Mahaveer Vani #18

In Mahavira’s sutras of sadhana, today we have to speak on the twelfth and final austerity.
Mahavira has called the final austerity: Kayotsarga — the letting-go of the body.
In death everyone’s body is left behind. The body does fall away in death, but the mind’s longing to keep holding the body does not fall away. Therefore what we call death is not real death; it is only the commencement of a new birth. Even at the moment of dying, the mind wants to go on holding the body. The pain of dying is nothing but this: that which we do not wish to leave is being torn away. The restlessness is precisely that what we want to cling to cannot be clung to. The sorrow is that what we had understood as “I am,” that itself is dissolving.
The very event that happens to all in death happens in meditation to those who have traveled up to the eleventh stage. Exactly a death-like event occurs. Kayotsarga means: a natural, easeful acceptance of that death. It will happen. When meditation deepens, an event exactly like death will happen. The seeker will feel, “I am wiped out, finished.” In that moment, the urge to seize the body must not arise — and the practice for this is called Kayotsarga. In the moment of meditation, when a death-like sensation begins to arise, the desire, the longing to take hold of the body should not arise; this falling-away of the body is to be accepted — gladly, peacefully, with a sense of wonder. The capacity to bid the body farewell — that austerity is named Kayotsarga.
It is necessary to understand the kinship between death and meditation; only then will Kayotsarga be understood. In death this happens: your body is spent; it is no longer able to live or to act; your consciousness withdraws from the body, contracts into its own source. But even though consciousness contracts into the source, the chitta still wants to hold on. As if a shore were slipping from your hands; as if a boat were drifting away from you. We want to hold the body tightly, and the body has become useless, exhausted; tension is created. Tension arises from trying to stop what is leaving. Because of that very tension, fainting occurs in death. The rule is: up to a point we can bear tension; beyond a point, as tension increases, the chitta becomes unconscious, it faints.
This is why each time we die we die unconscious. And therefore, even after dying many times, we do not remember that we have died before. And therefore every birth appears to be a new birth. No birth is a new birth; behind every birth the event of death is concealed. But we become so unconscious that no trace remains in our memory. This is the very reason we retain no memory of past lives, because in the event of death we become so unconscious — that very layer of unconsciousness separates us from the memories of the previous life. A wall is raised. Nothing at all is remembered. Then we begin again the same things that we have begun again and again.
The same event happens in meditation, but not because the body is spent; it happens because the mind’s desire is spent. This is the difference. The body is still all right, but the craving of the mind to grasp the body is spent. Now there is no mind left to hold. Then body and consciousness separate; the bridge between them collapses. The connecting piece — mind, desire, longing — breaks. As if a bridge fell and the two banks of the river stood apart; in the same way, in meditation, when thought and desire fall, consciousness stands apart and the body stands apart. In that instant it immediately seems to us that death is happening. And the seeker’s mind says — “Let me return; this is death.” If the seeker turns back, the twelfth stage does not occur. If the seeker turns back, meditation too does not reach its full fruition. If the seeker, frightened, turns back from this twelfth stage, the whole sadhana is wasted. Therefore Mahavira has called Kayotsarga the final austerity, after meditation.
When this bridge begins to break, remain standing and watching as the bridge breaks. And when body and consciousness separate in meditation, do not be afraid. Remain a fearless witness. It is only a matter of a single moment. If one can abide even for a single moment in Kayotsarga, then there is no fear left anymore. Then even death is no more. The very day body and consciousness are seen as separate even for a single moment, from that day the whole fear of death is finished. Because now you know: you are not the body; you are someone else. And what you are does not perish even if the body perishes. This realization, this taste of the deathless, entry into that realm which is beyond death — without Kayotsarga it does not happen.
But the tradition has kept another meaning of Kayotsarga. The tradition has interpreted it as: when pains come to the body, suffer them with equanimity; if someone torments you, bear it with equanimity; if illness comes, bear it with equanimity; if sufferings, if the fruits of karma come, bear them with equanimity. This is not the meaning of Kayotsarga, for this is already included in kaya-klesha — the mortification of the body. This is external austerity. If this were the meaning of Kayotsarga, then Mahavira would be repeating himself — because it has already been said under kaya-klesha, the external austerities. A person like Mahavira does not repeat. He speaks only when he has something to say. He does not speak without cause. This is not the meaning of Kayotsarga. Kayotsarga means the readiness to place the body on the altar, the readiness to leave the body, to come away from the body, the preparation to know: I am other than the body; to know: even if the body dies, I shall go on seeing. This is the preparation.
Buddha used to send his monks to the cremation grounds to watch the corpses — burning, being buried, torn up by birds, dissolving into dust. The monks asked Buddha: what is this for? Buddha said: so that you can know what all can happen to the body. And whatsoever happens to one body will happen to your body too. Seeing this, you can be prepared; seeing death, you can prepare for the death that happens in meditation. Meditation is the great death — not merely death, but the great death. Because if death happens in meditation, then there is no more birth. After ordinary death the chain of births continues. After death in meditation, the chain of births does not remain.
Therefore Mahavira calls it Kayotsarga — a parting from the body forever. Then there is no body again, no return to the body again. No re-entry into the body, no coming back to the world. Kayotsarga is the point of no return; after it, there is no turning back.
