Mahaveer Vani #14

We have discussed the six outer limbs of tapas; from today we will speak of the inner tapas.
Mahavira has called the first inner tapas: Prayashchitta.
First let us understand what Prayashchitta is not—then it will become easier to understand what Prayashchitta is. The difficulty has grown even more now because that which is not Prayashchitta is exactly what we have been taking it to be. If you search the dictionaries you will find: Prayashchitta means “remorse, repentance.” That is not the meaning of Prayashchitta. The distance between repentance and Prayashchitta is as vast as the distance between earth and sky.
Repentance means: remorse for what you have done; but not remorse for what you are—only remorse for what you have done. You stole, and you feel sorry for the theft. You were violent, and you feel sorry for the violence. You were dishonest, and you feel sorry for the dishonesty. Not for yourself—“you” are fine. You are a good person; a small mistake occurred in action, and by repenting you have wiped it clean.
Therefore repentance is a device to save the ego. Because if too many mistakes pile up, your ego will begin to hurt—“I am a bad person because I abused… I am a bad person because I was angry.” You are a very good person—how could you abuse! It must have slipped out in some circumstance. You repent and again become a good person. Repentance does not change you; it is a mechanism to keep you as you are. That is why you repent every day—and every day you find yourself doing the very thing for which you repented yesterday. Repentance brings no change to your being, to your inner consciousness; it only suggests that somewhere in your acts there was a mistake—and even that appears a mistake only because it hindered your effort to maintain the image you have made of yourself.
“I am a good man”—thus I carve an image of myself. Then a swear word slips out of my mouth, and before my very eyes my image is fractured. I begin to repent: how did it happen that I used a foul word? I say: it happened in spite of me—in spite of me! I did not want it and yet it happened. Such a thing I cannot do, and yet it happened—under the pressure of circumstances, in a moment of passion. I am not the sort of person from whose mouth such a word could come—yet it came. I repent. The shock of the abuse passes. I return to the place where I was before the abuse. Repentance brings me back to where I was before the abuse. But remember, it was from exactly there that the abuse arose. I have returned to the same place again. From there it will arise again.
P. D. Ouspensky wrote a most wondrous book: The Strange Life of Ivan Osokin. Ivan Osokin went to a magician-fakir and said: “I am a good man. I have never found a single evil in me. And yet some mistakes have happened. Those mistakes happened out of ignorance. I did not know, and the mistake occurred. I was walking along a road, fell into a pit, because the road was unfamiliar. I am not the sort who falls. The mistake of ignorance means the circumstances were unknown. Some event happened—I did not want it to happen. Who wants to fall into a pit? I am not a falling type. There was a pit, it was dark, the road was unfamiliar, or someone pushed me—I fell. If I get a chance to walk that same road again, I can assure you I will walk it and I will not fall into the pit.”
The fakir said: “Then let me give you a chance. I will reduce your age by twelve years. Come back after twelve years.” And he reduced Osokin’s age by twelve years—he is a magician. Osokin went away, promising: “You will see—twelve years later I will be a different man. This is what I wanted: just one more chance so that the mistakes that happened in ignorance do not happen again.”
After twelve years Osokin returned to the fakir weeping: “Forgive me. The fault was not of the road; it was mine—because I have repeated the very same mistakes. I have done again what I had done before. Astonishing! I have lived again exactly what I had lived before.”
The fakir said: “I knew this would happen. Because mistakes do not happen in action—they happen in the depths of your life-energy, in your being. Change the age, and you will act again, but it will still be you acting! You will do it again, and you being the same. You will be the same; you will do the same again. The same will happen again that happened before.”
Ivan Osokin’s life is not strange only in his case; in this sense, all our lives are strange. No magician reduces our age, but life gives us countless chances. It is not that the opportunity for anger comes only once, or the circumstance appears only once. No—within this very life it comes a thousand times, the same thing happens, and you repeat the same. To save yourself from this you give yourself a consolation that circumstances are always different. Because one thing is certain—you are the same. If the circumstance is not different, the blame will fall upon you. So you say every time—“the situation was different, therefore I had to do it again.” But those who know say: it is not the question of circumstances; the question is you—you are the problem. Not one life—many lives are given, and we repeat, and repeat, and repeat.
When a seeker came to Mahavira, he would take him into the memory of past births precisely so that he could see how many times the very same has been repeated; so he would stop saying that the mistake belongs to his action, and would know that the mistake is his. Repentance relates to: “an act went wrong.” Prayashchitta relates to the understanding: “I am wrong.” And these two are very different—earth and sky apart. The one who repents remains the same; the one who enters Prayashchitta must transform the very quality of his life-consciousness. The question is not that I got angry and I should repent. The question is: if anger could happen through me, I must become a different man—such a man in whom anger cannot happen. This is the meaning of Prayashchitta—transformation of the level of being. The question is not that I was angry yesterday and today I shall not be. The question is: anger happened to me yesterday because I am still on the very level of life I was yesterday. My consciousness is the same today. The one who repents asks forgiveness for yesterday. Every year we ask—Michchhami Dukkadam—we ask every year: forgive me. We asked last year too; before that, too, we asked. When will the day come when there remains no occasion to ask forgiveness? Or will we go on asking forever? And we know perfectly well that where forgiveness is being asked from, no transformation has taken place. The man is the same as last year.
A friend has been spreading strange stories about me all through the past year. Now that Paryushan ended, a letter came yesterday: “Please forgive me.” Not, “If knowingly or unknowingly I erred”—the letter says: “I have committed offenses; forgive me, and I seek forgiveness from the depths of my heart.” But I know that after writing the letter he will resume the same work. Because the letter will not bring any transformation. By asking forgiveness you will not change; you will be the same again. The truth is: the one who is asking forgiveness is the same person who committed the offense. One in Prayashchitta may not even ask forgiveness, because he experiences: I am no longer the man who committed the offense—I am another man. He might simply bring the news: “That man who abused you has died. I am another man now. If it pleases you, I can ask forgiveness on his behalf, because I am in his place; otherwise I have nothing to do with it—he is dead.”
Prayashchitta means: the death of that man who was making the mistake; the death of that consciousness through which the mistake was happening. Repentance means: the revival of that very consciousness through which the mistake was happening—clearing the road again, returning again to the very spot where we were and from where the mistake used to arise—standing again at that same spot. The legs wobble a little after a wrong, after a mistake. To steady those legs, asking forgiveness is helpful. Remember, people do not ask forgiveness because they have understood that they have hurt you; they ask forgiveness because the sense of having committed a wrong fractures their self-image. They do not ask because you have been hurt—because tomorrow they will go on hurting again. They ask because the feeling of guilt has injured their image. They repair it. We all have a self-image. It is not true at all, yet that is our “real.”
