Mahaveer Vani #30

Now, the aphorism:
“Mahavira calls heedlessness karma, and awareness non-karma. Tendencies suffused with heedlessness bind; tendencies free of heedlessness do not bind. By the presence or absence of heedlessness, a man is called dull or wise.”

This connects with what I have been saying. Mahavira does not call doing ‘karma,’ nor not doing ‘non-karma.’ We call doing ‘karma,’ not doing ‘non-karma.’ Our knowing is very superficial. You did not get angry—you say, “I did not get angry.” You got angry—you say, “I got angry.” When we do something we call it karma; when we do nothing we call it non-karma.

Mahavira calls heedlessness karma—not doing. If something is done in stupor, it is karma; if done with awareness, it is non-karma. Subtle—and we have to go a little deep.

If you do anything unconsciously—compelled, unaware while doing, not master of yourself—if you felt possessed, someone else did it through you, you were not the free controller—then it is karma.

If you are the master of your act, the controller—no one compelled you, you did it yourself with full awareness, with wakefulness, without heedlessness—then Mahavira says: it is non-karma.

Let us understand by example.

You were angry. Can you really say you were angry? Or was anger done through you? Someone abused you; someone pushed you; someone stepped on your foot; someone looked at you in a particular insulting way. Anger arose in you—produced by another. Had he not abused, not stepped, not looked so crudely, anger would not have arisen. You did not do anger; someone else made you do it. First thing: the master is someone else, not you. To call it “my act” is futile. If you are not the doer, what sense is there in calling it karma? We press the button and the fan runs. The fan cannot say, “This is my act.” When the button is turned off, it stops. It was made to do. The fan is not the master; it is not in its own control; it is in someone else’s control.

Being in someone else’s control is unawareness. When you get angry, do you do it in awareness? Have you ever been angry in awareness? Try it. Gather full awareness: “I am getting angry.” Suddenly you will find the ground slips from under your feet—anger vanishes.

Till today anger has never happened in awareness. When it happens, it happens in sleep. When you are angry you are not present; you become mechanical. Someone presses a button—anger occurs. Someone presses a button—love occurs. Someone presses a button—jealousy occurs. This happens; that happens. You are only a bundle of buttons, a machine with many buttons. Press here—this happens; press there—that happens.

Someone comes smiling and says a few words of praise, and within, songs ripple, the veena begins to play. Someone looks with a slight slant of contempt—within, flowers wilt, the stream of song stops; fire burns, smoke spreads. Are you there? Or are you merely being set in motion by impacts from all around?

Mahavira says: I call only that karma which is done in heedlessness. That alone creates bondage; hence I call it karma. That which you have done in stupor will bind you. Indeed you were bound even before you did it; hence you did it. It is bondage.

If we inspect our acts, we will find them all like this—interdependent. We are nowhere the masters. We are only a mesh of strings, and strings are pulled here and there, and within something happens. Mahavira calls this heedlessness, stupor, unconsciousness.

A man insults you; anger happens. Between the two there is not even a tiny interval where you became aware; where you heard in awareness; where you looked within to see where the anger is arising. If you stood apart—an insult is given, an insult is heard; what is happening within the insulter and within the insulted—if for a moment, standing beyond both, you saw—this is awareness.

Where did the insult land? Where did it wound? Which old hidden wound did it touch? Where did pus start to flow? If you saw this dispassionately—as if the insult was offered to someone else, and given by someone else—then you are in a moment of awareness. That is non-heedlessness. And then if you decided what to do, and the decision was purely yours—not done through you—that decision is yours.

If someone abuses Buddha, throws stones at Mahavira, crucifies Jesus—even then they remain a witness. This witnessing—that they still keep seeing. Jesus, even while dying, prays: “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.”

Only one who stands even apart from his body can say this. How else could you say such a thing? If you are being crucified, how can you say, “Forgive them”?

Jesus’ disciples were not thinking so; they were expecting a miracle. The earth would split, fire would rain from the sky, there would be a great deluge. One gesture from Jesus, one word to God—destroy them all—and a miracle would occur.

But what Jesus actually said is the real miracle. If he had said, “Destroy them all! Burn the earth! Reduce this land to ashes—those who treated me thus, God’s only son”—if he had said so, the disciples would have thought a miracle happened.

But that is no miracle; you would do the same. Anyone could do it. It is what anyone on a cross would desire; whether it happens or not is another matter. A cross is far away—even a thorn pricks and you wish to set the world on fire. A little toothache and you feel there is no God; all is hell.

