stomach do its work. Only when the brain is free of the thought of food does fasting have any use — when there is neither food nor thought of food.

You know your mind’s thoughts are of two kinds — sex or food. Either lust surrounds the mind, or the lust for taste. Deep down it is sex — because without food sex is not possible. If food is reduced, sex becomes difficult. So, deep down it is sex. Because food fuels sex, food surrounds us. On the surface, thoughts of food run. Ask Mahavira and he will say: one who is anxious about food will be filled with sex-lust. Food is the symptom — it gives power to sex, drives you into it. Mahavira will say: one who is obsessed with food and taste will be full of sex-lust. When the lust for food drops, sex-lust begins to slacken.

When we think of food, it is because food is not available and the mind creates a substitute. Remember, a deep trick of the mind is the creation of substitutes. If you do not get water, the mind produces dreams of water. At night if you sleep thirsty you may dream you are drinking — a substitute. Thirst continues, sleep does not want to break — because to drink you must wake — so sleep produces a dream: you have reached the fridge, drinking water, and again you sleep. The dream is a device — relieving the pain of thirst while allowing sleep to continue. Your dreams only reveal what you did not do during the day — nothing else. Without your dreams your life is hard to understand, so modern psychology asks not what you did by day; it asks what you dreamt at night. A psychologist will not learn about you from your daytime acts — there is much deception there. You intended to go to the brothel, you reached the temple. In day this is possible; not in dreams — there you will go to the brothel. In dreams you are more authentic, simple.

Hence the psychologist must learn your dreams — only then does he know you. From you he cannot learn — your waking is so false. He must descend into your sleep. If you fast by day, it reveals nothing. Whether you ate in dreams will reveal it. If you ate in dreams, the day’s fast is wasted. And on the day you fast, eating in dreams becomes almost compulsory. Somewhere a feast appears — what can you do? In a palace there is a banquet — what can you do? You have to go.

Thinking is a desperate attempt to complete what is not happening in reality. If you do not eat, you will think of food. And remember, by eating it would have been over in fifteen minutes; by thinking it will not end in fifteen minutes. A fifteen-minute act will be stretched to one hundred fifty hours — going on and on, because satiety will not come; the juice of food will not be obtained, the strength will not come; so you will remain entangled in thought. Therefore Mahavira says: whether you do with the body or with the mind, I do not distinguish. You stole — or you planned to steal — for me it is the same. The sin is done. It is not a question of whether you killed — or thought of killing.

Courts distinguish — if you think of killing, no court can punish you. Think as much as you like. The court cannot say you are a criminal. You might even say in court: we take great delight in murder, we dream of it, day and night we think of cutting this one’s throat and that one’s — we go on cutting. The court can do nothing; law can only grasp the act, the deed.

But Mahavira says: dharma grasps the feeling too. You cannot be outside the court of dharma. The feeling is enough. The act is only the outer shadow of the feeling; the root is the feeling. If I wanted to kill, I have killed — only outward circumstances prevented it. The policeman stood there; the court stood there; the fear of punishment was there — that is why I did not. That is another matter. The cause of not doing was outside; the cause of doing was inside. It is the inner you that will be weighed, not outer circumstances. It will not be asked: when you wanted to kill, you had no gun, so you could not. The feeling is enough — the murder is done.

If you think of food, the fast is destroyed. Then it becomes very difficult. It means you will not be able to fast until you have mastery over thought. Therefore I said: for discussion we placed this first — but you will not be able to do it alone until there is mastery over thinking; until thought follows behind you; until in thinking only what you want to run, runs. Right now the state is such that whatever thinking wants, you have to go along. The servant has become the master.

I have heard: an American millionaire, Rothschild, would give some alms every morning to beggars who came. One beggar came regularly for twenty years. Rothschild gave him a dollar for himself, and one for his old father. The father sometimes came, sometimes not — too old — so the son took it. Slowly the beggar became so assured that if he could not come for four days, on the fifth he would present his bill and collect the four dollars due. Then his father died. Rothschild learned of it. But the beggar continued to take the father’s dollar. For a month Rothschild said nothing — the man’s father had died, better not shock him. After a month he said: ‘Now it is too much; your father is dead — why do you take his dollar?’ The beggar said: ‘What do you think — are you heir to my father’s wealth or am I? Who is the heir? Did my father die, or yours? If my father died, I am the owner of his property.’

Rothschild wrote in his memoirs: beggars too become masters, by habit. He was amazed, and said: ‘Take two dollars, brother — and write a will for your son. As long as we are, we will give; we will have to give your son too, for this has become a will!’

Thinking is only your servant — but it has become the master. All the senses are your servants — but they have become masters. Habit is long-standing. You have never commanded your senses. Your senses have commanded you.

