Mahaveer Vani #2

Mahavira has said: if you wish to attain, begin to see. For we can attain only that which we become capable of seeing. That which we have not seen—there is no way to attain it. Whom you wish to seek, begin to evoke his feeling. For in this world we receive only that for which—even before it comes—we make room within our heart. When a guest is to arrive, we arrange for his welcome. If one is to fashion the Arihant within, to attain the Siddha someday, to become a Kevali oneself at some moment—then it is necessary to see him, to feel him, to begin to move one’s steps toward aspiration and ardent longing.

Two and a half thousand years before Mahavira, a saying was current in China. It was spoken by Lao Tzu and later gathered as the very essence of an entire current of contemplation. The saying was: “The superior physician cures the illness before it is manifested.” And: “The inferior physician only cares for the illness he was not able to prevent.”

You will be surprised to know that five thousand years ago in China, a physician was not rewarded for curing disease. The custom was the reverse—or perhaps we should say, what we do today is the reverse. Physicians were paid so that no one under their care should fall ill. And if anyone did fall ill, the physician had to pay money to the patient. Thus everyone regularly paid his physician, so that he would not fall ill. And if he became ill, the physician must both cure him and also pay him until he recovered—the patient received a fee from the physician till he was well. That medical method in China is called acupuncture. This method is now receiving new scientific support.

In Russia they are conducting major experiments, and their view is that by the close of this century physicians in Russia will be salaried to keep people from falling ill. Whenever someone does fall ill, the physician will be responsible—and culpable. Acupuncture holds that in the body there flows not only blood, not only electricity—there is a third current as well: the prana-energy, the elan vital—it too flows through the body. At seven hundred points that current touches the skin at distinct places. Hence in acupuncture, where that current becomes disarranged, needles are inserted to restore balance. The imbalance begins six months before the illness arrives. You will be surprised to know: pulse-knowledge too does not truly read the flow of blood; through the pulse one has always tried to read that same life-current. And six months prior to the illness, the pulse begins to go awry—six months before the coming of disease.

Within us, in the pranic body, things arise first in seed form and only then spread as a tree into our physical body—whether the auspicious is to be born or the inauspicious; whether health is to be born or disease. First the seeds must be sown in the pranic body. This praise of Mangala—“Arihant are auspicious”—is a device to plant seeds in the pranic body. For the longing for the auspicious becomes natural. We desire only that which is auspicious. The inauspicious we do not desire at all. Here there is no talk of desire—only the feeling of Mangala.

Arihant are auspicious, Siddha are auspicious, Sādhu are auspicious. “Kevalipannatto dhammo mangalam”—the Dharma formulated by those who have known and found themselves is auspicious—only the feeling of the auspicious.

You will be surprised to know the law of the mind: whenever the feeling of Mangala deepens, aspiration begins of its own accord. Aspiration need not be manufactured; it arrives as a shadow behind the conception of the auspicious. One must cultivate the conception; the longing follows like a shadow.

Dharana is a precious limb among the eight of Patanjali Yoga—where the inner journey begins: Dharana, Dhyana, Samadhi. The sixth limb is Dharana, the seventh Dhyana, the eighth Samadhi. This Dharana of Mangala is Patanjali’s sixth, and Mahavira’s first—because Mahavira holds that everything begins with Dharana. As soon as Dharana deepens within, consciousness is transformed—not only ours, but also that of the one seated beside us. You will be astonished to know: you are not influenced only by your own conceptions; you are influenced by the currents of conception flowing near you. Hence Mahavira said: to keep distance from the ignorant is auspicious; to be near the wise is auspicious. To remain far from the one whose consciousness is sick is auspicious; to be near, in the presence of the one whose consciousness is healthy, is auspicious. The whole meaning of satsang is simply this: where auspicious conceptions abide, to live in that milieu, in that climate, is auspicious.

A Russian thinker, Dr. Sirov, who works on acupuncture, has invented instruments by which one can test when and how a neighbor’s conception influences you. All the time you are being imposed upon by the conceptions of those around you. You do not even know that the anger which arose in you may not necessarily be yours; it may belong to your neighbor. In a crowd, often without anyone noticing—one man yawns, and ten people, seated in different corners, begin to yawn at that very moment. Sirov says: the conception that arose in one mind sent waves around and caught the others as well. He has now constructed instruments that indicate when a conception seizes you and when it enters into you. A person’s pranic body is affected by his own conception, and also by another’s. A few incidents here will make it simple.

In 1910, on a German train, a youth of fifteen or sixteen lay hidden under a bench. He had no ticket. He had run away from home and had no money. Later he became very famous; Hitler placed a price of two hundred thousand marks upon his head, that whoever brought his severed head would receive it. He became a very great man with astonishing results, and Stalin, Einstein, and Gandhi met him and were delighted and impressed. That man later became known as Wolf Messing. But that day in 1910 no one knew him.

Wolf Messing has now written his autobiography, published in Russia, and it has received great support. He titled it: “About Myself.” In it he writes: that day my life changed. I lay there on the floor of the carriage, hiding because I had no ticket. Messing writes: those words I can never forget—the ticket-checker entering the compartment, the sound of his boots, my breath stopping, my panic, the sweat breaking out, the cold morning—and then his coming near and asking, “Young man, your ticket?”

