Brahmacharya-Sutra: 2
Sounds, forms, and fragrances, tastes and touches likewise.
The fivefold sensual qualities, he always shuns.
Indeed, the suffering born of chasing desire,
is that of all the world, with its gods.
Whatever is bodily, whatever is of mind,
dispassion brings it to an end.
Gods and demons, gandharvas, yakshas, rakshasas, kinnaras.
Brahma and Hari bow to those who do that difficult deed.
This Dharma is steadfast and eternal, taught in the Jina’s dispensation.
By it the wise attain perfection swiftly, others too will attain it thereafter.
Mahaveer Vani #23
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
ब्रह्मचर्य-सूत्र: 2
सद्दे रूवे य गंधे य, रसे फासे तहेव य।
पंचविहे कामगुणे, निच्चसो परिवज्जए।।
कामाणुगिद्धिप्पभवं खु दुक्खं,
सव्वस्स लोगस्स सदेवगस्स।
जे काइयं माणसियं च किंचि,
तस्सऽन्तगं गच्छइ वीयरागो।।
देवदाणव गंधव्वा जक्खरक्खसकिन्नरा।
बंभयारि नमंसन्ति टुक्करं जे करेन्ति तं।।
एस धम्मे धुवे निच्चे, सासए जिणदेसिए।
सिद्धासिज्झन्ति चाणेण, सिज्झिस्सन्तितहाऽवरे।।
सद्दे रूवे य गंधे य, रसे फासे तहेव य।
पंचविहे कामगुणे, निच्चसो परिवज्जए।।
कामाणुगिद्धिप्पभवं खु दुक्खं,
सव्वस्स लोगस्स सदेवगस्स।
जे काइयं माणसियं च किंचि,
तस्सऽन्तगं गच्छइ वीयरागो।।
देवदाणव गंधव्वा जक्खरक्खसकिन्नरा।
बंभयारि नमंसन्ति टुक्करं जे करेन्ति तं।।
एस धम्मे धुवे निच्चे, सासए जिणदेसिए।
सिद्धासिज्झन्ति चाणेण, सिज्झिस्सन्तितहाऽवरे।।
Transliteration:
brahmacarya-sūtra: 2
sadde rūve ya gaṃdhe ya, rase phāse taheva ya|
paṃcavihe kāmaguṇe, niccaso parivajjae||
kāmāṇugiddhippabhavaṃ khu dukkhaṃ,
savvassa logassa sadevagassa|
je kāiyaṃ māṇasiyaṃ ca kiṃci,
tassa'ntagaṃ gacchai vīyarāgo||
devadāṇava gaṃdhavvā jakkharakkhasakinnarā|
baṃbhayāri namaṃsanti ṭukkaraṃ je karenti taṃ||
esa dhamme dhuve nicce, sāsae jiṇadesie|
siddhāsijjhanti cāṇeṇa, sijjhissantitahā'vare||
brahmacarya-sūtra: 2
sadde rūve ya gaṃdhe ya, rase phāse taheva ya|
paṃcavihe kāmaguṇe, niccaso parivajjae||
kāmāṇugiddhippabhavaṃ khu dukkhaṃ,
savvassa logassa sadevagassa|
je kāiyaṃ māṇasiyaṃ ca kiṃci,
tassa'ntagaṃ gacchai vīyarāgo||
devadāṇava gaṃdhavvā jakkharakkhasakinnarā|
baṃbhayāri namaṃsanti ṭukkaraṃ je karenti taṃ||
esa dhamme dhuve nicce, sāsae jiṇadesie|
siddhāsijjhanti cāṇeṇa, sijjhissantitahā'vare||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
A friend has asked:
Osho, if sex-lust is biological—purely biological—then the tantric method would be right. But if it is merely habitual, then nothing could be superior to Mahavira’s method. What is it—biological or habitual?
Osho, if sex-lust is biological—purely biological—then the tantric method would be right. But if it is merely habitual, then nothing could be superior to Mahavira’s method. What is it—biological or habitual?
Both—and that is why it is complex. The energy is biological, but its expression depends to a very large extent on habit.
The greatest difference between animals and human beings is precisely this: even an animal’s habit is biological, rooted in biology. Therefore you do not see sexual perversions among animals. With man, everything becomes free. In man, even the biological energy of sex begins to take free, independent expressions.
For example, homosexuality is not found among animals—except in those animals that live in zoos or close to human beings. In their natural state animals cannot even conceive that a male could become sexually aroused toward a male, or a female toward a female. Man rises above instinct, above the habit-patterns given by nature. He can change. His energy can flow along new pathways. Thus a man can fall in love with a man, a woman with a woman—and the proportion keeps increasing.
After years of study Kinsey reported in America that at least sixty percent of people engage in homosexual behavior at least once, and roughly twenty-five percent remain interested in it throughout life. This is a significant phenomenon.
A woman’s attraction to a man, a man’s attraction to a woman is natural; but a man’s attraction to a man, a woman’s to a woman is unnatural—if you think in terms of animals. For man, nothing is unnatural. Man has become free of fixed habits; therefore celibacy is unnatural for animals, but not for man. If he chooses, man can attain to celibacy. No animal can. An animal has no freedom to transmute its energy, but man is free.
Both Tantra and Yoga seek to transform man’s sex-energy. This transformation can happen in two ways: either go into the deep experience of sex—with awareness—or change the entire habit so that the sex-energy, taking hold of a new habitual pathway, moves upward. Transformation always happens through an extreme.
If you want to jump off a mountain you must jump from the edge; you cannot jump from the middle of the mountain. To jump means you leap where the precipice is close.