I will give you one meaning of tapas: tapas means mastery over your senses — the capacity to command them. The belly says: I am hungry. You say: fine, you are — but today I am not willing to eat. You separate from the belly. The mind says: today let us think of food. You say: no — when there is no food, why think of it? We will not think. Only then can you fast. Otherwise there will be no difference. The belly will keep saying: hungry; the mind will keep thinking — you will be more entangled, more troubled. And like the beggar who came after four days with his bill, after four days of fasting the belly will present its bill: four days no food — now do more. After Paryushan, within ten days everything is made up — twice over in revenge. Whatever was missed will be filled abundantly. The senses will stand again in their place.

Fasting is possible only when you have command over thought. But you have no command. You have never experimented. We have been trained in thought — in thinking — but not in the mastery of thought. In school and college you are taught to think, to add two and two — everything is taught — except one thing: to add two and two only when needed; when not needed, do not add. But if the mind wants to add two and two, you cannot stop it. Try it today at home: say, we will not add two and two — the mind will immediately add. It will defy you: two and two make four. You say: we will not add; it says: four. It defies you — and it must, because you are taking away its lordship. Till now you have kept it master. It will not change in a day. But if awareness arises regarding this — that I have become a slave of my senses — then perhaps you will have to travel a little against the senses. Anashan is the beginning of such a journey.

Mahavira says: fine. Not today — the matter is settled. But between your no and yes there is not much difference. In your personality there is little difference between yes and no. Your child says: I want this toy. You say: no — loudly. But the child stamps his feet — ‘I want it.’ You say again: be sensible — no. Your strength diminishes; your no is moving toward yes. The child keep stamping — ‘I want it.’ Finally you buy it. The child knows your ‘no’ means only this — stamp the feet three or four times and it will become yes. Even small children know how much you mean when you say no — and how to cut it. They cut it — and turn it to yes. The louder you say no, the more the child knows this is a declaration of weakness — you try to frighten. You are afraid within lest yes slip out. The child understands — he spoke loudly; fine, in a little while it will be okay. One who is truly strong does not say a loud ‘no’. He says it quietly — ‘no’ — and the matter is finished.

Your senses learn the same tantrum as children. You say: today no food. You will be surprised — if you usually eat at eleven, you feel hungry at eleven daily. But if you decide at night to fast tomorrow, hunger begins at six in the morning. Astonishing — you never felt hunger at six. What happened? You have done nothing yet; the fast will start at eleven — only a thought at night — tomorrow we will fast — and hunger starts in the morning. The belly tries to turn your no into yes right then. It says: do you think we will wait till eleven? Hunger will be stronger than ever — such hunger was never felt before. Usually it was only a time-bond — you ate at eleven because it was time. Today hunger will be great, and though there is in fact no difference — you always remained hungry till eleven — nonetheless the mind changes and the senses try to establish their mastery. They will insist: I am very hungry — such hunger never was.

No one gives up lordship easily. To give it once is easy; to take it back is difficult. That difficulty is tapas. But if you are certain, if your no means no and your yes means yes — truly — the senses learn very quickly. Very quickly they learn — that your no is no and your yes is yes.

So I say to you: if you make a resolve, do not break it — otherwise do not make it. Because making and breaking weakens you beyond measure. Better not to make it — then such weakness will not arise. One trust remains — that when we do resolve we will fulfill it. But if you make and break, you become mean before your own eyes. And that meanness stays with you. When you make another resolve, you already know it will break; it cannot last. Begin with small resolves — very small.

Gurdjieff would begin with very small resolves. He would say: raise this hand. Now do not put it down. The moment you decide not to lower it, the whole hand says: put it down. Do not put it down — whatever happens, do not. ‘Until I say,’ Gurdjieff would say, ‘do not lower it. The hand will argue.’ You wonder — how can a hand argue? The hand argues. It says: I am tired, now lower me. It says: where is Gurdjieff looking? Lower once and raise again — his back is turned. And remember, whenever Gurdjieff gave such an order he would sit with his back turned. The hand finds twenty-five arguments. It says: what if paralysis happens? Then: what is the use — by raising the hand will one meet God? The hand is of the body — what has it to do with the soul?

People come to me and say: what will happen by changing clothes? The soul has to change. They do not have the courage to change clothes — they will change the soul! They say: the inner must change; what will outer change do? They cannot gather the strength for the outer — they dream of changing the inner. The outer is not as outer as you think — it penetrates within. The inner is not as inner as you think — it reaches to your clothes. It is spread all around.

