Mahaveer Vani #26

Now, to the sutra.

Before we enter it, a few basics.

First: the very notion of the guru is originally Indian. The world has had teachers, not gurus. A teacher is ordinary; a guru is a rare phenomenon. Literally the words teacher and guru seem similar, but existentially they are worlds apart. From a teacher we learn what he knows; from a guru we learn what he is. With a teacher the relationship is intellectual; with a guru it is existential. With a teacher it is partial; with a guru it is total.

The idea of guru is not only Eastern; it is profoundly Indian. There is no equivalent word in other languages. There are words like teacher, master, instructor—but not guru, because what we mean by guru is different.

First: with a teacher our relation is professional—a transaction. You learn something, you pay, the account is closed. But what the guru gives cannot be paid back. It has no price. A teacher passes on information; a guru imparts experience. A teacher need not have lived what he teaches; he just communicates. He may teach ethics without being ethical. A guru speaks not information but the flowering of his life.

So we call Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—gurus. They lived what they say. There are many knowers—universities are full of them—but they are teachers, not gurus. They hand on what was collected by others, acting as conduits through which knowledge travels from one generation to the next.

A guru does not pass on what the past knew; he shares what he himself has realized. And that cannot be transferred as information; it can only be given through a transformation of your way of living. From a teacher we return more informed. From a guru we return transformed. The old dies; the new is born. If you truly go to a guru, the one who goes never returns; someone else returns.

Going to a teacher is easy; you return the same, only with some additions, some polish. There is no discontinuity. With a guru there is a gap between your past and your future; you will look back and feel as if that old story belonged to someone else.

Hence this land coined the word dvija—twice-born. One birth from parents—of the body; the other in the vicinity of a guru—of the soul. Without a guru there is no second birth.

When Westerners hear the devotion we have toward a guru, they cannot believe such reverence is needed. To learn, why put your head at someone’s feet? If it’s only learning, then yes—head relates to head, not head to feet. But our guru is something else. It is not an intellectual exchange. The profound cannot be contained in concepts; it can be transmitted in love. So the relation between guru and disciple is of deep love; teacher and student is a transactional, intellectual relation. The guru–disciple bond is of the heart.

When the intellect gives and takes, it happens on a horizontal plane. When the heart gives and takes, it happens vertically. To receive with the heart you must become like a bowl placed lower than the source—like water flowing downward. You put the vessel beneath the stream. Thus the disciple must place his heart at the guru’s feet. Therefore trust becomes essential in this exchange.

Trust does not mean investigation is forbidden. It means: investigate to the full before choosing your master—but once you have chosen, drop investigation. Place the bowl below. Open all doors so he can enter from every side.

Hence shishya (disciple) is not the same as student. The disciple is learning life itself, and the way to learn life is through humility.

This is a sutra of humility. Mahavira says: One who obeys the master, lives near him, understands his gestures accurately, and in specific matters rightly understands his physical or verbal indications—such a one is endowed with vinaya (humility).

Let’s unpack these words.

“One who obeys the guru’s command.”

If the master says, “Sit,” he sits; “Stand,” he stands. This is not blind obedience in the ordinary sense. Obedience here means: you comply especially where your mind disagrees.

I have heard: when Bayazid came to his master, the master asked, “Are you certain you have come to me?” Then he said, “Take off your clothes, be naked, take your sandal in your hand, strike your own head, circle the whole town once.”

Others present were shocked. One protested, “What nonsense is this? Has he come to learn the spiritual or to go mad?” But Bayazid began undressing. The man pleaded with Bayazid and then scolded the master for ruining Bayazid’s social standing. Bayazid walked naked, slapping his head with a shoe, the whole town laughing. He returned with his prestige in dust.

The master embraced him and said, “Bayazid, I will never again give you a command. Recognition has happened. Now the real work can begin.”

Obedience means: to do the absurd when asked. If I say “two and two make four,” and you say, “I obey”—you are not obeying me; you are obeying your own intellect. If I say “two and two make five,” and you say, “Yes”—that is obedience.

In the Bible there is the story: God commands a father to sacrifice his son under a certain tree. He takes the axe and goes. Kierkegaard has reflected deeply on this. He says the father should have wondered if this were a cruel joke, or an unethical act. But the man did not think; he simply went. This looks like blindness. Kierkegaard concludes: all testing must be done before; once the relationship is chosen, the testing must stop. Otherwise the relationship will never form. The formation of that bond is essential.

At the last moment the command came, “Do not kill.” The axe was raised and the throat was near. But that is secondary. The point is: he went to the very edge. This parable indicates that the disciple’s essence is obedience—even in the extreme.

Why does Mahavira value obedience so highly, right at the opening?

Because what your intellect can understand becomes increasingly inadequate as you go inward. If you insist on going by your own mind, you may manage the outer world, but not the inner. Inward, moments will come when the master says, “Go on,” while your mind screams, “Stop.” As meditation deepens you will feel as if you are dying. Breath may seem to stop. Panic arises. The guru says, “Die. Go on. Let it happen.” If you have not learned to obey even against your mind, you will turn back.