Messing had no ticket. But suddenly he picked up a scrap of paper lying nearby—a piece of old newspaper. He closed his eyes and resolved: this is a ticket. He handed it to the ticket-checker and prayed inwardly, “O God, may he see it as a ticket.” The checker punched the paper, returned it, and said, “When you have the ticket, why are you lying under the seat? Are you mad?” Messing himself could hardly believe it. But this event changed his entire life. In the half century thereafter he became, upon the earth, the most significant man with the widest experience concerning Dharana—conception.

The greatest men in the world tested Messing. In 1940, while he was demonstrating on a stage—how to transmit thought to others—the police suddenly dropped the curtain and announced that the program was over, because Messing had been arrested. He was placed in a closed car and taken straight to the Kremlin, and presented before Stalin. Stalin said: I cannot accept that one person can affect another’s conception merely by inner conception. Because if that is possible, then man is no longer only matter. I have summoned you, therefore, to prove this before me.

Messing said: As you wish. Stalin said: Tomorrow until two o’clock you will be confined here. At two, men will take you to the main bank of Moscow. Simply by conception you will withdraw one hundred thousand rubles from the clerk and bring them back.

The whole bank was encircled by the military. Two men with pistols followed behind Messing. Exactly at two he was taken into the bank. He did not know to which counter he would be led. They placed him before the treasurer. Messing drew out a blank sheet, looked at it for a moment in front of the two guards, gave it to the treasurer—and asked for one hundred thousand rubles. The treasurer looked several times at the paper, put on his glasses, looked again carefully, and then counted out one hundred thousand rubles and handed them to Messing. Messing put the money in his bag, brought it to Stalin. Stalin said: astonishing! Messing returned to the bank, gave the money back to the clerk and said: return my paper. When the clerk looked again at the paper, it was blank. He had a heart attack on the spot and collapsed. He fainted—unable to comprehend what had happened.

Even so, Stalin was not satisfied. Perhaps there had been trickery, collusion between the clerk and Messing. So he was locked in a room in the Kremlin, thousands of soldiers were posted on guard, and he was told: exactly at five minutes past twelve you must be beyond the guards. At five minutes past twelve he was outside. The soldiers stood at their posts; no one had seen him pass. He stood before Stalin.

Still Stalin could not believe. Nor was it easy to believe—for Stalin’s entire philosophy, the whole Marxist conception, would disintegrate. If one man could commit such a “fraud,” the foundation of Marxian thought would collapse. Yet Stalin was sufficiently impressed to request a third experiment.

In his view, the most difficult thing would be this: he said, “Tomorrow at midnight be present in my room—without any pass.” This was the most difficult test. For no other man on earth ever lived under such intense security. No one could even know in which room Stalin was in the Kremlin. The room was changed every day so that no danger could arise, no bomb thrown, no attack made. The first circle of soldiers knew that he was in room five; the second circle was told room six; the third, room eight. Stalin had to protect himself even from his own soldiers. Stalin’s own wife could not know his room. All the rooms in which he might be were almost identical, so that he could shift at any moment; every arrangement existed in each room.

Exactly at midnight, the guards stood guard—and Messing went in and stood before Stalin’s desk. Stalin trembled. He asked: how did you do this? It is impossible!

Messing said: I do not know. I did nothing much. I simply came to the door and formed one feeling: “I am Beria”—Beria, the highest man in the Russian police, the number two power after Stalin. I simply formed the feeling, “I am Beria,” and your soldiers saluted me and I walked in.

Stalin gave only one order concerning Messing: that he could travel in Russia, and that he was authentic. After 1940, such people could no longer be killed in Russia—only because of Messing. Until 1940, several people who made such claims were killed. A man named Karl Otovitch—in 1937—was murdered on Stalin’s order, because what he did was of such a nature that the materialist conception of communism would fall apart.

Since Dharana could be so powerful, Stalin ordered his scientists to understand Messing fully—because it could be used in war. The man who studied Messing, one Namov, has said that the ultimate weapon of war will be this: psychic power. For the nation that holds the fundamental keys to influencing conception cannot be defeated by atomic power. In truth, even those who hold atomic bombs can be influenced by Dharana, to throw them upon themselves. A plane coming to drop bombs—the pilot can be influenced to turn back, to drop on his own capital.

Namov has said: the ultimate weapon in war is going to be psychic power. This power of Dharana will be the final weapon. Work on it increases daily. Men like Stalin are naturally interested in destruction. Men like Mahavira are intent upon creation. Hence Mahavira has said: even by mistake, even in dreams, do not form a bad conception—for it can bear fruit.

You pass along the road and think, “I have done nothing.” A thought merely flashed—“I will kill this man.” You did not do it. Or, “I will steal that thing from this shop”—and you did not go to steal. But can you be certain that some thief on the way did not catch your conception?