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin is out for a morning walk with his son on his shoulders. The boy is beautiful. Whoever sees him stops and says, “Beautiful!” Nasruddin says: “This is nothing. You must see his picture.” Whoever says, “Your son is beautiful,” he replies: “This is nothing. You must see his picture.” “This is nothing. See the picture at home in the album, then you will know.”
He is right. We also know that we are nothing—but our picture, the one in the album of our mind, look at that! And we are continually trying to show that picture—continually trying to display it. That picture is bigger and different; it is not what we are. So when a stain falls on that picture and we feel it is being stained, we wipe the stain. Repentance acts like blotting paper. It is not Prayashchitta. Prayashchitta will tear up the picture and throw it away and say: “This is not me—the thing I have been imposing continuously.” Repentance will only remove the ink spot. And if you are skillful, you will turn the ink-spot into a decoration of the picture. If not so skillful, you will try to rub it out, and in that effort the picture may get a little damaged.
If you are skillful… If you have ever seen Tagore’s handwritten manuscripts, you would be amazed. If Tagore made a mistake in a letter, he would not merely cross it out—he would strike it through and make a little drawing there, adorning the page. His manuscripts are all ornamented. Where he struck out, he decorated. Good—on a manuscript that is fine, pleasing to the eye. But man does the same in life. Repentance attempts to turn blotches into pictures or to wipe them off. Repentance is not Prayashchitta. But we all take repentance to be Prayashchitta.
Repentance is a very ordinary phenomenon—it belongs to the law of the mind. So let us understand this law a little: repentance happens to everyone—it is the common rule of the mind. Prayashchitta is sadhana. Had Mahavira meant repentance by Prayashchitta, there would be nothing to say—everyone repents. It is difficult to find a person who does not repent; if you find one, he will be someone like Mahavira. Otherwise it is hard to find a person who never repents. Repentance is the natural course of life. Every person repents. Then why count it among spiritual practices? Repentance is not sadhana; it is a rule of the mind. The mind swings from one extreme to the other. If we enter a little deeper into this rule of mind, repentance will be understood—and then attention can rise toward Prayashchitta.
When you are in love with someone you make a selection in that person; you see only those aspects which support your love—selective. No one ever sees another person in total; if he did, his life would change—and his own self would change too. We all select. In the one I love, I see those parts that strengthen my love and justify my choice: “I chose well; the person is worthy of love.” But that is not the whole person. It is the mind choosing. As if I enter a room and select only the whites, leaving the blacks. Today or tomorrow I will get bored of white, because the mind gets bored of whatever it becomes familiar with. Today or tomorrow I will tire of this selective, chosen image of beauty. And as I begin to tire, whatever I had left out in my first selection—the un-beautiful—will begin to appear. It was always there; it was invisible only so long.
Even in the most beautiful person there are un-beautiful parts. In the most un-beautiful person beauty is hidden. Life is made of opposites—its whole order stands on polarity. Not only is lightning hidden in dark clouds, every flash of lightning has a dark cloud behind it. Not only does morning follow every dark night; after every morning a dark night comes. Not only is happiness hidden in sorrow; from within every happiness the sprout of sorrow will emerge. Life flows like a river between two banks. It cannot flow along one bank alone. Perhaps you do not see the other bank—or you do not want to—but when you are bored with this bank, the other bank becomes your camp.
So when you begin to see beauty in a person, you have chosen one bank. You forget—the river flows between two banks. There is another bank too. Without the other bank, neither the river nor this bank can be. Is there ever a lone bank? The very word “bank” implies its counterpart. But you choose. Then today or tomorrow you will tire of beauty. Everything tires; everything bores. The mind wants the new every day. Then the old starts to bore. And when the old bores you, the parts you had left in your first selection begin to appear. The other bank is seen. The one toward whom you were full of love—you are filled with hatred toward the same one. Toward whom you were full of reverence—you are full of irreverence toward the same. The one you had called God—you can call the same one the devil. There is no difficulty. To whom you had said, “I cannot live without you”—you can say, “I cannot live with you.”
The mind moves in duality—because it chooses. Therefore, whoever wants to be beyond duality must become choiceless. Do not choose at all—if it is black, see it; if it is white, see it—and accept that neither can the black be without the white nor the white without the black. Then such a person’s vision never changes. I am often astonished: all relationships change. A man comes to me, filled with so much reverence and devotion that one cannot even imagine he could ever turn to the opposite. But I know his reverence and devotion are selective. He can turn to the opposite. When he begins to swing to the opposite, others come and ask me: “How is this possible? One who was so close to you, who had such devotion, is turning against you.” They do not know that this is absolutely according to the law. Absolutely according to the law. He had chosen one bank—now he will drop that bank and choose the other. And when he had chosen the first bank, he had found reasons to justify himself; when he chooses the second bank, he will again find reasons to justify himself.
And I tell you: choosing any one bank is wrong. Which bank it is—that is not the question. What arguments he offers—that is not the question. When someone begins to take me as God, I know he is choosing one bank. The choice is wrong. Choosing any one bank is wrong. The question is not what reasons he gives himself. The same person will call me the devil tomorrow and again find reasons! I do not say that calling me devil is wrong. I say: the choosing is wrong. He is not seeing the whole.
If you choose, you will change. Wherever there is choice, there will be change. When you are angry, you choose one part of your personality—the one that can be angry. When the anger passes, you choose another part—the one that repents. You act in anger from one selection of your image; you act in repentance from another selection. The boat keeps drifting between the banks; your river flows on. You keep traveling—tying your boat now to this bank, now to that.
Prayashchitta is not a choice between two banks. Prayashchitta is a very wondrous happening. Repentance sees: “There is a mistake in my act.” Prayashchitta sees: “I am wrong.” Not the act—for how can an act be wrong? Wrong acts arise out of a wrong man; acts are never wrong in themselves. From a babul tree the thorns are not wrong—they arise from the soul of the babul. How can the thorns be wrong? They arise from the very nature of the babul. But when the babul sees its thorns it says: “I am unhappy. I am not the kind of tree from which thorns should grow. Circumstances must have caused them.” Or it consoles itself: “Perhaps I have brought forth these thorns for someone’s food—the camels, the goats—otherwise they would starve. What question of me having thorns! If thorns also come, they come out of compassion.”