But even from the very edge of Kayotsarga we can still turn back. Just as when we heat water, even at ninety-nine degrees it can return without becoming steam. Even at ninety-nine and a half degrees it can return. If a slight distance remains before one hundred, the water can return; the heat will be lost in a little while, and the water will become cool again. From meditation too one can return — until Kayotsarga has happened. You must have heard the phrase, “a fallen yogi,” but perhaps you have never considered what a fallen yogi means. You may think it means a yogi who does corrupt deeds. A fallen yogi means: the one who returned from meditation before Kayotsarga. He went as far as meditation, but when the panic of death seized him, he turned back. Then he will be born again. This is called a fallen yogi.
A fallen yogi is one who reached ninety-nine degrees and returned. Had he reached a hundred, steam would have arisen — transformation would have happened. A new life would have begun; a new journey would have started. Meditation takes you up to ninety-nine degrees. At the hundredth degree the final leap must be taken. That is the leap of offering up the body.
But let us understand from where we stand. Where we stand, the body appears — mine. Not even that: in truth it seems that I am the body. We never have any feeling that our being exists apart from the body. The body is what I am. So when pain comes to the body, pain comes to me; when the body is hungry, I am hungry; when the body is tired, I am tired. Between the body and me there is a total identification; we are joined, fused. We have entirely forgotten that I am anything separate from the body. Not even by an inch have we known any inner part to be other than the body.
Therefore all the sufferings of the body become our sufferings; all the afflictions of the body become our afflictions. Hence the body’s birth becomes our birth; the body’s old age becomes our old age; the body’s death becomes our death. Whatever happens to the body seems to be happening to me. There can be no greater delusion. But we are accustomed to looking only from the outside; used to identifying only with the body.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s father was a good physician of his time. The father had grown old. Nasruddin said: teach me a little of your art as well. Many times I am amazed to see that you feel the pulse of the sick man and say things that seem to have no connection with the pulse. Tell me a little of this art too.
The father had no hope that Nasruddin would learn, but he took him along to see his patients. He placed his hand on a patient’s pulse and then said: stop eating bananas. That is what is troubling you. Nasruddin was astonished. From the pulse, how could bananas be known? As soon as they went outside he asked; the father said: you didn’t notice — one must not only look at the patient, but also around him. There were banana peels on the floor near the cot. From that I inferred.
Another time they went. The father took the patient’s pulse and said: don’t exert so much. It seems you walk too much; that is the fatigue. At your age you are no longer fit for so much walking; walk a little less. Nasruddin was astonished. He looked around — there were no peels anywhere, nothing else either. Outside he asked: astonishing — from the pulse you knew a man walks too much! The father said: you didn’t see — the soles of his shoes were completely worn. From that I knew. Nasruddin said: then the next patient I myself will diagnose. If it is discovered like this, I too will find something. They reached a third house; the sick woman’s hand was taken by Nasruddin. He glanced all around; nothing was visible. He looked under the cot. Then he smiled. And he said to the woman: the whole cause of your restlessness is only this: you have become a little too religious. The woman was greatly alarmed. Reduce going to the church; if you can stop, all the better. The father was a little surprised too. But the woman agreed. She said, forgive me — it is astonishing that you could know this from my pulse. Forgive me, I will never make this mistake again.
The father was more astonished. Outside he asked his son: you surpassed yourself! “Religion! Take a little less interest in religion, go less to church, or stop going altogether — and the woman even agreed! What was the matter?” Nasruddin said: I looked all around; nothing appeared. I looked under the cot and found the priest hiding there. That is this woman’s disease. And did you notice — your patients only listened; my patient at once said, “Forgive me, I will never do such a thing again.”
But Nasruddin could not become a physician. After the father’s death, when Nasruddin went to two or three patients, he got into trouble. Whichever patients took his treatment soon died. He made many diagnoses, but none of his diagnoses cured anyone. So in his old age Nasruddin was heard to say: my father deceived me. There must have been some inner trick; he told me only the outer symptoms.
The father had given the outer signs only for discovering the inner signs. And it is always like this. Mahavira gave the outer signs to catch hold of the inner. The tradition catches the outer signs and, gradually, only the outer signs remain in hand — all the inner sutras are lost. In the end there remains no concern with the pulse at all. So Nasruddin did not even know for certain whether the pulse was under his fingers or not — he would make diagnoses merely by looking around. All traditions, slowly, become external and their hand slips from the pulse. Thus Kayotsarga came to mean only this much: whenever the body suffers, bear it. But remember, the body is one’s own — this is admitted in the tradition of Kayotsarga as it has become. This false external tradition too says: if your body suffers any pain, bear it. It also says: keep yourself prepared to offer your body. But the notion “my body” does not leave.
Mahavira does not mean: offer your body — because Mahavira says: how will you offer that which is not yours? How will you place it on the altar? One can offer what is one’s own; one can sacrifice what is one’s own; but what is not mine, how will I sacrifice it? Mahavira’s inner meaning of Kayotsarga is: to know that the body is not yours — to know this is Kayotsarga. The feeling “I will offer up the body” is not Kayotsarga, because even in that offering the notion of “mine-ness,” of possessiveness, remains. And so long as the body is mine, whether I offer it or enjoy it, whether I protect it or destroy it — it is the same.
