Mahaveer Vani #16

Mahavira has called the third inner austerity: Vaiyavrittya.

Vaiyavrittya means: service. But Mahavira takes a very different meaning from service. One meaning of service is the Christian meaning. And perhaps on this earth, Christianity alone has developed service as prayer and sadhana. But Mahavira does not mean that by service. The Christian meaning everyone knows; Mahavira’s meaning we do not know. And the meaning Mahavira’s followers have fixed upon is extremely limited, extremely narrow.

Tradition has taken Vaiyavrittya to mean only this much—because it is convenient: service of elderly monks, service of sick monks—this is how tradition interprets it. There are reasons for such an interpretation, because a monk cannot even think that he should serve a non-monk. Those who are not monks come to serve the monk. Among Jains it is customary that when they go to have darshan of a monk and someone asks, “Where are you going?” they say, “We are going for service.” Slowly, even going for the monk’s darshan became “going for service.” So the householder will go to the monk and ask: “All is well? Are you happy? Any difficulty? Any inconvenience?” He is asking only so that if there is any opportunity for service he may serve.

Thus service to the monk—this is what they made Vaiyavrittya mean. Certainly the so-called monk’s hand is in this meaning, because Mahavira did not say whose service. So this is not Mahavira’s meaning. In Mahavira’s meaning elderly monks and sick monks and the service of monks may also be included, but that is not the meaning. The second prevalent meaning of service today is the one given by Christianity. And in India, from Vivekananda to Gandhi, whatever meaning of service has been adopted is the Christian one. And now those who consider themselves a little modern also try to extract the same meaning from Mahavira’s service.

Pandit Bechardas Doshi, in his commentaries on Mahavira’s words, has tried to derive exactly the Christian meaning from service. He has tried to derive the meaning that is Christianity’s. In truth, Christianity is the only religion that has given service a central place. Therefore in the whole world the meanings of service have become the Christian meanings. And how much Vivekananda influenced the West is doubtful; but that Vivekananda was profoundly influenced by Christianity is beyond doubt. How many people were influenced by Vivekananda is not very certain. He arose like a sensation in America and then faded. But Vivekananda returned to India permanently influenced by Christianity. And the impetus he gave to the Ramakrishna Mission is precisely an imitation of the Christian missionary. There is no Hindu vison in it.

And then from Vivekananda to Gandhi and Vinoba, whoever thought about service was influenced by Christianity. In truth, Gandhi was born in a Hindu home, so one feels like thinking he was a Hindu. But ninety percent of his samskaras were received from the Jains. So one feels like thinking he was fundamentally a Jain. But the entire refinement of his mind was accomplished by Christianity. When Gandhi returned from the West he was wondering whether he should change his religion and become a Christian. And those who influenced him most—Emerson, Thoreau, or Ruskin—all of them had service at the center flowing from the current of Christianity. Therefore it is necessary to think carefully about Vaiyavrittya, because the Christian notion of service has drowned out all other notions of service.

So two or three points. First, the Christian notion of service—and that is everyone’s notion around the world at present—is future-oriented. Christianity believes that God can be attained only through service. Liberation will happen only through service. Service is a means; the end is liberation. So such a meaning of service is purposeful, with purpose. It is not purposeless, not without motive. Whether I serve to gain wealth, or to gain fame, or to gain moksha—it makes no difference. I am serving to gain something. That gaining may be bad or good, that is another matter. It may be moral or immoral, that is another matter. One thing is certain: such a concept of service is driven by vasana.

Therefore Christian service is very passionate. Hence a Christian missionary can stand against the missionary of no other religion. He cannot be matched because the Christian missionary is filled with a passion, with intense desire. He has turned all his desires into service. Therefore imitation begins. People of other religions try to imitate Christianity; the paint peels off from that imitation, nothing substantial comes out of it. Because at least no Indian religion can adopt the Christian notion. The reason is that the Indian mind thinks that service with a purpose is no longer service. Mahavira says: where there is purpose in service, that is not service. Service should be purposeless. Nothing is to be gained from it.

But if nothing at all is to be gained, then the inspiration to act is lost. No—Mahavira says something very contrary. Mahavira says: service is past-oriented; it is born of the past, not for the future. Mahavira says: the service is for the dissolution of the karma that we have done in the past. There is no purpose ahead. Nothing will be obtained from it. Rather, what has been wrongly accumulated will be cleansed, dissolved; its nirjara will happen. This vision is very contrary. If I am pressing your feet, or Gandhi is pressing the feet of Parchure Shastri, the leper—Gandhi may think he is serving; Mahavira thinks he is washing off some sin of his own. This is a very contrary statement. Gandhi may think he is doing some virtuous deed; Mahavira thinks he is doing penance for sins he has committed. Perhaps in some journey of some past birth he tormented this Parchure Shastri. This is its outcome. He is only un-doing the done, making it undone.

There can be no pride in this. Remember, Christian service becomes a matter of glory and thus nourishes the ego. Mahavira’s service carries no glory, because what is there to be proud of? It is only the expiation of sin. Therefore it neither gratifies the ego nor can it fill it. The truth is that Mahavira’s notion of service is utterly unique. It leaves no way for the ego to stand.

Otherwise, if I am pressing a leper’s feet I start feeling I am doing something special—a stiffness arises within. If I carry a sick person on my shoulder to the hospital, I am doing something special, I am earning virtue. Mahavira says: you are not earning any virtue; you had once pushed this man into some ditch—by carrying him to the hospital you are merely completing it. You had once hurt him—now you are applying balm and bandage. This is past-oriented. This is what you yourself did; you are repenting, doing prāyaścitta, wiping it off. You are wiping off what was written; you are not writing anything new. There is no cause here for glory.

