Mahaveer Vani #20

The nights and days that once move into the past never return. For the man who lives in adharma, those days and nights go utterly to waste. But for the man who lives in dharma, those same days and nights bear fruit.

Before old age hounds you, before diseases increase, before the senses become feeble, one should begin to live dharma; afterwards, nothing will happen.

A few more things regarding death.

The first thing: death is an utterly private experience. We see another dying, but we do not see death. To see someone else dying is not to be introduced to death. Death is an inner happening. Without dying oneself, there is no way to see it. Perhaps that is why, whenever we think about death, it seems death is always going to be the other’s. Because we have only ever seen others dying.

When we see another die, what do we actually see? We see only this much: that life is ebbing away. The flame of life is departing from the body. But in that very moment where life and body separate, we cannot be present. Only the one who is dying is present there. So to see someone dying is not to see death. Death can be seen only by oneself. No one can die for you by proxy; there is no such arrangement. It is an utterly private event. Borrowed experience of death is impossible.

And all our experience is borrowed. We have always only seen others die. Perhaps that is why the shock that death should strike us with never quite strikes; its depth never really appears in our imagination.

Is there any other experience in life akin to death? There is one — though it would hardly occur to us that it might be related to death. That experience is love.

Love and death are very alike. No third experience is quite like them. For you, even breath can be taken by another. Your heart — it is not necessary it be your own — another’s heart can beat for you; your heart can be removed and joined with another’s and you will still live. Another’s blood can flow in your veins; a machine can breathe for you. But love — no one can do love for you.

Love is an utterly private experience. Love and death are deeply conjoined. Hence those who have pondered love in depth have also had to ponder death; and those who have inquired into death have finally entered the mystery of love as well.

Some things are already in our own experience, even for those who have not thought much. For example: the person who is afraid of love will also fear death. The person who fears death will never fall in love. The one who has descended into the depths of love becomes utterly fearless before death. That is why lovers can die untroubled. For a lover, there remains no fear in death. But one who has never loved will be greatly afraid of death. Then a vicious circle is created. He fears death, therefore he does not enter love either — because at the deepest level, the experience of love is the experience of death. Until one dissolves utterly, love is not born.

Therefore, in a spiritual sense, love is a kind of death. Only the one who is willing to efface himself can love. Until one dissolves so much that nothing of him remains, the flower of love does not bloom. The one who has known love has also known death — and the one who has known death has known love too.

Love and death are deeply conjoined events. On the inner-most plane they are two forms of the same thing. It is amazing — but worthy of contemplation. Death will happen when we die. By seeing another die we cannot have any experience of death; only when we ourselves die will there be experience. But there is one way — love — through which we can experience death even today.

And then prayer is the vast form of love. And meditation is love’s very essence. These are all forms of death. In the Hindu scriptures it is said that the guru is death — said in precisely this sense: one can approach the guru only when one leaves oneself as if one has already disappeared. And if death does not occur at the guru’s feet, then no relationship with the guru is formed.

Shraddha too is death — a form of love. The death that will come at life’s end — that one we see happening in others. But love can happen even today. Prayer can happen even today. One can enter meditation even today. For those who enter meditation, the fear of death dissolves. Only the meditator stands outside death, just as the lover stands outside. Why? Not because meditation conquers death; not even because love conquers death; but because the one who has died in love comes to know that what dies is not ‘I’. The one who dies in meditation comes to know that what dies is my circumference, my body, my sheath — not me.

Passing through death one comes to know there is some nectar within. The awareness of this nectar does not abolish death; death will still occur — it occurred to Mahavira, to Krishna, to Buddha. Death will still occur. But then that death will be only for others. Others will see that Mahavira has died — while Mahavira will be aware that he is not dying. No death will occur within; then death becomes an outer incident, even for oneself. If this is not experienced, life has been wasted.

If we understand this, the sutra will be clear.

We plant a seed; a tree grows and becomes large. When do you say the tree has succeeded? The seed was sown — it succeeds when fruits appear, when fruits ripen, when flowers blossom; when the tree gives all it could give, then we say: the labor has succeeded. The tree that bears no fruit, that remains barren — we will not call it successful. We will say: some obstruction came; somewhere it lost the way; it took a path where life’s fulfillment does not happen, where life reaches no decision. The being of that tree became futile.

Man too is a tree — and man too is a seed. Not all reach the fruit. One should reach. All can reach — it is possible for all, yet it does not happen. Some go astray. Some take paths where no fruits appear in their life, where no flowers bloom — where life becomes fruitless.