Every leap in life is from an extreme. There can be no leap from the middle. From the edge a man can jump. Sex-energy has two extremes: either one goes so totally, so utterly into sex that one reaches the very edge of the experience—then a leap is possible from there. Or one remains so untouched, outside, does not enter the experience at all, stands at the very door—then too a leap is possible. There is no leap from the middle. Only Buddha has said there is a middle path. Mahavira does not call the middle a path; Tantra also does not. Buddha has said, “the middle path.” But if we understand Buddha rightly, he takes the middle to such an extreme that it ceases to be the middle and becomes an extreme. He says: not an inch to the left, not an inch to the right—exactly the middle. Exactly the middle means a new extreme. If someone tries to remain exactly in the middle, he attains to a new edge.
In the middle… as I said yesterday: if we take water below zero degrees it becomes ice—a leap has happened. If we heat it to one hundred degrees it becomes steam—a leap has happened. But lukewarm water can make no leap—neither this side nor that; it remains in the middle.
Most people are like lukewarm water—neither can they become ice nor steam. They are not at any edge from which a leap is possible. Each person must go to an edge, to an extreme.
These are the two extremes—of Yoga and of Tantra. Yoga changes expression; Tantra changes experience. The journey can be made from either side.
The greatest difference between animals and human beings is precisely this: even an animal’s habit is biological, rooted in biology. Therefore you do not see sexual perversions among animals. With man, everything becomes free. In man, even the biological energy of sex begins to take free, independent expressions.
For example, homosexuality is not found among animals—except in those animals that live in zoos or close to human beings. In their natural state animals cannot even conceive that a male could become sexually aroused toward a male, or a female toward a female. Man rises above instinct, above the habit-patterns given by nature. He can change. His energy can flow along new pathways. Thus a man can fall in love with a man, a woman with a woman—and the proportion keeps increasing.
After years of study Kinsey reported in America that at least sixty percent of people engage in homosexual behavior at least once, and roughly twenty-five percent remain interested in it throughout life. This is a significant phenomenon.
A woman’s attraction to a man, a man’s attraction to a woman is natural; but a man’s attraction to a man, a woman’s to a woman is unnatural—if you think in terms of animals. For man, nothing is unnatural. Man has become free of fixed habits; therefore celibacy is unnatural for animals, but not for man. If he chooses, man can attain to celibacy. No animal can. An animal has no freedom to transmute its energy, but man is free.
Both Tantra and Yoga seek to transform man’s sex-energy. This transformation can happen in two ways: either go into the deep experience of sex—with awareness—or change the entire habit so that the sex-energy, taking hold of a new habitual pathway, moves upward. Transformation always happens through an extreme.
If you want to jump off a mountain you must jump from the edge; you cannot jump from the middle of the mountain. To jump means you leap where the precipice is close.
Every leap in life is from an extreme. There can be no leap from the middle. From the edge a man can jump. Sex-energy has two extremes: either one goes so totally, so utterly into sex that one reaches the very edge of the experience—then a leap is possible from there. Or one remains so untouched, outside, does not enter the experience at all, stands at the very door—then too a leap is possible. There is no leap from the middle. Only Buddha has said there is a middle path. Mahavira does not call the middle a path; Tantra also does not. Buddha has said, “the middle path.” But if we understand Buddha rightly, he takes the middle to such an extreme that it ceases to be the middle and becomes an extreme. He says: not an inch to the left, not an inch to the right—exactly the middle. Exactly the middle means a new extreme. If someone tries to remain exactly in the middle, he attains to a new edge.
In the middle… as I said yesterday: if we take water below zero degrees it becomes ice—a leap has happened. If we heat it to one hundred degrees it becomes steam—a leap has happened. But lukewarm water can make no leap—neither this side nor that; it remains in the middle.
Most people are like lukewarm water—neither can they become ice nor steam. They are not at any edge from which a leap is possible. Each person must go to an edge, to an extreme.
These are the two extremes—of Yoga and of Tantra. Yoga changes expression; Tantra changes experience. The journey can be made from either side.
These friends have asked: “If Tantra is only for a few, it would have been better if you hadn’t discussed it. It can be dangerous.”
Whatever is dangerous should be discussed properly. The only way to be safe from danger is to know it; there is no other way. But when I say Tantra is for very few, don’t imagine that Yoga is for the many. Only a very few ever take the leap—whether through Yoga or through Tantra. Most people remain lukewarm their whole lives—never boiling, never cold. This great mediocre middle, the crowd that stays in-between, neither leaps nor can it. Leaps happen from the extremes. Only a few reach the edges. To reach an edge means: something has to be renounced.
Remember, whatever the edge, something must be given up. If you move toward Tantra, much has to be relinquished. If you move toward Yoga, much has to be relinquished. The things you relinquish are different, but relinquishment is inevitable. To arrive at an edge is to drop the comfort of the middle. In the middle there is never danger; it feels safe.
The closer one moves to the edge, the nearer one comes to danger. Wherever transformation is possible, danger is present. Where explosion is possible, where revolution is possible, you are near danger. That’s why most people live in the middle, in the herd. Danger is avoided there. Yet both edges are dangerous. But only those who dare to step into insecurity truly experience life.
Tantra is courage—and so is Yoga. Not many become a Mahavira; it is not easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy. Only dying slowly is easy; living is difficult. The difficulty is in entering insecurity, stepping into the unknown.
Some can arrive through Tantra, some through Yoga. Each person must discover which path suits him or her. Still, a few hints can be given. One: probe your unconscious a little. If your unconscious whispers, “Tantra will be great—nothing to give up, just enjoyment; this is my way,” then know well: that path is not for you. You are deceiving yourself.