One who commits suicide also destroys the body, but that is not Kayotsarga — because he believes the body is his. That is precisely why he destroys it. A martyr mounts the gallows, but that is not Kayotsarga — because he believes the body is his. An ascetic does not torment your body, he torments his own — but he believes the body is his. An ascetic may not be harsh to you; he is very harsh to himself — because he believes this body is mine. He cannot starve you to death, but he can starve himself — because he believes this body is mine. But as long as mine-ness remains, your hand has not yet come to rest upon the inner pulse of Mahavira’s Kayotsarga. Mahavira says: to know that the body is not mine — this knowing is Kayotsarga — mere knowing. This knowing is very difficult.
To escape this difficulty the theists found a device: they say — the body is not mine, but it is Paramatma’s. For Mahavira that too is no device, because in his vision there is no place for Paramatma. This is a very roundabout matter. The so-called theist says: the body is not mine, it is Paramatma’s — and Paramatma is mine! In such circling, everything becomes mine all over again. For Mahavira even Paramatma is not there. Mahavira’s vision is most astonishing — perhaps apart from Mahavira no one has ever propounded it. Mahavira says: you are yours; the body is of the body.
Understand this. The body is not Paramatma’s either; the body is of the body. Mahavira says: every thing is its own; it is of its own nature; it is no one’s. Ownership is false in this world. Even if it be Paramatma’s ownership, it is false. Ownership is false. The body is of the body. If we analyze this, the matter will become completely clear.
Within the body you are breathing every moment. The breath that was yours a moment ago, a moment later has gone out — it has become someone else’s. The breath that is now yours — are you certain it is yours? A moment ago it belonged to your neighbor. And if we could ask the breath, “Whose are you?” what would it say? The breath would say: I am mine. In this “my body” — what we call “my body” — in this body are particles of earth. Yesterday they were in the ground; at some time they were in someone else’s body. At some time they were in a tree; at some time in a fruit. Who knows how long their journey is! If we ask those particles, “Whose are you?” they will say: “We are our own. We travel. You are only stations through which we pass. We pass through many stations.” When we say “the body is mine,” we commit the same error as if you got down at a station and the station said, “This man is mine.” You would say, “What have I to do with you? We have passed many stations, and will go on passing. Stations come and go.”
The body is made of the elements, and each element belongs to itself. The substances of which the body is made, each belongs to its own substance. The space within me belongs to space; the air within me belongs to air; the earth within me belongs to earth; the fire within me belongs to fire; the water within me belongs to water. This knowing — this is Kayotsarga.
And when within me water remains no more, air remains no more, space remains no more, earth remains no more, fire remains no more — then that which remains is what I am. Then that sixth, the extra that remains — that is what I am. Then what remains? If air is not I, fire is not I, space is not I, water is not I, earth is not I — what then remains within me? Mahavira says: only the capacity to know remains — the capacity to know. Only knowing remains. Knowing remains.
So Mahavira says: I am only “knowing,” mere knowing. He called this state Keval-gyan — just knowing, only knowing. I remain only the knower, the seer — vision itself — knowing itself. The sense of being, awareness remains. All else is lost. Kayotsarga means: to know that what belongs to whom, is his; to do no unauthorized proprietorship. But we all are doing unauthorized proprietorship within — and when we do it within, we do it without as well. The man who believes his body is his — how will he then consider his house not his?
In the West there is, at present, a very significant thinker — Marshall McLuhan. He says: the house is only an extension of our body. And so it is. The house is an extension of our body. The telescope is an extension of our eyes. The gun is an extension of our nails. These are our extensions. Therefore, the more scientific an age becomes, the larger your body becomes. Five thousand years ago, to kill someone you had to go with a dagger up close to his chest. Now there is no need. Now if one wanted, one could sit here and kill all the people in Washington — one missile, one bomb would go and all would be destroyed. Your body has now grown very large. If I wanted to kill you, I need not come near — from five hundred feet away I could kill you with a bullet. But the bullet is only an extension.
Scientists say: man’s nails are weaker than those of other animals, therefore he invented weapons — they are substitutes. Otherwise man could not win against animals. Your nails are very weak compared to animals’; your teeth too are very weak compared to animals’. If you contend with an animal, you are finished! So you needed to find substitutes to contend with animals — nails stronger than an animal’s nails had to be made. Those nails are your knives, swords, daggers, spears. Stronger teeth had to be made, with which you could crush them.
Whatever development man has made, what we call progress today, is an extension of his body. Therefore, the denser the scientific age becomes, the less the sense of the Self becomes — because we possess such a large body with which we become one. Your house, the walls of your house, are parts of your body. Your car is your extended legs. Your airplane is your extended legs. Whether you know it or not, your radio is your extended ear. Your television is your extended eye. So today we have a larger body than anyone had in Mahavira’s time. Our predicament is greater too. The man who believes his body is his will also believe his house is his. Sufferings will increase. The bigger our body, the greater our sufferings — because so many troubles increase.