If we look at life, its final event is death. If we take it so, then the last stage, the summit, is death. Birth is the beginning; death is the end. In death it is known whether the life was successful or unsuccessful. Only in the final moment is there testing — the decision comes.

If you can die laughing, then life has succeeded — the flowers have bloomed. If you die weeping, then life has been in vain — the flowers did not bloom. Because when all blooms, death is a joy. When nothing has bloomed, death is a pain, because I am dying without becoming anything. Time was wasted; the opportunity missed. I could not become what I could have become. What was hidden within me did not come forth. The song I could have sung remained unsung. Then there is anguish.

Most of us die weeping. A weeping death announces that life has failed. When death smiles, when death blooms like a flower, when death is a bliss, it means that the nectar hidden in the depths of this life has been discovered by this person. Now death is only rest. Now death is not an end, it is fulfillment — not the termination of a long futile life, but a fulfillment, a completeness — a life come to completion.

Like a river that gets lost in the desert and never reaches the ocean — such is the life of most people; somewhere it gets lost, it never completes. Like a river that reaches the ocean, singing, dancing, and merges into the ocean.

In the desert the river is lost, and in the ocean too the river is lost. But in the desert it is lost unsuccessfully; in the ocean it is lost successfully. Therefore, the river disappearing in the desert will vanish weeping; the river falling into the ocean will vanish dancing, filled with astonishment. Losing is in both.

In death we too are lost — but weeping; as if in a desert all opportunity has gone to waste. Mahavira too is lost — but laughing. The opportunity that was given has been used to the fullest.

Understand this, then understand the sutra:

‘Just as a foolish cart-driver, knowingly leaving the straight, clean highway, sets out upon a rough, crooked, uneven track and, when the axle breaks, laments — so too does the foolish man, knowingly leaving dharma, grasp adharma, and at last, on arriving at the mouth of death — when the axle of life breaks — he laments.’

There are many points in this. One: Mahavira has said a wondrous thing — that the foolish cart-driver acts knowingly. This is a strange statement. If the cart-driver is foolish, then what does ‘knowingly’ mean? And if he knowingly takes the wrong path, what is the point of calling him foolish? But Mahavira has a purpose. When he says ‘the foolish cart-driver knowingly...’

Foolishness is not the name of ignorance. Foolishness is said of those who, knowing, still... We do not call a child a fool; we call him innocent. If a child errs, we do not call him a fool; we say he is just a child — guileless; he does not yet know. A man becomes a fool when he knows and still knowingly takes the wrong path.

We cannot call animals fools — they are ignorant; we cannot call children fools — they are ignorant. We can call only the knowing ones fools — for only then does error begin knowingly; and knowingly doing wrong is foolishness. But why would someone knowingly do wrong?

For Socrates said: no one can knowingly do wrong. In Greece there was a long debate on this — and in that debate world cultures have given differing contributions: does a man do wrong knowingly or unknowingly? Socrates said: no man can knowingly do wrong. There is truth in his statement. Can you knowingly put your hand into fire? Impossible. How can anyone knowingly do wrong, since wrong brings pain, brings suffering? Wrong can only be done in unawareness.

But Mahavira says wrong can be done even knowingly. It can be done knowingly when you know that putting your hand in fire will burn it — and yet situations can be created such that, out of ego, you put your hand in the fire. If there were a contest as to who can keep his hand in fire longer, you could knowingly place your hand in the fire.

Out of ego a man can do wrong knowingly. Only one reason exists for doing wrong knowingly: ego. If your ego gets its juice there, you can knowingly do wrong. Why would a cart-driver leave the straight, clean highway and go onto a rough track?

On a rough track, the ego gets gratification. On the highway everyone walks; there is no juice for the ego there. When someone walks upon twisted, contrary paths, the ego is fed.

What juice is there in climbing Everest? Standing upon Everest’s summit, what is achieved? When Tenzing and Hillary first stood upon Everest, what did they gain? The subtle gratification of the ego — they are the first men to stand where no one has reached. Besides that there is nothing to be had on Everest. What is found at journey’s end? Only ego’s satisfaction.

So the man who chooses rough roads in life does so knowingly. Everyone walks the straight road. What walking is there on a highway! When a man walks through such wild terrain where it is difficult to proceed, where each step is hard, where there is danger at every moment — then the ego drinks deep.

Nietzsche said: ‘Live dangerously.’ Because Nietzsche says there is only one gratification in life: power. But the taste of power arises only when we grapple with the adverse. With the simple there is no experience of power. Where anyone can walk, what experience of strength can there be! Where even children walk safely, where even the blind can walk, what experience of power is there! The experience of power is where there is difficulty at every step, where reaching is impossible. Hence the egoist chooses those paths which are not meant to take you anywhere — they are only for the ego’s struggle.

