Mahaveer Vani #33

Now let us take his sutra:
‘Of all beings in the world, each suffers only through his own deeds. Whatever the act — good or bad — its fruit cannot be escaped without being lived.’
‘The suffering of a sinful being cannot be shared by those of his caste, nor by friends, nor by son, nor by brother, nor by kin. When suffering arrives, one must endure it alone, for karma follows only the doer, not another.’
Let us understand a few points, step by step.
‘Of all beings in the world, each suffers only through his own deeds’ — the first thing. This is fundamental. If you are suffering, it is because of yourself. Yet we all think it is because of the other. Have you ever understood, even once, that you are suffering because of yourself?
Never. For the day you do, on that very day a revolution begins within you; that day you begin to enter the temple of religion.
We always think we are suffering because of someone else. It never occurs to us that we suffer because of ourselves. If he had not abused us, we would not be unhappy. If that man had not stolen from us, we would not be unhappy. If that man had not thrown a stone, we would not be unhappy. It seems obvious: others give us suffering, therefore we suffer. If no one gave us suffering, we would not be miserable.
This appears so logical that the mind never even considers the other possibility — that we suffer because of ourselves. The husband thinks he suffers because of the wife; the son, because of the mother; the brother, because of the brother; India because of Pakistan; Pakistan because of India; Hindus because of Muslims; Muslims because of Hindus — everyone suffering because of someone else.
The basic premise of politics is precisely this: suffering is because of the other. And the fundamental premise of religion is: suffering is because of oneself. All politics stands upon the belief that suffering is caused by the other — therefore remove the other, and the cause of suffering will be removed. Or change the other, and the cause will vanish. Or alter the circumstances, and misery will disappear.
There are two kinds of intelligences in the world — political and religious. And beneath them lie these two sutras. If you think you are suffering because of the other, you have a political mind.
The thought may never have occurred to you that the wife is thinking, ‘I suffer because of my husband.’ In this, politics is at work — pure politics. And therefore what happens in politics will happen here too: quarrel will arise, conflict will arise; each will try to change the other, to bring the other to his own way; each will try to erase the other.
We never think in this language. For if the language were stark, it could shatter our illusions. So we never say we are trying to erase one another; we say we are changing one another.
What does changing mean?
As you are, you are the cause of my suffering. I will change you. When you become suited to me, you will become the cause of my happiness.
Now, take the second point. Because we think the other is the cause of misery, we also think the other is the cause of happiness. Neither is the other the cause of misery, nor the cause of happiness. The cause is always oneself. The day a person begins to understand this truth, that day he begins to be religious.
Why? Why is Mahavira’s insistence so strong that we ourselves are the cause of our joy and sorrow? The insistence comes out of deep observation. And it is not only Mahavira who says this. All those on this earth who have inquired deeply into the relation between man and his joys and sorrows agree without exception upon this sutra. Therefore I do not say that belief in God is the basic foundation of religion — for many religions do not believe in God; Mahavira himself does not. Buddha does not. God is not the fundamental base of religion. One may think the Vedas are the base — that is a mistake. One may think the Bible is the base — that is a mistake. But if one sees that the root formula of religion is this: I am the cause of my joy and sorrow — then he is not mistaken. He has come upon the very grip of religion. This is an indisputable truth.
Whether one follows the Vedas, or the Koran, or the Bible, whether one follows Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed — if his understanding has come to this sutra, the path will open from somewhere. If this sutra has not occurred to him, he may follow anyone at all, and no path will open.
Why am I myself responsible for my joy and sorrow? When someone abuses me, naturally it appears he is abusing and I am becoming unhappy. But that is not the whole chain. You are seeing only half the chain.
Someone insults me, abuses me, I am hurt. But the chain is incomplete. The hurt in truth arises because I wanted respect, honor — and someone insults, abuses. What I wanted does not happen — then I am pained. The cause of my pain is not your insulting me; it is my longing for honor. The greater the longing for honor, the greater the pain of insult. As longing for honor lessens, the pain of insult lessens. When longing becomes zero, no pain remains even in insult.
Therefore the hurt is not in the insult; it is in the desire for honor. And remember, the insult comes later; first the desire for honor must be within me. Only if I have the desire for honor can anyone insult me. If I never wanted something, how can I suffer from its absence?
If a thief causes you suffering by snatching your things, it appears on the surface that the thief is the cause. But the pain arises from your clinging — the feeling of possession — and this does not occur to you. The thief is not the root; you are the root. At the root is your urge to grasp — ‘This thing is mine; no one should take it.’ And when someone does take it, you suffer. Your greed, your possessiveness, becomes the occasion through which the thief can make you suffer.