Certainly, one who serves in this way will not be able to consider himself a servant. So Mahavira says: where the servant appears in service, that is not service. If service happens without becoming a servant—only then it is service. This will be a little difficult for us to understand. For the juice is of becoming a servant, not of service. If while pressing a leper’s feet the people around were to say: “Oh, so you are washing off some sin!”—the whole pleasure of pressing the leper’s feet would vanish. We want people to take photographs, print them in newspapers and say: this man is a great servant. He is pressing the feet of lepers.

Nietzsche has somewhere made a very deep joke about Saint Francis. Saint Francis is the living symbol of Christian service. If Saint Francis met a leper he would not only embrace him, he would even kiss his lips covered with leprosy. Friedrich Nietzsche said: Saint Francis, if it were in my hands I would ask you: what goes on in your mind when you kiss the leper’s lips? And I would say to the lepers that instead of giving Saint Francis the opportunity to kiss you, whenever you meet him, you should kiss him. I would tell the lepers: wherever Saint Francis is found, do not let him go—catch him, embrace him and kiss him. And then see what happens on Saint Francis’s face.

It is not necessary that what Nietzsche imagines would happen to Saint Francis’s face, because the man was deep. But this much is largely true: the man who goes to the leper to kiss him is filled with a certain sense of grandeur; he is doing something very difficult, almost impossible. In fact, he is demonstrating an act against desire. One would feel like withdrawing away from the leper’s lips, not kissing them. And he shows that he can kiss. He is doing something, some act.

Mahavira would say: if there is even a little desire in this doing—if there is even a trace of desire in this act, if there is even this much enjoyment that I am doing something special, something extraordinary—then I am once again accumulating new karma. Then even service becomes sin, because it too will bring bondage. If I am only undoing what has been done, then there is no future bondage of karma. But if I am making a fresh act, some new deed—like kissing a leper—then I am once again arranging for the future, for the chain of karma.

Mahavira says: even punya, if it is future-oriented, becomes sin. This will be very difficult to understand. Even virtue, if future-oriented, becomes sin. Why? Because it too becomes bondage. Mahavira says: punya too is the dissolution of past sins. So Mahavira is speaking of a meta-metaphysics, a meta-mathematics, a kind of supreme arithmetic. He is saying that what I have done I will have to balance. If I have slapped you, I will have to press your feet. Then in the arithmetic of the universe the balance will be restored. Not that by pressing the feet I will gain something new; only the old will be erased. And when all my past is erased; when I become as if zero; when no addition remains in my account; when the figures on both sides balance; when all I have done is undone; when all that I have taken is given back; when debt and credit become equal and zero remains in my hand—Mahavira says: that zero state is liberation.

If we understand the Christian notion, service does not lead to zero but to wealth, to plus. Your positive side keeps increasing. The more service you do the wealthier you become. That much punya gathers with you. And the fruit of this punya will be given to you in heaven, in liberation, by God. The more sin you do, the more debt accumulates, and its fruit will be given to you in hell, in suffering, in pain. Mahavira says: moksha cannot happen so long as either debt or credit remains in excess. Only when both are equal and have become zero—when they cancel each other—does a man become free, because the very meaning of liberation is that now I have neither anything to take nor anything to give. Mahavira has called this nirjara.

And among the sutras of nirjara, Vaiyavrittya is very precious. Therefore Mahavira does not say: serve out of pity—because pity too will become a bondage. Anything done becomes bondage. Mahavira does not say: serve out of compassion because look, this man is so miserable. Mahavira does not say: serve because he is miserable. Mahavira says: if some past karma of yours is pursuing you, then serve—and be free. What does it mean? It means: keep yourself open to service—but not passionate service. Do not set out in the morning carrying a flag that you will return after doing service. Do not announce and decide that service has to be done. Do not be obstinate. While walking on the road, if an opportunity arises, keep yourself open. If service can happen, do not stop yourself.

There is a difference here. One way is to go to serve with purpose, become active, become a servant, regard service as religion. Mahavira says: keep yourself open—if somewhere an opportunity to serve arises, and service rises within, then do not stop it; let it happen. And leave quietly. Let no one even know that you served. Let you yourself not know that you served—that is Vaiyavrittya.

Vaiyavrittya means: supreme service. Not ordinary service. Such service wherein it is not even discerned that I did anything. Such service which carries the understanding that I have only undone what was done—undone. Something was binding, I have dropped it. Some relationship with this person was there; I have broken it. But if you tasted any juice in it, then relationships are re-created—relationships are re-created. And taste is a form of exploitation—this too should be understood. In Mahavira’s vision, if a man is miserable and suffering and I, by serving him, am striving for heaven, then I am exploiting his misery. I am making his misery a means. If he were not miserable, I could not go to heaven. Think on this a little. Then it means that through whose misery you are seeking your happiness in heaven... this is quite amusing. It is necessary to go a little deep into this arithmetic.

A man is miserable, and you are seeking your happiness by serving him—then you are making his misery a means. This is what the whole world is doing. This is exactly what the whole world is doing. If a rich man sucks wealth, you say to him that others are becoming miserable, you are collecting your happiness upon their misery. But when a virtuous man serves the poor and the suffering and seeks his own heaven, then it does not occur to you that he too is doing the same thing in a deeper sense. The coins are different, not of this world—of the other world, of punya. He may not be opening a bank-balance here, but he is opening one somewhere. Somewhere it keeps being deposited.