The foolish cart-driver knowingly chooses rough, crooked paths, because there his ego can be established. The deepest formula of foolishness is ego. Foolishness has nothing to do with knowledge or lack of knowledge; it has to do with ego. The more egoistic a person is, the more foolish he will be.

The irony is that you can even use your knowledge in service of your foolishness — because you can feed your ego with your knowledge too. If a person is feeding only his ego with his knowledge, then that endeavor is foolish.

People err out of ignorance; but people also err out of knowledge. And the greatest error that can arise out of knowledge is this: that, knowingly, we choose the wrong path to prop up this ego. You will have noticed in life, many times there is great pleasure in choosing the difficult path: the hard path, the long path, where there are many obstacles, where there are calamities and adversities — in choosing such a path there is great relish.

What is that relish? The relish of conquering. When there is an obstacle on the path, then we ‘win’. When there is no obstacle, what victory can there be! For those who travel like this, thousands of complications arise in their lives. Their whole life follows a single arithmetic: wherever there is danger, wherever there is obstruction, wherever there is hindrance, whatever appears impossible — they relish doing that.

And in this world, nothing is more ‘impossible’ than adharma. Climbing Everest is possible, landing on the moon is possible, man will land on Mars — none of that is impossible. Adharma is the most impossible. What is the meaning of adharma? Yesterday I said: dharma means swabhava — nature; adharma means against swabhava. Certainly, to go against your nature is the most impossible of all. How can a man go against his nature? The very meaning of swabhava is that which you cannot go against. As if fire wished to be cold — that would be against nature. As if water wished to flow upward — that would be against nature. Just so, adharma means: that which is against nature — that which is crooked.

Dharma is very simple and straight. But the irony is: we are eager for dharma only when it becomes crooked. In straight dharma we are not interested at all. If someone says: ‘Fast so many days; stand through the night; remain naked; whip the body; wither it till only bones remain,’ then a certain relish arises: yes — now this is something.

When dharma too becomes crooked, the foolish cart-driver gets interested. Therefore take note: in the curiosity that appears toward religion, ninety percent — even ninety is too little — ninety-nine percent are foolish cart-drivers. Their only reason is: something impossible appears to be on offer. If you tell them: sitting at ease, in the shade, dharma can be attained — the whole relish of dharma will be lost. If it becomes easy, the relish is lost — for the egoist. For the intelligent man, if it becomes easy, the relish increases; but for the egoist, if it becomes easy, the relish is lost.

Understand this rightly.

The maximum relish of austerities arises because of crookedness. When you torture yourself, you feel: yes, something is being done! You feel: I am doing something — I am hungry, I am not drinking water; then you feel you are doing something. Why? Because it is very difficult, very unnatural. Hunger is natural; starving is unnatural. Hunger is effortless; fighting hunger is uneasy. But the more uneasy, the more against the current — the more we feel the ego is being gratified. Hence it is hard to find an ego more fierce than that of ascetics. If one lives in a hut, the ego swells; under a tree it swells more; standing in the sun — even more. If the ascetic never rests, keeps standing — even more.

This whole effort is not different from the effort of an Alexander or a Napoleon. It looks different to us because we do not understand. There is but one meaning to this effort: we are doing the impossible. If a man is living simply, it never occurs to us he could be religious.

A simple man never appears to us as possibly religious. But Kabir has said: ‘O seekers, sahaj Samadhi is best.’ The reason for saying so is exactly what Mahavira is saying: the intelligent man chooses the straight, clean highway — because there is somewhere to reach, not because there is something to win.

These are two different directions. If there is somewhere to reach, there is no need to waste effort; then there is no need to erect obstacles in between. But if there is nowhere to reach — only the ego to be gathered on the journey — then obstacles are required. Then a man even manufactures obstacles by his own hand. He goes on foot on a pilgrimage. Pilgrims tell me: the pleasure of going on foot — that is not there when you sit in a train.

How could it be, naturally? But those who have gone even further in driving the cart onto crooked tracks — they do prostrations with full-length body to make a pilgrimage. If they had their way, they would go standing on their heads. And then, certainly, the pleasure would be such that the one walking could not have. Why? What pleasure is it? It is not the pleasure of reaching the pilgrimage. It is the pleasure of constructing ego: what no one can do, I am doing.

Whether it be religion, or wealth, or fame — whatever crooked routes we knowingly choose, Mahavira says: that is adharma. In truth, adharma will be crooked — it is never straight. Have you ever noticed: to tell one lie demands very crooked travels. To tell the truth is straight. Truth is exactly like Euclid’s line — the least distance between two points. Euclid’s definition of a straight line is the least distance between two points. The longer a detour you take, the more crooked the line becomes.