If we investigate rightly, wherever we find suffering we will discover that one link in the chain is not being seen. We drop that link. We always think in a way that saves our self-image. We begin from the other — where the chain does not begin. We do not begin where the chain truly begins.
What is yours? Proudhon has said: all property is theft. He meant this — the property existed even before you were, and it will remain after you are gone; no property is yours. Perhaps you did not steal it; your father might have. If not your father, then his father. But all property is robbery, snatching. Then another thief snatches it from you, and you are miserable. It is a society of thieves; in it one thief sometimes makes another thief happy, sometimes unhappy.
If one sees rightly, the moment you say ‘mine’ you have begun suffering — because nothing is mine. I come empty-handed, with nothing; I go empty-handed, with nothing. Between the two, many things pass through these hands; none of it is mine. When someone sees this — that nothing is mine — then no thief can make him suffer.
About Rinzai I have heard: one night a thief entered his hut. There was nothing in the house. Rinzai became very troubled. He had only one blanket which he was wrapped in as he slept. He grew concerned: a thief has come, will he go back empty-handed? The night is cold; he has come far — five miles from the village. And what thief comes to a fakir’s hut! And if a thief has come to a fakir’s hut, how bad must be his condition. So Rinzai grew very anxious — how to help him? Only one blanket — and I am wearing it. If I keep wearing it, he cannot take it. So he placed the blanket at a distance and slid away to sleep.
The thief was puzzled — what kind of man is this? There is nothing in the house; the one blanket visible he puts aside on seeing me. He turned to leave, when Rinzai said: Do not go empty-handed. You will feel hurt within. Once in a while a thief has come — what good fortune! There is nothing here, so take this blanket. And when you come again, give me word beforehand. I am a poor man, but I will arrange something.
The thief, panic-stricken, ran off with the blanket, thinking, What sort of man have I stumbled upon! But on the way it occurred to him: there was no need to run; I ran out of old habit. With this man, what was there to fear? He returned. He found Rinzai naked, with only a loincloth, sitting at the window, gazing at the moon, and he had composed a song. As the thief returned, Rinzai was humming the song. It became famous. In it, he is saying to the moon: If it were in my power, I would pluck you from the sky and offer you to that thief.
The thief heard the song. He fell at Rinzai’s feet. He said: What are you saying? I am a thief — you want to gift me the moon? I ran away by mistake. Take me near you. When will that day come when I too become like you! Until now, in every house I entered, all were thieves. Master, for the first time I have met a man who is not a thief.
Some are big thieves, some small; some are skillful, some awkward; some steal legally, some illegally.
But the thief said: Wherever I went, all were thieves. For the first time I have met one who is not. And they too used to lecture me: do not steal. Their words never touched me — they were thieves’ words. You said nothing — yet my stealing drops. Make me like yourself so that I too no longer remain a thief.
What we experience depends on us. Rinzai’s compassion toward the thief was Rinzai’s own. In you, toward a thief, anger would arise, hatred would arise, disgust would arise — but compassion would not. What arises in us is within us. The other is only a pretext — the other is only a pretext. What comes out is ours. But we have no awareness of our own depths; so when something comes out, we think it has been given by the other.
If sorrow appears outside you, the other is only a pretext. The sorrow is within you. The other merely becomes the support that brings it to the surface. Therefore be grateful to the one who brings your sorrow out — because had he not, perhaps you would never have known the hidden wells of sorrow within. The other brings out your joy too, your sorrow too — only as a nimitta.
Mahavira has made much use of the word ‘nimitta’. It is a wondrous word. To find such a word in any other language is difficult — nimitta. Nimitta means: that which is not the cause, yet appears like the cause.
You abused me, and sorrow happened — Mahavira will not say sorrow happened because of the abuse. He will say: it was a nimitta; the abuse became a nimitta; sorrow was ready and it manifested. The abuse is not the cause; the cause is the craving for honor. The abuse is a nimitta. Nimitta means: pseudo-cause — a false cause. It appears to be the cause, but it is not. Nimitta means: a device to hide the real cause — the real cause remains concealed within, and we invent a false outer cause.
Therefore Mahavira says: of all beings, each suffers through himself. And why has this cause accumulated within? Because of performed actions. What one has done before has created habits. What one has done creates samskaras, one’s conditioning. What one has done — that is one’s chitta, one’s inner mind-stuff. What one has continually done becomes one’s chitta; and it is through that chitta that one suffers. Chitta is the condensation of our countless actions.