You too say: anger arises in you to change someone—for his good! “The child must be changed—otherwise he will be spoiled.” Out of compassion the father gets angry, the mother gets angry at the daughter. And the fun is: after all the anger, nowhere is any improvement seen. The whole world has been angry; everyone is angry under the notion that otherwise people will go bad—and people keep going bad. No one seems to change. It appears that this anger has less to do with improving others and more with finding a rationalization for our anger. The child too will grow up and find the same rationalization. He will also “improve” his children in the same way.
Those whose attention is on acts will not go beyond repentance—and repentance is not going forward; it is stepping back, then stepping forward again; one step ahead, one step back. You get angry, then you lift your foot and place it backward; again you get angry, again a step back. It is like running on the spot—you go nowhere. Be alert: repentance will not change you; it only gives the illusion of change. Because in the moment of repentance you select all your good qualities. When you say “Michchhami Dukkadam,” you are an embodiment of forgiveness itself. But you are bilingual—two-tongued. The other language is hidden inside. If the other person says, “Well, you may accept, but I do not—because I have committed no offense toward you,” then immediately the other language becomes active within you: “What a wicked fellow! I asked forgiveness and he didn’t even ask forgiveness!” Or if you say, “I ask forgiveness,” and he says, “Done, forgiven,” pain will arise instantly—the other language will surface.
I have heard: A mouse was roaming near his hole. Suddenly he heard footsteps—familiar, like a cat’s. Frightened, he ran into his hole. But then he was surprised: outside he heard a dog barking—bow-wow. The mouse came out and instantly went into the cat’s mouth. He looked around—no dog anywhere. The mouse asked: “Kill me—no harm. But grant me one curiosity of a dying creature. Where did the dog go?” The cat said: “There is no dog. You know, it pays to be bilingual. I meow like a cat—but I can bark like a dog. And it pays. You got trapped—otherwise you would not have.” We all are bilingual—two-tongued. The language of speaking is one; the language of being is another. The play between two banks goes on all the time. After repentance you feel very pleased—just as after anger you feel very sad and depressed. After anger, depression comes: “I was not such a bad man.” After repentance, the heart feels elated: “See, what a good man I am!” The ego is reinstated. No—Prayashchitta means: the mistake is not in the act; the mistake is in me. I am wrong.
Mulla Nasruddin was coming out of his club. A man was trying to put on a coat from the cloakroom. Mulla said to him, “You are a very wrong man.” The man said, “I have done nothing! I am putting on my own coat.” Mulla said, “That’s why I say you are a wrong man—this coat is Mulla Nasruddin’s.” The man said, “Who is this Mulla Nasruddin?” Mulla said, “I am Mulla Nasruddin—and you are wearing my coat.” Then the man said, “Fool! Why don’t you say, ‘I am putting on the wrong coat’? Why do you say, ‘I am the wrong man’?” Mulla said, “Only wrong men put on wrong coats.”
When you do a wrong act you want that, at most, someone say: “You did a wrong act”—not “You are a wrong man.” Because an act has a small boundary—it ends in a moment. But you? You are branded for a lifetime. If someone says, “You are wrong,” it is condemnation forever. If the act is wrong, it is a matter of a moment; the opposite act can be done, the done can be undone. It is easy to put the blame on action. But only the one who becomes available to Prayashchitta will say: “I am not putting on the wrong coat—I am a wrong man.” Then a great churning takes place in the life-energy.
Then the question is no longer: what wrong acts have I done? The question becomes: since I am wrong, whatever I have done must be wrong. Then there is no selection of which acts were wrong and which were right. If I am wrong, then whatever I did, I did wrong. A drunk staggers along the road; he does not say: “Which of my steps staggered?” Will he? “Which steps were right and which staggered?” When he comes to his senses, he will say: “I was unconscious—every step staggered. Those that seemed right, they too must have been right only by accident; there was no way to be right—because I was drunk.” Deep down we are in a stupor; and the stupor is this: in a certain sense we are not—completely asleep.
Why did Mahavira make Prayashchitta the first limb of inner tapas? Because only that person can begin the inner journey who stops looking at the error of action and begins to see the error of the self. See, there are three kinds of people—those who see the faults of others; those who see the faults of action; and those who see the faults of themselves. Those who see others’ faults do not even repent. Those who see the fault of action repent. Those who see their own fault enter Prayashchitta. If the other is at fault, then… there is no question of repentance.
But remember: the other is never at fault—in this sense, never at fault. It will be difficult to understand: the other is never at fault. A traveler on the inner path must understand this: the other is never at fault. You will say: “What are you saying? If I am at fault, then for someone else I am ‘the other’! And if the other is never at fault, how can I ever be at fault?” When I say the other is never at fault, I do not mean that the other never does anything wrong. He does—but only for himself. You are wrong for yourself; for the other you cannot be wrong.
Go to Mahavira and you will know at once. Abuse him—the abuse will echo in Mahavira like a shout in a valley and be absorbed. You cannot make Mahavira angry. And then something very surprising happens—if you are an angry person, you will get even angrier because the other person did not get angry. The crucifixion of Jesus was necessary because he kept turning the other cheek to those who came to slap him. Their rage kept growing more and more. Had he slapped them back, there would have been no need to crucify Jesus—the matter would have ended. He would have come down to the same plane—then there would have been no difficulty.
Annie Besant was going around trying to get J. Krishnamurti admitted into different colleges at Cambridge and Oxford. But no principal was willing to take Krishnamurti. Wherever she went she said, “He is a direct incarnation of God, a divine being. The World Teacher is to be born in him.”
The principals said, “Forgive us. You grant him so much extraordinariness—we cannot admit him.” Annie Besant asked, “Why?” They said: “Because it will be a burden for the boy to carry such greatness—and the other boys will harass him. He will find it difficult to live and study peacefully. So we will not take him.”
But all those principals mentioned one particular college: “Go there—they will admit him.”
Annie Besant was puzzled. Finally, when there was no space anywhere—because that college was not reputed, its prestige was low—she took Krishnamurti there. The principal said, “Happily—get admitted with joy; because in our college everyone is a god. Everyone will treat you equally. No difficulty will arise. In fact, your only trouble may be that there are some bigger gods here—they will suppress you, prove you the smaller god. Be careful about that. Otherwise, no problem—everybody will treat you equally.”
The way we behave with others depends less on them and more on us. It seems to us that it depends on the other—that is our delusion. It depends on us. We provoke the other knowingly or unknowingly. When he responds, it seems to be coming from him. In that college where every boy takes himself to be a god, the principal has no problem—no trouble will arise. But the principals of the other colleges were afraid: “This will create trouble. It will not be easy for Krishnamurti to be here—he will be a problem.”