Everybody does that. Think a little: if you were hanging on a cross, what would arise in you? The earth would not split at your word—if it did every time, it could not last a single moment. The sun would not rain fire. But that does not matter—your mind would want it so.

Psychologists say it is hard to find a person who has not entertained thoughts of killing a few people a handful of times in life; killing himself a handful of times; annihilating the whole world a handful of times.

“Forgive them; they know not what they do”—within this many things are implied.

First, if Jesus felt that they were doing it to him, then such a prayer could not arise. The one they are doing it to is as distant from Jesus as the doers are distant. Consciousness stands aside. A third angle has appeared.

In an ordinary life there are two angles—the doer and the done-to.

In the life of awareness there are three—the one who does, the one to whom it is done, and the one who is seeing both.

This third—the third eye, the third position of seeing—Mahavira calls non-heedlessness.

It is very difficult—to be nailed to a cross and keep awareness. A slight shove and we lose awareness. How much awareness do we have anyway? To erase someone’s awareness, very little is needed. A little—and it is gone. As if there is none. A thin flimsy film on top; a slight tremor and it breaks.

How long does it take to drive anyone crazy? You must be thinking of others whom you have driven crazy. Think of yourself. Your wife says a word and you go crazy. The wife too does not get relief until you go mad. If not, she feels you have gone out of control.

A friend came to me. His wife was sharp-tongued, quarrelsome. He said again and again, “What shall I do? I go home holding myself together, but one word from her is like ghee poured on fire—an uproar begins.”

I told him, “One day don’t hold yourself together. Because this holding together is what you are carrying within as fire. Then the wife adds a little ghee, and—you are already bringing the fire. One day go home unguarded. Hum a song, dance a little; don’t brace yourself at all. Don’t worry; whatever happens will be seen. And when your wife does something—you have already been angry at your wife enough; it never solves anything—use a new trick. When she does something, you keep smiling. It is not that you will do nothing—if you do nothing it will be hard; keep smiling. That will be something to do, a pretext to do—keep laughing.”

After five-seven days, his wife came and said, “What has happened to my husband? He seems to be slipping out of my hands. Is his mind alright? Earlier, if I said something he got angry—that I could understand. Now when I say something he laughs. What does that mean? Is his mind okay?” When his mind was off-balance—angry—she thought that was normal. Now that he was becoming okay, she thought his mind was going wrong.

Naturally—if someone abuses, and you laugh. If those who crucified Jesus thought he was mad, it is no wonder—because this was abnormal, extraordinary: praying for those who are crucifying you, “Father, forgive them.”

We all live in heedlessness; hence heedlessness is our normal state. If among us someone lives a little aware, it creates a disturbance for us—because the aware person slips out of our control. The one who is aware moves beyond our buttons. We press and he does not get angry; we press and he does not become pleased—he is becoming his own master. Now when he is joyous, he is joyous.

Another thing to note: you can be blissful alone; you cannot be angry alone. For bliss you need no one to press your button. Hence we say: when a person becomes his ultimate master, he attains ultimate bliss.

Some things depend on others. Those that depend on others happen only in heedlessness. Some do not depend on anyone—independent—they happen in awareness.

Therefore Mahavira calls heedlessness karma, because it binds. Whenever we do anything in sleep, we are binding ourselves. And this karmic bondage will tangle us in long journeys, long nets.

Mahavira calls awareness non-karma. If you could be angry with awareness, Mahavira would say: you will incur no bondage from anger. But anger does not happen in awareness. If you could steal with awareness, Mahavira would say: stealing is non-karma—no bondage. But stealing does not happen in awareness. If you could murder with awareness—Mahavira is courageous—he would say: there is no karmic bondage in it. Murder does not happen in awareness. Murder necessarily happens in sleep.

So Mahavira says there is only one rule: awareness. Only one virtue: awareness. Only one religion: awareness. Everything else is granted: do what you will—but do it aware. Few have made religion so essential. Therefore Mahavira’s entire teaching revolves around this single word—awareness, discrimination, wakefulness, non-heedlessness. He gave it such value—and yet it is strange: those who followed him for twenty-five centuries have little concern for awareness! They care about acts. They say: this act is right, that act is wrong.

Understand this distinction.

