Mahaveer Vani #3

The age in which Krishna spoke was an age of utter simplicity, innocence, reverence. It never arose in anyone’s mind that Krishna was speaking out of ego when he said, “Abandon all and come to my refuge.” If any proclamation could look ego-laden, none could look more so than this—saying to Arjuna: “Leave everything and come to my refuge.” But that must have been an age of profound faith, when Krishna could say such a thing without hesitation, in unguarded ease—and Arjuna did not even raise the question: “What are you saying? To your refuge—and I should come? You seem full of ego.”

But by the time of Buddha and Mahavira, the condition of man’s mind had changed greatly. Where Hindu contemplation stands centered on “mam ekam sharanam vraja,” there Buddha and Mahavira had to bring an absolute shift of perspective. Mahavira did not say, “Abandon all and come to my refuge,” nor did Buddha. The thread had to be caught from the other end. So Buddha’s formula is from the seeker’s side. Mahavira’s is also from the seeker’s side, not from the Siddha’s side. “I accept refuge in the Arihant, I accept refuge in the Siddha, I accept refuge in the sadhus, I accept refuge in the Dharma propounded by the Kevali”—this is the other pole of refuge. There can be only two poles: either the realized one says, “Come to my refuge,” or the seeker says, “I come to your refuge.”

This is the fundamental difference between Hindu and Jain thought. In Hindu thought the Siddha is calling, “Come into my refuge”; in Jain thought the seeker says, “I come to your refuge.” From this many things become clear. First, when Krishna spoke, it was an age of deep faith; and when Mahavira spoke, it was an age of sharp reason. If Mahavira had said, “Come into my refuge,” people would immediately have felt, “What arrogance!”

The formula had to begin from the other end. But even within Buddha and Mahavira… in Buddha’s tradition the sutra is: “Buddham sharanam gacchami, Sangham sharanam gacchami, Dhammam sharanam gacchami”—I go to the refuge of the Buddha, I go to the refuge of the Sangha, I go to the refuge of the Dhamma. Yet there is a subtle difference even between Mahavira’s and Buddha’s sutras—one must take note of it. On the surface both seem the same—whether “gacchami” or “pavvajjami,” “I go for refuge” or “I accept refuge”—they look alike; but there is a difference. When one says “Buddham sharanam gacchami”—I go to the refuge of the Buddha—that is the beginning of refuge, the first step. And when one says “Arihant saranam pavvajjami”—then it is the final state of refuge. “I accept refuge”—beyond this there is no further movement. When one says, “I go to refuge,” one takes the first step; when one says, “I accept refuge,” one has taken the last step. When one says, “I go,” he may still turn back midway; he may never actually reach the refuge. It is the beginning of a journey; the journey may not complete, obstacles may arise in between. In the midst of the journey, reason may persuade and turn you back—because reason is utterly contrary to going into refuge. The intellect is utterly opposed to refuge. The intellect says: You—and someone else’s refuge! The intellect says: Bring everyone under your refuge. You will go to someone else’s refuge? Then the ego suffers.

Mahavira’s sutra is: I accept refuge in the Arihant. From this there can be no return. It is the point of no return. There is no way to go back from here. It is a total, a whole leap. “I go to refuge”—there, time will still intervene, it will still take time to reach refuge. Time will be spent in between. And one who says today, “I go to refuge,” who knows after how many births he will actually arrive. It will depend on each one’s speed, and on each one’s mind. But the beauty of the “pavvajjami” formula is that it is a sudden jump. Thereafter, time no longer intervenes—“I accept.” And one who has accepted refuge has instantly disowned himself. These two cannot coexist. If you accept yourself, you cannot accept refuge. If you accept refuge, you will disown yourself—you will have to. They are two faces of the same coin.

Acceptance of refuge is the killing of the ego. Whatever growth of religion happens in consciousness begins with the dissolution of ego. Whether the Siddha says, “Come to my refuge”—when ages are of faith, the Siddha says so—or when ages are of unfaith, then the seeker himself has to say, “I accept your refuge.” Mahavira remains absolutely silent. He does not even say, “Since you have come to my refuge, I accept you.” He will not say even that—because in an age of reason there is this danger: if Mahavira says even this much, even nods his head in assent, “Yes, I accept,” the other’s ego rises again: “Ah! So… this is ego.” Mahavira remains silent. It is one-sided, from the seeker’s side.

