Mahaveer Vani #13

The last sutra, the final limb of bahya-tap, is: sanlinata.
Sanlinata is the bridge between bahya-tap and antar-tap. Without sanlinata no one can cross from outer austerities into the territory of inner austerities. Hence it is essential to understand sanlinata very attentively. Sanlinata is the frontier; from there outer tapas end and inner tapas begin.
The meaning and the practice of sanlinata are very wondrous. Tradition says only this much: not to move the limbs of the body unnecessarily is sanlinata. If the body does not shake or stir without cause, if it is restrained, that is sanlinata. It is not only so—this is hardly anything. This does not even touch the outer outline of sanlinata. Sanlinata has deep meanings. Let us understand it in three parts—first: in your body, in your mind, in your prana there is no movement at all unless your consciousness itself trembles. Even for a finger to move, a vibration arises in the inner Self. Outwardly it appears the finger moved, but the vibration comes from within; it rises from the subtle and spreads to the gross. The point is not merely that the finger should not move, because it can be that the finger does not move and yet inside there is agitation. One can sit with the body absolutely immobile, sit in a yogic posture, practice, and no tremor may be visible on the body, yet within a storm rages, the lava of a volcano boils, fire burns.
In truth, sanlinata happens only when within everything becomes so quiet that no wave arises from within that could become a tremor on the body, a ripple. But we will have to begin with the body, because we are standing on the body. So whoever wishes to enter the practice of sanlinata must first begin to observe the activities of his body. That is the first part.
Have you ever noticed that when you are angry you walk in a different way? When you are angry, the lines on your face change; different colors spread in your eyes; a certain movement comes into your teeth. Your fingers become laden, weighted with a kind of force. Your whole nervous system alters. When you are sad you walk in a different way—your legs are heavy, you don’t even feel like lifting them, you don’t feel like going anywhere. As if a stone has been placed upon your prana, all your senses are pressed by a stone. When you are sad, the color of your face changes, the lines change. When you are in love, when you are peaceful—then too everything is different. But likely you have not observed.
If you want to understand the experiment of sanlinata, then when you are angry, run to a mirror and look at what is happening to your face. Others have seen your anger-filled face—you have not. See what your face looks like. When you are sad, go stand before a mirror and see what your eyes are like. When you are walking in sadness, notice how your feet fall, whether the body is drooping or lifted.
Before attacking France, Hitler sent a psychologist there and asked him, “Look on the streets of France—how do the young men walk? Are their spines straight or bent?” The psychologist reported back that in France people walk hunched. Hitler said, “Then there will be no difficulty in defeating them.” Have you seen a Hitlerian soldier? The whole of Germany walked with straight spines. When someone is filled with hope, the spine straightens. When someone is filled with despair, the spine sags. In old age the spine does not bend only because the body has grown weak; even more so it bends because life becomes filled with despair. Death begins to appear ahead; the future disappears. The spine of one like Mahavira will not bend even in old age, because in old age death is not the real issue—there is the door of moksha, the supreme bliss. So the spine does not bend.
You too, when you are of a healthy, cheerful mind, stand differently. If I am speaking and you feel no juice in it, you lean back into your chair. If you are interested, your spine leaves the chair; you sit upright. And if, while watching a film, a very sensitive, thrilling, shiver-producing moment comes, your spine not only straightens, it leans forward. Your breath pauses. The small changes arising in the mind spread their ripples all the way to the perimeter of the body. Astrologers, palmists, or those who read faces depend ninety percent on you—how you rise, how you walk, how you sit, what expressions are on your face. Even you do not know it, yet all that gives much news about you.
Man is a book; he can be read. And the one who wants to enter into sadhana must begin to read his own book. First of all you must recognize what kind of person you are. So when you are angry, stand in front of a mirror and see—what is your face like, what is its color, what lines are spreading over the eyes? When you are peaceful, when the mind is cheerful, then too stand before a mirror. Then you will be able to see many of your portraits, and another delightful event will occur, which is the second part of the experiment of sanlinata. When you stand before a mirror and study an angry mind, you will suddenly find that the anger begins to slip away, to subside. Because the one who becomes engaged in studying anger breaks his connection with anger and connects with study. The identification of his consciousness, “I am anger,” breaks; it connects with “I am studying.” And the tendency with which our connection breaks immediately becomes feeble.
