Mahaveer Vani #15

The second step of inner austerity is: humility.

Humility can arise only after repentance. Because as long as the mind goes on seeing the faults of others, humility cannot be born. As long as a person thinks, “Except for me, all the rest are wrong,” humility cannot be born. Humility can only be born when the ego stops fattening itself by seeing others’ faults. Understand it this way: the food of the ego is to see the faults of others. That is its nourishment. Hence it is impossible that you keep on seeing others’ faults and the ego dissolves. You are feeding it on one side and on the other you want to dissolve it—this cannot happen. That is why Mahavira has kept a very scientific sequence—repentance first; because with repentance the food supply to the ego ceases.

Why, in fact, do we see others’ faults at all? Perhaps you have never thought about this carefully—why do we find such relish in seeing others’ faults? In truth, we look for others’ faults only so that, in their shadow, we may appear innocent. The more you see the other at fault, the more innocent you seem. Against that backdrop where the other is guilty, we can see ourselves as blameless. If others appear innocent, then we begin to look guilty. So we paint others’ faces as black as we can manage. Amid their blackened faces we appear fair. If everyone around were fair—if everyone shone—the darkness in us would instantly be visible.

The inner relish of finding fault is an unsuccessful attempt to prove oneself innocent; for innocence cannot be proved by oneself. One can be innocent, one cannot prove it. In fact, the very effort to prove is the hidden proof of not being innocent. Innocence is not even the effort to prove. If someone brings you good news about another, your mind does not want to believe it. If someone tells you that such-and-such a man is very virtuous, good, saintly, the mind does not want to accept it. A subtle resistance arises within: “How can this be?” Pay a little attention to this undercurrent; otherwise humility will never be attained.

Whenever someone praises another, the mind resists believing. An inner wave trembles, asking: “What proof is there that he is virtuous or saintly?” The urge to seek proof is solely to find a way to disprove it. But have you seen the opposite? If someone slanders another, your mind at once is eager to believe. You ask for no proof for slander. If someone says, “So-and-so is a brahmachari,” you ask: “What is the proof?” But if someone says, “So-and-so is a debauchee,” have you ever asked for proof? No—then no proof is needed. Saying it is enough. Someone has said it—that suffices.

And note, if someone declares that a man has attained brahmacharya, at best you accept it reluctantly, not with joy. And when you pass it on to someone else, the emphasis diminishes. As it travels through three or four people, the brahmacharya will be lost. But if someone says, “So-and-so is licentious,” observe how you multiply it when you pass it on! The relish doubles. By the time it reaches five people, it will seem that no greater debauchee has ever been born on earth. In five people’s hands, sin will travel a very long distance.

It is essential to see and understand this inner relish of the mind. So the first sutra in the practice of humility is to see: what props sustain our ego? By what supports do we remain unmannered, unhumble? If those props are not withdrawn, humility will not arise. Slander tastes sweet; praise feels like pain. And therefore, if out of some compulsion you must praise someone, you quickly move away, and at once, somewhere else, you slander him—to balance your bank-account. It takes no time; you quickly bring the scales to equilibrium. Until balance is restored, the mind is ill at ease. But the reverse does not happen so easily. After abusing someone, you do not immediately try to balance by discussing his virtues. The mind’s natural desire is that others be denigrated. We can see others’ faults from thousands of miles away, and yet cannot see our own even though they are so near.

Mulla Nasruddin phoned the mayor of his town several times: “A woman is behaving most indecently with me. She stands at her window posing in inviting postures, and at times she is half-naked as seen from the window. This must be stopped. It is an attack on public morality.” After many calls, the mayor came to Mulla’s house.

Mulla took him to the fourth floor, stood him by the window and said, “Look—there, that house across the river, half a mile away. She lives there.” The mayor said, “She lives in that house—and from those windows she tempts you? From here I can’t even see the window properly; how do you see the woman?” Mulla said, “Wait—there is a method of seeing—get on this stool, take this telescope in your hand—then you will see.”

But the fault is hers—who is half a mile away!

And then, one day, Mulla knocked on the door of the town psychiatrist—he entered completely naked! The psychiatrist was startled—looked him up and down. Mulla said, “I came to ask exactly this—and you are making the same mistake as everyone else. When I walk on the streets people stare at me as if they have gone mad. What deficiency is there in me, what error, that they keep staring? Your analysis?” The psychiatrist, himself staring—because Mulla was stark naked—said, “It seems you are wearing invisible clothes. Perhaps people stare to see those clothes.” Mulla said, “Exactly. What is your fee?” The psychiatrist thought, “Such a man—charge properly.” He said, “One hundred rupees.” Mulla put his hand in his pocket, counted out notes, and handed them over. The psychiatrist said, “But there is nothing in your hand.” Mulla said, “These are invisible notes. They can’t be seen. Stare hard—you might catch a glimpse.”