Certainly, it becomes more difficult. Therefore, as easy as it was to attain truth in Krishna’s age, it does not remain so easy in Mahavira’s age. And in our age the difficulty becomes extreme. Neither can the Siddha say, “Come to my refuge,” nor can the seeker comfortably say, “I come to your refuge.” Mahavira kept silent. Today, if a seeker goes to the refuge of some Siddha, and if the Siddha does not deny—does not say, “No, no, there is no need to go to anyone’s refuge”—the seeker will think, “Well, silence means consent—so you accept me in refuge.”

Reason has now become even more diseased. Today, even if Mahavira sits quietly, and you go and say, “I come to the refuge of the Arihant”—and Mahavira keeps quiet—you will return home thinking, “This man remained silent. It means he was waiting that I come into refuge, he was expecting it. Silence is a sign of assent. Then this man is egoistic; how can he be an Arihant?” No—now one step further down is needed. Mahavira would have to say, “No, do not go to anyone’s refuge.” He would have to emphatically refuse: “No, there is no need to come to refuge”—only then would the seeker feel, “He is not egoistic.” But he does not know that in this refusal all doors for the seeker are shut.

That is why Krishnamurti has an appeal in this age. He neither says, “Abandon all religions and come to my refuge,” nor does any seeker say to him, “I come to your refuge.” If someone tries, he refuses. He says, “Do not fall at my feet, keep your distance.” And then the egoic seeker feels very pleased… but his selfhood grows denser, and he cannot be helped. Our age—spiritually—is an age of great difficulty if one wants to help anybody. To call and bestow grace, as Krishna did, is difficult; to help the one who has come, as Mahavira did, is also difficult. And there would be no surprise if after a little while the Siddha has to say to the seeker, “I come to your refuge—please accept me!” Perhaps only then will the seeker agree that “This man is right.” This is spiritual perversion. Why does refuge have so much value?—let us try to understand it from two or three directions.

First, try to understand starting from the body. Yesterday I spoke to you about the Bulgarian doctor Lozanov’s Institute of Suggestology. It will surprise you to know that when Lozanov was asked at an international conference, “How did you conceive this astonishing, revolutionary dimension of education? From what direction did you receive the hint?” Lozanov said, “I was practicing shavasana—Indian yogic shavasana—and from that I received the vision.”

From shavasana! What is the beauty of shavasana? Shavasana means: the state of a totally surrendered body—when you have completely let go of the body. A total letting go, a total relax. As soon as you completely relax the body—and to relax it wholly, the old Indian way of lying prostrate in sashtang pranam on the ground is the right posture. That is the posture of surrender for the body. If you lie flat on the earth, releasing all the limbs, laying the head down, letting every part touch the earth—it is not merely a way of salutation; it is an experiment full of wondrous scientific truths.

Lozanov says that the rest and energy we receive in sleep at night has as its basic cause our lying horizontal with the earth. Lozanov says that when we lie parallel to the flat earth, the energies of the cosmos can easily enter into us. When we stand, not only does the body stand—the ego within stands with it. When we lie down, not only the body lies down—the ego also lies down. Our defenses drop; our arrangements of security by which we resist the world fall away.

For the last ten years, the University of Prague in Czechoslovakia has been researching the unique experiments of a man named Robert Pavlita. He has made remarkable experiments for re-energizing tired people. A person is exhausted—utterly broken—he lies him down on the ground beneath a healthy cow. For five minutes he says, “Let go of everything, just lie here, and feel that from the healthy cow energy is pouring down upon you.” Within five minutes the instruments begin to show that the man’s fatigue has disappeared. He comes out fresh from under the cow. People asked Pavlita again and again, “What if we sit under the cow?” Pavlita said, “What happens in moments when lying down will not happen even in hours when sitting.” He lays people down under a tree. Pavlita says: the moment you lie down, the resistance around your personality—the walls of security you have built—collapse.

Scientists say that human intelligence evolved because man stood erect. It is true. All animals live parallel to the earth; man alone stands vertical. All animals remain parallel to the axis of the earth. Scientists say that man’s standing on his feet is the cause of his so-called intelligence. But along with this—intelligence surely developed—yet man’s deep relationship with the inner-most of life, with cosmic energies, weakened and thinned. By lying down again, those relationships have to be re-established. Therefore, if in temples before deities, in churches, in mosques, people bow down and lie on the ground, it has a scientific meaning. The moment one bends and lies down, the defenses break.

When Freud first began psychotherapy, he experienced that if the patient is talked to while sitting, he does not drop his defensive measures. So Freud devised the couch—he would have the patient lie down. He becomes defenseless. Then Freud noticed that if he sat in front, even while lying the patient remained a little stiff. So he put up a screen and sat behind it. No one was visibly present; the patient lay down. Within five to seven minutes he would drop his defense. He would begin to speak things he could never have said sitting upright. He would accept crimes he could never have accepted while standing.