So standing before a mirror you will come to know another secret: if you observe anger, anger cannot remain alive—it dissolves at once. And another interesting experience will occur: when you are very calm and life appears like a flower of joy in some moment—perhaps the morning sun has risen and seeing it the heart has blossomed; or you have seen the night sky with moon and stars and their shadows and their peace have entered your mind; or you saw a flower open and its inner, sealed silence spread into your prana—then stand before a mirror. A new experience will happen: when one observes peace, anger dissolves through observation, but peace increases and deepens through observation. Anger dissolves because your relationship with anger is broken. To stay related to anger requires restlessness, perturbation, vexation. For study, quiet is essential. For observation, silence is required—neutrality is required. The relationship breaks.
The more you become an observer of peace, the more the peace necessary for observation joins you. The quiet required for study also joins you. The neutrality necessary also joins you. Peace deepens. In truth, that which deepens through observation alone is real life. And that which falls away through observation was a deception. Or say it this way: that which remains when observed is virtue; that which disappears at once when observed is sin. The first experiment of sanlinata is: right observation, samyak nirīkshana. You will be amazed how many portraits you are, all at once.
For the first time on this earth Mahavira used a word which in the West has now been revived. Mahavira used it first—“bahuchittata”—multi-mindedness. Today this word has great value in the West. They do not even know Mahavira used it twenty-five hundred years ago—polysychic. The West today values this deeply, because as soon as it began to probe the mind it said: the mind is not monosychic; man does not have one mind—there are innumerable minds; it is polysychic, many minds. Mahavira said two and a half millennia ago that man is bahuchittavan—multi-minded—not a single mind as we suppose. We keep saying, “my mind.” We should say, “my minds,” not “my mind.”
Do you have one mind? If there were only one, life would be otherwise—there are many. And these minds are not just many, they are antagonistic to one another as well. They are each other’s enemies. That is why you are one thing in the morning, another at noon, something else by evening. Even you cannot make sense of what is happening. When you are in love you are one person; when you are in hatred you are someone else. There is no harmony, no connection between them. One who has seen you in hatred would hardly believe you are the same man if he sees you in love. And note: not only due to hatred; the entire contour of your face, the mode of your body, your aura—everything will have changed.
So first observe, correctly recognize how many minds you have. And what is the body’s response to each mind-state? How does your body change with each state of mind? When you are peaceful you don’t even feel like moving the body. The breath does not run strongly. Even the speed of blood lessens. The heartbeats become gentle. When you are disturbed there is needless movement in the body. A restless man sitting in a chair will keep shaking a leg. Ask him, “What are you doing—trying to walk while seated?” He is shaking his leg. If a man sits a little while he keeps changing sides—what is happening within as he sits? Within, the mind is so agitated that he releases that restlessness through the body. If he did not release it, he would go mad. It will have to be released. If in the evening he goes running for an hour on the field, plays, walks around and returns, then fine; otherwise he will keep giving motion to the body while sitting or lying down, and keep freeing energy there.
But that energy is being dissipated in vain. Sanlinata is energy collection, energy conservation. And if we do not live in sanlinata we keep squandering our energy just like that—uselessly, pointlessly, from which nothing will result, nothing will be attained, nowhere will you arrive. You keep shaking your leg on the chair—no destination is reached thereby. With the same energy one could have arrived somewhere, attained something. Twenty-four hours a day we keep throwing energy out through our limbs. But first this needs to be studied—you must know yourself—and you will be very surprised. When the book of your life starts opening before you, you will be amazed—no mystery novel, however mysterious, is as mysterious; no story, however unique, is as strange, as alien, as you are.
And it is not only that you will find yourself different in anger and non-anger; you will find that even anger has shades. There are many colors to anger. Sometimes you are angry in one way, sometimes in another, sometimes in a third. And with each of these, the shape of your body is different. Layer by layer, seeing yourself, you will be astonished how much is hidden within. This is the first experiment—observation. By it you will recognize what is happening inside you. You are a bundle of energy—what use are you making of that energy?
Second: as soon as you become capable of seeing anger, you will find before the mirror that anger by itself subsides—and then add another experiment, which is the second experiment of sanlinata. When the mind is filled with anger, stand before a mirror. This can be done only after observation, after a long period of observing. Stand before a mirror and deliberately make the limbs of the body as they are in peace. Stand before the mirror; you remember well what your face is like in peace. Now an angry state is here—the face is flowing in the current of anger. Standing before the mirror, recall that face which is in peace and begin to lead the face toward peace. Very soon, in just a few days, you will be surprised that you have become capable of bringing the face toward peace. The entire art of acting depends on this very practice. If someone has this talent innately he appears skillful in acting.