A man walks naked in the market and still suspects: why are others staring? And from his home he puts up a telescope to peep into a window half a mile away and claims, “That woman is tempting me.” We are all like that. Our personality has just such a misalignment. How will humility be born? There is no way except for the ego to grow. Even if one kills someone, he does not admit that he is guilty; he claims the man did such a deed that killing became necessary. The other is at fault.

Mulla married a third time. When the third wife came home she saw two large photographs and asked, “Whose are these?” Mulla said, “Of my previous two wives.” In a Muslim household four wives are permissible. She asked, “But where are they?” Mulla said, “Where now? The first died of mushroom poisoning—she ate poisonous mushrooms.” “And the second?” “She also died—fracture of the skull. But the fault was hers; she would not eat mushrooms.” He had smashed her skull because she would not eat mushrooms. Yet the fault was hers, the mistake hers.

The mistake is always the other’s. The very word ‘fault’ flies like an arrow toward the other; it is never our own. And when it is not ours, there is no reason for humility. The ego stands secure, strengthened by arrows shooting toward others.

Hence Mahavira called repentance the first inner austerity—first it must be known that not only are my acts wrong, I myself am wrong. All the arrows change direction. They no longer go outward; they turn upon oneself. In such a situation humility can be cultivated. Still, Mahavira did not say “ego-lessness.” He could have spoken of nir-ahamkar, but he did not; he spoke of vinay—humility. Because ego-lessness is negative and implies a prior acceptance of the ego. To deny something you must first accept it. And that which must be accepted even to be denied cannot really be denied. Just as no one can say, “I am dead,” for to say “I am dead” one must accept that one is alive. Or someone says, “I am not inside the house”—to say it, you must be inside the house!

In the practice of ego-lessness, the mistake is that one first accepts, “I am the ego,” and then tries to transform the ego into its negation. The great danger is that the ego will simply put on the garments of egolessness and proclaim, “Look, I am egoless. There is no ego in me.” Ego can declare, “There is no ego in me.” Then it is no longer humility; it is a form of ego—occult, hidden, secret—and more dangerous than its overt form. Therefore Mahavira deliberately did not speak of ego-lessness. Any inner austerity grasped in negative terms only makes more subtle the very disease you wanted to remove; it becomes difficult to uproot. Yes—if humility happens, you will certainly be egoless. But striving to be egoless does not destroy the ego. The ego can take forms of such soft-spoken modesty that you will not be able to reckon with it. It can say, “I am nothing—only the dust beneath your feet,” and still survive in that very declaration. The distinction is very fine, very subtle.

Humility is positive. Mahavira, the lawgiver, insists that a state arise within you where the other is no longer guilty. And the moment my own faults begin to be seen, humility showers in many forms. One who does not see his own faults sees the faults of others very harshly. One to whom his own faults become visible becomes very compassionate toward the faults of others—because he knows: they are within me too.

In truth, one who has never stolen should not be allowed to judge a thief. He will not be able to understand in what conditions a person can fall into theft. But we never set a thief to judge a thief. We appoint one who has never stolen. Whatever he does will be injustice. Injustice—because he will be too harsh. The tenderness that should come—knowing one’s own weakness and hence recognizing another’s weakness as natural—that sympathetic heart will be missing. Hence you will be surprised: those whom we call sinners are often more compassionate; and those whom we call saints have a hidden poison of cruelty that is hard to find in the so-called sinners.

It appears inverted, but there is a reason. The sinner becomes kind toward other sinners because he knows: I am weak—how can I condemn another’s weakness? No sinner has organized hell for other sinners—only the virtuous do that. Their minds do not agree to let the sinner go unpunished. And there is every possibility that their taste for virtue is only so they may belittle sinners. Ego savors such juices.

As soon as the arrows of awareness turn inward and one’s own, very natural mistakes become visible, a deep kindness arises toward the mistakes of others. One knows: calling the other guilty is futile—not because he is or isn’t guilty, but because faults are so natural. They are in me as well. And when one’s own faults are seen, the ground to feel superior vanishes.

But the scriptures of the Jains define humility differently: they say, honoring those who are superior is humility—the reverence of teachers, parents, elders, monks, the great ones, the public figures—this reverence is humility. This is utterly wrong—wrong from the very roots. Why? Because the one who sees someone as superior will inevitably see someone as inferior. It is impossible that someone seems superior to you and no one appears inferior—because a balance has two pans.

You can see someone as superior only through comparison. You say, “This man is superior because I steal and he does not.” But then how will you avoid seeing that someone is more a thief than you? If you see someone as a saint, how will you avoid seeing the unholy? As long as you can see the superior, the inferior must dwell in your eyes. Comparison has two pans.