If you go to Mahavira you will face difficulty—if Mahavira behaves with you as your equal, there will be no difficulty. If you abuse Mahavira and he abuses you back, you will return home pleased—equals have been established. But if Mahavira does not abuse and smiles, you will be restless all night: “This man seems to be a little higher—he must be brought down.” That is why many sadhus have used abuse deliberately—so that you would not have to make the futile effort of bringing them down. You will be surprised—this world is strange. Many sadhus have misbehaved with you only so that you would not have to misbehave with them. Ramakrishna abused—he used real mother-sister abuse. Many fakir-like sadhus have hurled abuses and thrown stones—only so that you would not have to take the trouble to hang them—out of compassion for you, understand it so.
And it is a great curiosity of history that never has any such sadhu been hanged who abused or threw stones at you. You know this—throughout human history. Socrates they gave poison, Mahavira they stoned, Buddha they harassed. Many attempts were made to kill Buddha—a boulder was rolled down, a mad elephant released. Jesus was crucified, Mansoor cut to pieces. But there is no mention that you ever executed a sadhu who misbehaved with you. Why? In truth, the one who abuses you—you treat him equally. The matter ends. He is not so high that he needs to be hanged—no need to bring him down. He is like you—okay. So many skillful sadhus were compelled to abuse only so that you would not get unnecessarily entangled in the trouble—because hanging creates more trouble for you than for the sadhu. A great arrangement has to be made.
“the other is not at fault”—with this remembrance the inner journey begins. If the other is at fault, the inner journey never begins. Whether the other is right or wrong is not the question; the very vision “the other is at fault” is wrong. If you enter the argument whether the other is right or wrong, sometimes he will seem right, sometimes wrong. Choice begins. “Is the other right or wrong?”—this is not the seeker’s vision. “To hold the other guilty is wrong”—this is the seeker’s vision. “Am I right or wrong?”—even this is not the seeker’s standpoint. “I am wrong”—to set out with this certainty—this is the seeker’s standpoint. Prayashchitta begins when I admit: I am wrong. The truth is: as long as I am, I will be wrong. Being itself is the mistake—that asmita, that ego—‘I am’—that is my mistake. My very being is my mistake. Until the ‘I’ becomes ‘no-I,’ Prayashchitta will not bear fruit. And the day I am no more—become like a void—on that day my consciousness is transformed and enters a new realm.
Even then it is not that you will not find faults in such a transformed consciousness—because you seek fault out of your own mind. One thing is certain: such a consciousness will stop finding faults in you. That is why such consciousnesses could say to you: “You are Paramatma; you are the pure Atman; within you is hidden moksha.” The Kingdom of God is within you. That is why Jesus could wash the feet of Judas. It makes no difference that Judas sold Jesus for thirty coins to be crucified—it makes no difference at all. No difference. Because the man who has found himself transformed cannot find fault anywhere in anyone. At most he can see this: you are unconscious—and how can a conscious man blame the unconscious? Whatever the unconscious does is wrong—but how can the one who is awake call the sleeping man wrong?
Very amusing things happen—but the awakened ones have not written their memoirs. If they did, they would be wondrous. To live among the unconscious is so strange for the awakened—so bizarre—but none has written his memoirs, because you would not be able to believe that such things can happen. As if you were locked in a madhouse without being mad—then whatever happens to you there, nothing can be more strange. And if you come out and tell it, no one will believe it could be so. The mad will not believe because they are mad; the non-mad will not believe because they know nothing of the mad. And you have lived in both states—you were not mad, yet you lived among the mad.
There is an elderly seeker—simple, straightforward. You could not imagine any hidden layers in him. But layers are hidden in everyone. He was in deep meditation recently in the Aajol ashram. One day, he went very deep—and because he went deep, this incident occurred; otherwise it would not have. Outwardly he is simple, straightforward. He came out of meditation in the morning and told Anand Madhu: “I am going to Bombay right now. I must kill Osho today. I have no relationship with him in this life, except that he took sannyas from me. That too was a momentary meeting—nothing more. I tried a lot to remember past lives—not a single memory that I had any connection with him.” Quiet, simple man—renounced everything for sadhana—and went deep; therefore this incident happened. Otherwise, outwardly, quiet and simple. What happened? Madhu was worried. He was all ready—only murder would do, nothing less. My picture was right in front; she placed it before him and said, “First tear this picture—first kill this picture, then go.” Instantly the mind swung to the other bank; he fell unconscious. He cried, repented. He had done nothing yet—not even torn the picture.
At deeper levels some sheath of violence is in everyone. And the deeper you go, the more you encounter sheaths of violence. When violence appears in its purity it appears without cause. Impure violence is that which looks for a cause. When I say “without cause”… When you get angry only when you find a cause, then your anger is not yet very deep. When anger is deep, you become angry without cause. As long as you get angry because you find a cause, then you get angry and immediately search for a cause. There are deep layers.
A young man recently was experimenting with his violence. Every emotion has seven layers within man—just as every man has seven bodies, so every emotion has seven sheaths. On the surface you abuse, on the surface you repent—nothing changes. The inner layers remain as they are—safe. The deeper you go, the more causeless the emotions become—they arise alive and vivid. When you reach the seventh, deepest layer, there remains no cause at all.
This young man was troubled by violence. Thoughts of killing his father, killing his mother. I knew that one who is obsessed with killing father and mother—if he becomes my disciple, I will become the father-image. Sooner or later he will be filled with the idea of killing me. Because when the devotees said, “Guru is father, Guru is mother, Guru is Brahman,” it was not without reason. The Guru becomes the father-image. When a person places his head at someone’s feet and accepts him as Guru—he becomes the father, the mother. But remember: the ideas he had toward his father will now be projected upon the Guru. Those who said, “You are father; you are mother”—they have no idea. When someone comes and says, “You alone are mother, father, Brahman, everything,” I know I am caught now.
Caught—because all his old fixations will now be directed toward me. He has no idea what that means. That is why I say: you have no idea what it is to live in a madhouse. He says it with great goodwill, with great joy, with wonder. What could be wrong in it? With how much reverence he lies prostrate at my feet and says, “You are everything.” But only yesterday he told me he wants to kill his father. I know—today or tomorrow… Someone who saw him at my feet—yesterday a friend came to inform me that the young man is saying he will kill me. They were frightened—those who heard it. They asked, “What is this?” Living among madmen…
Another amusing thing is unfolding—let me tell you. A young woman was meditating here—and this has happened to so many women that it is good to say it plainly, because you will hear something about it. And when a mad person tells you, you quickly believe—out of equal madness. A woman living in Delhi writes to me: “Every night at two o’clock, you come bodily and make love to me in Delhi.” All right—she is in Delhi, so there is no difficulty.