Have you noticed — if a scratch comes upon your car, it is almost as if your skin were scratched. Perhaps if once the skin were scratched, the pain would not be as much as when the car is scratched. The car has become your glossy skin — your outer covering. The body — Mahavira says — if there is even the slightest proprietorship, proprietorship will go on increasing; its end is nowhere. Today or tomorrow there will be a dispute arising about the moon — whose is it? For now we have just arrived there, so there is not so much difficulty. But soon the dispute will arise — whose is the moon? If there was so much struggle between Russia and America to reach the moon first, it was not merely scientific competition; deep within it was proprietorship. The first flag planted there was America’s. Today or tomorrow a case will reach the International Court: whose is the moon; who became owner first? Therefore Russian scientists are worrying less now about the moon and are striving to reach Mars — because a dispute about the moon will any day erupt; it is no longer theirs.
Where is the end of this proprietorship? Where does it begin? It begins when, near the body, we stand up as owners — then the expansion starts. Expansion has no end. And the more the expansion, the more our sufferings — because Mahavira says: bliss is attained only by the one who is not an owner at all; who is not even the owner of his own body; who does not do proprietorship. Kayotsarga means: I am only that much which is the spread of my capacity to know — that I am; only the capacity to know am I. The purpose of placing this stage after meditation is because meditation gives you the experience of your capacity to know.
Meditation means: to know that knowing which is within me. The more I become acquainted with consciousness, the more my connection with inert substances is cut — and a moment comes when within I remain only a lamp of knowing.
But as yet our attachment is with the lamp — the earthen lamp — not with that flame of knowing which burns in the lamp. As yet we think I am the earthen lamp. When the earthen lamp breaks, we think — I have died. Even in the home, when the earthen lamp breaks, we say — the flame is extinguished. But the flame is not extinguished; it simply merges into the vast sky.
Nothing is ever destroyed in this existence. On the day this body-lamp breaks, even then the flame of consciousness sets out on a new journey. Certainly it becomes invisible, because a medium is needed for it to be visible. For example, you have a radio in your home; when you switch it off, do you then think that the voices that were coming have stopped? They are still passing through your room; they have not stopped. When you switch the radio on, do they begin only then? When you switch on the radio you begin to catch them; they become audible. They are present. When your radio lies off, their sounds are moving through your room, but you have no means to catch them, to make them audible. As soon as you put the radio on, its instrument makes them audible; they come within your hearing.
As soon as someone’s body drops, consciousness passes beyond our grasp. But it is not destroyed. If we could give it a body again, it could again become manifest. Therefore it is no surprise that scientists, today or tomorrow, will be able to revive the dead. Not because they have found the art of creating the soul, but only because they have learned the trick of repairing the radio. Not because they have seized a man’s soul, but because they have made the damaged instrument fit again, so that the soul may be manifest through it.
This does not seem too difficult and will be possible soon. But as such things become possible, our infatuation with the body will go on increasing. If you can be saved even from dying, then you will believe even more strongly that I am the body — because the body is saved, so I am saved. Man’s progress is progress on one side and great decline on the other — a great fall. On one side our knowledge grows, on the other our understanding diminishes greatly. It almost seems that the knowledge we are gaining grows only upon the foundation of the body; it has no foundation in consciousness. Hence man today appears to know the most in the world, yet a society more ignorant than this would be hard to find.
A person like Mahavira would call this decadence, not development. He would say: this is degeneration because it has increased suffering, not bliss. What is the criterion of progress? That bliss should increase. Means increase, suffering increases. Our expansion has grown; proprietorship has grown — and suffering has grown. Now we worry about many more things. In Mahavira’s time people did not worry about so many things. Now our anxieties are far greater; our worries have gone far afield — even up to the moon. Anxiety has increased, but we have no experience of a carefree consciousness. Kayotsarga means: break your connection with the world of anxiety.
How to break it? Until you enter meditation, whatever I explain about Kayotsarga will not be properly grasped. But I will explain — perhaps someday you will enter meditation and it will become clear. How will you be free of the body? First: a continuous remembrance — I am not the body. A continuous remembrance — I am not the body. Walking, standing, sitting — a continuous remembrance — I am not the body. This is negative, but it is necessary to break any fixation. And whatever we go on believing becomes our very perception. Between the two, one must be dropped: either we plunge into the perception “I am not the Atman” if we deepen “I am the body;” or we deepen “I am not the body” — then the awareness “I am the Atman” will slowly begin to awaken.
One day Mulla Nasruddin sat very sad in his tavern. Friends asked: why so troubled? Mulla said: the trouble is that my wife has given an ultimatum — the last — and has said that if by tonight I do not stop drinking she will leave me and go to her mother’s. The friend said: this is a great difficulty, a great problem. You will be in great trouble — thinking that leaving alcohol would be a heavy difficulty for Mulla.
Mulla said: you don’t understand — there will be difficulty; I will miss her very much. I shall feel my wife’s absence greatly. The friend said: I thought you would quit drinking and suffer. Nasruddin said: I thought a lot. Of the two, one only is possible — either I quit drinking and I suffer, or I quit my wife and I suffer. Then I decided to suffer by leaving the wife — because suffering without the wife can be drowned in alcohol, but leaving alcohol and staying with the wife, nothing can be drowned — only the memory of alcohol would come. So of the two, one must decide.
And a happening in his life: ultimately one day the wife left him. Mulla sat alone at home with a glass before him. A friend came. He was not drinking; he had poured it and kept it — just sitting. The friend asked: are you trying to forget the sorrow of your wife’s departure? Mulla said: I am in a great predicament. There is no sorrow left to forget! So I sit with the drink in front — even if I drink, what for? When there is no sorrow, what should I forget? That is the predicament.