Therefore I do not accept that Mahavira means “reverence for those superior to you,” for then you will have to disdain those inferior to you. This is a very amusing thing. We have never thought this through; our thinking is childish. We say, “Honor the superior.” But then the inferior will also appear. Once you are standing on stairs, if someone is above you, someone will be below you; without the below, how will you know there is an above? The above is known only by contrast with the below. If there are only two people, who is ahead?

There is a delicious story from Mulla’s life. Some students invited Mulla to give a talk at their college. Mulla said, “Come, I will come now—who knows about tomorrow? And disciples are hard to find!” He brought out his donkey—but he sat facing backward. This extraordinary procession moved through the market—Mulla sitting backward on the donkey, students following.

Soon the students grew uneasy. People on the road grew curious; the students were being dragged into it too. People asked, “What is this? Which madman are you following? Are you out of your minds?” Finally a student dared to ask, “Mulla, what is this way of sitting? Please sit straight. You are disgracing us.”

Mulla said, “If I sit straight, it will be great discourtesy.” “What kind of discourtesy?” “If I sit with my back toward you, it insults you. And if I don’t sit with my back toward you—if I ask you to walk ahead and my donkey follows—it insults me. So this is the only compromise: I sit backward, I face you, and both our faces remain toward each other. In this both our honors are preserved. Let people say what they will; we are both saving our dignity.”

Our notions of humility—who is superior, who walks ahead—depend on who is behind. The more you honor the superior, the more you will dishonor the inferior. The amounts will match—life constantly balances itself; otherwise restlessness arises. When you search for a saint, you will certainly search for a sinner too—and comparison will be satisfied. Whenever you choose one God, you will be compelled to reject another. Those who accept Mahavira as Bhagwan cannot accept Buddha as Bhagwan, cannot accept Krishna as Bhagwan. Those who accept Krishna cannot accept Mahavira or Buddha. Why? Because they must balance. If one pan holds a God, the other must hold a not-God. Only then the scales stand still.

Thus, even when Jains write of Buddha—because Buddha and Mahavira were contemporaries, and their teachings often appear similar—I have yet to see a courageous Jain who wrote “Bhagwan Buddha.” At most they write, “Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha.” How amusing! Courageous indeed—to write “Mahatma Buddha”—but not courageous enough to say “Bhagwan Buddha.” “Bhagwan Krishna” is far more difficult—for the teachings differ greatly. So Krishna has been assigned to hell by the Jains. According to them, Krishna is currently in hell, because he caused a war.

And the Hindus? They did not even count Mahavira; not a single text mentions him. Not even worth consigning to hell! Understand: there is not even a reckoning. If the Buddhist scriptures were destroyed, then apart from their own texts, the Jains would have no mention of Mahavira in India. That a man like Mahavira was born in a land filled with Hindus and not a single Hindu scripture mentions him—this is something to ponder!

So when Western scholars first worked on Mahavira, they suspected such a person never existed; for it seemed impossible that no Hindu text would mention him. Perhaps, they thought, the Jains are only another sect of Buddhists and have confused Buddha with Mahavira; many of the titles overlap—Buddha is also called Jina, Mahavira is called Jina—“the conqueror of oneself.” Mahavira too is called a Buddha; Buddha is the Buddha. So, they thought, it is a confusion. Western scholars even denied Mahavira’s existence—because the Hindu majority had no record!

Remember, the Jains had to at least accept Krishna—if only to put him in hell. He was too vast; too revered by a huge society. But the Hindus could simply neglect—no need to mention. Astonishing it is: accept one as God and it becomes difficult to accept the other—because the scales have been set; the other must be placed on the opposite pan.

We are all balancing. We are all comparing. Therefore, although so many wondrous beings have appeared on this earth, we usually benefit from only one—only one, not all. We are heirs to all—we inherit Buddha as much as Krishna, as much as Mohammed, as much as Christ, as much as Nanak or Kabir. But we forfeit our inheritance; we claim only one and deny all others. We must deny—because if we accept one as superior, someone must be placed as inferior; otherwise how will superiority be measured? From this, humility never arises.

The man who says, “I am reverent toward Mahavira but not toward Buddha,” should know he is not humble. It is merely another way of feeding his ego: “I relate myself to Mahavira—Mahavira is Bhagwan; thus I am linked to God.” Then others who link to Buddha puff their egos, and the clash of egos begins. Then it becomes inconvenient for me that Buddha should be God—because if Buddha is God, those who follow him become superior. The ego wants its own God only. Hence the world is mad. This is the disease born of ego. Humility does not mean giving reverence only to those you consider superior.

Another point: if the other is superior and therefore you give respect, where is the virtue in your respect? Consider this. If someone is superior, you must give respect—you do not actually give it; you are compelled. Where is your merit? Where is your transformation in that? If someone is superior, you have to bow—note, have to. It becomes a compulsion. It is not your virtue. Without your virtue awakening, how will inner austerity be? Inner austerity is about evoking inner qualities.

