Mahaveer Vani #35

There is no harmony between resolve and surrender in methods of practice; surrender has its own complete method, and resolve has its own complete method. But within the human being there is harmony. This needs a little understanding.

It is hard to find a person who is entirely a being of resolve. It is also hard to find someone who is fully prepared for surrender. A human being is a composite of both. The difference is one of emphasis. In one person resolve is stronger and surrender weaker; in another, surrender is stronger and resolve weaker.

Understand it this way.

As I have said, surrender is a characteristic of the feminine mind, and resolve of the masculine mind. But psychologists say that no man is wholly male and no woman wholly female. The latest findings say that both are present in everyone: the woman is hidden in the man and the man is hidden in the woman. The difference between man and woman is a difference in predominance, in emphasis. That is also why man is attracted to woman and woman to man.

Carl Gustav Jung made an important contribution to modern thought. Among his most significant findings is this: every man is searching for the woman who is hidden within him, and every woman is searching for the man hidden within her—and therefore the search never completes. When you like someone you are not aware that liking has only one meaning: the man or woman outside matches the man or woman hidden within you; therefore you like them. But the match can never be complete, because it is impossible to find outside the exact image hidden within. So sometimes there is a partial match that later breaks; or one part matches and another does not. All your outer choosing takes place in this in-between. What is the method of choosing? We have an inner image, a picture, and we seek to find it outside.

So one approach is to search for it outside—which is bound to fail. There is a fleeting happiness when the woman within me matches the woman outside. And there is another union: the man within meets the woman within. That union is eternal.

The worldly person searches outside; the yogi begins to seek that union within. And the day the two inner energies meet, that day man is no longer simply man, woman no longer simply woman; consciousness goes beyond both. That day the person ceases to be fragmented and becomes an undivided soul.

So when we speak of the path of resolve, it means a path for one predominantly masculine in nature and secondarily feminine. Yet even on his path a little surrender will be there, as a shadow—the contribution of his inner woman. And the one on the path of surrender also has a man hidden within; resolve will be present like a shadow. What, then, is the harmony? There is no harmony between methods. Understand it like this:

When someone decides to surrender, that very deciding is resolve. If you decide to dedicate everything to someone, that decision of surrender is itself resolve. Without that much resolve there can be no surrender. And the one who decides to live by resolve—“What I decide I will bring to completion by effort”—this begins with resolve. But whatever is decided can be anything; what will be needed is total surrender to that decision.

Who starts with resolve will need surrender too. Who starts with surrender will need resolve too—but these will be secondary, like shadows. A person is the sum of both, man-and-woman. Therefore, what predominates in you will determine your method. But the two methods themselves remain distinct: their paths, structures, and techniques differ.

The method I use begins with resolve, but the method is one of surrender. Any surrender can begin only with resolve; resolve’s job is just to start the process. Gradually one has to dissolve into surrender. But the method is surrender’s.

You may ask: What about those meant for the method of resolve alone? Those people are one in a million, one in a crore. To go by the method of resolve means taking no support whatsoever: on the path of resolve, strictly speaking, there is no need of a master, no need of scriptures, no need of technique—hence, perhaps one in a crore. And even he can go by resolve only because, over many lives, he has worked so deeply on the path of surrender that now, without guru or method, he can advance by himself.

In this century Krishnamurti spoke with great force of the path of resolve. Hence he denies the guru, denies scripture, denies method. What Krishnamurti says is absolutely right—but it is of no use to those to whom he says it. And therefore it is dangerous.

Krishnamurti has perhaps not been able to give a path to anyone; yes, he has certainly unsettled many who were already on a path. It had to be so: if only one in a crore can walk the path of resolve, then preaching resolve is dangerous. Those crores who cannot will also hear. And the great danger with the path of resolve is that it delights the ego: “Good—no need of a guru, no method, no scripture—I am enough.” This is very pleasing to the ego.