But this talent can be developed—and it can be developed to an extent that is hard to estimate. Standing before the mirror, anger is within and you pour the current of peace upon the face. In a few days you will become capable. Then you will be able to experience something new: anger can run in the mind and peace can run in the body. And when you become capable of both together, you become the third—you are neither anger, nor mind, nor body. For the mind is in anger, burning in it; but upon the body you have poured a stream of peace—it has been filled with a tranquil form. Certainly, you have become distinct and separate from both. Now you cannot identify yourself either with anger or with peace. You are the one who sees both.
And the day you produce two together, for the first time you will experience a freedom. You are outside both. Identification with one is easy; with two it is not easy. To join with one is simple; to join simultaneously with two opposing things is very difficult—impossible. Yes, it may happen at different times: in the morning you join with anger, at noon you join with peace. That can be, at different times. But simultaneously you cannot join with both anger and peace. There will be great difficulty. How will you connect? The joining becomes difficult.
Mulla Nasruddin is dying; his last moments are near. He calls his son and advises him, “I know that however much I say, ‘Do not smoke,’ you will do it—because my father also told me, and yet I smoked. So I won’t give you that advice. I know I want to explain to you from experience: do not touch alcohol. But my father also explained that to me, and still I drank. And I know that however much you say, ‘No, I won’t drink,’ you will drink. And however much I say, ‘Do not run after women,’ it cannot be—you will run; I myself ran. But keep one thing in mind: at one time chase only one woman. Do not run after two women at the same time. At least heed this advice of mine. One at a time.”
The boy asked, “Is it even possible to chase two at the same time?”
Nasruddin said, “It is possible—I speak from experience. But hell is manufactured thereby. As it is, one woman is quite capable of producing hell—this could be reversed as advice to a woman about men, it makes no difference—but two, then hell is certain.”
But his son said, “Hearing you, I feel like trying to run after two at once.”
Nasruddin said, “I know even this—that you won’t listen, because I too did not listen. Good—run.”
His son asked, “You were just forbidding me, and now you say ‘Run’?”
Nasruddin said, “By running after two at the same time, one gets free of women far more easily than by running after them one by one.”
If in the mind you create a simultaneous chase after two tendencies, you become free of mental tendencies much more easily than with one alone. One tendency occupies you entirely. Two tendencies become competitive with one another. Their hold on you lessens because their inner conflict deepens. Anger says, ‘I will dominate the whole’; peace says, ‘I will dominate the whole.’ And you have created both together. They drop trying to dominate you and become engaged in struggling with each other. And when anger and peace are fighting each other, it becomes very easy for you to stand at a distance and watch.
The second practice of sanlinata is to produce the opposite tendency in the body. There is no difficulty in this; an actor does it every day. He expresses love even to a woman he does not love.
Nasruddin once went to watch a play. His wife sat beside him. Nasruddin was very impressed; his wife too was moved. The hero in the play expressed such love for his beloved that the wife said, “Nasruddin, you never express so much love for me.” Nasruddin said, “I too am amazed—and amazed because the one for whom he is expressing all this love is actually his wife of twenty years. Had he expressed this for someone else, it would still be okay. She is his wife of twenty years. So I am astonished too. He is a real actor—authentic—for to express such love toward one’s own wife of twenty years! Astonishing actor.”
Our mind…! Yet with practice it is possible. The body begins to express something else, the mind something else. Two streams are thus separated. And remember, divide and rule is not only a rule of politics—it is also a rule of sadhana. Divide, and become the master. If you can divide body and mind, you can easily be the master. Because then the conflict stands between body and mind, and you remain untouched, standing apart.
Therefore the second practice of sanlinata is: “mind in one thing, body in another”—practice this standing before a mirror. I say before a mirror because it will be easier. Once it becomes easy, then even without a mirror you can experience it. When anger arises—then slowly leave the mirror—when anger arises, make it an opportunity. And when anger comes, express delight. And when hatred arises, express love. And when you feel like breaking someone’s head, place a garland of flowers around his neck. And watch within yourself—let these two streams divide—let mind and body go in two directions, and suddenly you will enter transcendence; you will go beyond. You will be neither anger nor forgiveness, neither love nor hatred. And as soon as one goes beyond both, one becomes sanlin.