It is very easy to deceive oneself. One who cannot remain hungry says: what will fasting do? What will starving do? Nothing will happen. One who cannot stand naked says: what will standing naked do? Nothing will happen by fasting — then will something happen by eating? If nothing happens by nakedness, will it happen by clothes? If nothing by ochre garments, will it happen by garments of other colors? While wearing other colors he never argued that clothes do nothing — but when it is ochre he brings the argument. Our mind, our senses, our clothes — all argue for us, and we rationalize.

Remember, reason and rationalization are very different. There is a big difference between intelligence and the counterfeit erected in its name. When the hand says: I will get tired, I will die — Gurdjieff says: do not lower it. If it truly gets tired it will fall — what will you do then? If it truly becomes tired, how will it stay up? As long as it stays up, do not drop it. If it falls, see that it is falling — but do not cooperate. Do not support it. The matter is subtle — we can, with great cunning, cooperate while pretending we are not. We say: it is falling, I am not lowering. You know well it is not falling — you are lowering it. You must see within cleanly your own dishonesty, your tricks, your deceptions. One who does not see his deceptions — for him there remains no difference between yes and no. He says no and does yes; he says yes and does no.

Mulla Nasruddin had a son. When the boy grew, Mulla thought to test what he would become. He placed the Koran, a bottle of wine, and a ten-rupee note in a room — and hid to watch. The boy entered, put the ten-rupee note in his pocket, tucked the Koran under his arm, and began to drink the wine. Mulla ran to his wife: ‘He will become a politician. If he read the Koran we’d think he will be religious; if he drank, we’d think irreligious; if he took the money and ran, a businessman. But he will be a politician — he will do everything at once. He will say one thing, do another, be something else.’

Our mind does exactly that — doing religion and thinking irreligion! What it does and what it thinks are unrelated — itself something else. Austerity is the name of cutting this net and giving the personality a single sculpture — so that a clear form arises, a shape takes birth. You do not remain a distorted, amorphous thing. Let a form emerge; slowly you become clear — a clarity. If you do not want to eat, do not eat — let it become the voice of your whole personality. Then the matter is finished — until eating is to be resumed.

Mahavira made a very unique experiment — perhaps a safeguard. Suppose you decide: for twenty-four hours I will not eat and will not think of food. The mind says: no harm, it is only twenty-four hours. After twenty-four we will do it. Okay — somehow we will pass the time. The mind can agree — because it is definite, not indefinite. After twenty-four hours it will be done. In such a case you will not get the celebratory joy of fasting; it will be a burden. The ecstasy, the wave that comes with mastery over the senses will not arise. There will be only load — twenty-four hours to bear. You will drag yourself through, pass time in a temple, a monastery — finish it somehow.

Then there is no fasting. Mahavira would not fix when he would eat. He would leave it to the indefinite, to destiny. It was a very astonishing method — unique on this earth. He would say: I will take food when such and such an event happens. Now the event is not in your hands. ‘I shall go on the road — if in front of a bullock cart a man is standing and weeping; if the bullocks are black; if the man has one eye blind and from the other a tear is falling — then I will accept food. And even then — only if someone there invites me in that very place. Otherwise I will move on.’ Many days Mahavira would go to a village — what he had predetermined did not occur — he returned without eating. But he returned joyous, saying: when destiny itself has no wish — why should I? When the cosmic power says, not today — the matter is finished. Know your work and destiny’s work — and he would return. The whole village would be in tears, disturbed — many would be standing with food, with arrangements prepared.

Even today they stand — but now the Jain Digambar monk still does such experiments — only now it is all declared in advance. The five-seven signs are fixed; five-seven houses fulfill them. Before one house, bananas hang — known to all. Women stand in white sari to invite — known to all. Now the rules are fixed; five-seven houses arrange them. The monk never returns without food. Surely he is more clever than Mahavira. Never empty-handed. There is collusion between those who prepare the food and the monk. They know his rules; he knows theirs. He takes the same rules; they fulfill them. He brings food and returns. Man can deceive himself in infinite ways.

Mahavira’s way was very different — he told no one; it was within him. What it was — unknown. Sometimes for three months he had to return without food. The matter ended — it was indefinite. When the mind has no boundary, to break it is very easy; when it has a boundary, to stretch it is easy. If it is only one hour, we will pass it. Twenty-four hours — we will spend them. But indefinite. Mahavira’s fasting had no limit. Whether it would end or not — even whether this would be the last meal of his life — nothing was certain. Tomorrow he would go to the village — if it happened, it happened; if not, not; he would return — finished.