There are alternatives. At each moment, and each step, there are alternatives — for life is dual. We have chosen one alternative — “I am the body” — then the Atman must be forgotten. If the Atman is to be remembered, then the alternative “I am the body” must be broken. There is no difficulty in breaking it; it is only a matter of deepening remembrance. You become what you believe. Buddha has said: thoughts become things. Thoughts condense into things. Perhaps you have experienced that with a small change of thought everything within you changes.
There was a great American actress, Greta Garbo. In her memoirs she wrote: a small thought shattered my entire identification, my image. Until she was twenty-two she worked in a little barber shop — a salon — putting soap on men’s beards. She had no idea that she could be anything else; she could never even imagine that she could become America’s foremost actress. And for a girl who has not recognized her beauty by the age of twenty-two, it can be assumed she will never recognize it.
She wrote in her autobiography: but one day a revolution happened. A man came. I was lathering his beard. She earned a few pennies by lathering beards — all day she lathered. The man looked in the mirror and said: “How beautiful!” Greta Garbo wrote: for the first time in life I heard someone say — “How beautiful!” No one ever says this to the girl who lathers beards in a barber shop.
She wrote: for the first time I looked intently in the mirror, and everything changed within me. I said to that man, thank you — I had no idea of my beauty; you reminded me. The man looked again in the mirror and at Greta Garbo and said: but what has happened? When I said it, you were not so beautiful. I said it only as a courtesy. But now I see — you have become beautiful. That man was a film director and he took Greta Garbo with him. She became one of the greatest beauties.
It could have happened that she spent her whole life lathering beards. A small thought — the inner image she held of herself changed. The real question is the change of your identification and your image within. For births upon births you have believed yourself to be the body. From childhood you have been taught that you are the body. In every way you have been given the trust and belief that you are the body. It is auto-hypnosis — just hypnosis. You may say: can such a great event happen by hypnosis? I will tell you one or two incidents, and perhaps it will become clear.
In the Amazon there is a tribe of aboriginals — very unique. As I told you earlier, a French doctor Lorenzo brings women to childbirth without pain — simply by changing their notion, by telling them: the pain is created by you. Relax, and the child will be born without pain. We may accept that by explanation the woman’s mind may be so affected, yet surely pain must be there. But could you ever imagine that when a wife gives birth, the husband should feel pain in his belly as well? In the Amazon it happens. When the wife gives birth she is shut in one room; the husband is shut in another. The wife does not cry or scream; the husband cries and screams. The wife gives birth; the husband feels the pain! This has been happening for thousands of years. When people of other races first reached the tribes of the Amazon they were shocked — what is this? It seems beyond belief. But it was found that in their tribes women have never felt pain; when pain happens it is only to the husband. Doctors examined and found it is not imaginary. The pain is in the belly; the intestines contract — just as in the woman’s belly when the child is born, so it happens to the husband!
It is all hypnosis — the hypnosis of the tribe. The tribe has believed this for thousands of years; so it happens. That which we believe becomes active. The capacity of our consciousness to believe is infinite — this is our freedom, the dignity of man, his glory — that the capacity of his consciousness is such that whatsoever he believes happens. If you have believed you are the body, you have become the body. And it is only your belief — just a belief, merely a belief.
Do you know that there are tribes in which the women are strong and the men weak? Because those tribes have always believed that women are strong, men are weak. So, if here a man shows weakness you would say, “What a weakling!” In that tribe, no one can say that — because the very sign of a man is that he shows weakness. In that tribe, if a woman ever shows weakness people say: “How man-like her behavior is!” Belief.
Man is a creature who lives by belief. Our belief is deep: we are the body. So deep that in sleep we still feel we are the body; in unconsciousness too we know we are the body. To break this belief is the first stage of the practice of Kayotsarga. Those who have come to meditation will have no difficulty, but you have to understand without meditation, so there may be a little difficulty. Yet the first sutra is: I am not the body. If you deepen this sutra, wondrous results begin to happen.
In 1908 the Maharaja of Kashi had his appendix operated upon. The Maharaja said: I will take no anesthesia of any kind, because I am practicing awareness; I cannot take anything that produces unconsciousness. The operation was necessary; without it the Maharaja could not live. The physicians were troubled. It was not proper to perform so major an operation without anesthesia — but in any case death would happen if there was no operation. If death was certain, it seemed better to risk performing the operation while he was conscious. The Maharaja said: only grant me permission that while you operate, I may recite the Gita. The Maharaja went on reciting the Gita. It was a major operation. The operation was completed. He did not move. No sign of pain appeared on his face.
The six doctors who performed the operation were amazed. In their report they wrote that they were astonished. They asked the Maharaja: what happened? You felt no pain? The Maharaja said: when I recite the Gita and I come to: “Na hanyate hanyamane sharire — the soul is not slain when the body is slain. Nainam chhindanti shastrani — weapons do not cleave it,” then a feeling arises within me that I am not the body. That much is enough. When I am not reciting the Gita, doubts begin to arise — my belief that I am the body begins to return from behind. But when I am reciting the Gita, I am utterly certain that I am not the body. At that time you may cut me, beat me — I do not even know. What you did, I do not know — because I was immersed in that feeling where I know: even if the body is pierced, I am not pierced; even if the body is burned, I am not burned.