Anyone can know his basic unconscious tendency with a little observation—it’s not complicated. Deep down you always know the inner relish, the motive behind your doing. It is very hard—really impossible—to deceive yourself, if you keep even a little awareness. If you feel a relish in Tantra, then Tantra is not your path. If you feel a relish in Yoga, then Yoga too is not your path.
Some people relish Yoga. Self-tormentors, those whom psychologists call masochists—people who enjoy hurting themselves—find great relish in Yoga: in fasting, in austerities, in standing in the sun, in nudity. In any form of self-torture they taste a strange pleasure.
If you find a relish in tormenting yourself, understand: Yoga is not your path; for you it is an illness. If you relish indulgence and use Tantra as a pretext for indulgence, then Tantra is dangerous for you—an illness.
Understand one thing clearly: to support a mind’s unhealth with any doctrine is dangerous. Then what to do if there is no relish? How to know that there is no relish? Keep one thing in mind: whenever you walk a path toward an end, the relish should be in the end, not in the path.
If you travel to a destination, your love should be for the destination, not for the road. If you choose a destination because the road is lovely—pleasant shade, trees, flowers—then beware. Never choose a road; choose the destination, and then select the road that suits the destination. But don’t take relish in the road. Whoever relishes the road gets stuck on the way. Most of us do exactly that—we relish the road, so we choose roads we can enjoy.
Freud says man is extremely skilled at rationalization—he can build logical structures around any choice. He picks what he wants and then erects a scaffold of arguments to convince himself that he chose wisely, not out of inner compulsion or desire. This self-deception is easy. But if one is alert, it is not hard to break. We can always see whether two levels are operating within: on the surface you explain one thing, deeper down something else is true.
A man fasts and tells himself, “This is spiritual practice.” But he should examine whether some perverse relish is arising in starving himself.
There are people who enjoy self-torture; unless they hurt themselves they cannot feel joy. The itch of self-torment brings them the pleasure some people get from tormenting others. They create a split with themselves.
Sacher-Masoch was a famous writer; until he whipped himself daily, pricked himself with thorns, he felt no relish. From his name came “masochism,” the doctrine of self-torment.
If someone lies on a bed of thorns and says, “This is spiritual practice,” he should examine whether the entire relish is not merely, “I can torture myself.”
When you torture yourself, you feel you have become master of yourself; the body is no longer your master. But if that torment begins to give inner pleasure—as scratching gives pleasure to an itch—know that you are traveling along pathological, diseased directions.
The same is true of Tantra. A man may say, “I enter sexuality only to be free of sexuality.” You can deceive others with this easily; but you yourself will always know whether you are entering to be free, or whether it is just an excuse and you want to enter sexual desire. If this inner inspection continues, then sooner or later, with some trial and error, one finds the path that truly leads to the goal.
Which path will take you to the goal? For anyone other than yourself it is difficult to decide. There will be obstacles. And if you keep deceiving yourself, you too will face great obstacles. But anyone engaged in self-deception has nothing to do with religion yet; he has not even begun sadhana.
Two poles can be worked with: habit can be broken, and inner energy can be transformed—habit is the pathway of expression outward; inner energy is the current of feeling within.
Think of a lit bulb: if you want darkness, there are two ways—cut power at the switch, and darkness comes; or leave the switch on but break the bulb, and darkness also comes.
Tantra’s experiment is to transform the inner current of energy flowing within. Mahavira’s experiment is to break the outward medium of expression. Both can lead to the peak. But whenever one path is explained, it must be stated in contrast to the other, otherwise clarity is impossible. If you read Tantra, it will seem a Mahavira-like person could never arrive. If you read Mahavira, it will seem a Tantric could never arrive. Whoever speaks of one path makes it utterly clear for that path. Each path is complete in itself; one can arrive through it. But that does not prove the opposite path does not reach.
Remember, whatever the edge, something must be given up. If you move toward Tantra, much has to be relinquished. If you move toward Yoga, much has to be relinquished. The things you relinquish are different, but relinquishment is inevitable. To arrive at an edge is to drop the comfort of the middle. In the middle there is never danger; it feels safe.
The closer one moves to the edge, the nearer one comes to danger. Wherever transformation is possible, danger is present. Where explosion is possible, where revolution is possible, you are near danger. That’s why most people live in the middle, in the herd. Danger is avoided there. Yet both edges are dangerous. But only those who dare to step into insecurity truly experience life.
Tantra is courage—and so is Yoga. Not many become a Mahavira; it is not easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy. Only dying slowly is easy; living is difficult. The difficulty is in entering insecurity, stepping into the unknown.
Some can arrive through Tantra, some through Yoga. Each person must discover which path suits him or her. Still, a few hints can be given. One: probe your unconscious a little. If your unconscious whispers, “Tantra will be great—nothing to give up, just enjoyment; this is my way,” then know well: that path is not for you. You are deceiving yourself.
Anyone can know his basic unconscious tendency with a little observation—it’s not complicated. Deep down you always know the inner relish, the motive behind your doing. It is very hard—really impossible—to deceive yourself, if you keep even a little awareness. If you feel a relish in Tantra, then Tantra is not your path. If you feel a relish in Yoga, then Yoga too is not your path.
Some people relish Yoga. Self-tormentors, those whom psychologists call masochists—people who enjoy hurting themselves—find great relish in Yoga: in fasting, in austerities, in standing in the sun, in nudity. In any form of self-torture they taste a strange pleasure.
If you find a relish in tormenting yourself, understand: Yoga is not your path; for you it is an illness. If you relish indulgence and use Tantra as a pretext for indulgence, then Tantra is dangerous for you—an illness.