Therefore, as deep as the experiments Mahavira did on fasting and anashan — no one on this earth has ever done. Yet the wonder is — even with such difficult experiments, food did come sometimes. In twelve years he received food three hundred sixty-five times. Sometimes after fifteen days, sometimes two months, sometimes three, sometimes four — food came. Mahavira would say: what is to be obtained, arrives. And he would say: renunciation can only be of what is not going to arrive; how can you renounce what is going to arrive? Then he would say: what comes by destiny binds no karma upon me. I have no relation with it. I asked from no one; I left it to the infinite — if there is a need in the cosmos for me to be carried along, it will arrange; if there is no need, the matter is finished. I have no personal need. Remember, Mahavira’s whole process is the dropping of jiv-eshana — the desire to live. He says: I make no effort to remain alive. If existence needs me, arrange — that is not my arrangement. And if it needs me no more, I have already dropped my own need.

But the wonder remains — even so Mahavira lived forty years more; healthy, joyous. This hunger did not kill him. Leaving it to destiny did not make him mean. Removing the will-to-live did not bring death. Many secrets become known. Our notion — that I am the one who keeps me alive — is insanity. Our thought — that until I die, how will I die — is foolishness. Much is outside our hands. By thinking it inside our hands, ego is born. By knowing what is outside as outside, the ego dissolves.

Mahavira does not even produce his own bath. He does not bathe. Whatever rain washes, is enough. Yet a strange thing — Mahavira’s body did not stink. It should — very much — because he did not bathe. But have you noticed — hundreds of animals and birds do not bathe. Rainwater is enough — do they stink? Only man is such an animal that stinks — needs deodorant. Daily spray perfumes, bathe in deodorant soaps — and after five minutes sitting near someone, the real news is known.

Man alone stinks. Those close to Mahavira were astonished — his body carried no foul smell. Actually, Mahavira lives as animals and birds live — leaving himself to destiny to that degree. Not that if sweat comes he is disturbed. He is ready for sweat; if stench comes, he is ready for stench. In fact, from readiness a new fragrance begins to arise — acceptability. When we accept all, a unique fragrance fills life. All stench is the stench of non-acceptance. All ugliness is the ugliness of non-acceptance. With acceptance comes a unique beauty; with acceptance a unique fragrance fills life.

If rain falls, Mahavira understands — the clouds intended to bathe him. When this was written in stories, we made big mistakes. Poets write the tales — when they do, symbols and poetry get added; myth is made. Poets said: the gods came to bathe him — and the whole charm was spoiled. The matter ended. The gods performed abhisheka. Mahavira himself did not bathe — so the gods became restless; they came and bathed him. Actually, it is not so. The matter is only this — Mahavira left himself to the whole. When clouds rained, the bath happened. In those days people even called clouds gods. It was Indra — so the tale says: Indra came and bathed him. These are symbols. The matter is only this — Mahavira left everything to destiny, to nature — whatever is to be done, do; I am ready.

This readiness is ahimsa. And for this readiness he placed anashan as the primary sutra. Why? Because how will you be ready for the Vast when your senses are not even ready for you? See a little. This is a double side. Your senses are not ready with you — the belly says: give food; the body says: give clothes; the back says: needs rest. Each sense rebels — it says: give this, otherwise your life is useless. You are living in vain — die rather than live without a good bed. Your senses are displeased with you, not ready with you — and they drag you. How will you be ready with the Vast! If in this small body your tiny senses are not ready with you, how will you be ready in this vast body of the cosmos? And as long as your attention is entangled with the senses, how will it turn to the Vast? It remains stuck in the petty — a thorn in the foot, a headache, this rib aches, that sense demands. Chasing these, all time is wasted.

So Mahavira says: first make these senses ready with you. Anashan means — make the belly ready with you; do not become ready with the belly. Know well: the belly is for you — you are not for the belly. But few can courageously say this. Deep within they know — we exist for the belly; the belly is not for us. We have become the means; the senses have become the end. They keep pulling; we keep running.

Mulla Nasruddin one day sat on his roof, repairing tiles. Rains were near; he was fixing the thatch. A beggar called from below: ‘Nasruddin, come down!’ Nasruddin said: ‘Say what you want from there.’ He said: ‘Forgive me — come down.’ Nasruddin climbed down, went to the beggar. The beggar said: ‘Give me something to eat.’ Nasruddin said: ‘Fool! You could have said that from below. Why call me down?’ He said: ‘I was embarrassed — if I shouted, someone might hear.’ Nasruddin said: ‘Quite right. Come — up.’ The beggar was stout; with difficulty he climbed. Nasruddin resumed his work. After a while the beggar said: ‘Have you forgotten?’ Nasruddin said: ‘I will not give alms — I brought you up to say it.’ The beggar said: ‘What kind of man are you — why not say it below?’ Nasruddin said: ‘I felt embarrassed — someone might hear. If you, a beggar, can call me down, can I not, as the master, call you up?’

But all our senses call us down; we cannot call them up. Anashan means — we will call the senses up; we will not go down with them.

Enough for today.

Tomorrow we will consider the second point. But for five minutes, do not go — remain seated…!