Out of crores who hear, one may be able to walk. And the amusing thing is that the one who could walk may not even go to listen to Krishnamurti. Why would he go? He can walk already. Those who cannot are the ones who go. Hearing him, they all get the illusion that they can go alone. If they did not need a guru, they would not have gone to Krishnamurti either. Their very coming shows they cannot go alone. Yet their ego is gratified, because to accept a guru requires humility; to reject a guru requires none.

To accept a method demands that you do something; if there is no method, there is nothing to do. The slothful, the indolent, the egoistic will be influenced by Krishnamurti—and they are exactly the wrong people to receive this message. It should not be addressed to them at all. And, ironically, Krishnamurti himself did not arrive without gurus. If anyone in this century had the maximum number of gurus, it was Krishnamurti. It is very hard to find gurus like Annie Besant and C. W. Leadbeater. But there was a complication: Krishnamurti did not choose these gurus; they chose Krishnamurti. That is where the trouble began.

Those gurus were in great haste for various reasons—an unruly century was beginning, there was fear that religion might leave no trace. Leadbeater, Annie Besant, and their companions were trying to bring forth the purest light of religion somehow. They were seeking someone who could be seized upon as a base, a medium for this work.

They chose Krishnamurti. They labored on him for years—shaped him, created him, raised him up. Ninety-nine percent of what Krishnamurti is is their gift. But the danger was that Krishnamurti had not chosen this. If we try to make someone “good,” and it is not his own choice, not freely chosen, then sooner or later he will turn against even those who tried to make him good. They tried so hard to mold Krishnamurti that their very effort became a reaction in him. The gurus seemed a burden to him, as if they had tried to change him by force. That became a reaction. Even today the dry imprint of that conditioning remains upon him; even today he speaks against them.

When Krishnamurti speaks against the guru, it may not occur to you that he is speaking against Leadbeater and Annie Besant. A long time has passed, but what they did with him—the continuous discipline intended to transform him—felt like slavery because it was not chosen freely. His mind stayed set against that.

He went on speaking. He has a listening audience, and in forty years they have reached nowhere. They wander in words. The one who comes to listen is seeking a guru, but what he hears is that there is no need of a guru. He accepts that—yet it is also a lesson learned from a guru: that there is no need of a guru. It is not an idea born of his own intelligence. It is a teaching from a guru that there is no need of a guru. Whoever accepts even this has accepted a guru.

Still, in crores there will be one such person, after an endless journey of births—whether he knows it or not.

Just yesterday a friend from Malaya came to see me. An important event has occurred there—Subud. On Mohammad Subud, suddenly, uninvited, the descent of divine energy happened. But Muslims believe there is only one birth, so Mohammad Subud felt, “Grace has descended on an ordinary man like me.” His followers also believe it is mere coincidence that he was chosen. I told them we cannot accept this. Nothing happens accidentally. Only because of Muslim theology does Pak Subud feel that God’s grace descended suddenly upon him. But it is the result of lifetimes of practice; otherwise it cannot be.

So when someone suddenly comes into the state of resolve, he should not think there is no hand of gurus there. The hands of thousands of gurus across thousands of births are there.

You heat water; at one hundred degrees it becomes steam. Until ninety-nine degrees it does not become steam. But without the coal that brought it to ninety-nine, the hundredth degree would never arrive. Water, flying off as steam at one hundred degrees, may think: “Up to ninety-nine degrees I was nothing, just water. What is happening now is sudden.” But from zero to one hundred was a long journey; who knows how much fuel aided it. The final event appears sudden; but in this world nothing is accidental. Otherwise science would have no ground to stand on.

Hindu thought went very deep and said: nothing is accidental in this world. If Krishnamurti suddenly attains knowledge, it only appears sudden. If Pak Subud seems suddenly to receive God’s grace, that too only appears sudden. There is preparation across births upon births.

Even at ninety-nine point nine, water is still water. Then, one more point—and it becomes steam. So Pak Subud would not know even at ninety-nine point nine that the moment of becoming steam is close. Only when it happens will he know. It will feel entirely sudden: “A moment ago I was an ordinary shopkeeper, an ordinary employee, a family man—suddenly, what is this?” It is not sudden. Behind it is a long chain of cause and effect—very long.