Truth too is the least distance between two points. Falsehood is the longest journey. Hence one lie — then another, then a third. To support the first one there has to be a whole series. The great wonder is that to support truth there is no series. One truth is enough in itself. Truth is atomic — one atom is enough.

Falsehood is a chain, a series. One lie is never enough — it needs another for support, and the second needs others. And lies always hang in mid-air; no matter how much support you give, their feet never touch the ground. Because every lie that supports another is itself in mid-air. So you only postpone being caught — that’s all. When I tell one lie, immediately I must tell a second so that I am not caught. Then a third to sustain the second. And then this fear that I might be caught — so I go on postponing it. Each lie gives a little relief, then gives birth to a new lie.

Truth is straight.

It is astonishing that truth needs no remembering; only lies need to be remembered. Therefore those with weak memory cannot lie. To lie you need skill of memory — a long memory. One lie has been told — you will have to build the whole chain. It may continue for years. That is why the minds of liars become burdened. The one who speaks truth keeps his mind empty; there is nothing to keep, nothing to guard.

Dharma too is a straight journey, a simple journey. But we have no relish in dharma; our relish is in crookedness — because our relish is in ego.

Recently there was a chess duel between Spassky and Bobby Fischer. If Spassky had said on the first day: all right, you win! — if victory were that simple, there would be no relish in it. The more difficult the victory, the more impossible, the more hard — the more relishable it becomes. And the irony is: how many devices man invents! Chess is a delightful device.

Man wages a mock war — mock! There are no elephants or horses there — nothing is there; all is make-believe — and yet the relish is real. The same relish that comes from real elephants and horses. That was an expensive affair; the ancients did enough of it.

Games are condensed, non-violent versions of war. There too we fight with make-believe means — but in a little while we forget the make-believe and it becomes real. No horse on any field is as much a horse as the horse upon the chessboard. Why? What relish is in this wooden toy-horse? How does it become real? Wherever the ego gets to ride — that horse becomes real. It is the ego that moves, not the horses! And the more difficulty, the more impossibility, the more suspense, the more doubt about victory — the more the relish grows.

Man has devised many devices by which even what is simply possible he makes possible only by very long journeys. This is what Mahavira calls: knowingly leaving the straight, clean highway — like the foolish cart-driver who later regrets it.

When does the foolish cart-driver regret? When the axle breaks. When on rough, crooked roads, on stones and pebbles, in the desert, the cart gets entangled somewhere and the axle breaks. When one wheel rises very high and the other sinks very low, then the axle breaks.

The breaking of the axle means: where the two wheels are no longer even — where they become unbalanced — there the axle breaks. That which holds both together breaks. Then he regrets, then he is miserable — but then nothing can be done; then doing anything becomes difficult.

In life too we regret only after we break the axle. He who understands earlier — he can do something. He who is in the habit of repenting only after breaking — life is not such a thing that after breaking there can be any remedy. If you are going to regret only after death, there is no way back. We too repent when the axle breaks. Our axle breaks when the imbalance becomes great — one wheel goes too high and the other too low.

This will happen on crooked roads.

‘He grasps adharma, and at last, at the mouth of death, when the axle of life breaks, he laments.’

We grasp adharma precisely because there is gratification of ego there. And we do not grasp dharma because there is freedom from ego there. The first condition of dharma is: drop the ego. That is the obstacle. Adharma’s invitation is: come — your ego will be gratified. That is the challenge, the relish. Written on adharma’s gate: ‘Inflate your ego, make it great.’ Written on dharma’s gate: ‘Leave your ego outside — then enter.’

Those who relish being somebody — for them the path of dharma will be very difficult. Those who are ready to understand that ‘I am no one’ — for them the gate of dharma is always open. Those who still have even a little taste of ‘I am something’ will be dragged into adharma — even if they go to temples, to mosques, to gurdwaras, anywhere. Those who relish being somebody — who, even while praying in the temple, are watching how many people have seen them praying; who are watching how many people take them for a tapasvin, a devotee, a sadhu — those who still savor that — no matter where they travel from, their journey will move onto rough roads, onto the path of adharma.

It means this: the man who is less interested in himself and more interested in showing himself — he will go onto the path of adharma. The one who has little relish for what he is, and much relish for what people think of him — he will go onto the path of adharma. The one who wants to build a reflection in others’ eyes, an image — he will go onto the path of adharma.