Now some psychologists in America have launched a movement against Freud’s couch. They say it is a trick to throw man into a very helpless state. What they say is true; their movement is wrong. What they say is true—lying down man surely becomes helpless. He becomes helpless because his arrangements of security collapse.

But we have given great value to surrender. And toward the Divine, toward the Arihant, toward the Siddha, toward God, surrender is always from behind a veil in a sense. Even if Mahavira is present, his body becomes a veil, and his consciousness remains behind the screen. And when someone surrenders before him, he leaves himself in every way—as if someone lets himself go into the current of a river and the current begins to carry him—not swimming, but being carried. Sharanagati is a feeling, it is floating; and as soon as one floats, all the tensions of the mind begin to drop.

A French researcher searched in the pyramids of Egypt for ten years. His name is Bovis—he was a scientist and an engineer. He was amazed to see that sometimes a rat or a cat enters by mistake into the pyramid and cannot find the way out—wanders and dies. But whenever some creature dies inside the pyramid, it does not putrefy. It does not rot, no stench comes—it becomes mummified, dries, but does not decay.

It is an astonishing phenomenon. There seems to be no reason for it within the pyramid. Even in pyramids by the sea, where humidity is high, where things ought to rot quickly—inside those pyramids, if anything dies, it does not decay. Meat placed inside dries without bad odor; fish too dries, does not rot. He was perplexed. There seemed no cause. After much investigation it occurred to him: perhaps the shape of the pyramid is doing something.

But can shape do anything? After all the research there was no other way. After ten years Bovis thought: could it be that the pyramid’s shape, its geometry, does something? He made a small model—three or four feet at the base—and placed a dead cat in it. He was astonished—the cat mummified, it did not rot. Then a totally new science was born, which says: geometrical forms are deeply related to life energies. And now, on Bovis’ advice, attempts are being made to build hospitals in the shape of pyramids across the world—patients heal faster in them.

You have seen the hat worn by circus clowns—the jester’s cap—it is called a fool’s cap. Hence the paper size is called foolscap. But Bovis says that once the wise of the world used to wear such a cap—it is actually a wise cap, because it is pyramidal. Bovis has now experimented with the fool’s cap, and he says that those who suffer headaches should wear a cap in the shape of a pyramid—the headache can vanish instantly. Those with mental disorders should wear a pyramidal cap—their disorders can ease. In many psychiatric hospitals Bovis’ cap is being used—and it is being verified that he is right.

Can the inner form of a hat make such a difference! If outer forms can create such a difference, how much more can inner forms!—this is what I wish to tell you. Sharanagati is an attempt to change the inner geometry, the inner form. When you stand, the inner configuration of your consciousness is one thing; when you lie on the earth in surrender, the inner configuration is another. There are geometrical figures within consciousness as well. Among the forms of consciousness, two special figures exist: the standing posture makes a ninety-degree angle to the ground; when you lie down, you make no angle, you become parallel. If one can say with perfect feeling, “I come to the refuge of the Arihant, I come to the refuge of the Siddha, I come to the refuge of the Dharma,” that feeling changes his inner form. And as the inner geometry changes, transformations begin in your life. There are forms within you—your consciousness takes shape. As is the feeling you generate, consciousness takes that shape.

Four years ago, the scientists of the West were more shaken by one event than by any other in perhaps two hundred years. A Czech farmer named Dimitri Dozhonov rises four feet above the ground—and remains suspended for ten minutes, beyond gravitation, beyond the pull of gravity. Before hundreds of scientists he has repeated the experiment many times. Every kind of check has been made—no trick, no deceit.

When Dimitri is asked, “What is the secret of your rising?” he says two things. First: “My secret is the feeling of surrender—that I say to God, I place myself in your hands; I come to your refuge. I do not rise by my own power; I rise by His power. As long as I am there, I cannot rise.”

A few times his experiment failed. He was drenched in sweat—hundreds had gathered from far and wide—and he could not rise. Finally he said, “Forgive me.” People asked, “Why can’t you rise?” He said, “I cannot—because I am unable to forget myself. And as long as the slightest remembrance of ‘me’ remains, gravitation works, the earth keeps pulling me down. When I forget myself, when it no longer remains in awareness that I am, and only this remains—God is—then instantly I rise.”