After thousands of births someone may come to such a condition that he can find the way by himself—because only a single point remains. All preparation is complete. A slight resolve, and the journey begins. But even in that arrival, who knows how many surrenders have had a hand. And when someone suddenly attains surrender, behind that too are countless resolves. Life is a deep union of both. Methods differ; the person does not.

Today someone comes to me and says, “I surrender everything.” But do you know how great a resolve that is? Is there any resolve greater than this? And the fact that he can make so great a resolve means he has mastered many small resolves; only then is he capable of preparing for this supreme resolve. There is no harmony between methods, but the person is one. The difference is of emphasis. So do not try to find harmony between methods. What you must seek is your own condition: for me, is resolve more useful or surrender? In which will my life-breath more naturally dissolve?

This too is a little difficult, because we are skilled in deceiving ourselves. Still, if someone engages in self-observation, he will quickly discover his path. Now someone who keeps going to hear Krishnamurti for forty years and still says, “I have no need of a guru,” is deceiving himself. He is playing a game of words, repeating Krishnamurti’s lines, and saying, “I have no need of a guru.” If there is no need of a guru, there is no need to go and listen either. He cannot stand a single moment on his own. Clearly, surrender is his path—but he is self-deluding.

Another man says, “I am eager for surrender.” A friend came and said, “I surrendered to Meher Baba, but nothing has happened yet.” Then this is not surrender—because if surrender has happened, it has happened. What happens, happens through surrender, not through Meher Baba. Meher Baba is only a symbol. Any symbol will do—Rama, Krishna, any will do. It does not matter. Even if Rama had not existed, it would still work. The symbol is not important; surrender is important.

This man says, “I left everything to him, but nothing has happened yet.” In surrender there is no room for “but.” You have left it—finished. Whether something happens or not, you are not going to interfere. He is deceiving himself. He has not surrendered; he only thinks he has, and keeps calculating. There is no accounting in surrender.

If you must keep accounts, choose resolve. If you do not want any accounting, choose surrender.

And when you are absorbed in one direction, then the other part in you that remains like a shadow—put it too into the service of that same direction. Do not set it against it.

Understand this properly.

Suppose within you there is a little resolve and a great deal of surrender. If you are moving in surrender, then employ your resolve in the service of surrender. Do not set it in opposition; otherwise it will hurt you and ruin your whole practice. If you are moving on the path of resolve and the tendency to surrender is also present—as it will be, because you are not yet whole, not one, but divided and broken—then employ that surrender in the service of resolve.

That is why Mahavira used the term “Atma-sharan”—self-refuge. Mahavira says: Do not take refuge in another; come to your own refuge. On the path of resolve it means: the feeling of surrender within me, I will direct toward myself; I will surrender to myself. That too should not be left unused; it should come into active work.

Remember: whatever remains unused within us becomes dangerous, destructive. If any energy remains in us that we do not utilize, it turns contrary. Before any of our energies turn against us, we must harness them. Harnessed energies are creative. Unharnessed energies are destructive, ruinous.

So the one who is practicing resolve should also put surrender to work in the task of resolve. Thousands of occasions will come where resolve can be used together with surrender. For example, a man resolves: “I will stand for twenty-four hours.” Now he should become completely surrendered to that resolve. For twenty-four hours he should not once raise the question, “What have I done? Should I have done this or not?” Now become totally surrendered. Offer your complete surrender to your own resolve. For those twenty-four hours the question does not exist.

A man resolves to hold someone’s feet—“This is my refuge.” Then he should not let his resolve repeatedly raise questions: “Did I do right or not? What am I doing?” Now drown the entire resolve in this surrender, so that no unutilized part remains within. Then I am a seeker. If an unutilized part remains, I will remain surrounded by doubt and keep cutting myself with my own hand. One’s own contrary-going energy makes one wretched; when all one’s energies are gathered, one becomes powerful.