In Moscow, in the last two years, a fashion has arisen: before scratching one’s neck, one looks around. Because for two years an experiment has been running. A scientist named Manen conducts it on the streets. He comes up behind you and silently intends: “An insect is crawling up your neck—itching—scratch, quickly!” And people begin to scratch. The news has spread now—he has experimented on thousands—at crossroads, in hotels, on trains. And Manen has been so successful that ninety-eight percent proves correct. Whomever he stands behind and feels, “Your neck is itching, an insect is crawling—scratch quickly,” scratches at once. Now people have become alert. Even if an insect truly climbs, they first look around to see whether that man named Manen is nearby! Since Manen’s experiment succeeded, there has been a new discovery concerning the brain: the frontal brain has a certain power; the posterior brain has four times that power.

Thus from behind a person can be more easily influenced. In front is only one part; behind is fourfold. And those like Messing, or the woman Nelya I mentioned yesterday, who can move objects—studies of their brains show that their posterior brain is fifty-fold stronger—one in front, fifty behind. Yoga has continually held that the true human brain is hidden behind. Until it becomes active, man will not attain his full dignity.

Another wonder: whenever you form a bad thought, the law of nature is that you do so with the frontal brain. Each part of the brain does a different task. If you intend to murder, the thought moves in the upper frontal part. If you intend to help someone, it moves in the rear, the final portion. Nature has arranged that toward the auspicious you are given more power, toward the inauspicious less. Yet the auspicious does not appear in the world and the inauspicious is so visible—because we do not even wish the auspicious. Or if we do wish it, we immediately negate it by an opposite wish. As when a mother longs deeply that her child live—grow, flourish—but in some moment of anger blurts, “It would have been better had you died at birth!” She does not know that even if she wished the auspicious four times, this one inauspicious wish poisons all; the longing is cut.

Mahavira told his monks: remain immersed in the wish for Mangala twenty-four hours—rising, sitting, breathing in and out. Naturally, the wish for the auspicious should begin from the summit. Hence he says: “Arihant are auspicious.” Those in whom all inner diseases have ended are auspicious. Siddha are auspicious, Sādhu are auspicious, and those who have known—the Jain tradition calls them Kevali, who have reached that point on the path of knowing where even the knower does not remain, where the object known does not remain—only knowing remains, mere knowledge remains—only knowing. The Jain tradition calls Kevali one who has attained only knowledge—where only knowledge remains; where no knower is left, no ‘I’, no known, no ‘thou’; where the pure capacity to know remains—pure capacity to know.

Understand it thus: in a room we light a lamp. There is wick, there is oil, there is the lamp. The room is lit with the lamp’s light; chairs, furniture, walls, you—are illumined. Now imagine that the room has become void—no walls, no furniture, nothing. The oil is gone, the body of the lamp is gone—only the flame remains, only light remains—no lamp, no illuminated objects—light alone. Alok—source-less—no oil, no wick. And such a light not falling upon any object, spreading into emptiness—such is the Jain conception concerning the Kevali. When one attains supreme knowledge, knowledge becomes causeless—there is no source. For the point is precious: the Jain tradition says that whatever has a source will someday be exhausted. Exhausted it will be—whatever the magnitude of the source. The sun too will one day be exhausted—its source is vast; for billions of years it has been giving light. Scientists say—it will give light for another four or five thousand years—yet it will be exhausted. However great a source, there is a limit—it will end. Even oceans can be emptied with spoons—however long it may take. One spoon reduces it a little; and then more and more. Mahavira says: consciousness is source-less, hence it can never be exhausted. The light within it comes by no path; it simply is—it just is. If it came from somewhere, it would end one day. However great, it would end. Therefore Mahavira denied God—because if God be accepted, God becomes the source; we become lamps burning on His source—and we will be exhausted.

It is true that no one on this earth has given the Atman a greater dignity than Mahavira. So much dignity that he said: Paramatman is not separate—the Atman itself is Paramatman. Its source is not other; this very flame is its own source. This inner burning life draws power from no other; it is powerful in itself. It is made by no one—otherwise someone might destroy it. It depends on no one—otherwise it would remain a beggar. It receives nothing from anyone—it is self-sufficient and Siddha. The day knowledge reaches this limit—when we attain source-less light—on that very day we attain the original. The Jain tradition calls such a person Kevali. Such a one may be born anywhere—he may be a Christ, a Buddha, a Krishna, a Lao Tzu. Therefore this sutra does not say, “Mahavira mangalam, Krishna mangalam”—no. It does not say, “Jain Dharma is auspicious,” nor “Hindu Dharma is auspicious.” “Kevalipannatto dhammo mangalam”—whatever Dharma is formulated by those who have attained only-knowing is auspicious—wherever they may be; whosoever has attained pure knowing—whatever they have said is auspicious.

When this Dharana of Mangala settles into the deep abyss of the prana, the possibility of the inauspicious steadily diminishes. As one feels, so one slowly becomes. As we think, so we become. What we ask for, that we receive.

But we always ask wrongly—that is our misfortune. We raise our eyes toward that which we wish to become. If you gather in crowds around a political leader, it is not merely information that the leader has arrived; in a deep sense it reveals that you too wish for political position. We honor only that which we wish to become—which looks like a model of our future—around whom we think, “Ah, if only I could be that!” Around such we gather. If crowds gather around a film actor, it tells of your inner aspiration—you also wish to become the same.