Within you too are such states of feeling. Your mind is not fixed and unmoving; it fluctuates — the flame moves up and down. At certain moments you are very much the body; at certain moments you are very little the body. Your mind’s feeling-state does not remain the same twenty-four hours. When you see a beautiful woman or a beautiful man and you begin to follow after, then you become very much the body. Your fluctuation is heavy — you drop entirely down to “I am the body.”
But when you see a corpse burning at the cremation ground, your fluctuation changes. Suddenly, seeing the body burning, the image of the body is fractured. It is necessary to catch those moments when you are least the body. In those moments it is precious to remember “I am not the body.” Because when you are very much the body, this remembrance will not work much — the layer is so thick it cannot enter. You will have to examine for yourself in which moments you are least the body — although there are certain fixed moments in which all are a little less the body. I will tell you those moments; they will be useful in Kayotsarga for you.
Whenever the sun sets or rises, transformations happen within you. Scientists now agree that when the sun rises, not only does the whole of nature transform — your body also does, because your body is a part of nature. Not only does the sky change, the inner sky changes as well. Not only do the birds sing, not only does the earth become delighted, not only do trees flower — the earth-element within you rejoices too, because it is a part of that same earth; it is no separate thing. Not only do changes happen in the ocean — they happen in the water within you as well.
And you will be surprised to know that the water within you is exactly like the water in the ocean. It contains the same proportion of salt as ocean water. And your body is not a little water — about eighty-five percent is water. Scientists now say: when you feel good near the ocean, the reason is that there is eighty-five percent ocean within you — that inner ocean begins to resonate with the great ocean outside. A harmony, a resonance, an echo begins. When you feel very good seeing greenery in the forest, the reason is not “you”; the very particles of your body have been part of the forest’s greenery. They resonate. Standing beneath a green tree they begin to tremble with music — they are related, they are a part of it. Therefore near nature you feel as good as you do not feel near man-made things. Because there no resonance is created. On a cement road in Bombay you cannot feel as good as when the earthy fragrance rises and you walk upon the soil and your feet touch the dust. Then a music begins to flow between your body and the earth.
When the morning sun rises, much happens within you — it is the time of transition. Indians have called it Sandhya — the period of transition. At the time of change it is easy to change the well-set beliefs within you — because everything is a little chaotic. Within, all has become changeful, disarranged. Hence we have made Sandhya the moment of remembrance.
Sandhya — the moment for prayer, song, remembrance, meditation. In that moment you can remember easily. Morning and evening are precious times. Midnight too — when the night has become utterly dense and the sun is farthest from us — is a very useful moment. The tantrikas have used it greatly. Mahavira stood awake through the nights — he used it greatly. At midnight, when the sun is farthest, your state too is unique. Within everything has become quiet, as all of nature has become quiet. The trees droop in sleep; the earth sleeps — all sleep. In your body too, all sleeps. You can use this sleeping moment. The body will not insist against you; it will agree. When you say “I am not the body,” the body will not say “I am.” The body is asleep. In this moment, if you say “I am not the body,” the body will raise no resistance. Therefore midnight has been precious.
Or, when at night you are falling asleep — as you pass from waking to sleep — your inner gear changes. Have you noticed, in a car when you shift from one gear to another, you pass through neutral — that place where there is no gear; without passing that you cannot engage the next gear.
So when at night you fall asleep, from waking to sleep your whole inner gear changes — and for one instant you are in neutral, in a gearless state — neither body nor soul; where none of your beliefs operate. In that moment whatever belief you repeat will enter very deep. Therefore fall asleep repeating: I am not the body, I am not the body, I am not the body. Keep repeating — let sleep come without your noticing when it came. Your repetition should cease only of itself. Perhaps a connection with that moment will be made, and that moment is very small — if in that moment the feeling “I am not the body” enters, then while you are transforming your consciousness it will go into your deep unconscious.
In Russia there is now a new method of education — hypnopedia, teaching during sleep — they are doing experiments with this. Thus from very old times people used to sleep in the remembrance of the Lord, or self-remembrance. I think you do not. You probably go to sleep repeating the plot of the film you have seen. Whatever you repeat at that moment will go deep within you. If you repeat the wrong thing you are committing suicide. You do not know what you are doing.
In hypnopedia, in Russia today hundreds of thousands of students are getting education. From the radio station, at the exact time, all are informed to sleep at ten o’clock. As they sleep at ten, at ten-fifteen a device in their pillows starts giving messages at their ears — whatever is to be taught. If they are to learn French, then French lessons begin. Scientists have been astonished that what we can teach in three years while awake can be taught in three weeks during sleep.
Soon there will be a revolution in the world — children will not study in school by day, but will go at night to sleep. By day they can play — in a sense, good, because great harm has come by stealing children’s play. They will get it back. Or they may sleep at home; there may be no need to go to school. They can be taught there too. Sometimes they may go to school to take examinations. As yet there is no way to examine during sleep; exams will have to be taken while awake, perhaps. But scientists accept that the moments of sleep are the most subtle, the most receptive.