No, Mahavira says: do not exploit another’s misery—how can exploitation be service? Another is miserable, and my hand may be in his misery. I have to withdraw that hand—that alone is service. Let him not suffer because of me—that much I must withdraw. So it has two meanings: first, I should live in such a way that no one suffers because of me. And second, if I find someone miserable, I should act so that in the past it should not have been because of me that his misery arose; if my hand is anywhere in it, let it be withdrawn. There can be no passion in this; no speed, no intensity; no taste of doing, because this is only a non-doing; it is only erasing and wiping.

Therefore Mahavira’s service could not be understood, because we are all passionate. If even religion does not become our madness, we cannot do religion. If even moksha does not become our obstinacy, we cannot go towards moksha. If even punya is not in some sense an exploitation, we cannot do even virtue—because exploitation is our habit; exploitation is our way of life; our arrangement. And desire is our conduct. Only that in which we add desire can we do; otherwise we cannot. So if service plus desire is joined, then we can even do service. Therefore those who make you inclined toward service tell you what all you will get from service, what all you will get from charity. The question is not what charity is, what service is; the question is what all you will get, what all you can obtain. They show you a complete glimpse of heaven. If you want to make anyone do anything, you have to inflame his desire. If your desire is not inflamed, you are not ready to do anything.

Before dying, one of Jesus’ disciples asked: “The hour has come near; we hear that you will not be saved. Tell us one thing. It is certain that you will sit on the throne at the right hand of God. Where will our places be? Where shall we sit? In that kingdom of God, you will sit near the throne—this is certain. What will be our serial numbers? Who will sit where? By which number?”

Whenever man makes a renunciation, he first asks what the fruit will be. “If I leave this much, how much will I get?” And remember, when the idea of getting is there in renunciation—then is it renunciation? It is bargaining, it is a deal. What difference does it make what you get—moksha, heaven, wealth, love, respect—it makes no difference. You will get something!

Mahavira says: through service you will get nothing; something will be cut. You will not gain anything; something will be cut. Something will drop, something will be removed. If we understand service as Mahavira does, it is medicinal, like medicine. From medicine you get nothing; only the illness is cut. Christian service is like a tonic—you will get something from it. It has a future. Mahavira’s service is like medicine—you will only cut the disease; you will receive nothing.

This distinction is so profound, and precisely because of it the Jain tradition could not give birth to service. Otherwise, five hundred years before Jesus, Mahavira had spoken on service and called it an inner austerity. But the Jain tradition could not awaken it—not even a little. Because there was no passion in it; no speed is aroused in it. Only something will be cut, something will be erased, something will drop—only a lack will arise, on the contrary. Even a sinner, if the heap of his sins is reduced a little, feels as if something is missing—something is missing. Something is decreasing in what I possessed. The sick man too, after a long illness, when he becomes healthy, feels as if something is missing, something is being lost. Therefore when an illness persists long and one takes a taste in it, then no matter how much he says he wants to be healthy, somewhere within a part says, “Don’t be.”

Psychologists say seventy percent of the sick remain sick because they have started tasting the illness; they want to save it. You say: if they want to save the illness why do they go to the physician, why take medicine? This is the human dilemma: he can do two opposite things together. Here he takes medicine, there he saves the illness. Because illness has its tastes—and many times more tasty than health. When you fall ill, the whole world becomes sympathetic to you. You wanted so much that when you are healthy the world should be sympathetic, but then no one is. When you are ill, the family appears loving; when you are not ill, they do not appear loving. When you are ill, it appears that you have become the center of the whole world. The whole world is on the circumference; you are at the center. Nurses revolve around you; doctors keep visiting; the family revolves around you; friends keep coming; visitors come to see you. You keep note of who has not come to see you.

A friend’s son died—young. The father was about seventy. He was beating his chest and weeping. When I reached, he had a pile of telegrams next to him. I spoke to him for a minute or two. But I saw that his interest was not in the talk; he wanted me to see the telegrams. So he pushed the telegrams toward me and said, “The Prime Minister has also sent one; the President has also sent one.” Until I had looked through all the telegrams he found no satisfaction. He is in great sorrow. But even in sorrow he is tasting. He could not tear up and throw away the telegrams; he could not forget them; he kept piling them up.

Fifteen days later when I went, the pile had grown bigger. He kept them with him. He would say, “I will commit suicide—what is left to live for now? The young son has died; I should have died.” He would say, “I will commit suicide,” and he would keep adding to the pile of wires. I asked, “When will you do it? Fifteen days have passed. The more days pass the harder it will become.” He looked at me as one looks at an enemy. He said, “What are you saying! You speak like this!” Because he had been saying for fifteen days that he would commit suicide, and whoever heard it expressed great sympathy. I said, “I will not express sympathy. You are taking a taste in it.” From that very day he became my enemy.

In this world, speaking the truth is making enemies. Speaking the truth to anyone in this world is making enemies. Lies establish great friendships. Try once: decide for twenty-four hours that you will tell only the truth! You will find all your friends have taken leave. Twenty-four hours—no more than that. Your wife will be packing her baggage; the children will say, “Goodbye.” Friends will say, “What a man you turned out to be!” The whole world will become your enemy.

One morning Mulla Nasruddin sat reading his newspaper. And as all wives get annoyed with the newspaper, so did his wife: “What is this? You sit with the paper from the morning! There was a time you would speak of my face from the morning, and now you say nothing. There was a time you would say, ‘Your voice is as sweet as a cuckoo’s,’ and now you say nothing.” Mulla said, “Yes, your voice is sweet—but stop the nonsense and let me read the paper.” Yes, your voice is sweet, but stop the nonsense and let me read the paper.

Man is double. It is his compulsion because society does not allow him to be straight and true—it becomes costly. Therefore he keeps wiping his lies.