If Mahavira has said, “Say—‘Arihant mangalam, Siddha mangalam, Sādhu mangalam,’” he is saying: you will be able to say this only when you wish to be an Arihant. Or, if you begin to say it, your journey toward becoming an Arihant will begin. And the greatest journey begins with a very small step. From the first step, nothing can be seen. Dharana is the first step.

Have you ever reflected on what you wish to become? Even if you have not consciously, in the unconscious it is always running—what you wish to become. Toward that, respect arises in your mind. Not only respect—concentric circles of thought begin to move around it; it descends into your dreams; it enters your breath; it enters your blood. And when I say it enters your blood, I am not speaking poetically—I am speaking a medical, purely physiological fact.

Experiments have been done, with startling results. At Oxford University, in the Delabar Laboratory—what effect does thought have upon blood—leave aside your own conception—even another’s conception, even an unexpressed conception—what effect does it have upon your blood? If you go near a person from whose heart flow compassion and Mangala—who can think nothing but the good for you—the ten-year conclusion of Delabar Laboratory is this: as soon as you enter the presence of such a person who holds Mangala toward you, the white cells in your blood increase by fifteen hundred immediately. If your blood is tested outside the door and then you enter and sit near a person filled with the wish for your well-being, and your blood is tested again—the white blood cells are increased by fifteen hundred. If you go near one who holds ill-will toward you, sixteen hundred are reduced—immediately.

And medical science says: the basic protection of your health rests upon the abundance of white cells. The more of them in your body, the more your health is secure. They are your sentries. You may have noticed—perhaps not—when you are injured and pus forms, that pus is your defender—the white cells of your blood. They rush at once and form a guarding layer. What you take to be pus is not your enemy—those are white blood cells that run and encircle the wound, as if the police had cordoned it. No germ can enter the body after crossing their cordon. They are protectors.

The experiments at Delabar have astonished scientists—is it possible that a person filled with the feeling of the auspicious can so affect another that the proportion of his blood changes? The volume changes! The speed of the blood changes! The heart-rate changes! The blood pressure changes! Is it possible? Now it is difficult to deny.

After Jagdish Chandra Bose, the next great name is an American—Cleve Backster. Jagdish Chandra had said that plants have prana. Backster has proved—proved—that plants also have feeling. Plants recognize friends and enemies. A plant recognizes its owner, its gardener. If the owner dies, the plant’s pranic current weakens; it becomes ill. Backster has proved that plants have memory. When you go and stand near your rose-bush with love, the next day at that very time it waits for you. It remembers—you did not come today. And when you stand before it suffused with love, and then suddenly pluck a flower, the plant is greatly astonished, confused. Backster has prepared instruments that record these pranic flows—that the plant becomes suddenly confused. It cannot comprehend how one who stood with such love plucked a flower. It is as if a child stands near you and, while caressing him, you suddenly twist his neck because his face looks so lovely. The plant cannot at all understand what has happened! Great confusion arises within.

Backster says: we have confused thousands of plants—we have put them into great distress. They simply cannot understand what is happening. He whom they experienced as a friend suddenly behaves as an enemy. Backster also says: the plants we love release very positive feelings toward us.

Backster has proposed to the American Medical Association that very soon we will be able to cure certain kinds of patients by taking them to certain plants—if we have made those plants so prana-filled—by love, by feeling, by music, by prayer, by meditation. If we have filled them so much with pranic energy, then taking specific patients near them will help. Every plant has its own pranic qualities. For example, the red rose is very beneficial for the angry. Perhaps this is why Pandit Nehru loved it. The red rose, in Backster’s view, reduces anger; it spreads the conception of non-anger around itself. It too has its own aura.

Plants too have hearts. Admit they are uneducated—but they have hearts. Man becomes highly educated, but loses the heart.

This Dharana can become a basis for birthing the heart—Dharana of Mangala, certainly Mangala-Dharana. We are so weak, and the inauspicious is so easy for us, that to hold even the Arihant as auspicious is a miracle. To say the stone is auspicious—difficult. The enemy is auspicious—very difficult. Mahavira knows you well. Even toward the highest you will find it difficult to form Mangala—so he begins there: Arihant, Siddha, Sādhu, and the Dharma formulated by those who have known.

“Dharma” in the Jain tradition does not mean what the English “religion” means, nor the Urdu “mazhab.” Nor does it mean what the Hindu “dharma” signifies. One must understand what “dhamm” means in the Jain tradition—wonderfully unique—and it expands the Jain vision into a new dimension. Mazhab means creed—a doctrine, a path. The English word “religion” means nearly what “yoga” means. From the root religare—its meaning is: to join—to join man to God. Yoga means the same—to join man to God.