When I say “this act is right, that act is wrong,” there is no question of awareness. When I say “awareness is right, sleep is wrong,” there is no question of the act. To whatever act I add awareness, it becomes right. It becomes non-karma—no bondage remains. And to whatever act I cannot add awareness—that is sin, bondage, irreligion, karma.

The secret is: whatever is wrong cannot be joined with awareness. Wrong means: that which is possible only in sleep. There is only one deep meaning of wrong—that which is possible only in unawareness. There is only one meaning of right—that which happens only in awareness, never in sleep.

What does this mean?

It means: if you give charity in sleep, it is bondage.

A beggar is standing on the road. You are walking alone—you ignore him. Four people are with you—he stretches out his hand, and you have to give him something. You are not giving to the beggar; you are protecting your prestige in front of the four. Beggars know this too—alone is not good to accost; in front of four he will cling. At that time it is not about the beggar; it is about what people will say—“He couldn’t give a few coins?” Your hand goes to the pocket. This is for the people present. This is not charity, it is stupor. You are giving to the beggar but there is no compassion; this is stupor.

You donate to have your name carved on the temple—stupor. You will not remain, nor will that stone remain long. Go look at old temples—who is reading those plaques? They were put up by people like you. You will also put one up.

If giving is in stupor, it is bondage. But charity cannot happen in stupor; if it is happening, it means it is not charity—you are deceived; it is something else. Praise from others is not charity. A name for a thousand years is not charity. It is a bargain.

Even if you are alone and a beggar holds out his hand, still it is not necessarily charity. Often refusal is more expensive and giving is cheaper. A couple of coins feels cheaper than saying “no.” You give two coins.

People do not give charity to beggars; they bribe them to go away—“Go on, move along.” The beggar knows it too—make noise, stick around.

You will see beggars stick. They know there is a limit—hold until then. There is a point where your hand will go to your pocket; it depends on your tolerance.

Even alone, if you give to get rid of him, it is not charity; it is stupor. Charity cannot happen in stupor.

Stealing cannot happen without stupor. If you try to steal in awareness, you will not go. If you try to lift someone’s thing in awareness, you won’t be able to. And if you do, observe carefully—at the moment of lifting, awareness will be lost; delusion, greed will seize you.

Within, there is a fine balance between awareness and sleep. From one who lives aware, sin does not happen. This does not mean that when Mahavira walks no ant will ever die. Ants may die. Even so, Mahavira says: there is no sin in it, because Mahavira is walking with full awareness. There is no lack of awareness. If an ant dies, that is nature’s arrangement; Mahavira has no hand in it.

And you—you walk the same path; an ant dies—you incur sin. Strange arithmetic: Mahavira walks—no sin; you walk—sin; the same ant dies. What is the difference?

You walk in sleep. Therefore this is not nature’s death; your hand is there. If you had walked aware—if you had made no effort to kill knowingly or unknowingly; if you had kept your awareness in every way as you placed your step—and still an ant died, then let the ant and nature decide; you are not responsible. You did what you could.

But you walk in sleep. You don’t even know you are walking, where your foot falls and why. Your head is roaming in the sky, your feet walk on the earth. You are present here bodily, mind elsewhere.

In this sleepwalking, if an ant dies, you are responsible—not for the ant’s death but for your sleep. The ant can die even in your awareness—but then responsibility is not yours.

Mahavira lived forty years after enlightenment. Philosophers have pondered: if he lived forty years after knowing, he must have done some karma. Whatever little, something he did—he rose, he sat; if not that, he at least breathed. With every breath, germs die—hundreds of thousands die—so tiny, so subtle.

When Mahavira spoke of this, people did not believe that germs die in breath. Now science says they do—and in numbers higher than Mahavira mentioned.

You may be surprised: scientists say a hundred thousand germs die in a single kiss. Under the pressure of lips, a hundred thousand die. Mahavira had pointed long ago that even with breathing, germs die.

Therefore Mahavira gave no place to practices like pranayama—surprising, because yoga emphasizes breath so much, but for other reasons. Mahavira gave it no emphasis—so forceful breathing, he felt, would increase violence unnecessarily.

Therefore Mahavira breathes only as much as is indispensable—only as much as he cannot do without. He breathes with awareness; he does not run lest breath become fast; he does not shout lest breath become fast; he speaks only as necessary; he falls silent. Because whatever we do, if there is sleep in it, there is violence.

Even so, Mahavira spoke, Mahavira walked. If nothing else, he breathed. At night he lay on the ground—his body weight pressed down. If a kiss kills a hundred thousand germs, how many die when a man lies down—however clean the ground—millions.