When Mulla married for the third time, on the third night the wife said, “If you don’t mind, I will take out my false teeth; at night I cannot sleep in them.” Mulla said, “Thanks, goodness! So now I can put off my false leg, my wig, my glass eye—and relax.” “Blessed God! You told it well. Otherwise I too was stiff—three days I also could not sleep!” She too could not sleep. Because how will false teeth let one sleep?

We all wear faces before each other which are false. But how to relax? Truth relaxes, but to live in truth is difficult. Therefore we live double. In one corner something, in another corner something—and we keep everything going. There is taste even in illness; no sick person is ready to accept it, but there is taste. Not so much taste comes in health as comes in illness. Therefore no one exaggerates health; everyone exaggerates illness.

Our consciousness is filled with duality. Hence we appear to do one thing but actually do another. We say, “I feel great pity for the poor,” yet even in that pity we seem to be taking taste. If the world were to become free of the poor, those would be most troubled who took passionate relish in serving the poor. What would they do? If the world becomes moral, the monks who go about teaching morality to society would become so depressed that it would be hard to estimate. This never happens, so the occasion does not arise. Give the occasion once: become moral—and when the monk says, “Do not steal,” you say, “We do not.” He says, “Do not lie,” you say, “We do not.” He says, “Do not be dishonest,” you say, “We are not.” He says, “Do not look at another’s wife,” you say, “We are utterly blind; the question of looking does not arise.” Then you have snatched the entire work from the monk’s hands, uprooted his roots—what will the monk do now?

What will the monk do? It will be difficult to grasp, but the monk lives upon the diseases of the non-monk—he is a parasite. Those non-monks seen all around—he lives upon them. He is a parasite. If the world truly becomes saintly, the saint will be out of work at once. He will have no work left. And it would not be surprising if the same saint who was teaching you saintliness, who was teaching honesty—if he had taste in teaching, because while teaching one becomes a guru and becomes superior to the one being taught—so there is taste in teaching—if he was exploiting your ignorance, if you were a ladder for him to climb toward his knowledge, then it would not be surprising if the day all become saintly, that same teacher of saintliness begins to tell you the secrets of dishonesty: that without dishonesty it is difficult to live; stealing will have to be done; untruth will have to be spoken—otherwise you will die. All relish in life will be lost.

If he had taste in teaching. If in truth he was a saint, if teaching was not his taste, not his exploitation, then he will be delighted, rejoiced. He will say: the trouble of teaching has ended. People have become saintly—now the matter is over. Now I am free of the nuisance of teaching. If you were taking taste in service—that you were going somewhere, to heaven, to happiness, to respect, to prestige—then if no one is available to be served, you will become very sad and miserable. But if service was Vaiyavrittya, as Mahavira considers it, you will be delighted that now no such karma remains due because of which you have to serve anyone. You will be happy, blooming, rejoicing, blissful. You will say: blessed—nirjara has happened.

This is the difference. There is no taste in service. Service is only medicinal. What has been done is to be wiped off, erased. Remember, one who serves another saying, “He is ill; therefore I serve,” or, “He is old; therefore I serve”—when he becomes ill he will demand service; when he becomes old he will demand service. Because these are two parts of the same logic. But in Mahavira’s notion of service, service will not be demanded. Because service was never done from that standpoint; it will not be demanded either. There is no reason to demand. And if no one serves, then no anger will be born from it, no pain will arise within. It will not even feel like, “Why did this person not serve?”

Therefore those who serve are great task-masters. If you go to the ashrams of those who serve, you will see another amusing thing: they also take service—in equal measure. And with equal strictness. Their strictness is terrible. You cannot err even a little. And sometimes they become extremely violent. It is very interesting that you cannot be less strict with others than you are with yourself—you will be more strict. Sometimes in very small matters strange incidents occur.

Gandhi was traveling in Noakhali. That region was difficult, village after village covered with blood and corpses. A young woman was in his service, walking with him. They uprooted camp from one village at noon, reached the next by evening. Gandhi sat to bathe—and saw that his stone for rubbing the feet had been left behind in the last village. Evening was descending, darkness was falling. He called the girl and said, “How did this mistake happen?” Because Gandhi never makes mistakes, so he cannot tolerate anyone’s mistake either. “Go back and bring that stone.” Noakhali—fires burning all around, corpses spread. That lone girl—weeping, frightened, heart pounding—returned.

There was nothing in that stone. Fifty such stones could have been picked up from the same village. But disciplinarian! Discipline... One who keeps firm discipline upon himself presses the necks of others. Because if he does not forget anything himself—how can another forget? Then, what appears above as discipline becomes violence deep within. Was this any matter? A man can forget; forgetting is natural. And it was no Kohinoor diamond that was forgotten. A foot-rubbing stone was forgotten. But the question is not of the stone; the question is of strictness, of rule. The rule must be followed.

If you go among those who follow discipline, service, rules, maryada—such things—you will very soon see the other side: they are not less strict on others than they are on themselves; often more. So when you press someone’s feet, you are also, someday, arranging within some corner of the mind that your feet be pressed. And if your feet are not pressed on that day, your suffering will be endless.

But Mahavira’s service has nothing to do with this. Mahavira says: even if someone serves me, he is doing so because of the purification of his own sin. If there is no purification of sin—then the matter ends. No one is serving me. If glory is given to the other, then condemnation can also be given to the other. But here there is neither glory nor condemnation. Such is the meaning of Vaiyavrittya.

So whenever you are serving, remember that it should not be future-oriented. Then you are doing an inner austerity. When you serve, let it be purposeless; otherwise you are not doing inner austerity. When you serve, let no feeling of glory, prestige, or identity arise deep within; otherwise you are not serving, you are not doing Vaiyavrittya. Let it be only the undoing of the sin done, of the karma done—just that: then it is tapas.