Understand: yesterday you did many things, the day before also, in this life, in past lives — all that you have done has given you a mold, a pattern. A way of thinking, interpreting — an inner system has been formed in your mind. You think and move according to that interpretation. You become happy and unhappy because of that interpretation — and you never change it. You try to change the outer circumstances of joy and sorrow while clinging to the inner interpretation. And all your effort strengthens that very interpretation. You reinforce your chitta, empower your mind. The very cause of suffering you go on strengthening — and you remain busy changing the nimitta. The cause remains hidden; we keep changing the supports. Then interesting things happen — however much you change the nimitta, the cause does not change.
A friend came to me the day before yesterday. He married in America. After marriage he earned a lot of money. He deposited all that money in American banks in his wife’s name, for he could not deposit it in his own. Suddenly the wife left and sent word from there that she wanted a divorce. Now he was in trouble. The wife goes — and the four lakhs he has deposited also go. He cannot even tell anyone he deposited four lakhs, for then he will be caught first — how did you take those four lakhs there? How did you deposit them?
He came to me and said: I love my wife so much I cannot live without her. Is there no such miracle in yoga that her mind could be changed? That she would be pulled back? People become interested in yoga only when they hope for some miracle — to pull her back, do something!
I said to him: First tell me honestly — is it about the wife, or about the four lakhs? Because if yoga has a miracle to pull the wife, it may have one to pull the four lakhs too. Tell me the truth.
He said: What are you saying? Can the money come alone? Then I have nothing to do with the wife — to hell with her — just get the money back. He added: But I loved her so much; why did she leave me? I cannot understand. Why is she giving me so much pain? I cannot understand.
I said: It is perfectly clear — you have never, even by mistake, loved your wife. You probably chose that wife precisely to deposit the money. And the wife came to you precisely for that money. The case is crystal clear. He said: Give me one chance — let her come back. Whatever mistakes you point out, I will not repeat. Teach me how to behave, how to love; but give me one chance to set things right.
This man who says, ‘Give me one chance to improve’ — if he gets the chance, will he improve? He may end up murdering the wife. There is no sign he will improve — he does not even want to. He does not accept that he is wrong.
That mind within, we go on strengthening. I told him: Marry again — let it go. Marry again and drop this matter. Money you can earn again. But do not deposit it again in America. You were a thief; the wife has proved a thief — thieves find thieves. But do not think the cause of your suffering is the wife. He is very miserable; tears roll down — for the four lakhs, not for the wife. He thinks the cause of his suffering is the wife’s betrayal — and he himself has been betraying the wife from the very beginning. He has nothing to do with her — the money is his entire arithmetic. His mind remains the same within. If he marries again tomorrow, he will repeat the same thing.
In the West, psychologists who study divorces say something very surprising: a man marries one woman, divorces her, then marries another — and the second time he chooses the same type as the first. One man divorced eight times. Salter has given the account of his life, and each time the man thought: now I will not choose such a wife again. And each time he chose the same type again. After six months he would discover he had brought home the same kind of wife.
Indians were wise: why be needlessly troubled? If you are going to choose the same wife again and again, why not finish with one? At least there will be the relief of knowing that if there were a chance, you would have chosen another — but you cannot. And so Indians, very remarkably, did not leave the choice of wife to the person himself; they had the parents choose — people more experienced, who had seen life and understood its foolishness. We did not leave the choice to individuals.
In America, Salter says this man married eight times, and each time he brought the same type of wife. Why? Because the mind that chooses remains the same. How can I choose differently? I am drawn to a certain voice, a certain eye, a certain gait, a certain figure, proportions, manners — so I choose.
When I choose a woman, I am choosing my mind, not her — my preferences. Then she appears troublesome, quarrelsome; other qualities appear and I divorce her. Then I choose again; again I will seek the same qualities I sought before. And with every quality its counter-quality is linked. The woman who walks in a particular way will have a particular flaw too. The woman who appeals to me in a certain way will have another side that will trouble me. In the first woman I chose her face — I chose the full moon; but there is also the new moon — and it too will come. When it comes, I will be in difficulty and say: I have made the same mistake again. Then a third time I will choose — and again I will choose the full moon. Again, the new moon.
Every personality has its character traits. What I like comes with its counterpart. I do not see that counterpart. When it appears, I understand. That man, eight times, each time chose the same kind of woman.
Understand this.
A man likes a woman who is utterly meek — who will agree with him in everything. But meekness is also a device to dominate the other. The meek are not entirely meek; they dominate by their meekness.