So when I said, “Do not harmonize the paths of resolve and surrender,” I did not mean, “Do not harmonize the energies within you.” If you walk the path of resolve, then do not use the methods of the path of surrender. But the capacity for surrender within you—certainly use that. When you walk the path of surrender, the techniques of resolve are no longer for you. But the capacity for resolve within you—use it fully.

I believe my point is clear to you.

It is like this: one man takes allopathic medicines, another homeopathic, another naturopathic. Do not mix the “pathies.” Do not do this: that you are taking allopathy, and also homeopathy, and also naturopathy. In that case you may hardly die of the disease—you will die of the pathies. Escaping disease is easy; but if you use many pathies, death is certain. When you are taking allopathy, take pure allopathy; do not let other things interfere. When you are taking homeopathy, take complete homeopathy; do not let other things interfere.

But whether you take allopathy, homeopathy, or naturopathy, make full use of the inner capacity to be healed. Whether that allies with allopathy, or with homeopathy, or with naturopathy is another matter; but make full use of that inner capacity to heal.

You will say, “We already do that.” Not necessarily. Some people keep taking medicine outwardly and inwardly want to remain ill—then there is great difficulty. If your illness is your strategy, medicine will not cure you. You will say, “Who wants to be ill?” You are mistaken; then you know nothing of the human mind.

Psychologists say that fifty percent of illnesses are invited by the patients themselves. From childhood one is trained into sickness. If a child is healthy, no one in the house pays attention; if the child is ill, he becomes the center of the whole house. The child understands one thing: whenever you want to be the center, it is necessary to be ill. And it is not only the child who learns this—there is a child hidden within you as well. You have noticed it: the wife starts groaning on seeing the husband—she was not groaning before. The husband, on seeing the wife, suddenly lies down with his hand on his head—just now he was perfectly fine.

What is the matter?

If there was a headache, there should have been groaning even when the room was empty. If the groaning comes from illness, what has it to do with anyone? Why does illness suddenly wax or wane on seeing the other? There is a relish in illness.

And psychologists say that many of women’s illnesses arise from that relish, because they do not see any other way to keep the husband’s attention. At first they kept it through beauty and adornment; in a few days that becomes stale and familiar. How now to attract attention? So women begin to remain ill. They themselves do not know why they are ill. They will take medicine, but the relish of illness will continue. Medicine continues, and inwardly there is no cooperation with it. They do not want to get well—because as soon as they are well, that attention the husband gave vanishes. When the wife is ill, the husband sits by the cot and puts his hand on her head. When she is well, no one puts a hand, no one pays attention.

If you want to reduce illness in the world, then when children are ill do not display too much love—that is dangerous. The coupling of illness and love is very dangerous. You are creating a disease greater than the disease. When children are healthy, express love and give more attention. When they are ill, maintain a little neutrality. Do not make so much fuss then. But what do we do? When someone is ill, we shower attention; when someone is well, we do not care. You do not realize that your attention is the food of illness. Therefore whenever the child—no matter how grown he becomes—wants attention, he will invite illness. The invitation will be inward. He will take medicine outwardly and inwardly will not want to get well—then trouble will arise. So, whichever “pathy” you take, one thing is essential: add your full intent to be well.

Whether you walk the path of resolve or the path of surrender, whatever your energy is, pour it entirely into that path. Do not join the two paths; the seeker must join his two inner energies. If these two energies join and move on any one path, the journey will reach its end. If within, energies remain divided and one keeps trying to join the paths, one will never arrive. Joined pathies become poison; kept separate, they are nectar. Two paths joined become misleading; kept separate, they are delivering.

This fear is natural. But understand it.

If you “know” from merely hearing me that truth is not in words—if you know it only by hearing—then you have only heard words from me. Then there is danger. Then the Gita may be dropped and I may be grasped. And there is no point in dropping the Gita only to clutch at me. In that case, it is better to keep holding to the old; what is the point of merely changing the habit of clinging?