Only they can walk the path of dharma who are interested in themselves — in their own reality. Those who have no curiosity for their veils, their ornaments, their make-up, their adornments, the image of themselves formed in others’ eyes — only they can walk the path of dharma. Because others give respect only when you do something impossible. Others consider you only when you do some miracle. Others consider you only when you do something they cannot do. So... Observe: when you give someone respect, have you noticed the reason? The reason is always this — that which you cannot do, this man is doing. If you could also do it, you could not give respect.

You go — some Sathya Sai Baba pulls an amulet from his hand and gives it to you — and you offer respect. A street magician cannot offer respect; an amulet is nothing — he can pull a dove out of his hand. He knows there is nothing respectable in it; it is ordinary conjuring. He cannot respect; you can — because you cannot do it. Whatever you cannot do is a miracle for you. If it were only about amulets, it would not matter much, for only children are curious about amulets and doves; but it is connected in other ways too.

You cannot remain hungry even one day — and some man fasts for thirty days; then your head goes to his feet. This too is the same — there is nothing in it. You cannot keep brahmacharya — and someone remains a celibate from childhood; your head goes to his feet. This too is the same — there is no difference. None at all.

The reason within is always one: what you cannot do. Then it means that if you too want to gratify your ego, you will have to do something others cannot do — or at least show that you can do what they cannot.

So the person interested in ego will always be interested in crooked paths. To pull an amulet from a box and give it to you is a straight task — but first to hide the amulet and then, with such a trick, to pull it out that it is not seen where it came from — that is crooked. Because it is crooked, it is attractive. If you once come to know how the amulet went from the box into the sleeve and from the sleeve into the hand — once you know, the miracle disappears. Then you will have no reverence for it again.

If you come to know the trick of staying hungry, then you will have no reverence for fasting. If you come to know the trick of brahmacharya, then you will have no relish in that either.

Whatever you yourself can do — here is the great wonder — no man has reverence for himself. For whatever you can do, you will never have reverence; for what another can do and you cannot — you have reverence. So anyone seeking ego — meaning, seeking others’ reverence, seeking respect — will choose crooked paths.

The foolish cart-driver is not foolish just like that — he is foolish with great cleverness. There is a method in that foolishness.

Mahavira says: the same happens on the path of life. Man knowingly leaves dharma and chooses adharma.

You clearly know this is the simple, straight path — but there is no gratification of ego there. Then you choose the crooked path — you choose knowingly. It is necessary to understand this. For if you choose without knowing, there can be no way to change. That is why Mahavira insists that you choose knowingly. If you choose without knowing, there can be no change; but if you choose knowingly, there can be transformation.

Transformation means only this: you are the master of your choice. You yourself wanted to go onto the crooked path — if you want, you can come back to the straight path. It is your wanting that leads you astray. No one else is working behind the scenes.

Freud says: man does nothing knowingly. Between dharma and adharma this is the choice. Freud says: man does nothing knowingly — all is unconscious. Nothing is done consciously.

In the last fifty years Freud established this before the West with such force. And he was an extraordinary man. In his discovery there were many truths — but half-truths; and half-truths prove more dangerous than untruths. Because a half-truth appears to be true, yet is not the truth. No one grasps a half-truth as half; when he grasps it, he holds it as the whole truth. Then the troubles begin.

Freud convinced the West that whatever man is doing is all unconscious. If this is true, then there is no means of change in man’s hands. Hence the alcoholic thought: what can I do? The adulterer thought: what remedy is there? All is unconscious — it is happening; I can do nothing.

And this century, without knowing it, gave birth to the greatest fatalism in history. The fatalists used to say: God is doing it. Freud says: the unconscious is doing it. But in one point both agree: we are not doing it. The matter is not in our hands. God is doing it; fate has written it on our foreheads — it is happening. And Freud says: the unconscious from behind is driving us — and we are moving like puppets. Formerly God made the puppets dance; now the unconscious does. Only the word has changed. But man has no power in his own hands.

Mahavira is against both God and the unconscious. Mahavira says: whatever you are doing — know it well — you are doing it. No one has ever held man as utterly responsible as Mahavira has. He says: ultimately you are the one who decides; therefore never, even by mistake, say that fate, law, God — someone made you do it. What you have done — you have done. The insistence is because the clearer it becomes that I am doing it, the easier transformation becomes. Because if I did not go onto the wrong path by my own choice — if I was sent — then when I am sent onto the right path I will go. When I was sent onto the wrong path, how can I return? When nature sends me, when destiny sends me, when God sends me — fine, I will return then. Neither did I go, nor can I return. I am a straw floating in the stream — I have no movement of my own, no resolve of my own.