So you choose such a woman — meek, obedient — all seems well. But that is only the first face: the beginning of the game, the rules of play. You like a meek woman — she is liked; but no one is meek from within — none can be. As soon as the work is accomplished, the marriage done, the registry completed, the meekness will begin to slip away. It was just a device — a bait on the hook for the fish. Even he who offers the bait may not know it; he may think he is feeding the fish — but when the dough goes into the mouth, the hook gets stuck. The one who seemed meek will slowly become a lioness — though even in her lioness-ways her meekness will show. For example, if a meek woman wants to torment you, she will weep; she will not shout, not rage — but weeping too can become torturous. Sometimes a fiery woman is less troublesome; she explodes and it ends. The weeping woman torments with more skill. You cannot even call her wrong — how call a weeper wrong? She will beat you doubly — morally too you will feel at fault; she will prove you the culprit. Then you will feel: again I have chosen the same.
And when you go to choose again, your preference — your mind — sits inside. Again it prefers a meek woman. This time you will seek an even meeker one — because the first time it turned out to be a mistake, she proved not meek enough. Mind this — if you seek a greater meekness, you will find a woman even more troublesome. Yet this will go on, because we do not see the root cause; we keep looking at the outer nimitta. And the outer nimitta do not work.
Mahavira says: ‘We suffer because of our own performed actions.’
Now, if I prefer a meek woman, this is the sum of my long actions, thoughts, feelings. But why do I prefer a meek woman? Because I like to dominate. If someone does not submit to me, I will be unhappy. In truth, the taste for dominating is the sin. To want to subdue someone — this is violence. I am in the wrong when I prefer a subdued person.
By nature I want to dominate; others also want to dominate. Then strife will be, then suffering will be — and I will go on throwing the blame on the other.
‘Whatever the act — good or bad — its fruit cannot be escaped without being lived.’
Whatever the action, the fruit will come — there is no way around it. Why? Because action and fruit are not two things — otherwise escape would be possible. Action and fruit are two sides of the same coin. I take a rupee in my fist and say I will keep only the face-side in my hand, not the reverse — I am mad. The coin has two sides. However thin you make it, the second side remains. There is no way to mint a one-sided coin. There is no way to separate karma from its phala, its fruit. Karma is one side; fruit is hidden on the other, standing just behind. And we are all busy trying to avoid the fruit. Sometimes in the social arrangement of life we seem to succeed.
A man commits theft, escapes the court — he thinks he has escaped the fruit. He has not escaped the fruit; he has escaped social punishment. The fruit is not avoided. The fruit is an inner event. It has nothing to do with courts and laws. No one escapes it. One may escape the social system — get away. But the very act of escaping also carries its fruit, from which one cannot escape. Within there is no way to avoid it. I created anger — I must taste its fruit. I created attachment — I must taste its fruit. I created meditation — I must taste its fruit. There is no way out. There is no way — because action and fruit are not two things. If they were, we could separate them. They are two aspects.
On this, another point is necessary. Some people think: I have done a bad act; then I did a good act — it will cancel the bad. They are mistaken. No good act cancels a bad act. Hence Mahavira says: whatever the act — good or bad — its fruit must be borne. Such give-and-take does not operate. This is not bookkeeping — you lent me five rupees, I returned five, account cleared. Here I stole, there I donated — matter finished; here I killed, there I gave birth to a son — matter finished.
Your good and bad deeds cannot cancel each other, because the good is complete in itself, the bad is complete in itself. The bad brings its painful fruit; the good brings its pleasant fruit. You cannot say: I sowed a neem seed, then I sowed a mango seed — because the mango tree has grown with sweet fruit, now the neem will not be bitter.
They are separate. Neem will still be bitter; mango will still be sweet. Mango’s sweetness will not cancel neem’s bitterness. Neem’s bitterness will not cancel mango’s sweetness. In fact, it may happen that one who has tasted neem alone finds it not so bitter; but one who has tasted mango too will find neem more bitter; one who has tasted neem too will find mango more sweet. There will be contrast — but not cancellation. Both will stand together.
Therefore Mahavira says: the good has good fruit; the bad has bad fruit. The good does not cancel the bad; the bad does not destroy the good. Hence we meet mixed persons, and they puzzle us. We see a man who is a thief, dishonest — yet he is succeeding. We are troubled: what is this? Does God favor thieves and the dishonest? And we see another man — honest, not a thief — failing everywhere. Wherever he goes, such men say, ‘If I touch gold it turns to dust; whatever I touch becomes failure.’ What is the matter?