Sharanagati means surrender. What Dimitri says—is it possible that when life is left to God, even the ordinary laws cease to function? The earth leaves its pull? If the earth can leave its pull, then would it be any wonder that one who goes to the refuge of the Arihant loses the pull of sex within? The ordinary laws of life are broken. The demands of the body fall away. Is it possible that the body stops asking for food? Is it possible that the body lives for years without food? If the earth can leave its attraction, there is no reason why other laws cannot break. If even one law of nature can break, all can.

Dimitri’s second point: “Once I have risen, one thing becomes impossible until I come down—I cannot change even a little the configuration of my body. If my hand is resting on my knee, I cannot move it or raise it. My head remains as it is—I cannot turn it. My body becomes completely fixed in that form. And not only my body—my consciousness within is bound to that form.”

You may not have thought of it—because we hardly retain the capacity to think in this way—even the posture called siddhasana creates a pyramid in the body. The images of Buddha and Mahavira are all seated in postures that are pyramidal. The base on the ground is wide with both legs; above, everything narrows—the head becomes the apex. A triangle is formed. That posture is called siddhasana. Why? Because in that posture the laws of nature easily leave their functioning, and the subtle, profound laws of the Divine begin to function. The form is important. Dimitri says: “After rising off the ground, I cannot change my posture—there is no way. I have no power left. Only upon returning to the ground can I change it.”

Surrender has its own form; ego has its own form. Can you even conceive of ego lying down? You cannot. Ego can only be imagined as standing. A seated ego, a sleeping ego—these have no meaning. Ego always stands. Can you imagine the feeling of refuge as standing? The feeling of refuge is that of lying down—of letting oneself go before a vaster power: Not I, but Thou—the feeling is deep within it.

I told you: the laws of nature cease functioning if we are able to include ourselves within the Divine law. A few points must be said in this connection.

About Mahavira it is said—and in twenty-five hundred years no follower of Mahavira has been able to explain the secret—that in twelve years Mahavira ate on only three hundred and sixty-five days. It means that for eleven years he did not eat. Sometimes after three months, he would eat one day; sometimes after a month, one day. Over twelve long years, in total he ate three hundred and sixty-five days—one year. In proportion, he ate one day in twelve, and fasted eleven. Yet it is hard to find a body healthier than Mahavira’s, more powerful. Buddha or Christ or Krishna or Rama—in terms of bodily health—none stand before Mahavira. It is astonishing! And concerning Mahavira’s body, the external laws at play—there is no way to account for them. For twelve years this man eats only three hundred and sixty-five days. His body should have collapsed long ago. But what happened that it did not?

I just mentioned Robert Pavlita. In his laboratory very unique experiments are being done. One of them concerns nourishment occurring without food, through hypnosis. A person working there has astonished the world. In Pavlita’s laboratory some people were hypnotized for ten years. They would get up, sit, work, eat, drink—but their hypnosis would not be broken; a deep hypnotic state would be maintained. Some have given their entire life to hypnosis—they have been hypnotized for life, and the hypnosis will never be broken.

One among them is Barfilov. He was hypnotized last year for three weeks—and for three weeks he was kept unconscious, hypnotized. During those three weeks he was repeatedly fed false food under hypnosis. For example—he was told in his stupor: “You are being taken to a garden. See—how fragrant the flowers, how laden the fruits—do you smell the perfume?” The man took a deep breath and said: “Wonderful fragrance! It seems the apples have ripened.” Pavlita plucked fruit from that unreal, imaginary, fantasy-garden; offered them to the man: “Here, they are delicious.” The man ate apples taken from the void, given out of the void. Nothing was there—he tasted, he rejoiced.

For fifteen days he was fed thus—no water, no food—false water, false food. Ten doctors studied him. They say his body grew healthier each day. His physical ailments disappeared after five days. By the seventh day his body reached a condition of maximum health. Normal bodily functions ceased—urination, defecation—everything stopped, for nothing was entering the body. After three weeks the most astounding thing—he came out of trance perfectly healthy. And the most astonishing—for which you cannot even conceive—was that his weight had increased.

This is impossible. The scientist doctor Rezil, who was studying there, stated: “This is scientifically impossible.” But he said: “Impossible or not—but it has happened, and I was present.” Day and night a ten-man watch ensured nothing was smuggled into him—no injection, no medicine. Nothing entered his body. Yet his weight increased. Rezil has been working on it for a year and says: we must accept that there is something like an unknown X-force, which does not fit into our scientifically known forces—this is what is functioning. In India we have called it prana.