Understand one thing clearly: to support a mind’s unhealth with any doctrine is dangerous. Then what to do if there is no relish? How to know that there is no relish? Keep one thing in mind: whenever you walk a path toward an end, the relish should be in the end, not in the path.
If you travel to a destination, your love should be for the destination, not for the road. If you choose a destination because the road is lovely—pleasant shade, trees, flowers—then beware. Never choose a road; choose the destination, and then select the road that suits the destination. But don’t take relish in the road. Whoever relishes the road gets stuck on the way. Most of us do exactly that—we relish the road, so we choose roads we can enjoy.
Freud says man is extremely skilled at rationalization—he can build logical structures around any choice. He picks what he wants and then erects a scaffold of arguments to convince himself that he chose wisely, not out of inner compulsion or desire. This self-deception is easy. But if one is alert, it is not hard to break. We can always see whether two levels are operating within: on the surface you explain one thing, deeper down something else is true.
A man fasts and tells himself, “This is spiritual practice.” But he should examine whether some perverse relish is arising in starving himself.
There are people who enjoy self-torture; unless they hurt themselves they cannot feel joy. The itch of self-torment brings them the pleasure some people get from tormenting others. They create a split with themselves.
Sacher-Masoch was a famous writer; until he whipped himself daily, pricked himself with thorns, he felt no relish. From his name came “masochism,” the doctrine of self-torment.
If someone lies on a bed of thorns and says, “This is spiritual practice,” he should examine whether the entire relish is not merely, “I can torture myself.”
When you torture yourself, you feel you have become master of yourself; the body is no longer your master. But if that torment begins to give inner pleasure—as scratching gives pleasure to an itch—know that you are traveling along pathological, diseased directions.
The same is true of Tantra. A man may say, “I enter sexuality only to be free of sexuality.” You can deceive others with this easily; but you yourself will always know whether you are entering to be free, or whether it is just an excuse and you want to enter sexual desire. If this inner inspection continues, then sooner or later, with some trial and error, one finds the path that truly leads to the goal.
Which path will take you to the goal? For anyone other than yourself it is difficult to decide. There will be obstacles. And if you keep deceiving yourself, you too will face great obstacles. But anyone engaged in self-deception has nothing to do with religion yet; he has not even begun sadhana.
Two poles can be worked with: habit can be broken, and inner energy can be transformed—habit is the pathway of expression outward; inner energy is the current of feeling within.
Think of a lit bulb: if you want darkness, there are two ways—cut power at the switch, and darkness comes; or leave the switch on but break the bulb, and darkness also comes.
Tantra’s experiment is to transform the inner current of energy flowing within. Mahavira’s experiment is to break the outward medium of expression. Both can lead to the peak. But whenever one path is explained, it must be stated in contrast to the other, otherwise clarity is impossible. If you read Tantra, it will seem a Mahavira-like person could never arrive. If you read Mahavira, it will seem a Tantric could never arrive. Whoever speaks of one path makes it utterly clear for that path. Each path is complete in itself; one can arrive through it. But that does not prove the opposite path does not reach.
Osho's Commentary
“Word (sound), form (sight), smell, taste, and touch—these five kinds of sensual qualities the monk should renounce forever.”
Tantra says: total experience of all the senses. Mahavira says: total restraint, total negation of all the senses.
Sexual desire is not only sexual desire, and the sexual organ is not the only sense of sex; all senses are sexual.
You do not touch only with your hand; when you look with your eyes, you also touch. The eye also touches a body; the hand touches, the ear touches. A pleasing, sweet voice excites—then the ear is touching. A fragrance that stirs you as someone passes—then the nose is touching.
The hands touch in a gross way; the eyes touch in a subtle way. Touch is the work of all the senses. The genitals perform the deepest touch, but all are touches.
So Mahavira says: if one is to be free of desire, the longing for touch—arising in many forms—must be dropped in all its modes. Let there be no indulgence through eyes, ears, tongue. Let the tendency to enjoy not travel outward through the senses. When you want to see someone, desire has begun. When you want to hear someone’s voice, desire has begun.
Understand: desire is not only sexual intercourse. Whoever thinks so will err. Intercourse is its culmination; the journey begins through other senses. Therefore, when the eyes long to see, withdraw attention inward from the eyes. Let the eyes see, but withdraw the inner relish, the attention that drinks through seeing. This is possible; there is a complete practice for it.
You are looking at a flower, it is beautiful. If you understand Mahavira rightly, you will be surprised: wherever beauty appears, sexuality is present.
What is a flower? The sex of a tree. The song of the cuckoo—what is it? The sex of the cuckoo. The peacock dancing, spreading its rainbow—is what? Sex.
Wherever you saw beauty, sexuality hides there. So when you praise a woman’s face, perhaps you feel a little hesitant. But when you say, “How beautiful the peacock is,” it never occurs to you there is no difference. The peacock’s dance with its spread of feathers is a sexual invitation. The cuckoo’s cooing is the search for a mate. The flower’s fragrance and blossoming is an invitation: pollen is hidden there—let the bee come, the butterfly come, carry the pollen to other flowers.
If we inquire deeply, wherever we feel beauty, hidden sexuality will be found. Fragrance pleases you; biologists say our sense of smell is linked with sex.
Animals are attracted by smell. You will see a male and female sniffing each other’s genitals; scent is decisive. When females are in heat, a special scent emanates and travels far, attracting the males. As soon as that scent is sensed, the male is drawn.
Humans use scent abundantly. Women know fragrance is potent and creates attraction. Scent is used in two ways—one, to attract; two, to mask the body’s own odor, because body odor itself is a sexual invitation, and must be disguised.
