Mahaveer Vani #27

Now the aphorism:
Mahavira has said: “It is very rare that a living being in this world attains these four supreme blessings—humanity, hearing the dharma, trust, and the effort for self-restraint.”

Humanity does not merely mean to be born human—though that too is implied. To reach the consciousness of a human being is a long, very long journey. Scientists say: there is evolution—the first organism arose in the ocean and through to man. From fish to man—a long journey of millions of years. After Darwin the dignity of Indian religions shines much brighter. Before Darwin it seemed mere fancy to say it takes countless ages to reach humanity. In the West, Christianity had planted a fundamentally unscientific view—anti-evolutionary—that God created everything, all at once. Man created, horses created, animals created—in six days all done; on the seventh day, holiday, God rested. This is a childish idea. If everything is made, then evolution is out; man is made as man.

Indian religion is deep and scientific in this regard. Long before Darwin, India knew things aren’t fabricated, they evolve. Everything is evolving. Man was not born as man; he has evolved from plants and animals. But India said the soul, consciousness, is evolving. Darwin, for the first time in the West, shook Christianity and said there is evolution, not creation; “creation” is wrong, “evolution” is right. Existence was never “made”—it is continuously being made. It is a process. The story isn’t finished; the last chapter isn’t written; it is being written. We are in the middle; much has happened before; perhaps infinitely more will happen ahead.

But Darwin was a scientist; consciousness was not his subject. From the study of the body he concluded the body too evolved, step by step, over hundreds of thousands of years. He analyzed the human body, studied animals, and established the chain. People felt hurt—Christians especially; they thought God was father; Darwin said man is descended from the ape. From God as father to the ape as father—very painful!

But facts are facts. If we understand rightly, the first idea is more painful: that man is born of God and look at his condition! That is more tragic. If man has arisen from the ape, it isn’t tragic—it’s pleasing; man has evolved a little. To fall below one’s father is shameful; to go beyond one’s father is delightful. It depends on perspective.

Darwin showed bodily evolution, and even today the human body bears animal marks. When you walk, your right arm swings with the left leg—no necessity. Once you moved on all fours; the old habit remains. You can walk with both hands held still; even if your hands were cut off, you could walk. But when the left foot goes forward, the right hand swings forward—like dog, monkey, bull. They walk on four; you walk on two; but you once walked on four—your body remembers.

All our organs match animals; some adjustments have occurred, but upon the same templates. When you’re angry, you still grind your teeth—no need. Your nails itch to claw; fists clench. You once attacked with nails and teeth; the pattern remains.

When anger comes—there was a thoughtful Westerner, Alexander—he said: when anger comes, clench both fists under the table and open them hard five times; the anger will dissolve. Try it—it works. What happens? With hard clenching and opening, the body pattern completes; adrenaline and other juices are expended through expansion and contraction; you feel lighter. Even today, if someone tickles your belly, laughter bursts. Why there? Darwin said: those parts animals seize in attack must be sensitive, otherwise they die. Today no one attacks your belly, but a touch makes you alert—danger zone. The mouth too—parts where life can be seized are sensitive; hence ticklishness: highly sensitive—lightest touch and restlessness begins.

From the body’s study it is proved man is a link among animals—bodily. But Darwin did half the work. Only after Darwin could the West understand Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. Before that, no. If the body develops, Mahavira’s point becomes meaningful: consciousness within also evolves—not an accident but a vast evolution from plant to animal to man. Two evolutions run in parallel: body and consciousness.

Up to now, man is the most evolved creature on this earth—maximum consciousness, most integrated body. Hence Mahavira says: to be human is rare.

You couldn’t even complain—if you were an insect, to whom would you say, “Why am I not human?” What means would you have to become human? Being human is such a huge event—yet we don’t notice, because we are.

Kafka wrote a story: a priest slept at night; in his dream he became a bug. The dream was so intense he didn’t feel it was a dream; he felt he had awoken—truly a bug. Panic seized him. He looked at his hands—there were none; insect legs. His body—not human—an insect’s shell. Inside, a little human awareness; around, a bug’s body. Then he lamented: “Now what?” Human language no longer made sense—ears of a bug; the world became incomprehensible—eyes of a bug—and within, a little sense: I am a man. For the first time he realized what he had lost. As a man what could he have known that now he never can. No way back.