Another woman came and said, “I am remembering with certainty that I was your wife in a past life.” I said, “Perhaps.” She went and told another, who told another. This first woman is rural, simple-hearted. The one she told is a university graduate, educated, from a big family. She came to me and said, “What nonsense is that woman speaking. Impossible. Completely wrong.” I said, “You thought rightly—go and explain to her.” She said, “I tried a lot, but she is unwilling to accept. She insists: I am certain; I remember.” Then she said, “But this should not become public.” By mistake she asked that woman, “If she won’t accept, what is your solid proof that she is wrong?” The rural woman said, “Because in the past life I was your woman. How can there be two?” Now there is nothing more to say—the matter is closed. What greater proof can there be? Among the mad, it is tough—very tough, extremely difficult.
And I said: the woman in Delhi is there—so no problem. A few days ago an American girl was meditating here for two months. After four or six days of meditation she told me, “Whenever I come and sit near you and close my eyes, I feel you are making love to me.” I said, “Don’t worry—let the feeling of that inner union arise; take that energy upward. If lovemaking turns inward, a great revolution happens.” She was experimenting for two months. I told her, “But remember—during these two months, do not have physical intercourse even by mistake.” She lives with her husband. I asked how often. She said, “Two or three times a week at least; less is not possible. The husband will not accept.” I said, “All right, intercourse goes on there—but remember, tomorrow you may get pregnant; don’t make me responsible! It is likely to happen.” She said, “No, how could that be!”
And that is exactly what happened. Yesterday someone came to tell me that her husband is going around saying she has become pregnant by me. These are amusing things—but living among the mad is very difficult. Their crowd is vast. But I do not call them wrong. They are not wrong—only unconscious. They do not know what they are saying, they do not know what is happening, what they are projecting, thinking, believing. They are totally asleep.
That young woman is staying in the home of a friend. Other friends told me, “Have her removed from there.” I said, “There is no question of that. She is in even more trouble—do not remove her now. Let her stay. She is in pain—let her stay.” Another said, “Hand her over to the police.” I said, “That is sheer madness. What will the police do? What has the police to do with this?” As for the young man who says he will kill me—if he kills me tomorrow—even then he is not wrong. Even then—not wrong. He is only unconscious, asleep. And in his sleep he is doing whatsoever can be done in sleep.
Remember, there are two states of our mind—one is sleeping consciousness; the other is awakened consciousness. Prayashchitta is a sign of awakened consciousness; repentance is a sign of sleeping consciousness. This young man will come and ask forgiveness tomorrow—it means nothing. What he says today means nothing; what he will say tomorrow also means nothing. Both come from the same sleep. That woman thinks she is pregnant by me—this arises from the same sleep. Tomorrow something else will arise from the same sleep—it makes no difference. Right, wrong—no question of choice—they are only sleeping people. And a sleeping person does what a sleeping person can do.
Right now, with a sleeping person, the teaching of repentance will do nothing. He must be reminded: the question is not what you are doing—the question is what you are. Whatever you are within, you simply spread it without—and then you begin to see it outside. And the deeper one goes, the more causeless emotions are projected, and they begin to appear vivid and real. And when they seem real, then of course—you see what you want to see. Remember, we do not see what is—we see what we want to see, or what we can see. Remember, we do not hear what is said—we hear what we want to hear, or what we can hear. We are selecting. Life is infinite; we select from it. We too are infinite; we select from within. Sometimes we select the tendency to anger; sometimes to repentance; sometimes to hatred; sometimes to love—and in both states we are asleep. It makes no difference.
One night, at two in the morning, the telephone of a tavern-owner began ringing—furious, irritated, his sleep broken. He picked up the phone. “Who is it?” The voice said, “Mulla Nasruddin. When do you open?” “Is this any time to ask? You are a regular customer—we open at ten in the morning! No need to phone at two!” He banged the phone down and went back to sleep. At four the phone rang again. “Who is it?” “Mulla Nasruddin. When will you open?” The owner said, “You must be too drunk or mad. It’s only four; we open at ten. And even if you come at ten, I will not allow you in!” Nasruddin said, “Who wants to come in? I want to go out. I am locked inside. Open quickly—or I will go on drinking. Right now I can still tell the difference between inside and outside. In a while even that will be gone. Right now I still remember your phone number; in a while even that won’t remain. Right now I can at least tell you I am Mulla Nasruddin—in a while even that I won’t be able to say. Open quickly!”
We all live in such a stupor that we cannot tell what is outside and what is inside. Even who I am—we do not know. Where we want to go—we do not know. From where we are coming—we do not know. What is the purpose—why we live—we do not know. A deep unconsciousness—within that, hands and feet keep flailing. That flailing we call “action.” Sometimes someone is hurt—then we ask forgiveness. Sometimes someone is pleased by the flailing—we call it love. Sometimes it hits and the other gets angry—then we say, “Sorry, mistake happened.” The same hands—flailing in the dark. Sometimes right, sometimes wrong—it seems so; but the hand is unconscious, hence always wrong.
If you would enter Prayashchitta, know: I am wrong; I am asleep. Wrong means: I am asleep, unconscious. I have no idea where my feet are landing, or why. Do you know what you are doing? Have you ever shaken yourself hard, stood up and asked for two minutes: “What am I doing in this life?” What is happening through me? Is this why I came? Is this the meaning? If you shake yourself hard, for a split-second it will seem to you that the whole life is futile.
Only he can enter Prayashchitta who can shake himself and ask: “What is the meaning? What is the purpose of this life I am living? This round from morning to night—this circle of anger and hatred; this circle of love and hate; this circle of forgiveness and enmity—what is all this? This wealth, this fame, this ego, this position and respectability—what is all this? Is there any meaning in it? In all that I have done, am I moving toward anything—arriving anywhere? Is there a journey? Does any destination seem to come nearer? Or am I going around in circles?” After these six outer tapas this becomes easier. After salilnata—gathered energy—it becomes easy. When your strength has settled within, then you can shake it awake and ask: “What am I doing? Is this right? By doing this will I be fulfilled, contented?”
You will die—and while you live you think a big space will go empty without you. So many works will stop! What a vast wheel you are running! But graveyards are full of those who thought that without them the world would not run. Would not run—the moon and the sun would stop.
Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “If the world were to end, what do you think?” He asked, “Which world?” “How many worlds are there?” the man said, exasperated. “This is some new theory of yours? The world can end only one way.” Nasruddin said, “It ends in two ways—one day, the day I die, the world will end. And the other way is: the world may end on its own.”
We all secretly think that the day I die, the world will end.