But Jain thought leaves no room for God. Therefore you will be surprised to know: the Jain view does not regard “yogi” as a good term; it says the Kevali is an a-yogi—not a yogi. Hence those who, in misunderstanding, call Mahavira a “Mahayogi,” are wrong. They do not know the Jain usage. Mahavira says: we have not to be joined to anything; we have to sever from the false—become separate. A-yoga—disjoining from the world—and the nature is revealed. Yoga says: union with God—then the nature is attained. Mahavira says: the nature is already attained. What we have to attain has already been given. We are merely clinging to wrong things; hence we do not see. Let go the wrong, become disjoined, become separate. In the Jain tradition, a-yoga has the same value that yoga has in the Hindu tradition. The meaning of Dharma among the Jains is very unique. Mahavira says: the very nature of a thing is Dharma—its nature. Mahavira’s meaning of Dharma is the same as Lao Tzu’s Tao.

The nature of a thing—its own inherent consummation—if a person, without being influenced by anyone, can act spontaneously, he attains Dharma—if one can be without being influenced. Therefore Mahavira does not regard influence a good thing. To be influenced by anyone is bondage. All impressions bind. To become utterly uninfluenced is to become oneself—to be one’s own self. This self-ness—this becoming oneself—he calls Dharma. “Kevali-prarupita dharma” means: when a person remains only knowledge, only consciousness—then the way he lives is Dharma. His living, his rising, his sitting, his movements, his sleep—whatever he does—the lifting of an eyelid, the movement of his eyes, whatever rays manifest in his entire being—that is Dharma.

As fire, in its pure form, burns without producing smoke. You will say, “But wherever fire burns, smoke is produced.” And the logic books say: wherever there is smoke, there is fire; thus, where smoke is seen, assume there is fire. But smoke does not arise from fire—it arises from the wetness of the fuel. If the fuel is absolutely dry, no smoke arises. Smoke is not fire’s nature; it is the influence of moisture—the foreign element in the fuel. One should say: smoke is born of water, not of fire. If the fuel is absolutely dry—no trace of water—there will be no smoke. And if smoke appears, know that a little moisture remains. When fire is in its pure form—when no foreign element is in it—then there is no smoke.

Mahavira says: then fire is in its Dharma—when there is no smoke. When consciousness is utterly pure, and matter has no influence, when even the body is unknown—when consciousness is so pure that even the body is not felt—then, says Mahavira, know that consciousness is in its Dharma. Therefore Mahavira says: each has its own Dharma—fire its own; water its own; matter its own; consciousness its own. To become pure in one’s own nature is bliss; to remain impure in one’s nature is misery. Dharma here means: nature. To move into one’s own nature is to become religious; to wander outside one’s nature is to remain irreligious.

In the world, these four are also uttama in this sutra—Arihant are supreme in the world, Siddha are supreme, Sādhu are supreme, and the Dharma formulated by the Kevali is supreme. After calling them auspicious, why say “supreme”? There is a reason within us. These sutras are based upon our mind; upon a study of its depths. Even after saying “auspicious,” we are so unknowing that we may take what is inferior to be auspicious. Our passions are such that they flow toward the low. One could also say: this is the meaning of “vasana”—a flow downward—toward the inferior.

Ramakrishna used to say: even if a kite flies in the sky, do not think its attention is in the sky. It flies in the sky, but its gaze remains below—on some rubbish-heap, on some scrap of meat in a garbage pit, on some rotting fish. It flies in the sky, but its eyes are fixed below on a piece of flesh. Do not fall into the illusion that because the kite is flying in the sky, its attention is in the sky—its attention remains below.

Therefore, in the second sutra, this Mangala-sutra of Mahavira immediately adds—“Arihant loguttama!” Arihant are the highest. It is only an indication. “Siddha are highest, Sādhu are highest.” “Uttama” means: they are the summits of life—most excellent; worthy to attain, worthy to desire, worthy to become.
Someone asked Schweitzer, “What is worth attaining? What is bliss?” Schweitzer said: “To be more and more, to be deep and deep, to be in and in, and constantly turning into something more and more. To go on being transformed into something larger, nobler—going deeper and deeper, becoming more and more.”
But we can be “more” only when the notion of the “more,” of the higher, the excellent, is close to us. If the peak is visible, the journey is possible. If the peak itself is not seen, there is no question of a journey. Materialism says there is no soul; it breaks the very summit. And once someone accepts there is no soul, then the question of attaining the soul simply does not arise.

If Freud says man is nothing but sex, nothing but instinct, man immediately accepts it: “I am lust.” Then, when nothing exists beyond lust, the matter is finished.

A man was telling a friend, “I used to be very troubled—my conscience pained me. If I lied, if I stole, if I looked at a woman, I suffered. So I went to a psychotherapist. In two years I became perfectly fine.”
His friend asked, “So now the urge to steal doesn’t arise? Desire doesn’t arise when you see a woman? On seeing beauty you no longer feel like possessing it?”
He said, “No, no—you misunderstand me. In two years the psychotherapist freed me from my conscience. Now there is no pain, no anxiety; I no longer feel guilty.”