He writhed, shouted, screamed—no one heard. His wife passed by, his father passed by—but who listens to a bug? His language made no sense to them; their words made no sense to him. We can understand his anguish—imagine yourself there.

Therefore Mahavira said: compassion toward living beings. Understand their suffering. They too have the same consciousness as you, but very undeveloped bodies. Understand their pain. Don’t crush an ant heedlessly underfoot. The same consciousness is there; only the body is different. The life that could develop into you is there—but the instruments aren’t. The body is the instrument.

This is why Mahavira insists on compassion—not only for nonviolence but for profound spiritual reasons. That bug crawling by is you. You were that. You crept like a lizard, an ant, a scorpion. Today you have forgotten; you moved ahead. But one who moves ahead and forgets those behind—such a one has no compassion, no love, no humanity.

So Mahavira says: compassion toward those behind is compassion toward yourself. Yesterday you were in the same state; had someone crushed you underfoot, you could not even protest, could not say, “What are you doing to me?”

Humanity may seem free, “given”—what is rare about it? Because we are human, we have no memory of another state. Those to whom Mahavira said this, he guided in meditation to recall past lives. When someone remembered he had been an elephant, a horse, a donkey, a tree, then he saw how rare humanity is. He recalled how, as horse, donkey, scorpion, tree, he longed: “If only I could be human, I would be freed of this trouble.” And now that he is human, he does nothing.

The past is forgotten for reasons. The big reason: if one was an animal last birth, the human brain cannot process animal memories—hence oblivion. Animal world, experience, language—all different; no correlation with the human; so it is forgotten. Thus those who recall past lives rarely say they were animals; they say they were man or woman. Because if one was man/woman last time, the memory is easier. If animal/bird, extremely difficult—language and realm change completely. Even if memories arise, they don’t feel like “mine”; they feel like some sad dream.

Mahavira says: to be human is rare. Even seen scientifically, it is clear.

Our sun is a family—the solar family. The earth is a small satellite. The sun is sixty thousand times larger than the earth. But our sun is a mediocre sun—childish. There are suns billions of times larger. Science has so far detected about three billion suns—three billion solar families. Scientists say: at minimum, life should exist on fifty thousand planets. In the spread of three billion suns, at least that many satellites should bear life—minimum. It could be more. This is minimal probability. If I toss a coin a hundred times, probability says fifty heads, fifty tails—roughly. Not fifty? At least five heads, and ninety-five tails. Taking the minimal, life should be on at least fifty thousand planets. There are billions upon billions of planets. And yet, of those fifty thousand, only on this earth has the possibility of man appeared. Such vastness—three billion suns—and that too just in our current knowing. This is not the end. As far as we can know; as far as our instruments reach. Now science says: we will never know the boundary, because the boundary recedes as we approach. The old dream of “knowing all” is gone. The more we know, the more we see there is further and further… In such an immense universe—beyond imagination—only on this earth is man.

Fifty thousand planets may bear life, but nowhere else does man seem to appear. And even here, man has existed only some hundreds of thousands of years. Before that there were animals, birds, plants; no man.

Even now, how many are men? Compared to the number of animals, birds, insects, three to three-and-a-half billion humans is nothing. So many mosquitoes can be found in one house—if it’s a properly Indian house!

The occurrence of man seems impossible. If man did not exist, we couldn’t even conceive that he could exist. With three billion suns and countless planets, with no trace of man anywhere—had there been no man here, could even the greatest imagination have thought him up? No way. Man is rare—merely his being is rare. But Mahavira’s “humanity” doesn’t only mean that. Even having become human, very few attain true humanity. That is rarer still.

We are born as “adam”—as human-looking creatures. Manushyata—true humanity—is an inner event; appearance has little to do with it. You can look human yet be a beast inside, a devil inside. Appearance guarantees nothing; it only indicates a possibility.

When one is born “as a man,” spiritually it means only this: if he wishes, he can attain humanity. Not that it is given—only a seed. He can waste it and die without ever becoming “human,” or he can become human.

What makes him human? What is the difference between animal and man? Between plant and man? Between stone and man?

Consciousness—nothing else. Compared to animals, man has the most consciousness. But measure man against his own potential—against Buddha, Mahavira—and he is unconscious. It is comparative. One becomes “human” as consciousness increases. That is why we say “man.” “Man” means: as much as mind is refined. We are all born as men; we must become human. The two are not identical. “Adam” is merely species-name—the sons of Adam.