After this experiment, it becomes easier to understand Mahavira. Therefore I say: those who want to fast, do not get trapped in the madness of fasting merely by hearing the so-called Jain monks. They know nothing—they are only starving people to death. They call starvation “upavasa.” True upavasa is an entirely different, scientific process; if done rightly, weight will not fall—weight may even increase.

But Mahavira’s formula has been lost. Perhaps Rezil will rediscover it in Czechoslovakia—he will. It could happen here too—but we are unfortunate. We waste and are made to waste our time in futile matters and controversies so much that no time or facility remains for the meaningful. And we become absorbed in stupidities wearing the cloak of scholarship. We wander in blind cul-de-sacs where not even a ray of light enters.

What was Mahavira’s device for going beyond nature’s laws?—for Mahavira was neither hypnotized nor unconscious. Pavlita and Rezil’s experiment is upon an unconscious, hypnotized person. Mahavira was fully awakened—he was not unconscious. He was among those awakened ones who remain alert even in sleep—who even in sleep do not sleep. Who even in sleep remain aware: “This is sleep.” Sleep remains only around them—around the corner—never within. They observe it, they know it: “Here is sleep,” and they remain ever awake in the midst.

So how did Mahavira do it? What is Mahavira’s formula? In essence, there is an inner relationship between hypnosis and Mahavira’s formula. The hypnotized person becomes surrendered helplessly in unconsciousness—his ego disappears; nothing else changes. He does not knowingly drop it; therefore he has to be rendered unconscious. In unconsciousness it drops. Mahavira knowingly lets go of that selfhood, that ego, and becomes surrendered. If you can surrender consciously, wakefully—if you can say, “Arihant sharanam pavvajjami”—you enter the same secret realm into which the experimenter of Rezil and Pavlita can enter only through unconsciousness. Once out of trance, even he could not trust that it was possible. He said, “Something must have gone wrong. I cannot accept it.” Once awake, he could not remain a day without food. He said, “I will die.” The ego had returned. With its arrangements of security it stood up again. Even though the doctors explained, “You will not die; for we have seen twenty-one days your health increase”—he said, “I do not know—give me food.” Fear returned.

Remember: as long as ego is in the mind, there is fear. Fear and ego are names of the same energy. The more fearful a person, the more egoistic; the more egoistic, the more fearful. If you think the egoist is very fearless, you are mistaken. The egoist is extremely frightened; though to keep his fear from being exposed, he dons armors of bravado, swords in hand, “Be careful!” Mahavira says: only one who is without ego is truly fearless—because then there remains no cause for fear; even the one who could be afraid is no more. Therefore Mahavira says: the one displaying fearlessness is the frightened one. Abhaya—what is the meaning of fearlessness? Only the surrendered one can be fearless—the refuge-taker, the one who has let go. Now no reason for fear remains.

This is the sutra of surrender. With this sutra the Namokar completes. It begins with namaskara and culminates in sharanagati. In this sense the Namokar becomes the whole pilgrimage of religion within that small formula—from the first to the last step—leave everything somewhere, leave it in some refuge. It is purposeless to ask where to leave it; the important thing is—to leave it.

The first relation of surrender is with inner geometry—it changes the form of your inner consciousness. The second relation: it takes you beyond the ordinary laws of nature. In a profound sense, the moment you go into refuge, you become divine; you transcend the so-called ordinary laws that bind us. And the third: surrender opens the doors of your life toward the supreme energy—just as someone lifts his eyes toward the sun. We are free to keep our back toward the sun too; we can stand with our back to it. We can also face the sun and keep our eyes closed. The infinite light of the sun will go on pouring and we will remain deprived. But one person turns toward the sun—like a sunflower turns—opens his eyes, leaves the doors open. The sunlight reaches every hair, every pore—news of light reaches even the dark chambers of the heart. He becomes new, fresh, rejuvenated. Exactly so are there cosmic sources of energy, and to open oneself toward them, there is no way other than refuge.

Therefore the egoistic person is the most impoverished—he has cut himself off from all sources; he trusts only himself. He is like a flower that has severed its connection with the roots, that turns its face away from the sun with pride; when the rain comes he closes his petals. He will rot; his life will be only a process of putrefaction, a continuous dying—not a path to the supreme life. But the flower receives its sap—from roots, from suns, from moons and stars. If the flower is surrendered, it becomes aflame with joy—from all doors it receives light, radiance, life.

The third and deepest form of surrender is to open oneself to those supreme sources of light and life-energy—the energy sources.