In the last fifty years, the Western psychotherapist has not been freeing people from sin but from the feeling of sin. He says: “This is natural—absolutely natural; it will happen.” If, today, life in the West is sliding at a low level—it isn’t even walking, it is slithering like a snake—the greatest responsibility lies with the Western psychologist who calls the lowest “nature.” And the difficulty is that it is easy for us to accept the lowest as nature, because we are familiar with it; the argument feels right.

When Mahavira says, “Arihant loguttama”—the Arihants are the highest in the world—it doesn’t register for us: How can they be the highest? We don’t know who an Arihant is; we don’t know a Siddha. Such moments have never arisen within us; we have never known even a wave of that quality in ourselves; we have never entered the dharma revealed by the Kevali. Is it all hot air?

Even when we accept, we accept out of compulsion—and that compulsion we call religion. You’re born in a Jain family: compulsion, not your doing. Paryushan comes: compulsion. You go to the temple, bow to the monk, observe a fast, take a vow—compulsion. No one is to blame; you happened to be born in a Jain home. From childhood your skull has been filled; you get it over with. But there is no inner spark in it—no natural, heartfelt joy.

Have you noticed the qualitative difference in your feet when you go to the temple and when you go to the cinema? To the temple you are dragged; to the cinema you go. To the temple it feels like a chore. There is no freshness in your step, no dance in your going. Somehow you’ll get it done—but the base life you will not “get done.”

I have heard: the day Mulla Nasruddin died, the priest came to lead him in prayer and said, “Mulla, repent—repent of the sins you have committed.”
Mulla opened his eyes and said, “I am repenting—but for a different thing. I repent the sins I could not commit. I am dying now; there were some sins I wanted to do—I couldn’t.”
Even then the priest did not understand; priests are the least understanding people on earth. He said, “Mulla, what are you saying? If you were reborn, would you commit the same sins? Would you live as you have lived?”
Mulla said, “No, I would make one big change. In this life I started sinning too late; next life I will start a little earlier.”

This Mulla is reporting on all of us. It’s pure satire—on us. This is our mental state. At death we too will repent—repent the women we didn’t get, the wealth we didn’t acquire, the positions we missed, all that was base and not worth having. But will we, at the time of dying, repent that we never met an Arihant, never touched a Siddha, never entered the dharma revealed by the Kevali?

No. The Namokar may be being chanted around you, but it will not be able to enter within you. Those who have not prepared for its entry throughout life—if they think it will enter in a single moment, they are foolish. Those who did not make arrangements for that Guest to arrive—if they imagine He will suddenly enter, they are mistaken. They are indulging in vain hope; they will be left in despair.

But one who constantly keeps in mind: “The Arihant is auspicious, the highest in the world; that alone is worth attaining”—even if he does not understand, he keeps repeating the formula ritually; even if it doesn’t come to mind, he still repeats it—then grooves form. Even mere repetition leaves marks on the mind. Those marks can become active at any moment, in any instant of light. One who has said again and again, “The Arihant is the highest in the world,” has set a current flowing within himself—however faint. When he starts moving against arihant-hood, something within will say, “What you are doing is not the highest, not the noblest.”

One who has said, “The Siddha is supreme in the world”—when he is about to lose himself, a voice within will say, “The Siddha finds himself; you are losing and selling yourself.” One who has said, “The Sadhu is supreme”—in a moment of becoming un-saintly, that remembrance can act as a brake. Done knowingly it bears fruit; even done unknowingly it bears fruit, because ritual repetition also leaves lines on the mind—dead, but still there. They can become active at any moment. This is the value of regular recitation, of a regular feeling, a steady conviction.

Now the final point—grasp it a little more clearly.

In the tradition and stream Mahavira used, at the very top he places only man’s pure soul. Man’s pure soul is God. Therefore, according to Mahavira, as many people as there are in this world, that many gods are possible—as many consciousnesses, that many possible gods. In Mahavira’s vision, the notion that God is one—the aristocratic idea in other religions—does not exist. Only in Mahavira’s religion is godhood democratic—of all.

Every person is God by nature—whether he knows it or not, attains or not; whether he wanders for lifetimes without end—it makes no difference: he is God. Someday, that which is hidden in him will be revealed. Someday the seed will become a tree; potential will become actuality.

Mahavira believes in infinite godhoods—infinite deities. Each person is divine. And the day the whole world reaches arihant-hood, that day there will be infinite gods.

By “God” Mahavira means: one who has attained his own nature. One’s nature is godhood. This is a very unique notion of God. God has nothing to do with creating the world or running it. Mahavira says: there is no creator, because the very idea of creation is childish. It is childish because it solves nothing. We say: God created the world. Immediately a question arises: Who created God? The question remains where it was; you only pushed it one step back. He who says, “God created the world,” also says, “No one created God.” Mahavira says: If you must accept that something is uncreated, then what obstacle is there in accepting that this whole existence is uncreated? The mind had only one difficulty: how can anything be without being made?

Understand this: Mahavira has an answer for the atheist which the so‑called theist does not. The atheist asks the theist, “Why did your God create?” Great difficulties then arise. The theist must accept that a desire arose in God to create the world. If even God is seized by desire, what hope is there to free man from desire? God desired—He desired. If God also desires and cannot remain at peace without desire, how will you take man beyond desire? Was God troubled when there was no universe? Did He suffer, like an artist suffers until the painting is made, like a poet until the poem is born? Was He anxious, tense? The theist is in a bind; he must say, “God desired.”