The word is beautiful. Philologists say “Adam” is a transformation of “aham,” the “I.” The baby’s first sounds—ah, a-ha, ha—these became “aham,” I; and from these, “Adam.” The baby’s first cry becomes man’s name: Adam. The boy says “Ah”; the girl says “Ee”—hence Eve. Hebrew philologists say: Eve from “ee,” Adam from “ah”—man and woman.

“Man” in English is from Sanskrit “Manu.” We are not sons of Adam alone; we can become sons of Manu. Sons of Adam are all; Manu’s son is one whose mind has awakened—manushya.

Mahavira said: to be Adam is difficult enough; to be manushya—truly human—rarer still. As much consciousness as you have, in that measure you are human. How much awareness you live with—that is your humanity. Why? Because the more awareness, the more you separate from the body and connect with the soul; the more unconscious, the more you cling to body and disconnect from soul. Awareness is the bridge to the soul. Mind is the door to the soul. The more mind-awake you are, the more you move toward soul; the more asleep, the more toward body. Hence Mahavira said: whatever is done in unconsciousness is sin—because whatever reduces you to body is sin; and whatever makes you soulward is virtue.

Have you seen? It is hard to sin without some unconsciousness. To steal needs unconsciousness; to murder needs unconsciousness; even anger needs unconsciousness. If awareness arises, you will laugh—“What foolishness am I doing!” In unconsciousness, things go.

Thus some, when they want to sin properly, drink. With drink, one can sin merrily; awareness decreases. The less awareness, the more you become body—thing-like, animal-like. The more awareness, the more you become human—soul-like.

Humanity means: a flowing stream of awareness. Whatever you do, do it with awareness. Mahavira said: walk with discernment, sit with discernment, rise with discernment, sleep with discernment; keep watch; not a single moment should pass in unconsciousness; do not allow the body to become master even for a moment—let consciousness be the master. In that precise sense, you are human; otherwise, you are merely “man.”

To enlarge the gap between “man” and “human” step by step is to approach the soul. In widening this gap, the other three rare blessings help. To be human is difficult; to attain humanity, more so. Dharma-shravan—hearing the dharma—why call it so difficult?

Everywhere there are religious assemblies; gurus in every village! You needn’t seek them—they find you; if you don’t go, they come to your house. Any shortage of gurus? Any scarcity of scriptures? They abound.

Yet Mahavira says: hearing the dharma is rare! It doesn’t seem so. So many churches, gurdwaras, temples, mosques… three thousand religions on earth. And Mahavira says hearing is rare! There are a million Catholic priests; a hundred thousand Hindu sannyasins; Jain monks so many that householders feel strained to feed them. In Thailand, forty million people, two million bhikkhus. The government mulls licensing sannyas—“How will we feed so many?” And Mahavira says: hearing is rare!

Scriptures everywhere—Bible, Quran, Dhammapada, Mahavira’s sutras, Gita, Vedas—religion everywhere, scriptures everywhere, gurus everywhere. Everyone is “religious.” Mahavira must be out of his mind? And yet he calls hearing rare! The reason is: neither scriptures nor preachers give you dharma. Once in countless millions someone attains dharma. Among millions of “men,” someone attains humanity; among millions of humans, rarely does one attain dharma. And to listen to one who has attained—that is dharma-shravan: sometimes a Mahavira, sometimes a Buddha.

When Buddha was dying, Ananda wept, beating his chest. Buddha asked, “Why do you weep?” Ananda said, “Because even after listening to you, I did not truly hear. You were here, and still I did not see you. And now you will be gone—how many aeons before such a sight again? I weep because the journey will become so difficult. To see a Buddha again I may have to wait for ages.”

When Buddha was born, an old ascetic ran from the Himalayas to his town. He was ninety. He told the king, Buddha’s father: “A son is born in your house; I have come to see him.” The father was amazed—only two or four days old, and such a radiant, majestic, noble ascetic arrives! He thought: surely my son is extraordinary.

Shuddhodana lifted the baby, Siddhartha, to place at the ascetic’s feet; the ascetic said, “Wait—I have come to fall at his feet.” That ninety-year-old venerable fell at the feet of the two-day-old child and wept, beating his chest.