Mahavira does not turn in sleep, because repeated turning causes much violence unnecessarily. One posture is enough—so he sleeps in one posture. Still—he lies down once.

You might do more violence; he does less. But he did not do nothing, visibly. So the question: in forty years, so much violence—if it created karmic bondage for Mahavira, how could he be liberated? He would be reborn; that much bondage, that much imprint would bring him again. But there is no karmic bondage—because we must understand Mahavira’s definition of action.

Only what we do in stupor binds. What we do in awareness does not bind. Mahavira is not concerned with what you do—he is concerned with how you do it. The “what” is not important; the inner awareness is important.

“He calls heedlessness karma, awareness non-karma—tendencies with heedlessness bind, tendencies without heedlessness do not.”

Therefore search for those tendencies that cannot happen without stupor—and drop them. Also search out those tendencies that cannot happen in sleep—only in awareness—and cultivate them. But let this practice not be external; let it be inner—and let it begin with awareness. Grow awareness, so that those tendencies that happen only in awareness may grow in your life.

As I said—love. If you are asleep, the first kind of love will be. If you are partly aware and partly asleep, the second kind of love will be. If you are wholly aware, the third kind will be—love becomes compassion. If you are asleep, compassion becomes lust. If you are midway, between lust and compassion lies the poet’s love.

By the presence or absence of heedlessness—not by the presence or absence of knowledge—Mahavira says he calls one foolish and another wise. Not by how much he knows, but by how wakefully he lives. The heap of information does not make one wise; nor does lack of information make one ignorant. One may be loaded with information and live asleep.

I have heard of Edison—perhaps this century’s most informed man. A thousand inventions are credited to him—no one else has done that. Your life is largely surrounded by Edison—not by Mahavira or Buddha. Do not be deluded. Your distance from Mahavira and Buddha is infinite. You are more surrounded by Edison than by Mahavira or Buddha.

Flip the light switch—Edison’s invention. Turn on the radio—Edison’s invention. Pick up the phone—Edison’s invention. Move about—Edison everywhere. A thousand inventions became parts of our lives. His information had no end—an astonishingly informed man.

One morning a friend visited Edison. Breakfast was laid out. Edison was engrossed in a problem. The servant was not permitted to interrupt; he quietly placed the tray. The friend saw Edison was absorbed. The breakfast was ready—so the friend ate it, cleaned the plate, covered it. After a while Edison looked up, saw the friend, said, “Good you came.” He glanced at the empty plate and said, “You are a little late—had you come earlier, you could have had breakfast too. I’ve finished.” Empty plate.

What information! But awareness? None at all.

Awareness is one thing; information another. How much you know is not decisive in religion. How much you are—how conscious, how awake—that is decisive.

Kabir’s information is meager; his awareness is incomparable. Mohammed’s information is not large; his awareness is incomparable. What information did Jesus have? Nothing much—a carpenter’s son. But awareness—unique.

Edison loses awareness even at breakfast; Jesus is aware even on the cross. Therefore Mahavira says: I call heedlessness foolishness; awareness I call wisdom.

“He who has no delusion has no sorrow.”

A wise one grasps this formula of life’s inner arrangement: he who has no moha—infatuation, attachment—has no dukkha, sorrow. If you have sorrow, know there is moha. We all have sorrow—more or less—and each thinks no one is as sorrowful as he is; that he bears the Himalayas of sorrow.

“He who has no moha has no sorrow.”

If it seems you are carrying mountains of sorrow, know the vast ocean of attachment is within. Without moha, sorrow does not happen. Whenever sorrow happens, it happens out of moha.

Moha means “mine.” Moha means the sense of “my-ness.” A house catches fire—if it is “mine,” sorrow arises. If it is not mine, there is no sorrow. You may show sympathy—but even in that there is a certain relish. If it is mine, sorrow. The same house—but if insured, the sorrow is less—“the insurance company will pay; what is mine is safe.”

It is mine—that is why there is sorrow. Your son dies—you beat your chest. If at that very moment a letter falls into your hand revealing that the son was not born of you—that your wife had relations with someone else—tears will vanish, sorrow will dissolve; you will pull out a knife and look for your wife.

What happened?

The same person lies dead. Death is not altered by this letter. Death has happened—but the sorrow is not of death; it is of “mine.” What is not ours we even wish to kill. What is opposed to us, we wish to destroy. What is ours, we wish to save.