Mahavira’s insistence that you are knowingly doing wrong has a reason: only if you are doing it knowingly can transformation happen. Otherwise there can be no revolution in man’s life. Therefore Mahavira, with great courage, utterly denied God — because as long as God remains, man has a prop: that without His order a leaf does not stir, so how will we stir? The leaf is an excuse; the real thing is we do not want to stir. So we say: without His order even a leaf does not move; now we are adulterers — how can we move from adultery? When He moves us — it is His will!

Man is dishonest even with his gods. Man is very skillful — and even God can do nothing. Man makes God say whatever he wants Him to say, and do whatever he wants Him to do. The irony is this: whether a leaf moves without God’s order — that we do not know; but without your order, even God cannot move. You yourself go on moving Him; as you wish, you are the ultimate decider.

Thus Mahavira says ‘knowingly’. But no matter how knowingly one goes on the wrong path — the path will still be wrong, and on the wrong path the axle will break. The meaning of the wrong path is just this much: where the axle can break. Nothing else. Therefore the man of adharma goes on breaking day by day. He is not integrated; he is scattered.

Try stealing, try lying, try dishonesty, try deceiving, try killing someone — what will happen? The axle of your Atman goes on breaking — you begin to break within. There is no integration inside, no wholeness; you become fragmentary. Do something that is called dharma, and see — and wholeness arises within.

Think of it this way: when you lie, you are torn into pieces — there is no single Atman. One part within keeps saying: do not do it — it is wrong. One part keeps knowing: this is not the truth. You can lie to the whole world — but how will you lie to yourself? Within, it keeps being known that this is a lie. Hence at the surface you can stick labels of lies — but your inner being knows it is a lie. You cannot be gathered together.

Conflict remains between circumference and center. Within, something keeps saying: this is a lie — not this, this should not have been spoken. What you spoke was not right. This will tear you into fragments.

The man who tells thousands of lies will have thousands of fragments. But the one who speaks truth has no fragmentation within — because nothing stands in opposition to truth. And the wonder is: even if there is opposition, as sometimes does arise even when speaking truth — the circumference says: do not speak, you will suffer loss — yet the truth comes from within, and the lie comes from without.

The within is always stronger; hence the circumference cannot hold long — it breaks. But when you lie by obeying the circumference, then no matter how much you keep speaking, it cannot hold. Guard it daily, still it does not hold — because deep within you know it is a lie. It tries to come out by a thousand ways. That is why even a liar tells someone that it is a lie.

Do you know why? We all keep our intimacies, our inner confidences — where we tell everything. The mind feels lighter. If we could not tell the world — no matter — at least we told our wife! There is relief in this. The truth within is pushing — reveal it. If there is no courage to reveal it to the whole world, at least we reveal it to someone.

No one in this world is lonelier than the one who has no one so near that he can at least tell him the lies he is telling, the wrongs he is doing. Psychologists say: the very sign of love is that before whom you become wholly true. If there is not even one person in the world before whom you can be utterly naked in your conscience, then know you have had no taste of love.

But the one who can be inwardly naked before the whole world — he has known prayer. Even before a single person if you become wholly true, the momentary relief that comes, the fragrance that arises, the fresh winds that run through your life — that is already much. But when a man becomes true before the whole world, as he is — when he becomes just that — then in his life there is no possibility of any stench.

Mahavira calls dharma the truthfulness of swabhava — as it is within, so without. No crookedness. Exactly as it is — naked, as one stands before a mirror. That which is natural within is expressed before the world. The final fruit of this spontaneous expression is: death becomes moksha. And the final fruit of the hoarding of all our lies is that the whole life becomes an untrue, inauthentic journey — we walk a lot, yet reach nowhere; we run a lot, yet no destination is in our hands; we only die. Life brings us nowhere — it only leads us astray.

The nights and days that once move into the past never return. For the man who lives in adharma, those nights and days go utterly to waste. But for the man who lives in dharma, those nights and days become successful.

What is success for Mahavira? Bank balance? How many people honor you? How many newspapers print your picture? How many Nobel Prizes you receive? No — Mahavira does not call this success. Glance a little at the lives of those who receive Nobel Prizes — many of them end by committing suicide. Those who do not, live as if dead — anxiety...

You must have heard the name Ernest Hemingway. Who attains such success? Nobel Prize, wealth, prestige, a name across the world — there was no writer greater than him in his time. And yet, in the end, Ernest Hemingway commits suicide. What a marvelous success! Outside such success — inside such agony that one must kill oneself. Only when one cannot bear oneself does one commit suicide. When bearing oneself becomes hard each moment, then one erases himself.