At death, Ananda wept; at birth, this ascetic wept.

The father was alarmed: “What ill omen is this? Is this a time to cry? Give your blessing! Why do you weep—will the boy not survive? Has something inauspicious occurred?”

The ascetic said, “I do not weep for that. I weep because my death is near, and this boy will be a Buddha. I will miss him. A Buddha comes only after aeons. I weep because I am late; my death nears; and who knows if when he is the Buddha, I will be born again.”

Dharma-shravan means: to hear from one who knows. Hence Mahavira calls it rare. To hear from one who has heard is not rare; to hear from one who has known is rare.

But the rarity is many-layered. First, the arising of a Mahavira, a Buddha, a Krishna is rare. Then, even if they are, even if they speak, your listening is rare. Thus he says hearing is rare, because even if Mahavira stands before you, it is not necessary you will hear. It is nearly certain you won’t.

Why won’t you? Because listening to Mahavira is preparing to erase yourself. No one prepares for that. In his absence he seems fine; in his presence he will feel like an enemy. His monk won’t feel like an enemy—he is your servant, dependent on you, living by your advice, a cog in your social machine—a sort of lubricant. You do mischief all day—lie, cheat—then sit at his feet in the evening; the mind feels soothed—“We aren’t so bad.” Ready again for tomorrow—lubrication.

Religionists keep society running—giving you the illusion you’re a bit religious, without you having to be religious. The priest is your agent—he helps you stay worldly and feel moksha is near.

But Mahavira or Buddha will feel like enemies, for whatever they say pulls away your foundation stones. Their words burn your house down; you will have to be destroyed. Only by dying to yourself will you hear them. Otherwise you won’t hear. Hence Mahavira: hearing is very rare. You do not consent to listen.

Again and again Jesus says in the Bible: “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” Everyone he spoke to had ears; the deaf wouldn’t come on their own. Yet reading the Bible, one feels he spoke among the deaf—always saying, “He who has ears…”; “He who has eyes, let him see.” Was he in a hospital of the blind and deaf?

He spoke among us—but we are blind and deaf. Our eyes deceive; our ears do not hear. And when Jesus speaks, we shut them completely—this man is dangerous. If his word enters, either it will survive, and you will have to die. We all want to save ourselves.

Saint Paul said: “Now I am not; Jesus lives in me. Now he is, and I am not.” Whoever truly hears Mahavira will one day have to experience, “Now I am not.” Only then does one hear.

Shravaka means: one willing to erase himself, to open the door for the master to appear within; who moves himself aside, becomes a zero—just a receptivity—and lets it come.

A curious incident. A great thief lived in a town where Mahavira arrived. He told his son, “Do whatever else—but avoid this Mahavira. Don’t go to hear him.”

The thief was honest; he wasn’t as “clever” as you. You would say: “Listen—and don’t listen.” He said, “Don’t listen at all. This is for wise people; not our trade. This man is dangerous. If you hear him, our old business will be ruined. Hard-earned gains—you’ll spoil them. And your signs don’t look good. Don’t even pass that way.”

The son obeyed—those days sons obeyed fathers. He avoided the road where Mahavira spoke. If from afar he saw Mahavira approaching, he ran away. An obedient son!

One day he slipped—walking absorbed, and Mahavira was speaking by the roadside. One sentence fell into his ear. He ran off: “This is big trouble.” Because he wanted to avoid, the attraction grew. Trying to keep his ears closed, an unintended sentence slipped in—and that one sentence overturned his whole life. He could no longer remain who he was.

What happened by a single sentence? A word of Mahavira is a spark—if it reaches within. And the spark need be small—there is always gunpowder within; the explosion is possible. But one may hear all of Mahavira and still no spark enters—we devise tricks to keep things outside, not letting them in. The best trick is to listen daily—you become deaf to it. Whatever one hears daily, one stops hearing.

Thus religious hearing is a fine way to avoid religion. Go daily to the discourse and sleep there. People mostly sleep in discourses; those who can’t sleep even find sleep there. Doctors advise insomniacs: “Go to religious talks.” Those with coughs and colds also go—to cough nicely there! It seems those with coughs are the only ones awake; or their coughing wakes a neighbor; otherwise, deep sleep.