I mentioned Pavlita; a device bearing his name is famous in the scientific world—the Pavlita generator. He has made very small instruments from highly sensitive materials, and he is having unprecedented work done through them. He says: simply fix your gaze upon those instruments for five moments—do nothing else—just gaze; they will collect your energy, and that energy can be used instantly. And the work your mind could do at great distance, the instrument can now do. Five minutes earlier, if you picked it up, it was dead; five minutes later, if you pick it up, you will feel that power in your hand. Five minutes earlier if you had given that device into the hands of one you love, he would have said, “Fine.” But stare at him with love for five minutes, let your attention-energy connect—then give the device to your beloved; he will at once recognize that your resonance is coming from it. If a person full of anger and hatred gazes at the device, you will want to put it away; if one full of love, compassion, sympathy gazes, you will want to keep it safe.

Pavlita has made a startling announcement: very soon, to disperse crowds there will be no need to use bullets and batons. We can create devices that, if set up for fifteen minutes, will make people run—the devices will radiate so much aversion. His experiments have succeeded. He has demonstrated them, and they have worked. His latest device is such that you need not even look—if you merely pass within a certain range, it will catch you.

Yesterday I said that Stalin had a man killed—Karl Otovich Zheiling—in 1937. In 1937 that man was doing just the work that Pavlita has now achieved. Twenty, thirty years were lost. Zheiling was extraordinary. He could take an egg in hand and tell whether a hen or a cock would be born—and never erred. But that is not so great—since within the egg, after all, there is pranic vibration—female and male electricities differ in their vibrations; that difference is their attraction. It is a negative-positive difference—so if a sensitive person places his hand over an egg, the energy-particles streaming from it can be sensed.

But Zheiling—if you cover up the photograph—could place his hand upon the covered picture and tell whether beneath it is a woman’s photo or a man’s. Zheiling said: the electric particles of the person whose photo is taken become embedded in the picture during the exposure. And because when someone is photographed he becomes camera-conscious, his attention is arrested by the camera and the current flows—just what Pavlita says: by looking, your energy flows; so into the photograph your energy also flows.

But this is still nothing. Zheiling’s most astonishing feat was that by placing his hand on a mirror he could tell whether the last person to pass before it was a woman or a man—because before a mirror you become mirror-conscious. When you are in front of a mirror you are perhaps more concentrated than anywhere else. Your bathroom mirror could one day say so many things about you that you would have to guard it lest someone steal it away—your secrets would be revealed that you have told no one—known only to your bathroom and your mirror. Because with what absorption you look into the mirror, you look at nothing else so. Your energy enters there.

If energy can flow from you by absorption, can the reverse not happen? That reverse is the secret of surrender. If you—though a very small center of energy—can radiate energy by concentration, then by surrender to the Supreme Power, can you not receive His energy into yourself? Flows of energy are always two-way. The energy that can flow from you can flow toward you. If Ganges rivers can flow to the ocean, can the ocean not flow toward the Ganga’s source? Surrender is the process by which the ocean flows toward the Ganga’s Gangotri.

We all, struggling to save ourselves, anyway fall into the ocean. Jesus has said: “Whoever seeks to save himself will be lost. Blessed are those who let themselves be lost—for then none has the power to lose them.” The Ganga must struggle and resist before falling into the ocean—everyone struggles. She must fear: “I will be annihilated.” Our fear of death is just this: death means the Ganga has reached the ocean’s shore. We struggle to “survive,” we fight and finally fall—then we miss even the joy of falling, and only gather pain.

Surrender says: do not fight—fall. And you will find that in whose refuge you fell—you lost nothing; you gained. The ocean has come toward Gangotri—that source of nectar all around, the secret source of life. “Arihant, Siddha, Sadhu”—these are symbolic words; these are our figures of that infinite source—configurations close to us, recognizable. The Divine stands formless; to recognize the formless is very difficult. Blessed is the one who can.

But the form of the Divine often appears—in a Mahavira, in a Buddha, in a Christ, sometimes the image of that formless shines forth. Yet even then we miss the formless—because we find fault with the form. We say, “Jesus’ nose is a little short—this cannot be the Divine. Mahavira gets sick—how can he be Divine? Buddha too dies—how can he be Divine?” You do not see that you are picking faults in the lamp’s clay and oil, and missing the flame shining in the middle. The lamp may have flaws; it may not be perfectly crafted—but what is the purpose? It holds oil—enough. That flame burning within—the formless flame, source-less—ah! to see that is difficult. It too can be seen. But for the beginner one should try to see it in the Arihant, in the Siddha, in the Sadhu, in the Dharma spoken by the known ones. But we are such that if Krishna speaks, we care less for what he says and more for whether there was any grammatical mistake. We are such!