So one with such success all around, such glory — inside he is in such trouble! The inner axle has broken. The whole world is praising the wheels — the axle is not visible to the world; it is within; only to oneself is it visible. The whole world is sticking silver and gold leaf upon the wheels; the whole world says: what marvelous wheels — what rough journeys they have traveled! And inside the axle is broken — only the cart knows what is to happen now. The stars pasted upon the wheels will be of no use at the end. In the end only the axle... What could success be for that axle, for Mahavira? For Mahavira there is only one success.

Time passes. In that time we can do only two things — either we gather the Atman in that time, or we scatter it, break it into bits.

Time will pass — it does not return — but whatever we have done in that time remains with us. That never gets lost — understand this well.

Time never returns — but what happened in time never goes. It always remains with us. So what I did in time — by that my Atman is formed. Mahavira went so far as to give the Atman the very name of time. He said: the Atman — that is time. No one else in the world has said this. Because Mahavira says: time will be lost, but whatever you did within time — that becomes your Atman; that is your creation.

We can be destructive with time; we can be creative. Destructive means: what we are doing does not form the Atman. By lying one’s Atman is not formed. By stealing one’s Atman is not formed. Money can be obtained by lying — fame can be obtained by lying. In truth, without lying it is very difficult to gain fame. Without stealing it is very difficult to gain wealth. When wealth is obtained, ninety-nine percent of the time it is by stealing; perhaps one percent without stealing. When prestige is obtained, ninety-nine percent is by lies, by propaganda; perhaps one percent — who knows.

One thing is certain: whatever is obtained by adharma does not build your Atman. Whatever is obtained by adharma is obtained at the cost of the Atman. Outwardly something is gained, inwardly something is lost. We always pay a price.

When you lie, I do not say ‘Do not lie’ because another will be harmed by it. Whether another is harmed or not is not certain. It is certain you are harmed. If the other is intelligent, your lie will not harm him; and if the other is foolish, your truth can also harm him.

The other is not important — you are important. Ultimately, whenever you do anything wrong, you are paying with the value of the Atman within — collecting a useless pebble outside and losing a fragment of the Atman inside. Mahavira calls this failure: that a man collects everything in life — and in the end finds his own axle has broken; he gains all, and in the end finds he has gained it by losing himself — then, in the moment of death, the repentance that arises — but then time cannot return.

The whole Indian doctrine of rebirth is for this reason: the past time cannot return — new time will be given again. There is no way to bring back the old time — but a new birth will be given; time will come again. But those who, in the old time, built strong habits, collected heavy samskaras — they will use the new time in the same old way.

Think a little: if someone tells you you will be born again — what do you intend to do? What will you do? Think a little — and you will find that what you have just done, you will do again; only a little modified — this and that altered a bit — perhaps you will choose a wife with a better nose; or build a house with a newer design. What else will you do?

When Mulla Nasruddin was dying, someone asked: if you were born again what would you do? He said: the sins I started too late, I will start early — because for the sins I have done I have no regret; for what I have not done I always regret.

You also reflect — very few regret the sins they have done. A constant regret remains for the sins you could not do. And to regret after doing is not so bad; to regret not doing is utterly futile.

Have you noticed — you regret even what you could not do: the theft you could not commit. The lie you could not tell. If you had done a little dishonesty you would be a governor by now, or some chief minister — but you could not. You went to jail needlessly and returned. If you had applied a little trick... the mind keeps suffering.

Even if you get new time, you will only repeat — because you have not looked at the root: why you did what you did. You chose the wrong path for the sake of ego. If the ego remains, you will again choose the wrong path. Again you will choose the wrong path.

Ego is the tendency to choose the wrong path. If the ego falls, you can use time. Therefore, in this final sutra Mahavira says: ‘Before old age troubles you, before diseases afflict you, before the senses become feeble — live dharma. Later, nothing will happen.’

Here there is a very original difference between Hindu and Jain perspectives. The Hindu view has always believed: sannyas, dharma, dhyana, yoga — all are for old age. If Mahavira created any great revolution in this view, it is in this sutra: ‘It is not for old age.’

The great wonder is: adharma is for youth, and dharma for old age; bhoga is for youth and yoga for old age. Why? Is no power needed for yoga? If even for bhoga you need power, is no power needed for yoga? The reason is — we know well that bhoga cannot be done in old age; yoga — we will see! If it happens, good; if not, what loss! Bhoga cannot be dropped; yoga can be dropped. So let us do bhoga now, and postpone yoga. When we are no longer fit for bhoga, then we will do yoga.