If the Kohinoor looks beautiful to me, that is the beauty of the Kohinoor. But the day I can see beauty in pebbles and stones on the road as much as in the Kohinoor—that day the quality is no longer of the Kohinoor, it is mine. The day reverence arises toward all, without weighing, the virtue is mine. As long as I weigh and measure, it is not my virtue—it is my compulsion. One must honor the “superior.” To honor the superior does not require any effort, any inner change from you. How is it your tapas, your practice? The superior man’s tapas may be in becoming superior—but your honoring is not your tapas. The sun rises and you salute it; a flower blooms and you sing—where are you in this? Without you, the flower would bloom anyway; your song adds no petals. Without you, the sun would rise; your salute adds no radiance. Where is your value in this?

Mulla Nasruddin consulted the psychologist constantly—he was always entangled in worries, anxieties, webs of mind—as everyone is. He said, “I am very troubled—I suffer from inferiority complex. When the Sultan passes on the road I feel inferior. A great poet visits and sings—I feel inferior. The banker’s mansion rises higher—I feel inferior. A logician argues—I feel inferior. How can I be free of this inferiority complex?” The psychologist said, “Don’t suffer unnecessarily. You are not suffering from an inferiority complex—you are inferior.” This is not a disease; it is a fact.

Remember, when in fact you are inferior before someone, you have to honor him. You do not give honor—it is forced upon you. If Kalidasa recites Shakuntala and reverence rises in you, if Tansen plays the veena and your head bows—do not fall into the illusion that you gave reverence. You had to. But the mind, even where it is forced, believes, “I honored.” This too feeds the ego: “I honored.”

So Mahavira cannot say: “Revere the superior,” because that happens by itself and has no value. Unconditional reverence—then humility is born. Not a matter of superior or inferior—reverence for life, reverence for existence, reverence for what is. That it is—is that not enough? A stone, a flower, a sun, a man, a thief, a saint, a dishonest man—they are. Their very being is sufficient. The reverence that arises toward being as such—if this becomes possible—then it is your inner austerity; then the quality is yours; then you are transformed.

And then, how will you decide who is superior? If scripture says, “superior, great ones, gurus”—how will you decide? Who is a guru? What is the measure? Many people came to Mahavira and went away saying, “He is not a guru.” Many hung Jesus on a cross thinking he was a vagabond, a nuisance—better remove him, he is harmful.

Note, those who crucified Jesus were the good and respectable of their time—judges, religious authorities, the wealthy, politicians. The good people crucified him. And if we weigh their reasons, they appear right—Jesus lodged in the houses of prostitutes. How can a man be superior who stays in a prostitute’s home? He sat in taverns and befriended drunkards—what trust can you place in one who sits in taverns? He stayed with the notorious; one is known by company. He befriended the outcastes—how could he be good? He opposed the temple priests and tradition—how could he be righteous? Thus the good people of that society crucified him—and today we know something went terribly wrong.

Those who gave Socrates poison were the superior men of that society—not wicked men. They believed Socrates’ presence would corrode morality—he sowed doubt; they feared the youth would be ruined. So they offered Socrates a choice: leave Athens forever and promise never to return, or remain in Athens but vow never to teach again. “We cannot allow you to ruin society.” They were, in their minds, protecting the young—as good people always are—and yet the young never stop due to such concern; they only become more rebellious.

Who is superior? The wealthy? The learned? The famous? But look at the roads fame travels—often the most inferior roads. Success wipes away all stains. Wealth does not come by saintly paths. But achievement recolors the past. Society calls that man superior who obeys its rules. But those whom history later calls superior—Buddha, Mahavira, Nanak, Kabir—were not superior in their own society; they were rebels, enemies of the establishment.

Even today one who calls Mahavira superior will call any living rebel dangerous. Therefore only dead Tirthankaras are honored; a living Tirthankara is hard to honor—he is a rebel. A dead Tirthankara, being dead, slowly becomes acceptable—absorbed by the establishment. Then there is no difficulty. Today there is no difficulty with Mahavira.

Mahavira stood naked; his disciples run cloth shops across the land. No difficulty. No one sells more cloth than Mahavira’s disciples. I have a close relative—his shop is named “Digambar Cloth Shop.” Digambar—clothless—Cloth Shop! If Mahavira heard it, he would be amazed. No one even notices a contradiction. But if Mahavira were to stand naked before that shop, the contradiction would be clear—he stands naked; we sell clothes; we are his disciples—what is this? If nakedness is virtue, then selling clothes becomes a sin—pushing people toward sin. But with a dead Mahavira there is no hindrance; the thought never arises. When I pointed it out, he said, “Strange—we’ve had this sign for thirty years and never thought there was any clash between Digambara and cloth.”