At the moment of intercourse, the bodily odor of man and woman changes; in anger it changes; in love it changes. Your body’s odor is not constant. As the mind shifts, the odor shifts.
Fragrance, taste, sound—all are connected to sexual desire. If we understand this, it won’t be difficult to see: the genitals are the central sense, and every other sense is an appendage—branches of it. As if the genitals created the eye to seek form for them, the ear to seek sound for them. The senses are gateways by which sexuality enters the world to search and to find.
Desire spreads into the world through the senses; every sense is a sex-sense. This must be grasped to understand Mahavira. Therefore he says: O monk, absorbed in sadhana—withdraw attention from all the senses. If attention is withdrawn from all the senses, ninety percent of the sexual organ’s doors are blocked, and its energy cannot stream outward. Think a little: if your eyes were closed, how much of beauty would vanish!
A blind person can experience beauty, but only by touching; and touch changes the whole arithmetic of beauty. Beauty seen by the eye is another matter. If all your senses were closed, what meaning would beauty have? None. All meaning is granted by the senses.
Mahavira says: contract yourself within, stop at the center; do not go out through any sense. Senses cannot drag anyone out by force. We go because we want to. If we do not want to, senses become useless.
Your house is on fire and a beautiful woman passes in front of you—you won’t even notice. The eye will see, its function is to see; but you are not present behind the eye—your attention has rushed to the burning house. You will notice nothing. Someone may sing sweetly—you won’t hear. Someone may spray rose fragrance—you won’t smell. What has happened? All your attention has been drawn to the fire. The fire has become so important that attention cannot be divided and cannot run toward the senses.
Mahavira says: for one to whom brahmacharya—celibacy—has become that important, who feels in his very marrow that this is the path to liberation, it will not be difficult to separate attention from the senses. For us it will be very difficult, because the senses are our life. Beyond the senses we have no experience. All we have known and lived has been through the senses. And the seduction of the senses is astonishing—because what the senses give is dreamlike.
Have you ever really seen a flower? The flower is far away—what do you see? Ask a scientist, or ask Mahavira: no one can see the flower, because the flower never enters the eye. What do you see? Sunlight reflected from the flower reaches the eye; even that light does not go inside, it only touches the surface. Chemicals within the surface are stirred by the rays; those changes agitate the net of nerves behind the eye; those vibrations reach you—and those vibrations are what you call seeing.
Thus a strange thing happens: the same vibrations occur in your nerves when you see a naked woman as when you see a picture of a naked woman. Hence the price of pornography. The nerves vibrate the same way; the pleasure comes the same—indeed, often stronger with the picture. There are reasons.
A real woman’s presence disturbs your concentration. With an image, there is no living presence to interfere; you are alone, you can become absorbed, and the inner relish intensifies—perhaps more than with the real woman. With the real woman, imagination has little room; she is there. But the picture feeds imagination: “If this image is so beautiful, how much more beautiful the real woman must be!” Your imagination spreads its wings.
Therefore, those who begin relishing images find real women tasteless. In this sense, women are very intelligent—they have never relished images. Even with a real lover they close their eyes because imagination is always more beautiful than reality. Women are wise: when you embrace, they close their eyes. Closing the eyes means: now you are less the real man and more the imagined god. A god arises within. That is why men tire of women faster than women tire of men.
Freud, through deep analysis, says man and woman complement one another in everything. He uses two words: man is a voyeur—eager to see; woman is an exhibitionist—eager to show. They complement each other: to enjoy seeing, someone must show; to enjoy showing, someone must see. Hence men want love in light, women want love in darkness. Men want to see; women prefer not to look. Men have produced many images of naked women; women have never been interested in naked men. A naked man even troubles a woman a little; there is no pleasure in it. But before a clothed woman, a man begins undressing her in imagination.
This is our mind’s imagination. When we imagine, it is imagination; when we experience the real, it is still little more than imagination. You see a flower, a woman, a man—what actually comes inside? Nothing real—only vibrations. The world you call real is a world of vibrations.
What happens when you sense a good fragrance? Vibrations. When you taste something pleasant? Vibrations on the tongue.
All our pleasure is vibration. And now science says these vibrations can be produced without any external object. Electrodes can be implanted in your brain and the same nerve fibers that vibrate when you see a beautiful woman can be stimulated by electricity. When those fibers vibrate electrically, the same pleasure arises that you feel on seeing a beautiful woman.
A scientist named Salter conducted many experiments with rats. One is astonishing and someday humanity will have to learn from it. He discovered which brain vibrations occur in the rat when it achieves pleasure with a mate. After years he mapped those patterns and learned how to produce them electrically. Then he implanted an electrode in a rat’s brain and placed a button by the rat’s paw so that whenever it liked it could press and produce those vibrations, experiencing the same pleasure as in mating.
You will be surprised: the rat stopped eating and drinking. Even with females around it lost interest. It did only one thing—press the button. For twenty-four hours it did not sleep; it pressed thousands of times, till it collapsed with exhaustion—pressing the button which produced the inner vibrations, the very same as during intercourse.
What happens in intercourse for man or woman? Vibrations—nothing else. If those vibrations can be produced by a button, you will understand the world you live in. Do not think only that rat lives by pressing a button; you too live by pressing buttons—yours are natural, the rat’s were artificial.
Soon man will create artificial buttons for himself as well. I believe the day man learns to produce inner vibrations with small devices, the relish between man and woman will vanish. Because then those same vibrations can be produced better and more reliably. No need to depend on another. You could carry a tiny battery in your pocket; whenever you wish, press a button and the inner vibrations of intercourse begin. And what can be done by a battery more conveniently and anytime—who would take on the trouble of husband and wife!