And why does Mahavira call it an inner austerity? He calls it inner because it is difficult to do. That service is easy in which some taste arises. In this service there is no taste at all; it is only settling of accounts. Therefore it is tapas, and a very inner tapas. For what greater austerity can there be than to do something and not become a doer? To do and not become a doer—what greater tapas can there be? To do something like service, which no one is ready to do—press a leper’s feet and yet not become a doer in the mind—then tapas will happen, and a very inner tapas.

Why “inner”? Inner because no one except you will be able to recognize it. The matter is within. Only you will be able to know; but you will know thoroughly—there will be no difficulty. Whoever becomes engaged in inner examination comes to know thus. When a thorn pricks your foot, how do you know pain? And when someone embraces you, how do you know the heart is blooming? And when someone lays his head at your feet, how do you know the wave that runs within? No, for that there is no need to search outside; the inner measure is with you.

So while serving, if you sense any sort of future orientation, understand that Mahavira did not prescribe that service. If any sense of virtue arises, know that Mahavira did not prescribe that service. If it feels like I am doing something special, understand that Mahavira did not prescribe that service. If none of this arises, and service happens just as someone wipes clean a writing from a slate—the slate has become empty, you have become empty within—then you are entering inner austerity.

Right after Vaiyavrittya, Mahavira names the next austerity: Swadhyaya—the fourth austerity.

Certainly, if you use service in this way, you will enter Swadhyaya, the study of oneself. But a very secondary meaning has been taken of Swadhyaya—study of scriptures, reading, reflection. Mahavira could have said study; what was the need to say Swadhyaya? What was the need to add “swa,” the self? Study was enough. Swadhyaya means: study of oneself. Not study of the scripture. But monks sit with scriptures open from the morning; ask them, “What are you doing?” They say, “Swadhyaya.” The scripture will certainly be someone else’s. Swadhyaya cannot be a scripture. And if you are reading a scripture written by yourself it is utterly useless—because you wrote it; what remains to be read in it? What is there to know?

Swadhyaya means: study of oneself.

It is very difficult. Reading scriptures is very easy. Whoever can read can study scripture. Being literate is enough, but for Swadhyaya being literate is not enough. Because Swadhyaya is a very complex matter. You are very complex, very entangled. You are a network of knots. You are a whole world, with a thousand kinds of disturbances. The study of all that is called Swadhyaya. So if you are studying your anger—then you are doing Swadhyaya. If you are studying what is written in scripture regarding anger—you are not doing Swadhyaya. If you are studying your attachment, you are doing Swadhyaya. If you are studying what is written about attachment in scripture—you are not doing Swadhyaya. And everything exists within you that is written in any scripture. Whatever has been known in this world is present within each person. And whatever will ever be known is present within each person even today. Man is a scripture—the supreme scripture, the ultimate scripture. Understand this and you will understand Mahavira’s Swadhyaya.

Man is the ultimate scripture. Because whatever has been known has been known by man. Whatever will be known will be known by man. If only man knows himself, then whatever has been known and whatever can be known—all is known. Therefore Mahavira has said: by knowing the one, all is known. By knowing oneself, the all is known. There are many dimensions to this. First: of all that is knowable we can make two parts—objective, and subjective. In knowing, two events occur: there is the knower, and there is that which is known. There is the object that we know, and there is the one who knows. Science relates to the object, to the known. Religion relates to that by which we know; to knowing the knower.

To know the knower is religion; to know the known is science. However much we may know the moon and stars, the sun, we know nothing about ourselves. In fact, it is a strange thing that the more we know about objects, the more the knower is forgotten. Because if information becomes excessive, the knower gets hidden. You know so much about things that you are unaware something remains to be known: the knower. Therefore science grows every day, keeps knowing every day: how many kinds of mosquitoes—science knows. What are the peculiarities of each kind of mosquito—science knows. How many kinds of plants—science knows. What is hidden in each plant—science knows. How many suns, how many stars, how many moons—science knows.

Einstein, when dying, said: if I get life again, I would like to be a saint. Why? Those gathered around the cot asked: why? Einstein said: now it seems there is only one thing worth knowing—who was that which was knowing? All this has been known—how many moons and stars there are—but what will happen? Whether there are ten, or ten thousand, or ten crores, or ten billion—what will happen? The one who knows they are ten is the same; the one who knows they are ten crores is the same; the one who knows they are ten billion is the same. The knower does not change with the information. But a great delusion arises: that I am one who knows.

Mahavira calls such a knower a false-knower. He says: the knower is indeed there, but he is a false knower. He knows those things without which life could have gone on, and he leaves out that without which life cannot go on. We leave the precious and know the non-precious. In the end knowing is accumulated and the knower is lost. At death we know much—but we do not know the one who is dying. It is astounding that a man does not know himself! Therefore Mahavira counts Swadhyaya among the precious inner austerities. And now slowly...

Swadhyaya is the fourth inner austerity. After this, only two are left; and after those two, the explosion happens. So Swadhyaya is a very near step to the explosion—where revolution happens, where life becomes new, where your rebirth happens, a new man is born within and the old ends. Swadhyaya has come very close; only two steps remain. Therefore scripture-study cannot be the meaning of Swadhyaya. People study scripture so much, yet no revolution seems to happen anywhere. Nowhere does any explosion occur. The truth is, the more a man knows scripture, the less he feels the need to know himself. Because he feels that whatever can be known is known to him. He knows what Mahavira says; what Buddha says; what Christ says. He knows what the soul is, what God is—without knowing! This is the miracle—without knowing! He has no idea what Atman is; he has never tasted it. He has never glimpsed God. He has never once spread a wing in the sky of liberation. No ray has entered his life by which he could say this is knowledge, by which there is light. All is darkness—and still he knows that he knows all! Mahavira calls this false knowledge.