The most receptive moment is when you change from waking to sleeping. Likewise, in the morning, when you change from sleep to waking, then again a receptive moment comes. In that moment, wake up remembering. As soon as you know sleep is broken, let the first remembrance be: I am not the body. Open your eyes afterwards. Think of anything else afterwards. As soon as you know sleep is gone, the first remembrance: I am not the body. And remember — if at night your last remembrance was this — I am not the body — then by itself the first remembrance in the morning will be: I am not the body.
Those who study the mind say: the last thought of the night is the first thought of the morning. If you examine, you will know for certain: the last thought of the night is the first thought of the morning. Because where you left the thought and went to sleep, the thought waits. In the morning, when you awake, it mounts you again. The thought you left at night becomes your first thought in the morning. Often you fall asleep with some thought of anger, lust, greed — and in the morning it seizes you again.
Very sensitive are these moments — the change of the sun or the change of your consciousness. When you are recovering from illness, or suddenly fall ill; if on the road your car suddenly meets with an accident — you can use that moment. If your car suddenly crashes, then within you there is such change, such a shock, that if at that time you can remember “I am not the body,” what years of remembrance cannot do, one remembrance will do. But when the car crashes, what arises? — “I’m dead; I am the body; finished.” Accidents can be used. Whichever way “I am not the body” can settle deep within you — all such experiments are worth doing. Then the first event of Kayotsarga happens. But that is negative; it is not enough merely to say “I am not the body.”
A second, affirmative experience is also necessary — “I am the Atman.” This affirmative remembrance must also be kept; it is precious. There are times of transition for this remembrance as well. Opportunities to deepen this remembrance will arise within you. When? For instance, when you are returning after sexual union. You will be surprised — at that time you are least the body. But after sex, when you return, you are only in frustration and sadness. It seems — futile, a mistake, a sin. Had I not gone, it would have been better. This will not last long; in a moment or two you will be back in your old place. But the body gets such a shock that after coitus the perception “I am not the body,” and the perception “I am the Atman,” can be raised to unique depths.
Tantra has used this fully. Therefore — anyone slightly familiar with Tantra will be surprised to see: Tantra has used sex too for meditation. Because after sex, to raise in the mind the feeling “I am the Atman” is easier than at any other time — because then the body has broken, the thirst of the body is quenched, the tendency to identify with the body is dead. This will not last long; if your habit has become strong, you will not even notice. Often after sex people simply go to sleep. Other than sleep, nothing occurs to them. But the moment after sex can be very precious. But we are not even aware we commit a mistake, a sin.
I have heard that in a statement the Pope of the Vatican said: in Christianity there are one hundred and forty-three sins — condemned sins. Thousands of letters reached the Pope asking: we did not know there are so many sins; please send the complete list. The Pope was very surprised — why are so many people eager for the list? Mulla Nasruddin too wrote to him. He wrote the truth: since I read your statement, it seems how much I have missed. There are so many sins; I have committed only two or four in my whole life. Please send quickly — life seems utterly meaningless since I heard there are one hundred and forty-three. How much I missed! Life is slipping away.
Such is the mind of man. If you hear there are one hundred and forty-three sins, you too will go home to count — how many? Only two or three, or five at most. Even if very sinful, ten fingers will suffice. But one hundred and forty-three! Missed! Life wasted — the opportunity lost. So many could have been done, and were not done.
The day Mulla was dying, the priest said to him: now ask forgiveness of God, repent. Mulla said: repent for what! I am repenting for the sins I did not commit. For if I had to ask forgiveness anyway, whether for one or for ten — what difference? And you say: God is compassionate. If he is compassionate, he will forgive one, he will forgive ten. We troubled ourselves unnecessarily. I had to ask for forgiveness in any case. He is compassionate — certainly compassionate. We missed out. We should have completed the whole list. I am repenting — said Mulla — certainly repenting, but for the sins I did not commit, not for those I did.
At the time of death man repents for the sins he did not commit. But the moment after committing any sin is very useful. If you have been angry, use the moment after anger for Kayotsarga. At that time it will be easy to accept “I am the Atman.” To withdraw from the body will be easy. If you have drunk and in the morning there is a hangover, then it will be easy to accept “I am the Atman.” In that moment a certain remorse arises towards the body — a sense that the body leads into crimes — easily, naturally. When you are recovering from illness, it will be very easy to accept. Go stand in a hospital; there it will be easy to remember “I am not the body.” Go there — strange forms hang from pulleys; someone’s legs are tied up, someone’s neck. Standing there, ask: am I the body? If I am the body, then I am those hanging forms before me. There it will be easy. At the cremation ground it will be easy to remember “I am not the body.” Do not miss those moments in which it is easy to remember “I am the Atman.” Keep two remembrances going — negatively: I am not the body; positively: I am the Atman.
And the third and final thing — the elements of the body are related to the same elements spread outside. The light in my eyes is the sun’s; the earth in my hands is the earth’s; the water in my body is water’s. Keep this in remembrance. Keep on surrendering — what is his, is his. Slowly, slowly, the consciousness within you which is not the body will begin to stand apart. And if that consciousness stands apart and, with meditation, is exercised, then you will be able to do Kayotsarga.