No, it doesn’t occur. A dead Tirthankara fits into our system; we file off his sharp edges, drop his rebellion, repaint his words—and he becomes acceptable. But the one whom history later calls superior, his contemporaries always call a nuisance. Whom then to honor? What is the measure of superiority? “Mahajano yena gatah sa panthah”—the path trodden by the great is the path. But who are the great? Are Mohammed and his sword-wielding hand great? A follower of Mahavira will never accept this. A follower of Mohammed will never accept Mahavira as great; he will say, “One who will not even raise a sword against evil is a coward. With so much evil in the world, the sword must rise. If not, you are dead.” Religion must be alive; hence the sword in Mohammed’s hand—although on the sword it is inscribed: “Peace is my message.” Islam means peace. A Jain cannot even conceive that Islam and peace are related! Mohammed says: peace that cannot become the edge of a sword cannot survive. How else will it be protected?

Who is superior? How will you weigh? Hence we invented a simple trick—avoid weighing by birth. If I am born a Jain, Mahavira is superior; born a Muslim, Mohammed is superior. This is a way to avoid the trouble of weighing. Birth has happened—fate is sealed; the case is settled. You all are weighing like this—who is superior, whom to honor! When you honor a Jain monk, do you do so because he is saintly—or because he is Jain?

Where is the measure of a saint? How will you weigh him? If he removes his mouth-cloth, your reverence ends. So what were you revering—the mouth-cloth or the man? If he puts it back on, you will touch his feet. If he sets the mouth-cloth aside you will regret touching his feet; in your temple or meeting hall he will not be allowed to stay. With the cloth—welcome! Whom are you seeing—the cloth or the person? It appears the mouth-cloth is the real person—the man is secondary. One should not say the man wears the mouth-cloth; rather, the mouth-cloth wears the man—because the decisive factor is the cloth. The man is not decisive. Even if Buddha himself were to come to your temple, you would not give him as much honor as to a fool wearing a mouth-cloth—because where is the cloth?

Why do we invent such devices? Because there is no true measure. We make outer signs because measuring the inner is difficult. Leave aside the person’s depth; we settle the case with signs: “He is a monk—touch his feet.” But Mahavira cannot say such childish things. He cannot say: “Honor the superior,” because how will you know who is superior? And if you try to know, you will have to know the inferior too. And when you examine the superior, how will you conduct the exam? You will have to keep accounts of his sins: Does he drink water at night? Does he eat secretly? Is there a bar of soap in his bag? Does he use toothpaste? Only one who relishes slander can keep such accounts—the one who wants to prove others inferior. A truly humble man has no such interest. What does it matter to him who uses toothpaste? The very thought reveals a lack of humility. Mahavira does not say such things.

Mahavira says humility is an inner quality—unrelated to the outside—unconditional. Not: “If you are like this, I will honor you,” but: “You are—enough. I honor you.” Because reverence is an inner quality, and reverence leads a person toward the inner self. I will honor you without conditions. Whether you drink or do not drink is not the question; that you are life is enough. This whole existence sustains you; the sun gives you light—it does not refuse because you drink. The winds do not deny you oxygen because you are dishonest. The sky does not say, “We won’t give you space because you are not good.” When existence accepts you, who am I to reject you? You are—that is enough. I give you honor, I give you respect.

This simple, causeless respect for life is humility—without conditions, without investigation—because such investigation is impossible. One who investigates is not humble—his reverence is conditional. If I say, “Fulfill my conditions, then I will honor you,” I am not honoring the person; I am honoring my conditions. And one who agrees to fulfill my conditions is not worthy of honor—he is a slave, ready to submit just to be respected. We say to our monks: “Walk like this, do not go here, do not go there—then we will honor you.” These are the unspoken conditions. If he slips, the honor evaporates; if he obeys, the honor continues. Hence a mishap: the talent that should blossom in monks gradually disappears; only dull minds drift toward monkhood—because only the dull can carry so many rules; the intelligent cannot.

Therefore it happens that whenever a truly saintly person appears, he must create a new religion—there is no space for him in the old. A Nanak is born—and inevitably a new religion arises, for no old religion will give him a place; he will not obey rules merely to gain honor. He will say, “What need have I for your honor? I will live in my way as truth dictates to me.” But what is right for him will not be right for the old order—because it was built around others.

Muslims cannot imagine that Nanak had understanding—he roamed from village to village with Mardana playing music. Islam is hostile to music; music cannot enter a mosque; it should not even pass in front of one. Nanak took a Muslim musician with him; the Muslims disowned Mardana too: “How can he be a Muslim if he plays music?” Perhaps Mohammed had no taste for music—it may also be that music stirred lower passions in him, so he denied it. But it is not necessary that it does so in all; in some, music births the supreme. Mohammed loved fragrance deeply; thus Muslims, even today, on Eid, rub perfumes on each other—only tradition remains. Perhaps, when Mohammed first experienced revelation, the hills were covered in blossoms; fragrance became associated with the divine for him. Fragrance is also a sense-door, as music is to the ear, fragrance is to the nose; perhaps fragrance carried him to heights.