What is gotten from scripture cannot be truth. What is gotten from oneself alone is truth. Yes, what is gotten from oneself is later written in scripture—what is gotten from oneself is written in scripture; but what is gotten from scripture is not one’s own. Someone else writes the scripture. It is news of another who flew into the sky. It is news of another who had the vision of light. It is news of another who dived into the ocean. But you are sitting on the shore reading. Do not forget: however much you read on the shore, from the statements of the one who dived you cannot dive. The danger is that people dive into scripture—and those who dive into scripture forget that the ocean is still ahead. Sometimes it happens that the dive into scripture becomes so deep that one forgets the ocean is ahead. Then scripture proves to be less a guide to the ocean and more an obstacle. Therefore Mahavira does not call scripture-study Swadhyaya.

This does not mean Mahavira denies studying scripture. But it is not Swadhyaya. If this is kept in mind, then study of scripture can also be useful. It can be useful—if it is remembered that the scripture’s ocean is not the ocean; the scripture’s light is not light; the scripture’s sky is not sky; the scripture’s God is not God; the scripture’s moksha is not moksha. If this is remembered—and remembered that someone must have known, and he said it in words; but the very moment truth is put into words it is lost, only a shadow remains—if this is remembered, then someday you will throw away the scripture and a desire will arise to jump into the ocean. If this is not remembered, and the scripture itself becomes the ocean, becomes truth; if everything is entangled in scripture—then scripture will hide the ocean.

And therefore sometimes the ignorant jump into God, and the so-called knowledgeable are deprived. Hence the Upanishads say: the ignorant wander in darkness; the learned wander in great darkness. Swadhyaya means: descend into yourself and study. The whole world is within. That subjective world, the inner world, is entirely within. Go to know it—but the direction must change. Therefore the first sutra of Swadhyaya is: direction. Leave the study of objects; study the one who studies.

For example, you are listening to me. When you listen to me, have you noticed that the more intently you listen, the more you forget that you are the listener? The more intently you listen, the more it goes out of your awareness that you too are present here who is listening. The speaker becomes prominent; the listener is forgotten. Though you are not the speaker, you are the listener. When you are listening, two events are happening: the words that are coming to you are outside; and you are inside. In listening, the words become important and the listener secondary. And if you become completely absorbed, you are totally forgotten—self-forgetfulness happens.

People come to me. When someone comes and says, “Today you spoke very well,” then I know what happened today. Today this happened: he forgot himself—that’s all. Self-forgetfulness happened. For an hour he did not remember himself—that is why he says, “You spoke very well.” For an hour he was entertained so much that he had no idea of himself. For fifteen years continuously I have spoken morning and evening. There is not a single person who comes and says, “You spoke very right today.” He says, “You spoke very well.” Because if I spoke right, something would have to be done. If I spoke well, the matter is finished. No one says to me, “You spoke truth.” “You spoke pleasant!” If I spoke truth, restlessness would arise. If I spoke pleasant, the matter is over—pleasure has been received. But I know when you receive pleasure. Whenever you forget yourself, you receive pleasure—whether in the cinema you forget; or in music you forget; or hearing you forget; or reading you forget; or in sex you forget; or in wine you forget. I know very well when you get pleasure—when you forget yourself.

But precisely when you forget yourself, Swadhyaya stops; when you remember yourself, Swadhyaya begins. So when I am speaking—do an experiment here and now. Do not keep attention only on the speaker; make your attention double—double-arrowed. Two arrows in attention: one toward me, and one toward yourself. Let the listener be remembered too—the one sitting in the chair, the one hidden within your bones, flesh, and marrow, the one standing behind the ear, the one seeing from behind the eyes—remember that one. Remember—keep him in remembrance.

No worry if in remembering him some of my words are missed. You have heard enough of my words and nothing has happened; if some are missed, nothing will be harmed. But keep the remembrance of the one within—the one who is hearing, seeing, present. Experience his presence. Within the bones, flesh, ear, eye—experience that which is hidden. Let attention move to it and you will be amazed—then what I am saying will begin to feel not pleasant but true.

Then what I am saying will not be entertainment for you, but an inner revolution. Then what I am saying will not be something you have only heard—you will have lived it, known it. Because when you turn inward, you will see that what I am saying is hidden within you. It will begin to attune. What I am saying will begin to be seen by you as it is. If I say anger is poison—just hearing me won’t make it poison. But if at that very moment you awaken toward yourself and look within, you will see a reservoir of poison collected—of anger. If that is seen while I speak, then what I said becomes truth—because its parallel, the real truth that should stand beside my word, has come into your experience. Then the word is not a mere word; it brings a taste of truth within you.

While listening, keep less attention on the speaker and more on the listener—not on the listeners, but on the listener. People also keep attention on the listeners. They look around to see who is pleased. Some even come and tell me: “Today it was very right.” I ask, “What happened?” They say, “It pleased many people.” They are watching who is pleased. And many are such that until others are pleased, they themselves are not pleased. A great mutual nonsense goes on. They look around—if others are applauding, they too feel pleased. And they don’t know the neighbor is looking at them; he too feels pleased because “this is pleasing.”