And then he must accept absurdities: Brahma created a woman and then desired her. Being her father, he still lusted after his daughter. He chased her. To escape him, the daughter became a cow; he became a bull. She became something else; he became the male of that species. If even Brahma runs panting in desire, then when you go to the cinema you are absolutely Brahma‑like—perfectly on track. No obstacle should arise; you are doing the appropriate thing. She became a film actress; you became the film viewer—off you go. Then the whole world becomes the sprawl of desire.

Mahavira cut it at the root. He said: No. If people are to be led toward godhood, empty the idea of God. Strange! If you want people to become divine, remove the prior idea of God. Why? Because if you place desire in God first—for without it creation won’t happen—what reason remains to empty man of desire? Mahavira says: The world is uncreated. It simply is. And even for science this appears logical: nothing here seems made; it is. Nothing is ever destroyed, nothing created—only transformed.

Thus Mahavira gave the most scientific definition of matter. He coined a marvelous word—pudgal (pudgala)—for matter. No language has such a word. He did not call it “padaarth” (a dead noun); he coined “pudgal”: that which is continually forming and dissolving and yet is. That which is moment‑to‑moment being born and dying, and yet is—like a river that is forever flowing and yet is. Flowing—and is. That which becomes and dissolves; not created by becoming, not ended by dissolving—becoming. Pudgal means becoming—never finally “being,” always becoming. It never enters a fixed state of “is.” It goes on happening. Pudgal is that which is born every moment, dies every moment—and yet is never created, never ended; it continues—dynamic.

“Matter” is a dead concept. Even the English “matter” is a dead word: what can be measured. Sanskrit/Hindi “padaarth” means what has meaning, what exists. Pudgal means: what is in process—the process itself; the action itself. You walk: one foot rises as the other is placed. You never lift both together. Here one part disintegrates, there another is formed—process. One step of matter is always forming; one step is always dissolving.

The chair you sit on is dissolving; otherwise how will it be ash after fifty years? The body you inhabit is dissolving—and also being made. You feed it air and food round the clock; it is being constructed and deconstructed. Life and death both simultaneous—two legs of one movement. Mahavira says: This world is pudgal. Everything has always been here—forming, dissolving; transformation goes on. Nothing ends; nothing is made. Therefore there is no question of a maker; therefore godhood needs no desire.

All religions place God before the world. Mahavira places godhood at the end.

Understand the difference. All religions call God the cause. Mahavira calls him the effect. The Arihant is the final destination. A person becomes “God” when he has attained all—when he has arrived at the place beyond which there is no journey. In other religions God is at the beginning—where the world starts. Mahavira’s godhood is where the world ends—one who goes beyond. Not cause, but effect; not seed, but flower.

The God of the world is like a seed; Mahavira’s God is like a flower. Others say: everything is born from God. Mahavira says: godhood is where everything opens and blossoms—climax, the peak. From the fully blossomed flower the fragrance that showers—kevalipannatto dhammo—he calls dharma as propounded by the Kevali, the fragrance of the flower. That is the highest in the world.

Mahavira does not say: “The scripture‑written dharma is highest.” Otherwise he would have said: “Shastra‑propounded dharma is supreme.” The Veda‑believer says the Veda’s dharma is supreme; the Bible‑believer says the Bible’s; the Quran‑believer, the Quran’s; the Gita‑believer, the Gita’s. Mahavira says: kevalipannatto dhammo—not what is said in scripture, but what flows in the moment of kevala‑jnana, total knowing—the living. What is written has little value; the moment you bind truth in words, it shrinks.

“Living dharma”—that will have many meanings. But the dharma revealed by the Kevali was later written into scriptures. Now Jains carry those scriptures on their heads—just as others carry the Quran or the Gita. This is an injustice to Mahavira, because he never said “scripture‑propounded dharma”—not even “what is written in my scriptures.” He himself authored no scripture; he had nothing written. Hundreds of years after his passing, his words were written down.

More difficult still: Mahavira did not speak. He remained silent. His “utterance” was not said; it was heard. His dharma was transmitted in silence—telepathic transmission. It may sound like a Purana tale, a story, yet increasingly it is finding a scientific footing. When Mahavira “spoke,” he did not use lips or throat; he sat. In his inner sky, sound certainly resounded. He was not speaking; he was being heard. Sitting in silence, those near him heard. And each heard in his own language. Animals gathered, plants stood there; the stories say they heard too.

If Baxter says plants have feelings and understand yours; if a plant‑lover’s sorrow saddens them, a household’s celebration makes them joyous; if they flow with delight when you stand near them, and even mourn when someone in the house dies—if there is scientific evidence for all this, why is it difficult to accept that Mahavira’s heart‑message reached the memory of plants?

Experiments on the unconscious show we can understand any language in the unconscious. If you are deeply hypnotized—so deep that you have no conscious recall—then spoken to in any language, you understand.