Now, understand the meaning of “sanlin.” We often hear one word: “tallin.” The word “sanlin” is used very rarely. We have heard “tallinata,” hardly “sanlinata.” And if you go to the dictionary, you will find a single meaning. No—it is not a single meaning. Mahavira did not use tallinata. Tallinata is always absorption in the other; sanlinata is absorption in oneself. Tallin means one who is merged in another—whether a devotee in God—he is tallin, not sanlin. Like Meera in Krishna—she is tallin: she dissolved so completely that she became a zero—Krishna alone remained. But in tallinata there is another point, some other, upon whom one completely surrenders oneself. That is a path; that path has its own methods. It is not Mahavira’s path. One reaches through that path also, but the route is different. Mahavira’s way is not that. Mahavira says: do not become tallin in anyone—therefore Mahavira even removes Paramatman, otherwise the convenience to become tallin would remain.
Mahavira says: become sanlin—merge in yourself. Become so merged in yourself that the other does not remain. The formula of tallin is: become so merged in the other that you do not remain. The formula of sanlin is: become so merged in yourself that the other does not remain. Through both, only one remains. Only one is left. The tallin will say: Paramatman remains; the sanlin will say: Atman remains. These are merely differences of words—verbal, futile, the quarrels of pundits. Those who have the experience will say: only the One remains. But the sanlin cannot name it Paramatman, because there is no device of the other; the tallin cannot call it Atman, because there is no way for the self to remain. Yet what remains must be given some name, otherwise expression is impossible. Hence the sanlin says: the Atman remains; the tallin says: the Paramatman remains. What remains is one. The difference is of names, due to methods—the difference of the path of arrival.
Sanlin means: to be absorbed in oneself. One is wholly in oneself, not going outward even a little. There is no movement anywhere—because movement is to go to the other. There will be no movement. In coming to oneself there is no need of movement—you already are there. Action disappears; non-action arises, because action is needed only when something has to be done with another. With oneself there remains no action to do. Non-action will be, no-movement will be, stillness will come. And when this event happens within, its fragrance spreads upon the body as well, upon the mind as well. When this transcendence happens, when beyond mind and body the Self is realized, everything comes to a standstill. Everything is stilled—the mind is stilled, the body is stilled. This is Mahavira’s icon—the icon of sanlinata—everything is stilled, no movement appears.
If you look at the hand of Mahavira it seems utterly still. Therefore, in no icon of Mahavira are muscles made upon the arm, because muscles are symbols of movement, symbols of action. So Mahavira’s arms are such as if feminine. You may not have noticed: on the arms of any Jain Tirthankara there are no muscles—muscles indicate action. The way the body is seated is like a flower closed upon itself; all petals have closed. The fragrance of the flower now does not go outward; it abides within. Hence Mahavira’s very lovely word—“atma-raman”—to revel in oneself. To go nowhere, to go nowhere—all petals are closed.
So if you look at Mahavira’s image and think of a flower, you will immediately see in the icon that all petals have closed. Mahavira is within himself, as if a bee has been shut inside a flower. Such is Mahavira’s whole consciousness, sanlin in itself. All fragrance within; nothing is going out. Nothing goes out. Between inner and outer all traffic has ceased. No transfer happens—nothing comes in from outside, nothing goes out from within. When the body comes to such stillness, when the mind comes to such stillness—breath too neither goes out nor comes in; it becomes still—breath, too! This moment Mahavira calls: Samadhi arises; in this sanlin moment, the inner journey begins.
But the practice of sanlinata has to be done. Our habit is to go outward. We have no practice of going within. We are so skilled in going out that we don’t even notice and we have gone out. The meaning of skill is precisely that: the work is done without your knowing. We are so skilled at going out! A driver: if he is skilled he will gossip and keep driving. Skill means he does not have to pay attention to driving; if attention is required he is unskilled. He will listen to the radio and keep driving; think of a thousand things and keep driving. Driving is not a conscious act.
Colin Wilson—one of the West’s capable and thoughtful men—has said we are skilled in those things, and when we become skilled there is within us a robot, a machine-man—in everyone. Skill means our consciousness has handed that task to the machine-man within; then we are not needed. So when the driver becomes truly skilled, he does not have to drive; the robot within him drives. He only comes in between sometimes when a danger arises and the robot can do nothing. When an accident moment comes, he suddenly becomes present; he takes the work from the robot into his own hands. That machine-like mind of ours has to be snatched from in such moments—when there is danger of falling into a ditch—otherwise the robot keeps driving. Psychologists have determined through thousands of experiments that drivers who have driven late into the night even doze for moments and keep driving. They even sleep. Hence the accidents at night occur between two and four. The driver is not even aware that he has dozed; for a second he sinks, and for that duration the robot manages the work. The mechanical mind manages it.