Hitler used to seat ten men in his meetings who would clap at the right moment—and ten thousand would clap along. When Hitler first told his ten friends to stand far apart in the crowd and clap, they said, “We will clap—but we will look ridiculous. Ten men will clap among ten thousand and no one else will!” Hitler said, “I know people. Seeing the neighbor clap, they clap. You leave the worry—just start; the clapping will happen.” At Hitler’s signal they clapped. They were astonished that ten thousand men clapped. Why? What happened? Infection. “The neighbor is clapping, surely there is something valuable.” And when you clap, your neighbor thinks, “Surely there is something valuable.” And lest people think he is a fool and didn’t understand, he also claps. Ten men can make ten thousand clap.

Does it never occur to you what you are doing? The clothes you are wearing have been put on you by another—because he wore them. No, not attention on the listeners—attention on the listener, on yourself. Forget the listeners. They have no need to stand between you and your path. On the road you see crowds, shops; the one man who is walking is not seen—the one who is walking. He alone is not present. You have no idea about the one who walks, and everything else is there. It is a strange absence—we are absent to ourselves. Breaking this absence is called Swadhyaya—to be present to oneself.

Gurdjieff called it self-remembering—the remembrance of oneself. Let there be no act, no speech, no happening in which the consciousness within me becomes forgotten. Let the awareness of it remain. Then even if someone drinks wine, and keeps awareness within—“I am drinking wine, and I am present”—wine will not make him unconscious; otherwise even water makes one unconscious. If this remembrance remains—“I am”—then the wine will remain aside and consciousness will continuously stand apart. This standing apart of consciousness... we cannot even do it with water—wine is far away. When we drink water there is thirst and water; there is no drinker. There should be the drinker first—thirst afterward, water later—then Swadhyaya begins.

Swadhyaya means: no action, thought, event of my life should occur in my absence. I should remain present—if there is anger, I should remain present; if there is hatred, I should remain present; if there is sex, I should remain present. Whatever happens, I should remain present. Let it happen in my presence.

And Mahavira says: it is very strange—when you are present, that which is wrong does not happen. In Swadhyaya, wrong simply does not happen. When I said: if you are present while drinking wine—do not think I am advising you to drink wine: “Drink happily, remain present!” “Presence is whose business? But drinking can continue!” I am telling you: if you remain present while drinking, the glass will fall from your hand; drinking becomes impossible—because poisons can be drunk only in unconsciousness.

When I say: be present while angry—I am not saying: get angry happily and remain present. “Just this one condition—be present and be angry; then there is no harm.” I am saying: if while getting angry you remain present, then only one of two can be—either anger will be, or you will be. Both cannot be present together. When you are present while angry, anger will disappear—you will remain. Because in your presence, rubbish like anger cannot enter. When the master of the house is awake, thieves do not enter. When you are awake, can anger dare enter? It can only use that weak moment when you are unconscious. When you are aware, anger does not happen.

Therefore when Mahavira says: live with awareness, live un-negligently, live awake—he means only this: in wakefulness, what is wrong drops on its own. And you will come to know through Swadhyaya that wrong was happening only because I was asleep. There is no other reason for wrong—no reason at all. Only one reason: you are asleep.

Therefore Mahavira says: liberation can happen in a single moment. In this very moment liberation can happen. If someone awakes totally, then wrong drops this very moment. So Mahavira does not even say one needs to wait for tomorrow. If you cannot awaken, then you will have to wait for tomorrow. If someone awakens in totality in this very moment, all the junk drops—by which we felt bound, by which we felt: “Karmas and sins of births and births”—all that drops.

From Swadhyaya you will know there is only one sin—unconsciousness; and only one virtue—awareness. And from Swadhyaya you will know that whenever we are asleep, whatever we do is wrong—not that something is wrong and something right; whatever we do is wrong. And when we are awake—not that something wrong and something right can happen; whatever happens is right. So Mahavira does not say: do the right. Mahavira says: do with awareness, do with remembrance, with smriti. Because with smriti wrong cannot happen—just as in darkness I grope and hit the wall and cannot find the door, and when light comes I find the door and need not hit the wall.

So Mahavira does not say: pass without hitting. Mahavira says: make light—and pass. Because in darkness you will hit. Even if you seek moksha you will hit; even if you seek God you will hit. In darkness, whatever you do, you will hit—because there is darkness. And the only reason for darkness is that we are object-focused. We have put all our attention on objects. That attention itself is light; when it falls on objects, objects begin to shine.

Have you noticed? You pass a road every day. You do not even have a bicycle. So on seeing cars, the thought does not arise to buy a car. Therefore your attention does not fall much upon cars. Yes, sometimes it goes—when a car splashes mud on you while passing by—then attention goes. Otherwise, no. Your focus does not sit on the car, and until your focus does not sit on the car, the desire to possess a car will not arise.

But today you won the lottery—one lakh rupees. Now pass on the same road. You will be amazed—your focus has changed. Today you see things you did not see yesterday. Yesterday you did not even have a bicycle, so sometimes the focus would sit on a bicycle: “Someday if two hundred rupees are gathered, I will buy a bicycle.” Sometimes you rode on a bicycle in your dreams. Sometimes the man on a bicycle seemed to be enjoying something. But there is a limit to focus. No competition would arise with the man in the car—only anger would arise. With the man on the bicycle, competition would arise—not anger. He was approachable, within reach. We too could be on a bicycle—just a matter of time.

But today you have one lakh rupees—today your attention does not settle on bicycles at all; they do not even come to mind. Today only cars are seen. Today the differences between cars appear for the first time—which is of twenty thousand, which of fifty thousand, which of a lakh. This difference never appeared before; a car was a car. Today it appears—today it is in focus. Today consciousness flows that way. Today one lakh rupees are in the pocket. Today those rupees want to jump; they want to go somewhere; they want movement. Today your attention will catch different things. Today houses appear that can be bought for a lakh. Cars appear. Things in shops appear which you had never seen. They were always there—but you never saw them. What is the matter? You see only that toward which your attention goes. What is not its target, you do not see.