When meditation comes to its depth, to its completeness, and the body seems to be slipping away, then your mind will not be to grasp. You will say: if it goes, thanks; if it departs, thanks; let it go — thanks! When so simply, in meditation, you become capable of leaving the body — that very day you will go beyond death and attain the taste of the deathless. There is no death after that. Death is the outcome of attachment to the body. The taste of immortality is the outcome of freedom from the body. This Mahavira has called the twelfth and final austerity. After this, nothing remains to be done. After this, that is attained for which the running was; that is known for which life was thirsty. That place is found for which we had traveled so many paths. That flower blossoms, that fragrance spreads, that light is lit for which was the wandering of infinite births.
Kayotsarga is an explosion. But even for it preparation is needed. One must prepare and join that preparation to meditation. Where meditation and Kayotsarga meet, there a person attains immortality.
These are Mahavira’s twelve austerities that I have told. One sutra alone has been completed, one line has been completed; the second line remains. But there is not much to say in it. The second line remains. Mahavira has said: “Dharma is auspicious. Which Dharma? Ahimsa, Samyam, Tapas. And those who attain this Dharma, who are absorbed in it, even the gods salute them.” This is the second half of this sutra.
While listening you may not have noticed that when Mahavira says that even the gods salute such a one, he is saying something very revolutionary. Before Mahavira’s statement, man saluted the gods. Never before had any god saluted man. This is the first recorded statement in which Mahavira says that the gods salute such a man. The entire Vedic religion bows to the gods. Hearing this daily, you would not take note that there is something special here, some great revolutionary key. In the society in which Mahavira was born, all saluted the gods. In that society, Mahavira’s saying that even the gods bow to such a man — that was a revolutionary declaration. We too might think: why should gods salute man! Gods are above man.
Mahavira does not say so. Mahavira says: there is none above man. Therefore there is no other statement like this for the dignity and glory of man. Mahavira says: there is none above man — and yet he also says: there is none who can go lower than man. Man can go so low that animals stand above him, and man can go so high that gods stand below him. Man can descend so deep into sin that no animal can; in truth, what sins do animals commit when seen against man! Man can descend to hell and ascend to heaven. Gods fall behind him — he can stand there; animals go ahead of him — he can descend there. This possibility in man is vast. In this possibility lie sin and merit, hell and heaven.
But above the gods, what state could there be? Mahavira has said: hell is the fruit of man’s sufferings; heaven is the fruit of man’s merits. But hell is spent, the fruits of sin terminate; heaven is spent, the fruits of merit terminate. Only one place never terminates — when a man rises beyond both sin and merit. Merit too is karma; sin too is karma. Sin binds — Mahavira has said — it is a chain of iron. Merit binds too — it is like ornaments of gold. But in both there is bondage. Mahavira says: the man who rises beyond both sin and merit, who rises beyond karma altogether and settles into his own nature — he rises above the gods. He rises beyond heaven as well.
So you have heard two words up to Mahavira — and many religions use two words: heaven and hell. Mahavira uses a new word as well: Moksha. He uses three words. Hell is the state of mind where the fruit of sin is received; heaven is the state of mind where the fruit of merit is received; Moksha is the state of consciousness where all karma end and consciousness is absorbed in its own nature. Surely, in such a state, if the gods bow to man, it is no wonder. As of now, even animals laugh at us.
I have heard a joke. They say the third world war occurred; all ended. No sound anywhere. In a valley, from a cave, a monkey came out; behind him his beloved came out. The monkey sat sadly and said to her: what do you think — shall we start it all over again? Shall we produce man again, start the world again? Darwin says: man came from monkeys. If ever the third world war happens, monkeys will worry again — what to do? But the monkey says: shall we start it all over again? Is it worth doing again, or shall we leave it now?
I have heard that when Darwin said man was born from monkeys, not only men became angry, even monkeys were angry — because monkeys had always looked upon man as a part of themselves who had gone astray. But when Darwin said this is evolution, progress, monkeys were angry. They said: we will never call this progress; this man is our degeneration. But the monkeys’ news did not reach us. Men were angry because men believed they were born of God — and Darwin said, from the monkey. So men were very hurt. They said: how can this be? We are sons of God! But monkeys too were hurt.
Surely, seeing man, monkeys must laugh. As man is, even animals would not salute him. Mahavira speaks of the man as he can be — his ultimate possibility; what can blossom in him. When his seed fully blooms into a flower, then surely even the gods bow to him.
That’s all.
There are two hundred and fourteen sutras. One sutra is complete. But I have spoken in such a way that if even this one sutra is completed in your life, there will be no need for the remaining two hundred and thirteen. If even a single drop of the ocean comes into your hand, the whole secret of the ocean is in your hand. If one drop is understood, the mystery of the entire ocean is understood. The second drop needs to be understood only if the first has not been understood — then a second and then a third. But if even one drop is fully understood, whatever is in the ocean is hidden in that one drop.
In this one sutra I have tried to bring the whole of Dharma within your grasp. Perhaps it does come within thought — but how long does thought stay! Like smoke it disappears. Thought will not do. When the matter is clear in thought, then move quickly so that it becomes action, becomes life — move quickly. They say: strike while the iron is hot. If the iron has warmed even a little, begin to strike. If understanding does not bring anything else, let it at least bring this understanding: that understanding opens a door toward doing. That is enough.
We will stop for five minutes now — the last day’s kirtan we will sing. Then we shall go...!