The more a thing enters the robot, the more it becomes skillful. And for lifetimes we have been habituated to going out. That has entered our machine. Going out is as natural to us as water flowing downhill. We need do nothing for it. Coming in will appear a great journey, because our machine-man has no idea how to come in. We are so skillful at going outward, we stand outside. We have forgotten that there could be such a thing as coming in. There are layers upon layers of the robot, of this machine-man.
Aubrey Menen—son of an Indian father and an English mother—writes: his father lived all his life in England. He went at about twenty. There he married; there the child was born. But Aubrey Menen writes: my mother was always troubled by one habit of my father—by day he spoke English, but at night in dreams he spoke Malayalam—at night he spoke only his mother tongue. He became sixty, still the same. Even after forty years of speaking English consciously, by night he dreamed in his mother tongue. As women are by nature, she was anxious too—she wanted to know what even the husband thinks in dreams—so Aubrey writes: my mother was always worried—who knows what he speaks in dreams! Perhaps he takes the name of some other woman in Malayalam? Perhaps he shows interest in some other woman? But there was no remedy.
The truth is: the language we learn in childhood, no second language ever enters as deeply into the robot—never. Because it has become the first layer. Any second language, however deep it goes, will be the second layer; it cannot be the first. There is no remedy for that. Therefore psychologists say: what we learn by seven follows us seventy-five percent through life. There is no escape. It becomes our first layer.
Hence even a seventy-year-old man, if he becomes angry, immediately behaves like a seven-year-old child—because the robot regresses. That is why you behave childishly in anger. And in love too—note that also. When people become full of love toward one another they behave very childishly. Their talk becomes childish; they give each other childish names. Lovers give each other babyish names. They have regressed. Because the first experience of love we learned by seven; its repetition will be that. What I am saying is: our outward-going behavior is so ancient—of many births—that we don’t even notice we have gone out—and we go out. You are sitting alone, immediately you pull the newspaper and pick it up. You don’t notice it; your robot, your machine-man says: how can you sit empty? Pull the paper. You have read it seven times since morning; now you read it an eighth time, without noticing what you are reading. The robot does not lead you within; it leads you out. Turn on the radio, talk, go anywhere outside, relate to someone else—because the robot knows only one thing: relating to the other; it does not know how to relate to oneself. So this must be watched; only with great alertness will you be able to step out of it.
And the robot runs by training. You do not know how much work you can take from your robot. If you have seen Jain monks doing avadhan—multi-attending—perhaps you think it is a great talent. It is only robot training. You can do it—only a small training. You can take so many tasks from the robot, once you teach it. We work only on one track. You know the tape recorder: it can be one-track, two-track, four-track. Suppose you have a four-track recorder recording four tracks on one tape and you don’t know it—you will keep using only one, and the other three will remain empty. Your mind’s robot has thousands of tracks. You can work on thousands of tracks at once. I’ll give you a small exercise; then it will be easy.
Take off your watch and place it before you. Keep attention on the second hand; forget the rest of the watch. Only watch the second hand moving. It completes a circle in sixty seconds. Practice for one minute. In three weeks your practice will be such that the other hands will not enter your awareness; the figures will not appear; the dial will slowly be forgotten, only the running second hand will remain in your remembrance. The day you feel, “Now I can keep attention on the second hand for a minute,” you have gained a great skill beyond your imagination.
Now begin a second exercise: keep attention on the second hand and inwardly count from one to sixty—attention on the hand, and inside count one, two, three… to sixty, or as many as possible in one minute—if a hundred is possible, a hundred. In three weeks you will be skillful; both tasks together—the double track will begin. Attention will remain on the hand, and attention will remain on the numbers as well. Now begin a third task: keep attention on the hand, keep counting one to a hundred within, and hum a line of a song inwardly.
In three weeks you will find a three-track work has begun. Attention will remain on the hand, on the numbers, and on the song line. Now as many tracks as you wish you can slowly practice. You can practice a hundred tracks together. A hundred things will run together—layer upon layer. This is avadhan. Having practiced it you can do a kind of juggling. Jain sadhus do it; it is just showmanship. It has no real value. But once you have taught the robot, the robot begins to do it.
And there is a danger: when the robot begins to do, teaching it is easy; making it forget is not so easy. Teaching is very easy—remember this. Remembrance is easy; unlearning is very difficult. But not impossible. It can be washed out, as from a tape. It can be erased. But erasing is very difficult. Harder still is practicing the opposite. Our mechanical mind is practiced in going outward. First, this outward-going practice has to be erased; and then the practice of going within has to be created.