The matter is this: each person is a mixture of good and bad. The man who is a thief, dishonest, is succeeding because those good qualities necessary for success — courage, daring, readiness for insecurity, risk — are in him. The man we call honest and good is failing — no risk, no dare, no courage; he sits at home and tries to succeed by being good. The ‘bad’ man is running; the ‘good’ man is sitting. The bad man will reach — he is moving, doing. Both are mixed.
Every person is a mixture; hence in the world so many contradictions appear. If a bad man too is succeeding and enjoying some happiness, it means he has a store of good deeds as well. And if a good man too is suffering, know he has a store of bad deeds. And there is no cancellation between them.
Thus Mahavira says: by doing good deeds one cannot be liberated — for the fruits of good deeds... By merely dropping bad deeds one is not liberated either. Only when both good and bad drop does one become free. Therefore Mahavira says: from punya there is no mukti — from punya comes happiness. By giving up papa there is no mukti — only suffering stops. But when both papa and punya drop — neither good nor bad — then man is free.
Liberation is freedom from good and bad. Liberation is freedom from duality, from opposition. Moksha does not mean the fruit of good deeds. Moksha is not a fruit.
In Mahavira’s language, heaven is the fruit of good deeds; hell is the fruit of bad. And every person stands with one foot in heaven and one in hell — for everyone is a mixture of good and bad. One of your legs reaches hell, one reaches heaven. Naturally, one who stands stretched between these two is restless, torn — today hell, tomorrow heaven; morning hell, evening heaven — anxiety and tension will arise.
Mahavira says: both feet are withdrawn from heaven and hell when all one’s actions have become zero. The zeroing of karma is moksha — not a fruit of action, but shunyata, when all karma have been exhausted.
Therefore Mahavira says: ‘The suffering of a sinful being cannot be shared by caste-fellows, nor by friends, nor by son, nor by brother, nor by kin. When suffering comes, one must bear it alone; because karma follows the doer, not another.’
You must taste the fruit of your karma, because the karma is yours. Not your wife’s karma — yours. You must bear it.
In this sense Mahavira holds that each person is supremely independent — not bound to another. Therefore no barter is possible — I cannot hand over my sorrow to you. Though we say... We say when we love someone: give all your suffering to me. There is no way. And perhaps we say it so easily precisely because there is no way. If it were possible, I do not believe anyone would say, ‘Give me your suffering.’ Then lovers would be constantly on guard lest the other demand all the suffering. As it is, we say comfortably: may your pain be mine, may my life be yours. It does not pass — and so we go on saying it. If it started passing, no one would say it.
In truth each person is alone — even in a crowd, alone. However much companionship, still alone. That inner stream of consciousness has its own privacy, individuality. And whatever that stream has done, that stream must taste.
The Ganges flows by one path, the Narmada by another. The stones and soil the Ganges passes through will give their color to the Ganges; the stones and soil the Narmada passes through will give their color to the Narmada. There is no way otherwise — no way. We are all streams, each with a different life-course. However near we may run, however much we seem to cross one another, however often we meet at crossroads, our aloneness does not break. We are alone; there is no way to distribute, to share.
Mahavira insists upon this because it is crucial. If this enters your understanding, you take the whole responsibility upon yourself. And the person who has understood, ‘All responsibility is mine,’ for the first time becomes mature. Otherwise we remain children.
Maturity has but one meaning: the child thinks, ‘Mother and father are responsible — they must educate me, raise me.’ The grown man thinks, ‘I must stand on my own feet.’ There is a spiritual maturity whose meaning is: I am responsible for none, none is responsible for me. I am utterly alone. There is no way to share, to co-own. Therefore whatever I am, I must accept it — and whatever I am, that is what I must transform; and whatever the consequences, there is no ground for complaint. Whatever fruit comes, its weight I must carry.
The insistence is for this reason: if others are responsible for us, we can never be free. Until the whole world is free, there is no way for my freedom.
If I am responsible, then I can be free. If others are responsible — if you can give me sorrow or joy, if you can delight me or afflict me — then there is no way for my liberation. Then I depend on your will; you depend on mine. Then the whole world is a net, and no strand can escape it.
Mahavira says: each person, however much in the midst of the world, is alone — totally alone. If this aloneness is understood, sannyas flowers wherever one is. If this feeling of aloneness is understood, sannyas flowers — wherever one may be. To know oneself as alone is sannyas. To know oneself as a part bound into friends, family, society, nation is the world. To know oneself free, separate, cut off, alone — atomic — is sannyas.
Enough for today.
Let us do kirtan for five minutes...!