Mulla died. People saw him to the grave and were returning. On the way, a stranger asked, “What was the complaint?”—what did Nasruddin die of? The man he stopped said, “There was no complaint, there is no complaint. Everyone is completely, thoroughly satisfied.” No complaints at all—everyone is content. He died—good riddance; the village nuisance is gone.

Nasruddin could never have imagined such a verdict. He was saying, “One time the world will perish—when I die. The ultimate dissolution happens, in truth, the day I die.”

What we do and what we think we are doing—we imagine there is some great life-force in it, some immense meaning. We draw lines on water and think; we write our names on sand and think; we build palaces of paper and think. You disappear and no one even notices when you disappeared. You are erased and no one even notices when you were erased. After composure, the seeker should stop within and ask: Does anything I’m doing have any meaning? Does what I am have any meaning? If I am gone tomorrow, everyone will be completely satisfied; people will be perfectly content.

Once in Delhi two circus lions escaped. They ran off and got separated. After seven days they met again. One had been starving the entire week, miserable, hiding under a culvert—found nothing to eat, was exhausted, nearly dead. But the other looked robust, healthy, strong. The first lion asked, “I’ve had a terrible time. I’m just trying somehow to find my way back to the circus; even that path I can’t find. I’m dying—seven days hungry. But you look fresh, cheerful, healthy—where did you hide?”

He said, “I was hiding in the Parliament House.”

“You went to such a dangerous place? With all that police, how did you get food?”

“I used to take a minister every day.”

“That’s awfully dangerous—you’ll get caught.”

“Not at all. As soon as a minister disappears, everyone is completely satisfied. There’s no fuss. No one misses him. No one even feels a lack. That place is so convenient that whomever you take from there, the rest are happy. You should come too. In fact, not just the two of us—the whole circus pride could come and there would still be food for many days, because the food comes to Parliament House of its own eagerness from all over the country. No matter how little we take, the food keeps volunteering itself. For us, they’re food—those you call MPs. They are food.”

Pictures hang there of people who must have thought that without them the world would stop, the moon and stars would cease their motion. Nothing stops. In this world nothing even shows when you get lost.

Surely, the worth of what you have done is not such that anyone would notice. But whether or not it holds value for others, the seeker must ask: Does it hold any value for me? This that I am doing—what is its inner significance? What is its inner meaning, its dignity within? When this thought arises you enter the world of prāyaschitta.

What is the world of prāyaschitta? Let me tell you. Prāyaschitta means: As I am—asleep—I decide to awaken myself. Prāyaschitta is the resolve to awaken. Repentance is the asleep person asking forgiveness for mistakes made in sleep. Prāyaschitta is the decision to rouse the sleeping personality. Whatever I have done up to now was wrong, because I am wrong. Now I will change myself—not my actions, not my doing, but my being. Now I will change myself, now I will try to be different. Does this meaning of prāyaschitta occur to you? If it does, you become a seeker. If it doesn’t, you remain an ordinary householder—repenting and repeating the same acts.

Seeing that Nasruddin’s arguments were growing crazier, that he said strange things—logical things, yes, but there is a logic even to madness—his family got worried. Remember, often madmen are great logicians; if you ever argue with a madman, one thing is certain: you won’t be able to convince him; he may well convince you. A madman’s logic is absolute, airtight.

Nasruddin’s arguments were getting like that—his family and friends were distressed. One day he was talking to the village theologian. The theologian said, “There is no truth we can proclaim absolutely.” Nasruddin asked, “Is what you are saying absolutely true?” He replied, “Certainly, definitely.” Nasruddin said, “Now everything is muddled. You say, ‘No truth can be proclaimed absolutely,’ and then you say, ‘This truth is absolute.’”