We are bent on missing—and we will go on missing. Those we call intelligent—hard to find anyone more unintelligent than they—because in missing they are most skilled. They come to Mahavira and say, “Do all the signs mentioned in the scriptures fit?” They measure the lamps, inspect the oil—and by then the flame will depart. By the time they decide the lamp is precisely right, the flame will have gone; then they will worship the dead lamp for thousands of years. That is why we honor dead Tirthankaras greatly—because by the time we decide the lamp is right, the flame has already left.

In this world, a living Tirthankara is never utilized—only a dead Tirthankara is. Because with the dead, the opportunity to find fault is no more. Walking on the road with Mahavira—if you see he too gets tired and rests under a tree—you will suspect: “Mahavira says infinite energy, infinite power—where has it gone? He is tired—sweating after ten miles—an ordinary man.” The lamp is tiring. The infinite energy of which Mahavira speaks is the flame; all lamps will tire and fall.

Why do we think this way? We think so to avoid surrender—there is logic in such thinking; there is rationalization. We think so to find a reason by which we can stop ourselves from going into refuge. The intelligent one is he who seeks a reason to go into refuge; the unintelligent seeks a reason to avoid it. Both kinds of reasons can be found.

When Mahavira passes through a village, the whole village does not become his devotee. There are opponents too. Surely they are not without reasons—they too find reasons. They say: “Mahavira says, ‘He who attains knowledge becomes omniscient.’ If Mahavira is omniscient, why does he beg before a house in which no one is present? He ought to know there is no one at home! He is omniscient! He himself says: one who attains knowledge becomes omniscient. And we have seen him beg before an empty house. He is not omniscient. Finished. Now we have a way to stop from refuge.”

For Mahavira, scriptures say: in the presence of a Tirthankara, in the radius of his aura, hostility disappears. But then someone could still drive nails into his ears. “Then he cannot be a Tirthankara—because where Mahavira walks, in his milieu, the emotion of hostility does not exist—and yet someone comes so close as to drive nails into his ears! Nails cannot be hammered from afar—one must come very near. Even so near, hostility remains! Something is wrong. The case is suspect; he is not a Tirthankara.”

But whether Mahavira is a Tirthankara or not—what will you gain? You will gain only this: a reason by which you can save yourself from going to an Arihant’s refuge. As if something would accrue to Mahavira by your refuge which you have refused! You forget: refuge could have given something to you—which you missed. These are excuses—and man’s unintelligence is so profound that he is very skillful at finding excuses.

People came to Buddha and said, “Show a miracle—then we will accept you as God.” They had heard that God can raise the dead—“Raise someone dead.” When Jesus was being crucified, people stood watching: if the crucifixion does not happen, we will accept something. If the crucifixion happens and Jesus does not die—his hands and feet get cut, yet he lives—we will accept. But Jesus died. People returned satisfied—“We said from the beginning—this man deceives. He is not the son of God. Otherwise, would the son of God die thus? When Jesus was tested by crucifixion, two thieves were crucified with him—three in all. As the thieves died, Jesus died. Where is the difference? A miracle was needed; he missed the opportunity.”

Why do we investigate whether Jesus is the Son of God? Only for this—that only if he is will we go to refuge. If he is not, we will not. But if you do not wish to go into refuge, you will find reasons. And if you wish to go, even a stone image will give you reasons worthy of refuge. And the wonder is—if you go to refuge, even a stone image will open for you the door to that Supreme Source; and if you do not go, even if Mahavira stands before you the door will remain closed. I call that man religious who is always seeking a reason to go into refuge—anywhere. Wherever he feels there is something worth surrendering to, he surrenders—wherever the chance comes, he lets himself go, breaks himself, dissolves himself—he does not cling. One day certainly the ocean begins to flow into his Gangotri. And the day the ocean flows in, that day he knows the whole secret of surrender—its entire alchemy, its whole miracle.

One last thing: if Jesus shows a miracle upon the cross and you go into refuge—remember, that is not surrender. Remember, that is not surrender! If Buddha raises a dead man to life and you clutch at his feet—understand, that is not surrender. Because in it the cause is Buddha, not you. It is only bowing to the miracle—not surrender. Surrender is when you are the cause—not Buddha. Understand this difference well, or else the secret of the sutra will be missed. Surrender happens when you go into refuge—and it is deeper to the extent that there is no reason to go.