All our attention is directed outward; therefore within there is darkness. Yet this attention comes from within. But within there is darkness because attention is on objects. Swadhyaya means: turn this light inward—begin to look within. How will you look? Take one or two examples. A man comes and abuses you. When he abuses, two events are happening. He is abusing—this is happening, it is objective, outside. The man is outside, his abuse is outside. Within you, anger is rising—this is the second event. This is within, subjective. Where do you pay attention? If you pay attention to his abuse, Swadhyaya will not happen. If you pay attention to your anger, Swadhyaya will happen.

A beautiful woman appears on the road; lust arises within. If you follow that woman in your attention, Swadhyaya will not happen. Leave the woman and go within; see how lust is arising within—then Swadhyaya begins. Whenever any event occurs, it has two aspects—objective and subjective, outer and inner. To take attention to the inner aspect is called Swadhyaya. To take it to the outer aspect is called unconsciousness. But we always take attention outside.

When someone abuses us, we repeat his abuse many times—how he said it; what was the mode of his face; why he said it; what kind of man he is; we search out his whole history. The things we had never seen in that man, we see: “No, he was such all along; it was my mistake that I did not notice.” He could have abused any time; he has abused others; so and so said that he abuses. You will run your entire consciousness upon that man—and not a little thought about what kind of man you are within, what is happening within. What has a small abuse of his done within you.

It may be he abused and went home and slept peacefully. You remain awake all night and think. It may be he abused just casually, in fun. Some people even abuse in jest. He may not even be aware he abused.

In my village, just opposite my house, there was an old sweet-maker. He was deaf, and abuse was his tic—his filler phrase. Even to buy things he could not buy without abusing. Often it would happen he was buying grass from a grass-woman and abusing her. And the grass-woman would say, “If you want to buy then buy—but don’t abuse!” He would even abuse himself and say, “Who the bastard is abusing?” He was not aware that he was abusing. He said, “Who the bastard is abusing?” Even in this he abused—now he was abusing himself. And no one wants to abuse himself!

No, he has no awareness; abuse became so natural that the man who abused you might not even know it. The interpretations you draw—you are drawing. Go within, kindly—leave the worry of that man. See inside: when he abused, what interpretations arise within you. That interpretation says nothing about that man; it says something only about you—what kind of man you are.

If you are abused, see what all happens within. See what interpretations you make; how anger rises; what retaliation you want—murder; abuse; pressing his throat; what do you want? Go down into seeing this entire thing. You will return experienced; you will return knowledgeable from this Swadhyaya.

There will be two enjoyments: first, your information about yourself will have increased. And you will also have come to know that the important thing is not that he abused; the important thing is how I experienced it. And the delight is that now you will never go to answer his abuse. Because you will have changed through this knowledge, this Swadhyaya; you will not remain the same person who was abused. Something has been added; something has been revealed. In the morning you will be another man. You may even go and ask his forgiveness. You may find that his abuse was exactly right. You may find that his abuse was not as strong as it should have been, considering how bad a man I am. You may go and say: your abuse was correct, but underestimated—I am a little worse. Or it may happen that in the morning you find that his abuse now only makes you laugh; nothing else happens.

This is Swadhyaya—I gave it as an example. Apply it to each small tendency in your life, each small wave. Let this scripture within you begin to open. At first you will find only filth, because that is what we have collected; that is our hoard. But the more filth you find, the cleaner you will become—because to preserve filth you must not know it; and to remove filth, knowing it is the only key. The more you hide your filth, the deeper and stronger it becomes. When you yourself begin to uproot it and look at it, its layers begin to break; its roots begin to be pulled up.

Go within and you will find much filth; but as much filth as appears, an opposite and delightful event will occur—you will feel you are becoming that much cleaner. The deeper you go within, the filth will go on lessening. And hence one more delight will arise—when filth keeps decreasing within, the taste and joy of going within increases. Not pebbles and stones but diamonds and jewels begin to appear within—then the run becomes faster. And a moment will come when you truly reach within—truly within, because all this too is between outside and inside; we call it within only to make Swadhyaya possible. The deeper you go, the day you reach the center—on that day no filth will remain. That day you will experience such cleanliness as has no end. You will have found a freshness that will never grow old. You will have touched the ground of innocence which no blackness can touch. You will have gained that light into which no darkness enters.

But this descent is gradual. Therefore Mahavira has not called Swadhyaya ultimate—he has called it the fourth austerity. Something more remains to be done within. About those two austerities we will speak in the coming two days. The fifth austerity is Dhyana; the sixth is Kayotsarga. But without Swadhyaya no one can enter meditation. Therefore the steps Mahavira has given are supremely scientific.

People come to me and say: “We want to enter meditation.” I know their difficulty. They do not want to enter Swadhyaya, because Swadhyaya is very painful. And why do they want meditation? Because they have read in books; they have heard gurus say that great bliss comes in meditation.

But one who is not ready to enter his acquired suffering cannot go into the bliss of his nature. First one must pass through suffering; only then will there be a glimpse of bliss. Without passing through hell there is no heaven. Because we have constructed hell—we are standing in it. Each person wants that from this very hell he should get heaven instantly, here. That this hell should not have to be destroyed and heaven be obtained. This cannot be. Because heaven is present here, but it is hidden by our self-created hell, covered. Remember, heaven is our nature and hell our achievement. We have made hell with great effort, great labor. It must be dismantled. Swadhyaya works like a pickaxe to dismantle it—like someone starts digging down a building.

Enough for today.

But wait for five minutes, participate in the humming—and then go...!