They took Nasruddin to a psychiatrist, for the whole village was upset by his logic. The psychiatrist treated him for a year. They say that in a year Nasruddin got well. On the day he was cured, the psychiatrist celebrated. “Today you are well—this is a great success for me, because curing a man like you was almost impossible. If in this lifetime I cure no one else, it’s fine. Come, in this joy let’s go outside—the flowers are blooming, birds are singing, the sun is out, the morning is beautiful—let’s walk toward the hills.”

They went toward the hills. Nasruddin was panting, but the doctor kept running ahead. Finally Nasruddin said, “Stop! Enough. If my mind were still deranged, I might run with you. But now I’m cured—as you said. Not so much, please!” The doctor said, “Look at the milestone—how far we’ve come. Not very far.” Nasruddin looked: “Ten miles.” The doctor said, “It’s not so bad. To each it comes to only five miles: five for me, five for you. Coming back won’t be so hard.” Meaning: Nasruddin got well in a year; the doctor went mad. Ten miles to return, and he says, “No problem—each one’s share is only five.”

It’s hard to persuade a madman; more likely he will persuade you. Because he weaves a web around himself—not reasons but rationalizations, not logic but the simulacrum of logic, fallacies. He manufactures them.

Eleanor Roosevelt wrote a memoir. Before Roosevelt became president, he was governor of an American state. As the governor’s wife, one day Eleanor went to inspect a madhouse. A man greeted her at the door; she assumed he was the superintendent. He escorted her around. For three hours he gave case histories, details of each patient—Eleanor was astonished. As they were leaving, she said, “You are remarkable—your knowledge, your experience of madness, your study. I have never met such an intelligent man.”

He said, “I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. I am not the superintendent, I am one of the inmates. The superintendent is out today.”

Eleanor said, “You—mad? I’ve never seen a healthier man. Who declared you mad?”

He said, “That’s what I’ve been explaining for seven years, but no one listens. If a madman says, ‘I’m not mad,’ who’s willing to believe it? The superintendent says, ‘All madmen say they’re not mad—what’s special about that?’”

Eleanor said, “This is terrible. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the governor today; tomorrow you’ll be released. You’re perfectly healthy—more than ordinary, extraordinarily intelligent. Who could call you mad? If you’re mad, then we all are.”

The inmate said, “That’s exactly what I explain, but no one believes me.”

“Don’t worry,” Eleanor said. “I’ll go right now. Tomorrow morning you will be free.” She turned to leave after greeting him. The inmate suddenly leapt up and gave her a hard kick in the back. She tumbled down seven or eight steps. Terrified, she got up. “What have you done? What have you done?”

“Just to remind you,” he said. “Don’t forget. Tell the governor tomorrow morning—just to remind you.”

But those three hours were washed away in an instant. The question is: could he really have been right for those three hours? No—he could only create the appearance of being right—a semblance, a fallacy. It can look perfectly right; you may not be able to catch where the mistake is—but some moment will expose it.

The sleeping person is like that. All day he seems perfectly fine, not a flicker of anger. Suddenly he slaps his son: “Why are you late?” You think, “He’s fine most of the time.” No—that slap shows that the rest of the time he only creates the appearance of being fine. He is not fine, he cannot be fine, because this could not emerge from a truly fine man. A man suddenly plunges a knife into someone’s chest; we say, “Till yesterday he was a good man—utterly good.” Granted he seemed utterly good; but it was an appearance. The sleeping person can only produce the appearance of goodness. Evil is his destiny; it will show itself. He can hold it back for a moment or two, teeter this way and that, but it will show.

Do you realize that you are holding yourself together all the time? That you keep suppressing what is within you? What you want to say, you don’t say; you say something else. What you want to reveal, you don’t; you present something else. But sometimes it is exposed. A breeze lifts the garment, and what’s inside shows—some circumstance. Then you say, “It was a mistake of action, of circumstance.” No—circumstance only gave the opportunity for what you were hiding to be revealed.

Prāyaschitta begins when you know yourself as you are. Do not hide, do not cover—and you will find you are boiling lava, a volcano. These are all your excuses, your trappings. These are pasted-on plasters—very thin. Just a show. Accept what you are within.

The first sutra of prāyaschitta is: Whatever you are—good or bad, blameworthy, sinful, dishonest—accept it. You are like that. Acceptance of fact is prāyaschitta. “It happened by mistake; let me wipe it away”—that is repentance. “It happened—and it keeps happening; given what I am, this is exactly what happens”—that acceptance is the beginning of prāyaschitta. Acceptance—total acceptance—with no choosing anywhere. If you choose, you will keep changing: today this, tomorrow that; your switching will continue. Prāyaschitta is total acceptance: I am like this. If I am a thief, I am a thief. If I am dishonest, I am dishonest. There is no need to go announce, “I am dishonest,” because often if you announce, “I am dishonest,” people will think you are very honest. People started calling me “God.” I kept quiet for many days; I thought if I say, “I’m not God,” their faith will become even more firm: “That’s exactly the mark of God—that he denies it.”

Our mind is strange. If you truly want to deceive someone, first tell him, “I’m a very bad man, I’m dishonest.” He will trust you more; you will be able to cheat him more easily. And when you declare, “I’m dishonest,” watch whether there is a sweet relish in it—for even in declaring before others there can be a relish. Psychologists say Leo Tolstoy confessed more sins in his autobiography than he actually committed. Some are imagined—written to make a declaration; not actually done. Can you imagine? Someone declaring his virtues—“I gave so much charity”—that you can understand. But someone declaring, “I committed such thefts”—is that also possible? Would anyone do that? Ever think someone would trumpet his sins so loudly? Yes—sinners do, but not men like Tolstoy. Go to a prison: the man who stole ten rupees will say, “I looted a million.” Because what’s the point of a ten-rupee theft—then you’re just a petty thief; no prestige in that.

A prisoner entered the barracks. Another, leaning on the bars, asked, “How long is your sentence?” “Forty years,” he said. “Then you sit by the door,” the other replied. “We’ll sit by the wall.” “Why?” “We’ve got seventy-five years. Your chance to leave comes first—so you take the door. We’ll be here thirty-five years more.” Meaning: they establish mastery at once—“Now you live here as a disciple.”