Therefore—this will be necessary for entering sanlinata—whenever your machine-man tells you, “Go out,” if you keep attentive you will begin to notice. You are sitting in a car, like a sleeping man—you pick up a newspaper and begin to read. You are not aware that your machine-man is saying, “How can you sit sanlin in yourself? Read the paper!”
That hand goes in sleep, picks up the paper; these eyes start reading in sleep; this mind begins to receive in sleep. You are pouring garbage in. If you did not, nothing would be harmed—profit could be. Because even in pouring garbage energy will be spent; in managing the garbage energy will be spent. In filling the trash, the empty space of the mind will be filled—and filled uselessly. It is as if one were bringing road rubbish into the house. He says, “We must do something; how can we sit without doing?” Bringing trash home is easy to throw out—but the trash brought into the mind is very difficult to throw out again.
So the first guard must be this: when the mind goes out, become aware, and go out consciously. If you must read the paper, know that my machine wants to read the paper. I will read the paper—now I am reading. Read consciously. Then you will find there is no relish in reading, because relish can come only in unconsciousness. It is very interesting: relish in useless things comes only in unconsciousness, not in awareness. You cannot enjoy any useless thing consciously; in unconsciousness you can. Therefore people obsessed with enjoyment start taking intoxicants—because under intoxication enjoyment can be increased. Otherwise it cannot be enjoyed.
Consciously, keep watching the machine-man’s attempt to go outward—and do the task consciously. If the machine-man says, “Why sit alone? Let us go to a friend’s house,” then tell it, “Fine, let’s go—but we will go consciously. Your demand is there; we will go watching.” There is a likelihood that halfway you will turn back home, because you will say, “What…?” There is a great amusement: every day you sit with that friend and get bored; nothing happens. He says the same things again—how is the weather, how is your health? In two or three minutes the conversation is exhausted. Then he narrates the same stories he has told many times; the same events he has told many times—and you get only bored. Every day you return with the thought, “This man bored me badly.” Yet tomorrow again the robot says, “Go to the friend’s house,” and you don’t even think that you are going again to be bored. You yourself seek your boredom. If you go consciously, on the way you will recall where you are going, why you are going, what you will get. Your legs will slacken. Likely you will turn back.
In this way, keep a vigilant guard on each outward-going action of your machine-mind. One by one actions will drop. Then only those which are truly necessary, indispensable for life, will remain. Non-essential actions will drop. Then you will find the body has begun to become sanlin. You will sit as if abiding in yourself—like a silent lake in which not even a ripple rises; like an empty sky without a single wandering cloud. As you may have seen in the sky a kite holding its wings steady—sanlin. Not even a wing moves; the kite simply remains in itself, gliding—neither flapping nor swimming—gliding. As you may have seen a duck on a lake, without even paddling—still. Such stillness will happen in your body too—in the mind as well. For as the body goes outward, so the mind goes outward. If the body cannot go out, the mind goes out even more—to compensate. If you cannot meet the friend outwardly, then closing your eyes you meet him, daydreaming that you have met, that you are talking. So slowly become watchful even of the inner attempts of the mind to go outward. And the day awareness happens regarding both body and mind, the robot within slowly, slowly, slowly loses its relish for going out. Then one can go within.
And in going within, in what shall you take delight? In those things in which sanlinata is natural. For example, in the feeling of peace, sanlinata is natural. In the feeling of compassion for the whole world, sanlinata is natural. Anger takes you out; compassion does not. Enmity takes you out; maitri—the feeling of friendliness—does not. By abiding in such feelings, the inner journey begins. But sanlinata is only the door. The rest we will consider in the six processes of antar-tap. Sanlinata is the door to those six; without becoming sanlin there can be no entry into them. All are integrated, all united. Our mind wants to drop this and do that. It won’t be possible. These twelve limbs are organic; they are linked to one another. Leaving even one, the next will not be possible. The five limbs Mahavira has given earlier are all for conservation of energy, and the sixth is sanlinata. Only when energy is saved can it go inward. If no energy remains, what will go in? We are almost empty and bankrupt. We squander power outside; no energy remains for the inner. Nothing remains.