But those who follow later cling to conclusions, not to living experience. Hence how could Muslims accept Nanak? Nor could Hindus—because Nanak was a householder, not a sannyasin. He had a wife, a home, common dress. How could Hindus accept a householder as a knower? And Nanak disturbed even further—the truly knowing are always disturbing to the settled order. He stayed at the Kaaba, slept in mosques. How can Hindus accept one who sleeps in a mosque as religious? He should stay only in a temple.

Any humility that depends on concepts of the “superior” will only be blind, traditional, orthodox—not revolutionary. It will not bring inner manifestation. When inner manifestation happens, reverence is spontaneous—toward a stone, toward a plant, toward existence—without any condition as to who or what. That it is—is enough.

Such humility can be cultivated only after repentance. And when it is, there is no end to the joy that descends. Why? Because the more you see others’ faults, the more misery the mind creates. The more others’ faults you see, the less your own are seen—and the unseen enemy works within you twenty-four hours, bringing much suffering. When no fault is seen in the other, no misery arrives from the other. If someone gets angry with me and I do not believe it is his fault or his evil—only that such is happening in him—then I am not hurt by his anger. If I walk along and a branch falls on me, I do not stand and curse the tree—though some people even curse trees. But even they will admit it is useless—mere habit. The tree bears me no malice; the branch broke, the wind was strong, the tree aged—it fell. The coincidence is that I was beneath it.

A humble man thinks similarly when you abuse him—“His mind must be turbulent, his being frail—abuse has spilled. The coincidence is I was near. Had someone else been near, it would have fallen on him.” Thus humility remains intact; no hurt arises. It never becomes, “Why did he do this?” That only arises when we demand he should have done otherwise.

The humble accepts: what happens is what can happen. Acceptance. Jesus washed Judas’ feet the very night he was betrayed. He took Judas’ hand and kissed it. Someone asked, “What are you doing? You know—as do we to some extent—that this man has joined hands with your enemies.” Jesus said, “What difference does it make? What he will do or does is not the point. He is—and that is a great joy. Perhaps I will not meet him again; even if I survive, he may never have the courage to come near. If I do not survive, there is no question. If I die tomorrow, this kiss, my touching his feet, will remain in his memory—it may one day help him. But what he does is irrelevant.”

For humility, what you do is irrelevant—you are: that suffices. Humility is unconditional respect. Schweitzer has used the right expression for Mahavira’s vinay—if in this century we want a precise word, it is from Schweitzer: “Reverence for Life.” Not: save a butterfly but not a scorpion. Schweitzer would try to save both. Granted, the scorpion may sting—that is its nature; that does not alter reverence. We do not say to the scorpion, “Only if you promise not to sting will we respect you.” We know it stings by nature—he may sting. Yet Schweitzer will try to save him, because there is a reverence for life. And when there is reverence for life, your suffering becomes impossible—because all suffering is born of your conditions. Note this: all your suffering is conditional. Because you have conditions, you suffer. One who has no condition does not suffer; the cause is gone. And when you do not suffer, what remains is bliss.

Jesus said: love even your enemies. Nietzsche criticized this: it implies you still see enmity in the enemy. If you see enmity, how will you love? His argument is logical, but not true. If Jesus could answer, he would say: Granted, enmity is seen—but love anyway, because enmity is behavior; hidden behind behavior is being. Our reverence is for being—unconditional. He may abuse, throw stones, attempt murder—so be it. That he does, is his affair.

In this context remember: though there are vast differences among Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—there is one principle about which all Indian-born religions agree: karma. In all else they differ—God or no God, Atman or no Atman. But on karma, they are unanimous, and this is more precious than those other debates. It is central; quarrels belong to the periphery. Buddha does not accept Atman or God—yet karma he accepts. Mahavira does not accept a creator-God—yet karma he accepts. The Hindu accepts both God and Atman—and karma he accepts.

In the context of humility, one thing must be remembered: whenever someone does anything, he does it due to his own karma—not because of you. And whatever you do, you do because of your karma—not because of him. If this penetrates, humility will descend of its own accord. If a man abuses me, there are two ways to link this. Either I link it to myself—“He abuses because I am worthy of abuse”—or I see that his accumulated past has reached such a point that abuse must arise in him. Then I do not link it to me, but to his karma.

If I link it to me, humility is impossible. “How can I honor a man who abuses me? If I honor him, I am inviting more abuse; I encourage him—and then, even if I suffer, he will abuse others too.” Logic goes on: “If he learns that abuse brings respect, he will abuse all.” Hence Mohammed says: fix him where he errs; otherwise if you offer your other cheek, he may start slapping everyone, hoping for the other cheek. But karma can be linked in another way—which neither Islam nor Christianity managed. Therefore both lack a most fundamental foundation: the law of karma.