So, in prisons there’s plenty of proclamation. But it rarely occurs to us that the saints too may have proclaimed more sins than they actually committed—or that there can be a relish even in the confession of sin.

Psychologists say: there can be. Gandhi’s autobiography should one day be psychoanalyzed—did he truly commit as many childhood sins as he wrote, or were some imagined? It’s not necessary he was lying. The mind is such that a man may believe he did what he says. It’s not necessary that he knowingly wrote, “I didn’t do this, yet I write it.” Often, by repeating something, he himself gets a taste for it and feels he did it. You carry many memories of things you never did, which never happened. But you believed, settled into it, and slowly became convinced. Psychologists say Tolstoy did not commit so many sins, yet he declared them.

So I am not saying the man of prāyaschitta should go announce, “I am a sinner.” There’s danger even in declaration. No—let him accept before himself: “I am like this.” There’s no need to say it before anyone else. Let me tell you another difference.

Repentance has to be shown before the other; prāyaschitta is before oneself. Repentance before oneself has no meaning—if you abused someone publicly and then silently asked forgiveness in your heart, what meaning has that? When you went to the other to insult, you must go to the other to ask forgiveness. Action relates to the other; hence repentance relates to the other. But your being relates to no one—it relates only to you. To proclaim it before others is unnecessary—and if you take relish in it, it’s dangerous. Prāyaschitta is before oneself—exposing yourself to yourself in total nakedness: what am I?

Remember, before the other there is always the fear of editing—of presenting something else. That’s why no one can write a truly honest diary. Even if he’s not writing it for others to read, the possibility remains that someone may read it; so all diaries are false. If you’ve written a diary, you know well how much you leave out that should be written; how much you add that wasn’t; how much you tidy up to make it look different. Or the opposite can happen: if you want to declare your sins, you may exaggerate a small sin into a big one.

Augustine’s Confessions is suspect—did all that he wrote really happen? Even sin has limits. You cannot make sin infinite; even there the capacity of man limits it. A man gets fed up with sin too; there is a saturation point. Emptiness comes, and he turns back. But if your mind is on others, the sleeping mind will alter and distort. That’s why prāyaschitta is before oneself—nothing to do with the other.

Remember too: Mahavira could give such value to prāyaschitta because he gave no place to God; otherwise only repentance would remain—prāyaschitta would be impossible. Where God is present as the witness, then it is always for someone else—even if not for people. When a Christian monk says in solitude, “O Lord, these are my sins,” the Other is present—the Other is present, even if it is God. Mahavira says: there is no God before whom you are appearing; there is only you. Mahavira made the individual so wholly self-determined as to be beyond measure: there is only you—no one else—no one in the sky to hear you say, “Forgive my sins.” No one will forgive; no one is there. Don’t shout; proclamations won’t help. Don’t beg for mercy; there is no one to be merciful.

Prāyaschitta is not before another; it is the acceptance before yourself of your own hell. And when acceptance within becomes total, transformation begins from that very total acceptance. It may seem difficult to grasp—why should transformation begin from total acceptance? The moment a person accepts himself totally, his old image shatters to pieces, turns to ash. As he finds himself now, he cannot bear to see himself even for a moment—he will change; there is no other way. When you know the house is on fire, you won’t say, “Now I’ll think about whether to go out.” You won’t say, “Let me find a guru to show the path.” You won’t say, “First let me ascertain whether there is anything worth finding outside—what if I leave the house and find nothing?” All that belongs to the man who secretly believes there is no fire. Once you see the flames all around, you are out. The jump happens.

Nasruddin’s wife had an operation. When they laid her on the operating table, outside the windows the trees were in bloom, an arc of rainbow in the sky. After the operation, when the cloth was lifted from her face, she saw all the curtains drawn, windows and doors shut. She asked Nasruddin, “It was such a beautiful morning—has it become evening or night? Did it take that long?” Nasruddin said, “No, only five minutes.” “Then why are all the doors closed?” “Because a house next door caught fire. We were afraid that if you came to and saw the flames, you’d think you had reached hell. So we closed the windows—hell’s fires burn, and we didn’t want you to think, ‘I’m dead—finished.’ And sometimes if a person thinks, ‘I’m dead,’ he actually dies.”

In Nasruddin’s own life it happened that once he fainted and people thought he was dead. They were tying him to the bier when he regained consciousness. “Ah, you didn’t die!” they said. “I didn’t,” said Nasruddin, “and even while you thought I was dead, I wasn’t. I knew I was alive.” “How could you know? You were completely unconscious. What proof did you have within that you were alive?” “I had proof,” he said. “I was hungry. If I’d reached heaven, under the wish-fulfilling tree hunger would have vanished. And my feet felt cold. If I’d reached hell, where is cold there? And there are only two places to go. So I knew I was alive.”

The only atheist in Nasruddin’s village died. Nasruddin went to see him off. He lay there in a fine suit, tie neatly knotted—perfectly dressed. Nasruddin said sadly, “Poor man—thoroughly dressed and nowhere to go.” An atheist—he could go neither to hell nor to heaven, for he believed in neither. “All ready,” said Nasruddin, “and nowhere to go.”

That fire within us—that hell—where we are standing already… Hell is not a destination; it is our condition. Heaven is not a place either. Mahavira was the first on this earth to say that heaven and hell are states of mind—mind-states, states of consciousness. Liberation is not a place; Mahavira said it is beyond space. Not a location—only a state. But where we stand now is hell. The clearer this hell is recognized, the more you enter prāyaschitta. And the more intense that recognition becomes—when flames begin to burn all around you—the leap happens and transformation begins.

We will begin, from tomorrow, the other five sutras of that leap—slowly. This first sutra must be understood rightly. Composure is like the final sutra of outer austerity, and precious; only after it can prāyaschitta happen. Prāyaschitta is very precious because it is the first sutra of inner austerity. If you cannot enter prāyaschitta, there is no entry into inner tapas—it is the door.

That’s all for today.

Let us pause five minutes and do kirtan.
…Join in the kirtan—don’t just clap, sing out fully, be utterly joyful; don’t merely watch—be a participant.