When Mulla Nasruddin died, he dictated his will. He gathered a big crowd, the whole village came. He asked the village head of the panchayat to write. Some were surprised—he did not appear to have much for which he was making such noise. He dictated: after I die, half my property should go to my wife; this portion to my son, this to my daughter, this to my friend, this to my servant. He allotted all the shares. The head kept wanting to ask, “Wait—how much do you even have?” Lastly, he said: after giving all these shares, whatever remains should be given to the village mosque.
The head asked again, “I’ve been asking—how much do you have?”
He said, “I have nothing—but by rule one must make a will, otherwise what will people say—that he died without making a will!”
There is nothing. Still he says that after distributing to all, whatever remains should go to the mosque. We too die nearly bankrupt. As far as inner wealth is concerned, we die bankrupt—exactly like Nasruddin; the satire is upon us.
Nothing remains at all—because all we have lost in vain. And lost so vainly as if you left the bathroom tap open and the water keeps flowing out—that is how it is wasted. All the doors of your personality stand open outward and energy is uselessly lost—dissipated. The little that remains only makes you restless, and even that you waste in restlessness and anxiety.
So the earlier limbs Mahavira outlined are for energy conservation. This sixth, sanlinata, is the inward flow of that conserved energy. As if a river begins to return to its source. The energy begins to arrive at the original spring—not outwards to get something, but toward where we already are. Let us go to wherefrom we have come; to wherefrom this life has spread—let us go to the roots. Let us arrive at that place which is our final core; behind which we are not—ultimate, behind it. For there lies our secret, our mystery—our very suchness. And no matter how far we go outward—even to the moon and stars—we will not find it. For that we must go within; for that we must become sanlin.
Save energy; let it flow inwards—but for energy to flow inwards you will have to do three experiments—observe the activities of the body; break the link between the activities of the body and the activities of the mind; go beyond the activities of both body and mind. Then suddenly you will find you have begun to become sanlin—sinking into yourself, diving into yourself, descending within yourself—within, and within, and within—deeper and deeper.
One last thing for the one who will practice: as soon as sanlinata begins, great fear seizes you—much fear. It feels as if you are suffocating, as if someone is pressing your throat, or you are drowning in water. Whoever practices becoming sanlin will be filled with great fear. As soon as energy starts moving inward, fear will grip you—because this experience is almost like that of death. In death too energy becomes sanlin. Nothing else happens. It leaves the body, leaves the mind, moves within toward its origin—then you thrash, “I am dying,” because you believed yourself to be only that which was going out. You never knew that which can go in. You have no relation, no acquaintance with that. You knew only one face—outgoing; you had no experience of the ingoing.
You say, “I am dying,” because all that goes out is now not going out; it is returning within. From the body, energy is sinking inward; it is not going out. The mind now is not going out; it is sinking in. Everything is contracting within; everything is shrinking back to the center. Ganga recognized herself flowing toward the ocean; she never knew that flowing toward Gangotri also is she. There is no recognition of that. The panic that seizes you at death, the same panic will seize you in sanlinata—the very same. It will feel like death—you will want to run out, to grab any support and rush out. If you rush out you will not become sanlin.
So when fear grips you, be a witness to fear too—keep watching: “Alright.” This experience will be more difficult than death, because death happens in helplessness. You can do nothing—the supports are slipping. Here you can do something. You can return to the surface whenever you wish. This is intentional; this is your own resolve to go within. In death there is no resolve of yours; there is no choice. You are being killed—you are not dying. This is the voluntary choosing of death. This is dying by one’s own hand—once, if you let go of fear, if you remain a witness to fear and accept what is happening, and you sink, you will go beyond the fear of death forever. Then even death will not frighten you. Once you experience that the inward-moving energy is also “I,” then there is no fear of death—then there is no death.
Death appears only due to unfamiliarity with the inner journey. Identification with the outer journey and no relation with the inner—hence death appears. Sanlinata creates this relation. Say, you voluntarily die and find you do not die. You enter death of your own will and find, “I still am.” Death happens—everything outer falls away. All that will fall in death falls here. The world disappears, the body is forgotten, the mind is forgotten—yet the lamp of consciousness keeps burning within.
If one does this experiment of sanlinata rightly, out-of-body experience—astral projection or astral traveling—happens easily. When your body too has vanished, your mind too has vanished, only you remain—only being remains—then, with a small intention to be outside the body, you will be outside. The body will appear lying before you.
Sometimes it happens by itself—I tell you this too—because for those who practice sometimes it happens spontaneously. Without your intending it, suddenly you find—you are outside the body. Then great restlessness arises. A fear comes: “Will I be able to return into the body or not?” You can see your whole body lying there. For the first time you see your body wholly. In the mirror only a reflection appears; for the first time you see your whole body from outside.