A Czech scientist, Dr. Rajdek, worked on language and the unconscious. He hypnotized a woman who did not know Czech and spoke to her in Czech; she understood. Under hypnosis he would say, “Get up and bring a glass of water”—and she would. Astonishingly, when conscious, she did not understand a word. He asked her why. She said, “A faint memory remains of my trance—I understood you. But as I come to, what I hear is cha-cha-cha; I can’t make sense of it. Yet in trance I somehow know what you say.”

Rajdek says: Study of language via the unconscious reveals that we are like small islands jutting out of the ocean; above the surface we are separate, but go down and all is joined. On the surface our languages are many; the deeper you go, the more they are one—not only human, deeper still, animal; deeper still, plant; and perhaps deeper still, stone. The further in, the more we are connected—one great continent of life—where understanding happens.

Mahavira’s experiment in silent thought‑transmission, telepathy, will be called non‑mythological by science within twenty years. Work is proceeding fast; many dark corridors are being lit. It means that to teach someone another language, Rajdek says, we need not labor on the conscious. In Bulgaria, another scientist, Dr. Laurenzov, founded an Institute of Suggestology—“mantra” in our idiom—suggestion. His institute is state‑run, and the Bulgarian government is communist; thirty scientists work with him.

Laurenzov says they complete any two‑year course in twenty days—any course. What you learn consciously in two years, he teaches in twenty days by leaving you in a restful, suggestible state. He has developed a new pedagogy that will soon sweep the world—the opposite of what you do now. In my view he is right: what we call education is sheer foolishness.

In Laurenzov’s school the children sit not on chairs but on recliners like in an airplane; the light is diffused; special music plays. The whole time music continues. Students are told: close your eyes half or fully; attend to the music—only the music. Do not pay attention to the teacher. Don’t give any attention to the teacher; that’s where the trouble begins. Listen to the music; do not listen to the teacher.

This is upside down. For three thousand years teachers have struggled to be heard; they wield the stick so the boys listen. The teacher says, “Listen to me!”—and Laurenzov says that is why it takes two years. When someone listens consciously, only the upper mind listens. So engage the upper mind with the music; the inner mind’s door will listen, and a two‑year course is done in twenty days. In twenty days a person becomes more fluent in a new language than in two years.

What’s the point? Simply this: deep down enormous capacities lie hidden. You walked here from home. If you came on foot, can you tell how many lamp posts there were on the way? You’ll say, “Am I mad? I didn’t count.” But if you’re hypnotized, you can tell the exact number. As you walked, your upper mind was busy—horns honking, avoiding collisions. But your lower mind recorded everything: the lamp posts, the people, the horns, the car numbers—everything. It is all remembered there; your conscious knows nothing. The island above water knows nothing; the landmass below knows all.

Mahavira did not speak; he sat silently. Hence his dharma could not spread very widely. Had he spoken, everyone would have understood; since he did not, only those ready to go to such depths could hear him. Mahavira’s dharma is very selective—for the chosen few. Only the finest of Mahavira’s time—whether among plants, animals, or humans—could hear him. Before sitting with Mahavira one had to undergo training in meditation so that, in his presence, the chattering, disturbed mind would fall silent and the deep soul could come forth—to commune with him.

Therefore Mahavira’s words were not recorded for five hundred years. They were not compiled until those remained who, even after Mahavira’s body fell, could still receive his message. When even such people began to disappear, panic arose, and then compilation was attempted. Hence one Jain sect, the Digambaras, does not accept any scripture as authentic words of Mahavira. They say: since those who compiled were already in doubt about maintaining connection with Mahavira, their record cannot be wholly authentic. The Digambaras have no scripture of Mahavira. Even the Shvetambaras admit their scriptures are incomplete; the compilers said, “We can write only a few things as authentic; the other limbs are lost.”

But Mahavira’s full voice can be recovered—and not by rummaging through books written about him. It will be recovered by creating such a group, such a school, such a few people who can take consciousness to that depth from which connection with Mahavira is possible even today. Therefore Mahavira said: “kevalipannatto dhammo”—not shastra. The dharma that is supreme is that which you know by relating directly to the Kevali, not via a scripture. And one can relate to the Kevali at any time. But scriptures can be bought in the marketplace; to relate to the Kevali, a great price must be paid. Much must be transformed within. Mahavira says: nothing is attained without paying the price—and the greater the thing you seek, the greater the price.

So the last thing—

When he repeats: the Arihant is supreme, the Siddha is supreme, the Sadhu is supreme, the dharma revealed by the Kevali is supreme—he is also saying: be prepared to pay everything to attain that which is so supreme. It will not be free. We all are used to getting religion for free. For rotten things we are ready to pay anything; for dharma we want it free. This only shows: we accept for free only that which we do not truly long for—“If you give it free, fine; otherwise, forgive me.” Mahavira says: for that which is the highest in the world, you will have to lose everything—your very self. And whenever someone is ready to lose himself, he is directly, immediately connected with the dharma revealed by the Kevali. That dharma which comes to you directly from the knower, without a middleman—that alone is supreme.

That is all for today.
Let us sit for five to seven minutes...