Mulla Nasruddin was speaking at a religious meeting. A man got up to leave. Mulla said, “Friend, sit down—not because your leaving disturbs my speaking, but don’t wake the sleepers. Sit quietly. Have pity on the sleeping ones.”

Why do we sleep at discourses? Ears are calloused with the same things; we’ve heard it all a thousand times—nothing left worth hearing. This is the simplest trick to avoid religion. Dishonest ears—full of devices. Dishonest eyes—full of devices.

Even if Mahavira stands before you, you will only see a naked man. This is your eyes’ trick. It’s amazing: even with Mahavira in front, you see a naked man—not Mahavira. You see what you want to see, not what is. Hence villagers drove him away: “Don’t let a naked man enter!” They saw only his nakedness. So much was there—Mahavira stood utterly naked; not even a cloth’s veil—if only they had wanted, they could have seen right within. But only skin and nudity met their eyes.

We see what we want; we hear what we want. Hence hearing is rare. Then shraddha—trust—is rarer. Trust in what is heard! The mind raises a thousand arguments: “This is right, that is wrong.” But we never ask: who is saying “wrong,” who is saying “right”? This mind we listen to—where has it taken us? What has it given us—peace, bliss, truth? Nothing. Yet it is our constant counselor. It says, “This is wrong.”

We doubt the whole world; we never doubt our mind. Shraddha means: one who doubts his own mind. We suspect even Mahavira: “Who knows if he speaks rightly? What does he mean? If we let him stay the night, will he run off with a blanket? Who can trust a naked man?” But the mind within—we never doubt. We count on it.

What is there in it to trust? What is its record, this life and many births? What has the mind given? But it is “ours.” That illusion is sweet—we feel we are following ourselves. Even if following ourselves leads to the desert, we feel consoled: “At least it was my decision.” Even if another leads us to liberation, a hurt remains: “Ah—but I followed someone else.” That pains the ego.

Hence Mahavira says: rarer still is shraddha—trust. Trust means: when the word of dharma is heard, set your mind aside, bring acceptance to it, and begin to change your life. Without trust, there is no way to change. What is heard—when let in—the mind will raise a thousand devices: “There is an error here, a lapse there; why did he say this yesterday, that today?” Watch these questions carefully: they never resolve anything. Set them aside and behold the sky of a Mahavira or Buddha—that is shraddha.

Trust is rare; rarer still is purushartha—effort—for practice. To change your life according to what you heard and trusted is rarer still. Mahavira says: these four are rare—humanity, hearing, trust, effort. For if trust is impotent—“We agree; it’s right”—yet we continue as we are—then that impotent trust means nothing. We are very clever—so clever we even deceive ourselves. We say, “We completely accept what you say. We will do it someday—but not now.” “We wish for liberation—but not yet. Nirvana—wait a bit.”

Action must be now; hope can always be postponed to tomorrow. But action can only be now; beyond this moment, we have no time. Only this moment. The next moment is not guaranteed.

Whoever postpones to the next moment postpones to death. Whoever does it now uses life.

Thus Mahavira says: purushartha—the capacity, courage, leap to do what is true. Doing means entering danger. “What will happen?” People come to me: “I want to take sannyas, but what then?” I say: “Go and see. If you are courageous—and if nothing happens—come back. Why fear?” They say, “Come back? That too is frightening; what will people say? Even now—what will people say if I take sannyas? And if nothing happens and I return—what will people say?” Who are these “people”? What have they given you? What is your relation with them?

No, “people” are an excuse—a device to save oneself. In the name of “people,” we save ourselves and think: not today—tomorrow; not tomorrow—the day after. We keep postponing. Anger—now; meditation—tomorrow. Steal—now; sannyas can be taken any time.

This tendency, Mahavira calls lack of purushartha—effort. We are not “bad” because of strength—remember this. We are bad because of lack of effort. If we are thieves, it’s not because we are brave—it’s because we lack the effort to be non-thieves. If we lie, it is not because we are smart—it’s because truth needs great effort, great power. If we are irreligious, it is not due to strength, but weakness—because living religion requires great strength. Drifting into irreligion needs no strength.

Irreligion is like going downhill—give a push, you roll like a stone. Religion is like a mountain—you must climb. Each inch is hard; each inch requires dropping baggage; loads cannot be carried uphill. In the end you must drop even yourself—only then does anyone reach the peak.

Enough for today.