And one who has once seen his body from the outside can never again be inside it in the old way—even while inside, he remains outside. He remains outside forever. There is no way then to be only within. Even if he seems inside, his outsideness remains. He remains separate. Then the sufferings that come to the body are not his. The events that happen to the body are not events happening to him. The birth of the body is not his birth; the death of the body is not his death. The entire world of the body is not his world—and our whole world is the body’s world. History ends for him; the life-story ends. Now there is only a stillness in the void—and all bliss is the outcome of abiding in the void; all liberation is descending into the void—supreme moksha.
But we are constantly running outward. Our going outward is aggression. Mahavira used a very beautiful word: “pratikraman.” Pratikraman means: returning within. Akraman means: going out. Pratikraman means: coming back to the home. Hence Mahavira insists on ahimsa so much—because if the mind’s aggression does not cease, pratikraman will not be possible; sanlinata will not bear fruit. All these sutras are united. I am speaking of them separately—that is why I have to say them separately. In life, when they begin to descend into event, they are united. Non-aggression… But we think aggression happens only when we plunge a knife into someone’s chest. No—when we think of the other, that too is aggression. Even the thought of the other is an attack upon the other. The other’s presence in my mind is aggression. Aggression means: I have flowed toward the other. Whether with a knife I go to the other, or with an embrace I go; with good will I go or with ill will I go—consciousness going toward the other is aggressive. We all want to go—because we have no mastery over ourselves; if we become masters of another, a little taste of mastery is felt—even if just a little. Let someone else become the owned…
Mulla Nasruddin went to a psychiatrist and said, “I am very troubled—I am terrified of my wife. I shake; my mouth goes dry as soon as I see her.”
The psychiatrist said, “This is not something to worry too much about. The real worry is the other disease: those who, upon seeing their wife, are eager to attack—eager to break heads, to drag, to hit—aggressive. Those are the real psychopaths. This is nothing—this is normal for most.”
Mulla became eager; he leaned forward in his chair. “Doctor, any chance of my catching that disease—psychopathy? That I too might go home and pick up a club and smash her head? My mind also wants that. But before her, all my plans go awry. And not just by day—for years I have one nightmare I want to tell you—any cure?”
The psychiatrist: “What nightmare?”
He said, “Every night I see my wife, and behind her I see a huge monster.”
The psychiatrist became interested: “Interesting. Describe in detail.”
Nasruddin said, “Red eyes with flames leaping, large horns as if they will be thrust into my chest, fingernails like daggers—great panic arises.”
The psychiatrist said, “Panic-worthy indeed—terrifying.”
Nasruddin said, “This is nothing—wait till I tell you about the monster. This is my wife. Behind her the monster stands—I haven’t even described him yet.” He described him too: “Frightful teeth as if they will clamp and crush; a gigantic body before which I become an insect; his foul stench and the ghastly fluids dripping from his body fill me with such horror it pursues me all day.”
The psychiatrist said, “Very dreadful, very alarming.”
Nasruddin said, “Wait till I tell you that that monster is no one else but me. And that is what is more frightening—that when I look closely, I find it is me.”
And this nightmare has been going on for years. As long as the mind is aggressive, it will see a monster in the other too. And if you look closely, the aggressive mind will find itself a monster. And we are all aggressive. We all live in a nightmare. Our life is a nightmare, a long stench, a long drama drenched in bloodshed, a long infernal scene.
When Mulla died and reached the gates of heaven, the guard asked, “Where are you coming from?” He said, “From the earth.” The gatekeeper said, “By rule you should be sent to hell. But since you are coming from earth, hell will seem quite pleasant to you. So stay a few days in heaven first, then we will send you to hell so that hell may seem painful to you.” They detained Mulla for some days in heaven—because all pleasure and pain are relative. Mulla begged, “Let me go directly.” The gatekeeper said, “That cannot be, for hell would now feel like heaven to you. You are coming straight from earth. Stay a few days in heaven—taste a little joy—then we’ll put you in hell; only then can you be tormented.”
What we call life is a long journey through hell. Its single cause is that our mind is aggressive. A mind centered on the other is aggressive; a mind centered in the self becomes non-aggressive, available to pratikraman. This journey of pratikraman itself immerses one in sanlinata.
Today, bahya-tap is complete. From tomorrow, we will try to understand antar-tap.
Now let us pause for five minutes…!