Salter’s discovery will be immensely significant for the future. I mention it so you can understand Mahavira. Mahavira says: what childishness are you entangled in? All you call pleasure is small vibrations. What value do they have? Dreamlike!
For lives upon lives, man loses himself in these vibrations. He gets trapped. Some live for taste, some for fragrance, some for form, some for sound. But is this living? Will we be satisfied with vibrations? In fact, the more we repeat them, the more boredom grows. We get trapped, habits form, we grow bored, nothing is gained—and yet a compulsion, an obsession, drives us to repeat what yields nothing. Slowly all vibrations grow dull. Nothing arises from them; yet if we do not produce them, we feel sadness, emptiness. So we keep doing them.
Mahavira says: one who is entangled in vibrations is entangled in the world. Without rising above these vibrations no one attains the soul.
How to rise?
He says: “Sound, form, smell, taste, and touch—the monk should renounce these five sensual qualities forever.”
What will you do by renouncing? Not drink water? Not eat? But when you drink and eat, taste arises. Keep your eyes closed? You must open them to walk. Sounds will be there, someone will sing, sweet tones will be heard. How to renounce?
Renunciation has only one deep meaning: whenever something is seen, heard, tasted, withdraw attention from it. Let the eyes see, but you do not see. Let the tongue taste, but you do not taste.
A sannyasin once asked King Janaka, “How can you be a knower living amidst palaces, queens, such splendor?” Janaka said, “Stay a few days; the answer will come in its time.” True answers come in time; those given prematurely are meaningless.
The monk stayed—a day, two, three. On the fourth morning, as he came for his meal—Janaka himself would serve—soldiers surrounded him and announced, “By the king’s command, you will be hanged at dusk.”
The sannyasin asked, “But my crime? My fault?”
“Ask the king,” they said. “We only carry orders.”
They brought him to eat; he sat before the thali. The king sat and fanned him. He ate—but that day there was no taste. Death in the evening; attention had flown.
Afterward Janaka asked, “Was everything all right? Nothing lacking?”
“What all right? What not lacking?” he replied.
“The cook just reported he forgot the salt,” said Janaka. “You did not notice?”
“I noticed nothing,” the monk said. “I don’t even know whether I ate. It seems like a dream—death at dusk. Tell me my crime.”
Janaka said, “There is no crime, and there will be no death. I wished only to show: if remembrance of death remains, the senses withdraw from pleasures even while living among them.”
Then the tongue vibrates, but no flavor arises. The ear vibrates, but no relish is born.
Relish is a union of vibration and attention.
The tongue senses taste—vibrations arise. The soul sends attention to the tongue; the two meet, and relish is born.
The eye sees form—vibrations arise. The soul sends attention; vibration and attention meet, and beauty is experienced; relish is born.
Relish is the sum of two things: external vibrations and inner attention. Attention + vibration = relish. If attention is removed from vibration, relish dissolves. Mahavira calls this renunciation. It is an inner event. This renunciation has two forms: unnecessary vibrations should be dropped altogether; unavoidable vibrations should be met with withdrawn attention. Break attention from the unavoidable; drop the avoidable. Slowly, the senses become separate and the self separate. When the relish of attention withdraws from everywhere, we discover the body is one thing and I am another. We do not know this only because our attention continually hooks onto incoming vibrations. That linkage binds us to the body. Break the link, and the bond breaks.
Self-realization is impossible without the renunciation of relish.
“Together with the heavenly realms, all the world’s bodily and mental sufferings have their root in the craving for sensual enjoyments. The seeker who becomes dispassionate in this regard is freed from all bodily and mental sufferings.”
We think all happiness is based on sensory pleasure. Have you known any happiness beyond the senses? Perhaps never. Sometimes food gives pleasure; sometimes the eye delights in a scene—not necessarily man-woman; perhaps the Dal Lake in Kashmir—it makes no difference. The eye sees a lake, the moon—pleasure arises.
Have you known any happiness without the senses? If such happiness were experienced, Mahavira would call it bliss. But we have no such experience. Mahavira says: the root of all suffering is craving, while we think the root of all happiness is pleasure. We must reflect.
Have you known any suffering apart from the senses? Neither have you known happiness without them, nor suffering. Mahavira says: without the senses, a happiness is possible—bliss. Without the senses, no suffering is possible—so it has no name. Bliss has no opposite.
Therefore Mahavira says: the happiness of the senses is illusion; the suffering of the senses is the reality. And what we call happiness is exactly what brings suffering. Today taste gives pleasure—what will be its result? Two possibilities. If the same taste is not available tomorrow, there will be suffering. If it is available tomorrow and the day after, still there will be suffering. If it is unavailable—pain of deprivation. If it keeps coming—dulling, boredom. Those who eat rich food every day lose their taste; they no longer taste. Those who sleep nightly on fine beds stop noticing the bed.
Whatever you have, you cease to notice. If pleasure continues, it vanishes; if it is absent, there is pain. Pleasure yields suffering in every case—whether it appears or not. What we call happiness is but a door to suffering. There is no escape. Whoever is attracted to pleasure will fall into pain.
Pain comes two ways—pain of having, pain of not having. At most we can change our pains—nothing more. We exchange one pain for another, and in the interval between pains we say we are happy. Our happiness is negative.
Therefore Mahavira says: the senses are the root of suffering. Until this is seen, we will not even engage sincerely in rising beyond them. If we keep believing the senses are the basis of happiness, naturally we will expand our world.
Rebirth has one root cause: the belief that the senses are the basis of happiness. Liberation has one: the understanding that the senses are the basis of suffering.