Thus, though Jesus spoke so much of love and nonviolence, Christianity wielded the sword and spilled blood. In Mohammed’s case, one can say the sword was in his own hand; but in Jesus’ case, not even that—and yet Christianity has shed no less blood than Islam. The two have dyed the earth red.

What went wrong? Not Jesus, not Mohammed—but neither linked karma to the individual’s inner chain. There lies the mistake. And the more scientific the world becomes, the clearer this will be.

Think this way: whenever you are angry, in truth you are not angry at the other—the other is only a pretext. You have stored anger from your own past; it is like a well filled with water—someone lowers a bucket and draws it out. Someone’s abuse becomes a bucket that brings your anger up. Why curse the bucket? Should the well blame the bucket for containing water? Water comes from the well; the bucket only shows it up. The humble man thanks the one who abused him—without him, the inner anger would have remained unseen. He became the bucket; he pulled it up and showed it.

Therefore Kabir says: “Keep your critic near; build him a cottage in your courtyard.” The one who condemns you will keep lowering buckets and revealing your contents. Left alone, the well may forget that it contains water—because the well knows only when the bucket draws. And if the bucket is leaky, all the more the gush! Critics are like leaky buckets—what a shower they create! The well wakes for the first time: “What is happening?” Without buckets, the forest well never knows it has water; so too the recluse never quite knows his content. If he sits where no one passes, he may never be tested. Thus the ascetic seeks lonely paths—if he does so to avoid buckets, he is making a grave mistake.

Mahavira says: the other acts out of his own chain of karma. Your only relation is that you were present and became a pretext for his explosion. Likewise, when you explode, the other is only a pretext. You live and move in your own chain.

Consider ten people living in one house—one catches the flu. The doctor says, “It’s a virus.” But why did the virus not catch the other nine? Is the virus choosing? It only becomes a pretext in the one whose inner state is prepared for the flu; in the others, the preparation is absent. Thus, does the virus create the flu? If you see it that way, you will never understand Mahavira. Mahavira says: you prepare the flu; the virus only manifests it. Preparation is yours; responsibility is yours. The outer event is merely a pretext—no reason for anger. Gratitude may even be possible. Then there is no room left for the ego to stand.

Where there is anger, within there is ego. Where anger is not, within there is no ego. Anger arises only when the ego is obstructed—by nothing else. If your ego is constantly gratified, you will never be angry. If the whole world agreed to gratify your ego, you would never know what anger is. But if someone blocks your way, anger erupts. Anger is born when the ego is thwarted.

Now, there remains no cause for anger—if I see that you move by your karma and I move by mine; on the road we only cross paths here and there. You speak from yourself; I speak from myself. Our behaviors coincide in the outer world, but that is incidental. No one is to be held responsible—hence no anger. And without anger, the ego loosens; it cannot stay dense.

Humility is a very scientific process: the fault is not in the other; the other is not the cause of my suffering. The other is neither superior nor inferior. I have no comparisons with the other. I do not bind conditions on the other—“Fulfill this, then you will receive my love, my respect.” I give unconditional reverence to life. And each man moves by his karma. If I err, I seek its cause in my own chain. If the other errs, that is his affair—it has nothing to do with me. Even if someone plunges a knife into my chest, it is his karmic act, not mine. The knife enters my chest, but still it is his doing; he will bear the consequence—this is his business, not mine. It has nothing to do with me.

Mahavira adds only this: if his knife enters my chest, it has this much to do with me—that in my previous journey I prepared a situation where a knife could enter. Its entering is related to my past preparation. But his stabbing—that is related to his inner journey. See this clearly: we are parallel inner streams of karma, running side by side. Each lives from within. Suffering begins when we link our stream to another’s.

Humility is the understanding: I no longer link anyone to myself. Therefore Mahavira calls humility an inner austerity—because it is a severing of subtle ties. When no relation remains between me and you—not of love, not of hate—no relation at all, only occasional outward coincidence remains; then there is no superior or inferior, no friend or enemy, no one trying to harm me, no one trying to help me.

Mahavira says: whatever I do for myself, I do—good or bad. I am my own hell, I am my own heaven, I am my own liberation. None other is decisive for me. Then a humbleness arises that is not a form of ego, but the absence of ego—not ego diluted, not ego watered down—ego absent.

So remember the last point: if humility is cultivated in the usual social way—“Honor this one, not that one; be humble; do not be egotistic; be egoless”—then the humility that appears will be a form of ego. Society benefits a little—your ego appears cultured, refined—but you do not benefit.