But remember: the same power that indulges in bhoga is the power that does yoga. You have no other power. Man has only one energy; with it he does bhoga, with it he does yoga. Therefore Mahavira’s vision is very scientific. He says: the same power with which bhoga is done — with that very power yoga is done. That virya, that energy which becomes sexual desire — that very virya, that energy becomes Samadhi. The mind that contemplates bhoga — that same mind meditates. The energy that bursts as anger — that same energy flowers as forgiveness. There is no difference in the energy; energy is always neutral. What you do with it — that is decisive.

Imagine a man who says: I will use my money for indulgence; and when I have no money left, whatever remains — I will use it for charity.

When Mulla Nasruddin died he wrote a will. In it he dictated to his lawyer: write — half my property to my wife, as per the law; half my property divided among my five sons; and whatever remains after that — donate to the poor. The lawyer asked: how much is the total property? Mulla said: that is a legal matter; actually there is no property at all — I have finished it. But if the will remains, the mind gets a little peace — that I did something, left something behind.

Almost our behavior with life-energy is the same.

Mahavira says: ‘The moments for bhoga are the very moments for yoga.’ When bhoga can grasp you, yoga can grasp you too. Therefore Mahavira says: when old age begins to trouble, when diseases increase, when the senses grow feeble — then dharma cannot be practiced; then only hope of dharma can remain — practice cannot.

Practice demands power. Hence, in those ideologies where old age has been taken as the time for practicing dharma, nothing remains in old age except to pray to God. So people take the name of Ram at the end. They cannot do anything else; nothing else can happen. What could have happened — all that power was wasted; the time in which it could have happened — all that was lost. When power was in flood, when energy was at its peak — we were picking trash. And when all power slipped from our hands — then we think of touching the stars. Then we can only close our eyes and chant the name of Ram.

Ram-naam is, for the most part, a deception. Deception — not that there is deception in the name of Ram; the deception is in the one who chants. It is deception because — now nothing else can be done, so only Ram-naam remains a prop. The sadhus and sannyasins keep explaining in the land: this is the Kali age — now nothing can be done; now only the name of God is the support. But its meaning is the same as the usual usage: when you do not know something, you say ‘Only God knows’ — meaning, no one knows. ‘Only the name of Ram is the support’ — its exact meaning is: there is no support now.

Mahavira says: before the powers are lost, transform them. Before... And the great wonder is: the one who transforms them before loss — perhaps old age never troubles him. Because old age is less a physical event and more a mental one. Mahavira too will grow old in body — but inwardly his youth never fades.

Therefore we have not made any image of Mahavira in old age; nor any statue of him as old. Because to make that is wrong. Mahavira must have grown old, and wrinkles must have appeared on his body — for the body forgives no one.

The body has its laws; it does not care for Mahavira — it cares for no one. His eyes must have weakened; his legs must have started to tremble; perhaps he too needed a staff — who knows. But we have never made any statue of his old age, because that would be untrue. It may be a fact, but it would be untrue.

The true news about Mahavira would not be obtained from that. Within, he remained forever young — because old age is the inner outcome of powers wasted in desire. Outside, old age will come upon the body — that will happen in the stream of time — but inside, when the body’s powers are squandered in vāsanā, in adharma, when on crooked roads the axle breaks — then an inner old age comes, a certain poverty.

The life of one spent in vāsanā becomes most miserable in old age — and very ugly. Because the axle has broken, and in hand remains nothing but ashes; only a few memories of sins — and those too burn. And time has gone to waste — the pain of that gnaws too.

Therefore old age appears to us most ugly. It should not. Because old age is the summit of life, the last — it should be most beautiful. Whenever an old man has not walked the wrong roads but the straight and simple, then old age again becomes as innocent as childhood. And children cannot be that innocent — for they are ignorant. Old age is polished and refined by experience. Therefore as innocent as old age can be — when a head becomes crowned with white hair — if within the life too such whiteness has been growing, then there is no comparison for that beauty.

Until an old person becomes beautiful, know that life has gone to waste. Until old age becomes beauty — but when does it become beauty? When the body grows old, but the inner energy of youth remains intact. Then, from within the wrinkles of old age, the rays of that intact youth — that virya, that power that remained, that was transformed — begin to shine out. Then a unique beauty is born.

Hence we have kept no image of the old age of Mahavira, Buddha, Rama, Krishna. We did well. We are not a historical people. We are not much concerned with facts; we care for the truths hidden within the facts, hidden deeper. Therefore we have depicted them as forever young.

Mahavira says: while there is power, transform it. There is no meaning in regretting later.

Enough for today.

Let us pause for five minutes, sing a kirtan — then go...