So examine your pleasures. Whenever you feel happy, investigate: what is this happiness? As soon as you watch, ninety-nine percent of it evaporates. The hand of the beloved in your hand—close your eyes and look within: what is the joy? Soon only hand-in-hand remains. Look a little more: only weight in the hand. Look further: only a trace of sweat.
Which happiness was that? When food is in the mouth and taste arises, close your eyes and watch the taste. Ninety-nine percent of the pleasure disappears. Soon you see the mouth doing a mechanical job—chewing; the tongue doing a mechanical job—signaling what is edible and what is not. Taste’s existential use is only that you don’t swallow poison, that you avoid the inedible. That much is nature’s utility. The tongue will report that much even if you remain alert. Eyes report, ears report—these are survival measures. Value beyond that becomes dangerous. Pleasure is that extra valuation.
One who inquires rightly will find: when pleasure happens, nothing actually happens but a thought, an imagination—just a believed thought—hypnotic.
Someone gives you a shiny stone and says it’s a precious diamond. You trust him. That night you are sleepless with joy. In the morning you discover it is glass. All your happiness evaporates. So last night’s happiness was not from the diamond—it wasn’t there. It was your belief. Your projection. You sprayed a notion upon the object and it gave you delight. The beauty you see in a woman or a man is your projected notion. The whole commotion is due to that notion.
If one sees that notion clearly, pleasure evaporates. Then a sea of suffering is visible. Reality appears, hidden beneath the shadow of pleasure: that we are enduring suffering—of all kinds: of lack and of possession; of having and not having; of poverty and wealth; of fame and disgrace—countless sufferings.
This unveiling of suffering made people in the West feel that Mahavira and Buddha are pessimists. Why expose wounds? Why not plaster them? Why not sprinkle perfume over a dirty drain and decorate with flowers?
Why bring out the stench? They seemed dangerous—destroyers of life—creating detachment and withdrawal.
But that is not their intent. They wanted reality to be seen, illusions broken—so perhaps we would search for a deeper life. The false layers we have plastered over life should be peeled away; the masks and notions we have worn should fall. Then our life-energy may cease to engage in the futile and set out in search of the essential.
Therefore Mahavira says: “One who, in this way, practices the difficult brahmacharya and draws the senses inward, breaks the relish—such a one is saluted by gods, demons, gandharvas, yakshas, rakshasas, kinnaras.”
Mahavira and Buddha are the first in human history—and surely Mahavira first, because Buddha was born a little later—who said there is a moment in human consciousness when even the gods bow to man. Otherwise all religions believed man always bows to gods.
That the gods bow to man—there is no greater glorification of man. Mahavira says: there is a state in human life when the gods salute him. What does it mean? It means the gods are still in illusion. When man’s consciousness awakens fully and the illusion of pleasure breaks, the illusion of heaven breaks too. Gods are inhabitants of heaven—of pleasure. God, Indra—the king of gods—Indra means senses. Gods live in pleasure; god means: one who lives in pleasure. But then, according to Mahavira, one who lives in the senses and pleasure lives in deep illusion—a long dream. Heaven is a long pleasant dream; hell is a long nightmare.
Hence Mahavira says: even a god must take birth as a man to attain liberation. Man is the crossroads. A god must return to human birth for moksha. Only through being human can one be freed. But it is not necessary that every man be freed. Being human is only the opportunity. If you remain asleep in dream, you miss it.
Man means: where we can awaken; where, if we choose, we can withdraw from the senses; where relish can end and consciousness become free of relish. Mahavira calls this state vitaraga—free of passion. In this condition the mind has no relish outside—none. The urge to go out disappears. The feeling, “Something can be obtained from outside,” falls. There is no begging, no prayer, no craving. This is vitaraga.
“One who is vitaraga is freed from all bodily and mental suffering.”
“This brahmacharya is steadfast, eternal, timeless, and jinopadisht.”
The word “jinopadisht” is worth understanding.
Hindus say the Vedas are God’s words, therefore true. Muslims say the Quran is God’s message, therefore true. Christians say the Bible is the message of God’s own son, therefore true.
Mahavira is utterly un-scriptural. He does not accept any scripture as authority. He does not accept the Vedas as authority. Hence Hindus called Mahavira an atheist—whoever rejects the Vedas is a nastika.
Even a supreme theist like Mahavira was called atheist, because he had no reverence for the Vedas or scripture. His reverence is unique: it is for the person who has conquered his senses—for his words.
Jinopadisht means: the words of one who has conquered himself. No God above, no higher power; the authority is the person who has conquered himself. Mahavira says: jinopadisht—the teaching of the Jina, the conqueror of the senses. “Jina” means one who has conquered himself, whose slavery to the senses is broken, who is free within. His word has value. The words of gods have no value, says Mahavira, for they are still bound by desire.
If we look at the Vedic gods, Indra can be flattered—just a little praise, and he is pleased; he can be angered if you fail to pray and praise correctly. The Jewish God threatens: “If you do not accept me, I will destroy you; burn you in fire.”
Mahavira asks: what value can such words have? Only that consciousness is scripture which has conquered the senses. That word is trustworthy.
Why? Because the one still deluded by the senses is not trustworthy. One who has not awakened from the sensory dream is not trustworthy. Mahavira knew the gods of his time’s tales; none seemed worthy of praise—such strange stories.
A story says Brahma created the earth; then the earth was his daughter. Seeing his daughter, Brahma became sexually aroused and chased her. The daughter became a cow to escape; Brahma became a bull and chased her. Mahavira would find it hard to accept the words of such a Brahma. An ordinary father restrains himself; Brahma could not! The story has psychological value, yes.