The more reasons there are, the more it becomes a bargain, a transaction; it is no longer surrender. If Buddha is raising the dead, of course one must bow—there is no virtue of yours in it; anyone would bow. If there is any virtue, it is Buddha’s. But there have been wondrous people in this world—who bow to a tree, who bow to a stone. Then the virtue begins to be yours. Causeless—the more causeless the feeling of refuge, the deeper it will be. The more with cause, the more shallow it becomes. When reasons are absolutely clear—then it is wholly logical, and there remains no leap. And when there is no reason at all—only then does the leap happen.

Tertullian, a Christian fakir, has said: I believe in God because there is no reason, no proof, no argument to believe. If there were argument, proof, reason—then God would have no more value than the chair you accept in the room.

Marx used to joke: “I shall not accept God until he can be caught in a test-tube in the laboratory, and proven. When we can test him in the lab, measure him with thermometers, take measurements, put him on the scales, see him inside and out with X-rays—then I will accept.” And he added: “But beware—if we can do all that with God, one thing is certain: he will no longer be God—he will have become an ordinary object. For all this we can do only with objects—objects have full proof. This wall is wholly here.”

But what follows? Standing before Mahavira, the body is wholly here—visible, with full proofs. But that light burning within is not so wholly visible. For that you must take a leap—outside of reason, beyond cause. And in the very measure that it is not visible and you gather the courage to leap, in that measure you go into refuge—otherwise you go into a bargain.

If a man stands among you who raises the dead, heals the sick, makes things happen by a gesture—you will all fall at his feet. But that is not surrender. If one like Mahavira stands—no miracle, nothing that compels attention, nothing from which you immediately benefit, nothing that strikes your skull as proof—a very fluid, invisible presence—and yet you go into refuge—then a revolution happens within you. You fall from the ego. All talk of reason, proof, intelligence revolves around the ego; the illogical, the leap beyond thought, the causeless surrender revolves around surrender.

A young man came to Buddha—fell at his feet. Buddha asked, “Why do you fall at my feet?” The youth said, “Because there is a great secret in falling. I do not fall at your feet; your feet are merely the pretext. I fall—because standing I have seen enough, and have found nothing but pain and sorrow.”

Then Buddha said to his bhikkhus, “Bhikkhus, look! If you accept me as God and then fall at my feet, you will not gain as much as this youth takes away without accepting me as God. He says, ‘I fall because there is great joy in falling. And as yet I do not have the strength to fall into the void—so I have taken you as the excuse. Some day when I have the strength to fall into the void—into those feet that are not even seen, that cannot be touched—but whose feet are everywhere—then I will fall directly into that cosmic, that vast formlessness. But first let me taste a little the joy of falling. If there is so much joy even in these visible feet—let me have a little taste; then I will fall into the Vast as well.’”

Therefore Buddha’s formula—“Buddham sharanam gacchami”—begins with the Buddha, the person; “Sangham sharanam gacchami”—it proceeds to the community—the Sangha means the feet of all those sadhus; and then to Dharma—“Dhammam sharanam gacchami”—it leaves even the group and dissolves into the law, the very nature—into the formless. Likewise: “I accept refuge in the Arihant, I accept refuge in the Siddha, I accept refuge in the Sadhu, I accept refuge in the Kevalipannattam Dhamma—the Dharma propounded by the Omniscient.” The whole thing is only this: I disown myself. And one who disowns himself, attains himself; one who clings to himself, loses all—and in the end does not even find himself. The process of finding oneself is highly paradoxical—apparently the opposite: to find the self, the self must be dropped; and if you want to destroy the self, then grip it tightly.

Thus far two formulas have evolved, as I said: one from the Siddha’s side—“Come to my refuge”; two, from the seeker’s side—“I come to your refuge.” There is no third formula. But we are moving toward a third, and as we move toward it, our steps move toward losing whatever is auspicious, beautiful, true in life.

Samarpan means sraddha. Samarpan means surrender. Samarpan means the dissolution of ego. On this the Namokar completes.

From tomorrow we will enter Mahavira’s voice. But only those will be able to enter who can create within themselves the form of refuge. Do one experiment for twenty-four hours: whenever you remember, say within, “Arihante saranam pavvajjami, Siddhe saranam pavvajjami, Sahu saranam pavvajjami, Kevalipannattam Dhammam saranam pavvajjami.” Keep repeating it for twenty-four hours. Fall asleep at night repeating it. If you awaken in the night, repeat it. When you open your eyes in the morning, first repeat it. While coming here tomorrow, keep repeating it. If the form of refuge takes shape within, we will be able to enter Mahavira’s voice in a way that has not been possible in twenty-five hundred years.

Enough for today.

Now let us enter a little into the form and the resonance of this refuge. Let no one leave—sit down and be included…!