And the joke is: you won’t die; rather, in that very “death” you will, for the first time, taste life. But no past experience can help you then. At such a time obedience is everything. Like a child who, holding his father’s hand, can sing while lions roam. If the father says, “Embrace the lion,” the child will do it.

Mahavira therefore adds: “and lives near him.”

Nearness is precious. Physical nearness helps; inner nearness is essential. One should be so close that if a dagger were to pierce your chest, the remembrance of the guru would arise before the remembrance of yourself. Nearness means the center shifts from ‘I’ to the master. In Mahavira’s presence, the ten thousand mendicants had no separate being; only Mahavira’s being mattered.

Buddha once camped outside a village with thousands of bhikkhus. The king Ajatashatru approached, grew suspicious: “So many people, yet such silence—perhaps a conspiracy.” He drew his sword. His ministers said, “Only one speaks here; the rest are silent.” Seeing Buddha under a tree and all others quiet, the king sheathed his sword and asked, “Why such silence?” Buddha said, “They are here to be near me. If they chatter, they remain near themselves. They are here to dissolve. When they are utterly gone, they will understand me. And what I have to say can be said only into their silence. I use words only to bring them to silence; then I use silence to take them to truth.”

Sariputta was Buddha’s foremost disciple. When he became enlightened, Buddha told him, “Now go and carry my message.” Sariputta bowed and left. Ananda, still unenlightened, said to Buddha, “Please never send me away. I want always to stay close.” Buddha replied, “You are not close; that’s why you want to stay. Wherever Sariputta goes, he remains near me.”

Sariputta would, each morning, bow in the direction where Buddha was. His disciples asked, “You are now a buddha yourself; why bow to anyone?” He said, “Because it is through him that I was able to disappear.” They said, “But he is hundreds of miles away; how will your pranam reach?” Sariputta answered, “If he were far, I would never have left him. I left only because I know that wherever I am, he is near.”

There is an outer proximity of bodies, yet bodies can never truly merge—there is always distance. There is an inner nearness in which distances vanish. Mahakashyapa would sometimes touch his own feet. People were perplexed. He would say, “I am touching Buddha’s feet.” They protested, “But these are your feet!” He answered, “He is so within that these feet are his.” Such nearness is the real dialogue. Hence: “lives near him.”

“Understands the guru’s indications correctly.”

We don’t properly understand even the guru’s words; how then his unspoken indications! Indication means the unsaid communication—the gesture that, if put into words, would be spoiled. The subtler the imparting, the less the use of words. As the disciple becomes humble, the master leaves language behind; gestures begin to speak. Word is also gesture, but very gross.

How Buddha walks, how Mahavira sits, stands, sleeps—there are indications in all this. The body has a language. Modern science is rediscovering “body language.” Children read it perfectly. They learn words later and then forget the older language. Thus parents find children “strangely” reading them: the mother smiles but the child knows she is angry. Babies sense in the very breast whether the mother is pleased or reluctant.

Living with the master, one has to relearn the language of the body. The profound can be conveyed through posture and gesture. India developed an entire science of mudras (gestures). See Buddha statues in different mudras—Padmasana, Abhaya, Karuna. Sit exactly so and you will be surprised: your inner current shifts. The body and the inner are connected. In the realized, all deceit has vanished; the inner flows into the body.

Rinzai once stayed with his master a day and then asked, “Will you not teach me?” The master said, “I did nothing but teach for twenty-four hours!” Rinzai said, “But you didn’t utter a word.” The master replied, “My entire being is speech. When you brought tea and I received it, the look in my eyes—if only you had seen! When you bowed and I placed my hand on your head—if only you had understood! What cannot be put into scripture can be said by a single gesture.”

Mahavira says: “One who understands even the guru’s physical or verbal mudras in a particular situation—he is endowed with vinaya.”

Our difficulty is immense. Even if Mahavira shouts from rooftops, we hear only what we want to hear. We are so possessed by ourselves that our ‘understanding’ is merely an interpretation colored by our past. Many sit before me and I speak one thing; yet as many people as there are, so many meanings are being taken. Psychology says we quickly grasp what serves us; what doesn’t, we bypass, we don’t even hear it. If you hear five percent as it is spoken, it is much.

Vinaya means: you don’t insert yourself in between; you allow what is being said to be received as it is. A student is free to choose and discard for his utility; a disciple is not—because he has come to drink the master. Otherwise one may live years with a guru and never be touched.

For the student, ignorance is not essential. For the disciple, being empty is essential. Be a blank slate, so what the guru writes is visible. If your page is already scribbled, any new writing will create chaos and lead to mischief. This is happening to everyone. Each mind is a crowd; any new thought is instantly massaged to fit the old mold. With a guru, it is not the new truth that should be adjusted to your old ideas; rather, your old ideas must be adjusted—or shattered—to fit the truth. Even if everything breaks, so be it. After all, what do you have worth saving?