Freud says every father somewhere feels a suppressed desire toward his young daughter, because the young daughter reminds him of his wife’s youth.
So the story is psychologically revealing: even Brahma felt desire for his daughter. But for Mahavira the further message is: gods who are ruled by desire are not worthy of praise. Hence Mahavira was bold: he says when a man attains vitaraga, gods lay their heads at his feet. This hurt the Hindu mind because the stories say when Mahavira attained enlightenment, Indra and Brahma bowed at his feet. The Hindu mind felt offended: the very gods we worship and pray to, coming to lay their heads at the feet of this Gautama Buddha or this Vardhamana Mahavira! It feels profane. But understood rightly, it is a great glorification—placing man above the gods for the first time; pointing for the first time toward total freedom from desire.
Mahavira says: even if you become a god, even if heaven is in your hands—if your senses are not under your mastery, you are a slave—like an insect. Why is the insect an insect? Because it is a slave of the senses. And the god is also an insect if he is a slave of the senses.
Man can awaken. Why? Why not a god? Because waking is hard in pleasure; easier in pain. Pleasure deepens sleep; pain breaks sleep. Pain sharpens, clarifies; pleasure corrodes, blurs. Pleasure rusts the mind; pain polishes it.
That is why, interestingly, from very comfortable families rarely are sharp intelligences born. If everything is pleasant, brilliance withers. The son of a Rockefeller finds everything already there; there is nothing to do—unless he has the consciousness of a Buddha or a Mahavira that says, “There is nothing worth attaining in this world; let me seek the other.” If he does not, he vegetates.
Most genius arises from struggle, from suffering. Suffering challenges and provokes. Gods will sleep because there is only pleasure—wish-fulfilling trees, pleasures, nymphs, fragrance.
Heaven, in our conception, is where the senses’ desires are fulfilled perfectly; hell is where they are never fulfilled. But if Mahavira says man can go beyond even the gods because in suffering one awakens, then in hell one should awaken even more—since there suffering is intense.
But there is a subtlety: if there is only pleasure, one does not awaken; if there is only pain, one also does not awaken—one is crushed. Where both are experienced, consciousness remains alert. Only pleasure—sleep. Only pain—sleep. Struggle arises where both are present—comparison, choice.
History confirms this. As long as a society remains utterly poor, it does not revolt. For thousands of years the world was poor and there were no revolutions—not because people were happy, but because they had no experience of happiness. Suffering seemed eternal. Now revolutions arise wherever people taste both—pleasure and pain. They want more pleasure; they want complete pleasure—and they revolt.
The utterly miserable do not revolt. Those who begin to hope for pleasure revolt. The great rebels—Marx, Engels, Lenin, Mao, Stalin—come from the middle class.
Middle class means: they know both suffering and pleasure; one leg tangled in poverty, one hand reaching toward wealth—caught between. A little push and they could fall poor; a little chance and they could become rich. This in-between man gives the world the idea of revolt; it seems possible to obtain happiness, to escape suffering.
Almost man stands between hell and heaven: gods above, denizens below, man in the middle. One foot in hell—suffering; one hand touching heaven—pleasure.
Therefore Mahavira says man is transitional. Where there is transition, revolution is possible; where there is transition, change is possible. Below is hell, above is heaven, and between is man. He can fall to hell, he can climb to heaven—or he can go beyond both: pull his foot out of hell and his hand back from heaven. Mahavira says: such a man even the gods fall at his feet. But when can you pull your foot from hell?
Mahavira says: as long as one hand grasps heaven, one foot will remain in hell. It is the very attempt to grasp heaven that creates hell. The desire for pleasure becomes pain. The wish for heaven becomes the cause of hell. When you pull your hand back from heaven, you will suddenly find your foot free of hell. That down-going foot was only the other end of the upstretched hand.
And when a man is neither in heaven nor in hell… Mahavira coined a new word—Hindu thought had no place for it. Hindu thought moved between heaven and hell. Mahavira introduced moksha—liberation. Moksha means: neither heaven nor hell—freedom from both.
If you read the Vedic rishis’ prayers, they pray for heaven, for pleasure. Mahavira seeks neither pleasure nor heaven—because he says desire for pleasure and heaven is precisely the basis of pain and hell. He says: How can I be free of both pleasure and pain? The Vedic rishi says: How can I be free of pain and attain pleasure? Mahavira says: How can I be free of both? This is a profound psychological discovery.
Mahavira speaks of moksha; Buddha of nirvana. Both take you beyond duality—beyond both. Brahmacharya—the inward turning of energy—is the path beyond both pleasure and pain; both are outside. This is steadfast, eternal, timeless, jinopadisht.
“By it, in the past many attained siddhahood; in the present many are attaining,” Mahavira says, “and in the future many will.”
This path is timeless. People have awakened through it; they awaken now; they will awaken in the future. The key is always the same: become ready to abandon both pleasure and pain. Let the messages the senses bring not join with attention to produce relish. When relish scatters within, body and soul separate; the bridge falls; the relation breaks.
And the day we know, “I am separate from this body; attention is separate from the senses; consciousness is separate from the material sheath,” that day hell and heaven both dissolve—they were dreams. That day, for the first time, we experience the absolute freedom hidden within. Mahavira calls this the state of the siddha.
Siddha means: consciousness that has attained the fullness of its potential; the flower that could bloom has fully bloomed. It depends on nothing outside. Its joy arises from within—an inner spring. Nothing from outside brings it joy; and one for whom nothing from outside brings joy—no sorrow is possible.
Enough for today.
Sit silently for five minutes, then go.