Society’s interest is only that you wear the cloak of humility; its formal order runs on that much. Be egotistic within—society doesn’t mind. But religion does not care what you wear; it cares what you are—what you are within.

Thus Mahavira’s humility is not the humility for social order—“Honor father, teacher, elders.” He does not say, “Do not honor them,” either. I do not say so either—go on honoring. It is a social play—just a game; the more intelligent you are, the more you see it as a game.

A friend came to me two days ago and said, “My boy’s thread ceremony is due. Ever since listening to you it seems futile. But my wife insists, my father insists, the whole family insists it must happen. Should I oppose it or not?” I said, “If it is utterly futile, why oppose? If it seems slightly meaningful, then oppose. If it seems completely useless, then let it happen like going to a movie. Just make it a game. It is a game anyway. If father, mother, wife enjoy it—what is the harm? Play along.” If you insist, you too take it seriously—as if something great will happen if it does not occur. If nothing happens by doing it, what will you gain by not doing it? The thing is so empty—do not obstruct.” He said, “You say this? I thought you would say, ‘Break it! Don’t let it happen!’” “Why should I? Such an innocent game—garland a boy, shave his head—let it be played. People are like children; they need games. Without games life becomes drab. We make a game of birth; then the thread ceremony; then marriage; when a man dies we still don’t stop games—we carry him on a bier with band and music. A long game. Man cannot live without games. Where games have diminished, life has become difficult—man is the same. A Mahavira can live without games, but only when real life has become known. Without the real, this so-called life cannot be lived without games; games must be kept.”

In the West a trouble has arisen—over three hundred years. Thinkers like Voltaire, Bertrand Russell—whom I will not call truly thoughtful—condemned all games and said they are useless. “What’s the benefit?” If you ask children, “What is the benefit of your games—throwing a ball from corner to corner?” They will be at a loss—no benefit can be stated. Then you say, “Stop.” They stop—but are in trouble—because what will they do? The energy that was spent in play now explodes in mischief. The fewer games, the more mischief—children now break windows, throw stones. You took away the inexpensive games; they invent costly ones. We took away their mock courts, their pretend trials, their playful judges; our children became old and serious prematurely. Yet their energy still demands play.

In the West, festivity has been destroyed—since Voltaire to Russell—the sense of celebration has gone. Everything is declared useless—the wedding too: “Why the band? Just sign in the registrar’s office.” But you do not see: the man who waved the band had joy in the game. When he signs and returns home, he finds nothing happened—only signatures—which can be undone any day. The game of marriage was to show the child within that something momentous has happened—irreversible. We dressed him like a king, hung a sword, brought trumpets, created festival. He too felt something was happening that cannot be undone. Later, even if marriage becomes suffering, the festival remains in memory: riding the horse, the kingly turban—the dreams return. Today the boy says, “What’s the point? Why wear the turban?” Don’t wear it—but the wife obtained without the game will seem small, because the prelude was missing.

When Nasruddin married the first time, on the honeymoon night the full moon rose. He sat by the window—ten, eleven, twelve. The bride lay down; she said twice, “Now sleep, sleep.” At midnight Nasruddin said, “Stop your nonsense. My mother always said the honeymoon night is a night of great joy—I will not miss a moment. You sleep. I will sit here all night; I must find what mother meant. I will not waste the night in idle talk—tomorrow if you want.” He had a notion of the honeymoon. Today the honeymoon hardly exists.

I have heard: a young man returned from his honeymoon. Friends asked, “How was it?” He said, “Just like before—nothing new.” The experience is already available beforehand.

The old wisdom was significant—it arranged games for the childlike. In those games, one could live. I do not say break the games—continue them. Respect elders, teachers, monks—continue; no one is harmed. But do not mistake it for humility. It is not humility. I do not tell Nasruddin, “Don’t sit by the window and watch the moon.” I only say: “Don’t mistake it for honeymoon. Watch the moon.”

Humility is something very different.

But we are stubborn, like Nasruddin. He married again. He set out for the honeymoon, strutting, proud; again it was a full moon. On the way a friend met him: “You look very happy.” Nasruddin said, “It’s my honeymoon.” The friend looked around: “But we don’t see your wife.” Nasruddin said, “Are you mad? The first time I took her along, she spoiled the entire night—kept chattering: ‘Sleep now; do this, do that.’ Who knows when the night slipped away! This time I have left her at home. I am not going to miss the honeymoon!”

Sometimes words… His mother certainly said it—and rightly. But what Nasruddin understood, she never said. Tradition does the same with Mahavira’s words: the words are the same, but what is understood is not what was said. Humility is an inner manifestation, and I have given you its scientific process. Only when this completes does manifestation happen. Yes—go on practicing your social politeness; it is a game, a good game; it makes life convenient. But by it you do not attain the truth of life.

Enough for today.

Tomorrow we will speak on the next sutra.

But sit for five minutes. Repeat with me…!