Mark Twain joked as a critic: “When a book comes to me for review, I write the review first, then read the book—otherwise I might be influenced!” Mulla Nasruddin, once a magistrate, began writing judgment after hearing only one side. The clerk protested. Nasruddin said, “Right now my mind is clear. If I hear the other side, I’ll get confused!” That’s how we are—we don’t want to truly hear; we keep listening behind screens, selecting and discarding. Thus people cling to their opinions and never relate to a guru.

So Mahavira says: I call that person “well-mannered in vinaya” who understands even the master’s gestures as they are. Then he lists fifteen traits of a well-mannered disciple. A few are important:

“Not arrogant or aggressive.” Be receptive, not assaulting. Some bring questions like daggers—meant not to learn but to attack. If the disciple comes to explain things to the guru, nothing is possible.

“Not fickle, but steady.” A fickle mind is like a cracked pot; it seems to hold water while submerged, but lift it and it is empty. Sitting by the guru, the restless mind has roamed to a thousand places—how will it receive?

“Not deceitful, but simple.” We even try to deceive the guru. But deceiving him, you deceive yourself. With the physician we dare not hide disease; only then can he help. The guru is the ultimate physician; before him, be completely naked.

“Not merely curious, but serious.” Inquiry is serious; curiosity is a fidget of the mind. Children are curious; they ask for the sake of asking. Many come to ask whether God exists, but it carries no weight in their life—often it only flatters the ego to pose as a seeker. Marpa went to Naropa. The Tibetan custom was to circumambulate the guru seven times, prostrate, then ask. Marpa grabbed Naropa’s neck: “My question!” Naropa said, “At least show some decorum.” Marpa replied, “Life is short. Who knows if I will complete seven rounds? If I die halfway, will it be your responsibility?” Naropa said, “Skip the rounds—ask.”

“Does not despise anyone.” Not because there are no despicable people, but because in despising you fall to the same level. The wise have said: choose your enemy carefully, because you will have to descend to his level. Better to praise than to condemn—not for the other’s sake, but for your own inner altitude.

“Does not let anger linger.” Mahavira does not demand you be entirely without anger—that is a later flowering. For now, let it come and go quickly. The real disease is not the flash of anger but the stored anger—a permanent smolder. Better the kettle with a loose lid; steam escapes and all is well. The tight-lidded “self-controlled” people become dangerous; they will explode.

“Has goodwill toward friends.” This is harder than it sounds. We think it is easy to be well-disposed to friends—untrue. Toward the unknown it is easy; toward those we know well, it is difficult. Mark Twain prayed, “God, save me from my friends; I will manage my enemies.” If your friend’s success does not make you happy, know that there is no friendship. We enjoy showing sympathy to the suffering—there is a subtle pleasure in it. But if his house rises into the sky, your feet do not dance—something is wrong.

“Does not grow proud from scriptural knowledge.” Scriptural knowledge feeds the ego because it gives the illusion of knowing without knowing. The pundit’s gait is airy; put two together and they bark like dogs, because the ego, not truth, is at stake. The pundit seeks to prove “I am right,” not to discover truth.

“Does not expose others’ faults.” What’s the point? Your discussing them will not heal them; it may harden them. We love to magnify others’ faults; it makes our own look small, bringing relief. Better to truly make your own smaller—by dissolving them—not by inflating others’.

“Does not get angry with friends; speaks well even of an unlikable friend behind his back.” You may say, “Is this not false?” No—no one is so bad as to have no good at all; no one so good as to have no fault. It’s a matter of what you choose to emphasize. Mahavira says: choose the good, because what you dwell on, you become. Our newspapers collect evil; we imbibe it daily. If we want a better world, we must cultivate the memory of goodness. If everyone is a thief in your talk, then when you steal you feel you are doing nothing new. If you rehearse goodness, then when you move to do evil, you will feel ashamed.

“Does not engage in quarrels.” Some are habitual brawlers; they can extract a fight out of anything. Energy is wasted in such stupidity—your own energy.

“Is intelligent.” Meaning, uses life-energy creatively, not destructively.

“Is noble—aristocratic.” In Mahavira’s sense, nobility means: does not attend to the petty; keeps his gaze on the higher. The ignoble assumes people are bad; the noble assumes people are essentially good—sometimes they go astray, that’s all. The noble counts flowers and accepts that thorns guard them; the ignoble counts thorns and dismisses the flowers as exceptions. Nobility and ignobility are choices—what do you select?

“Has a sense of shame before the eye—steady in disposition.” I have heard: three officers cheated Akbar’s treasury. To the first Akbar only said, “I did not expect this from you.” That evening the man committed suicide—he was a man with a sense of shame. The second got a year in prison—thicker-skinned. The third was stripped and flogged publicly, then given fifteen years. A minister thought this unjust: same crime, such different punishments! Akbar said, “Go see the third.” The minister found him cheerful: “Only fifteen years—and I’ve stashed enough for generations. Even infamy has its glory—who knew me before? Now all Delhi talks about me.” Some skins are that thick.

Enough for today.
Let us sit for five minutes and sing the kirtan…