Mahavira says: “He who has no moha has no sorrow.”

If there is sorrow, know there is moha.

“He who has no craving has no moha.”

If there is moha, behind it lies craving—tṛṣṇā. Why do we say “my”? Because without “mine” there is no foothold for “I.” The more the extension of “mine,” the larger the “I.” So the “I” has only one craving: to become bigger and bigger.

He who owns a big kingdom has a big ego. Take away a king’s kingdom—his kingdom does not only go; his “I” shrinks. Take away a rich man’s wealth—not only wealth goes; he shrinks.

Whatever you have is your spread. The “I” has one thirst—that I remain; this whole universe become the ground of my ego. The desire to expand, to survive, to be secure forever, to attain immortality, to have no boundary—to have an infinite empire—that is tṛṣṇā, craving.

Mahavira says: “He who has no tṛṣṇā has no moha.”

One who does not wish to enlarge the “I,” why will he cling to “mine”?

When you live in a tiny hut, your ego is also small—like a hut dweller’s. In a big palace, a big ego. The ego seeks to seize as much space as possible. It needs territory to expand.

So notice: if a leader walks in a crowd, he does not walk with the crowd; he moves a little ahead—he needs space. If the crowd comes too close, he feels discomfort—the expansion of his ego is being taken away.

And it isn’t only for leaders. Among monkeys, the boss also has a respectful space around him that no one may enter. The troop sits at a little distance.

If you go to meet a leader, you cannot sit too close. Each must sit in his place. There is a zone—scientists call it territorial. An ego that occupies territory. How big a territory? As big as it can—gives the ego pleasure, a sense of power. So don’t put your hand on a dictator’s shoulder.

It is said that in Hitler’s life no one could place a hand on his shoulder. The distance was never allowed to close. Goebbels or any close associate would stand at a distance; no one could touch his shoulder.

Hitler had no friend. One cannot have friends—friendship means that territory of ego will be pressed upon. You can be a follower to a politician, or an enemy—but not a friend.

So Mahavira says: he who has moha has tṛṣṇā. If there is sorrow, know that beneath it is a sea of moha; if there is moha, know that behind it is the race of craving.

“He who has no greed has no tṛṣṇā.”

Hence greed—lobha—is the deepest center. Tṛṣṇā is the expansion of lobha. “I must be more”—the momentum to be more is craving. The disposition to be more is greed.

Tṛṣṇā is circumference; lobha is center. If the circumference succeeds, moha is formed. If it fails, anger is formed. The more tṛṣṇā succeeds, moha forms—and sorrow with it. If it fails, sorrow.

“He who has no greed has no tṛṣṇā; and he who, free of attachment, keeps nothing as ‘mine,’ his greed is destroyed.”

What then is the method?

Only one: gradually diminish “mine.” Have a wife, but lessen the feeling of “mine.” Have a son, but diminish “mine.” Keep the house—but nothing falls by demolishing the house; remove the “mine.” You have pasted “mine” onto the bricks and mortar—your life-breaths are infused into it; withdraw them.

Remove “mine.” Break mamatā, possessiveness—until a day comes when not only the distant house, but the nearest house—this body—is also left behind. Even these bones are not mine; they are not. This flesh is not mine; this blood is not mine; this skin is not mine; it is not. I was not; these bones belonged to someone else. I will not be; this flesh will become someone else’s flesh. This blood will flow in someone else’s veins; this skin will become the encasing of someone else’s house. It is not mine. It was before me and will be after me. Withdraw even from this.

Then deeper within there is another house—the mind. We say “my thoughts.” Look closely: which thought is yours? All thoughts are borrowed—collections, memory. Withdraw from there, too. Keep withdrawing from mamatā until nothing remains that can be called “mine.” When nothing remains to say “mine” about, what remains is the soul.

But we are such that we even say, “my soul.” There is no such thing as “my soul.” Wherever “my” is, there is no experience of the soul.

Therefore Buddha even dropped the word “soul,” lest the sense of “mine” arise—“don’t use that word,” he said, “because it immediately suggests ‘my.’” So Buddha said: drop the word, so that “mine” can be completely broken. Let no “mine” remain anywhere. Yet, even then you remain.

When all “mine” is gone, what remains is your being, your consciousness, your soul. That shapeless, empty being that remains—that is your liberation, that is bliss.

That’s all for today.

Let us pause for five minutes and do kirtan…!