Let it not be that you “know” it by hearing me; let it be that listening to me has awakened a direct insight inside you, that my speaking was only an occasion, not the sum total of your understanding; that an inner seeing has been born: there is no truth in words. Then there is no truth in my words either, and none in the words of the Gita. Then truth is in sadhana, in one’s own experience. If this has happened, there will be no fear in leaving the Gita. What is there to fear? When insight dawns within, not a trace of fear accompanies it. The cause of fear is that my words have begun to feel pleasant. So now you want to drop the words of the Gita to make room to keep my words inside. This is what is frightening: to leave such an old word and grasp a new one.

To let go of the old straw and grab a new straw feels scary. The old straw no longer seems a straw—it feels like a boat, you have clutched it so long. When you drop it and take hold of a new straw, for a while the new will look like a mere straw. Slowly, slowly it too will become a boat. As your eyes again go to sleep, that too will appear a boat. That is why changing the old for the new feels frightening: because with the old there is hypnosis; with the new you will have to get hypnotized again; it will take time. And for as long as it takes, within there will be a sense of fear and unease.

No, there is no need to replace the Gita’s words with my words. All words are alike. If you must replace anything, replace words with truth. But truth is within you; it is not in my words, nor in the words of the Gita, nor in the words of Mahavira. Their words too are only pointers toward your within. Like a milestone that points ahead to the destination—it is shaped like an arrow; but no destination resides in the milestone. It is only an indication. And all indications must be left behind for the journey to happen. If someone hugs a milestone to his chest and sits there, we will call him mad. But if someone hugs the Gita to his chest and sits there, we call him religious.

The Gita is a milestone, set up by Krishna, an indication. I can set up a milestone too; that would also be a pointer. You leave one milestone and clutch another—this solves nothing. You may get a little relief. Like the pallbearers carrying a bier; they shift it from one shoulder to the other. For a while there’s relief, because one shoulder tired, so they put it on the other. If you are tired of Krishna, you can put me on your shoulder. But soon you will tire of me too. If you could tire of Krishna, how long can you last with me without tiring? You will tire of me as well; then you will have to change shoulders again. Changing shoulders, lifetimes have passed. How many shoulders have you not already changed? Changing shoulders is pointless.

A pointer! What is a pointer? Only this: what is said is merely symbolic; what is experienced is truth. You experienced love and said, “I have known love.” But the one listening to your words will not know love by hearing your words.

I say: I drank water, and my thirst was quenched. Now if you seize upon my statement, your thirst will not be quenched. Drink water, and thirst will go. There is not a drop of water in the word “water.” However much you keep drinking the word “water,” your thirst will not be quenched. A deception can happen: one can persuade oneself—“I am drinking so much water”—repeating “water, water” from morning till night. What thirst? It can also happen that you become so absorbed in the word “water” that you no longer notice the thirst—but the thirst does not go. And whenever the rote of the word “water” stops, you will notice again that the thirst is present. You will have to drink water; the word will not help.

Therefore fear arises if you are only replacing one word with another. But there is no need for fear if you replace words with truth. Truth, however, is not to be found outside—neither from Krishna, nor from Mahavira, nor from Buddha. Truth is hidden within you. All these Krishnas, Buddhas, Mahaviras are doing one and the same thing: pointing toward that which is hidden within. They are saying: You are truth.

Someone asked Rinzai, “What is Buddha?” Rinzai said, “Who are you?” No obvious connection! The poor seeker asks, “Who is Buddha? What is Buddha? What does Buddhahood mean?” And Rinzai’s answer seems like no answer; he asks another question: “Who are you?” But he has answered. He is saying: You will never know who Buddha is until you know who you are. He is saying: You are the Buddha—and you are the one asking! So Rinzai used to say: If someone asks me about Buddha, it is not right—because it is not appropriate that the Buddha himself should ask about the Buddha.

Rinzai said something very courageous. There is nothing in the world to match his statement. Many theologians and pundits tremble hearing it; they feel nothing could be more sacrilegious. Even among the millions who revere Buddha, few can bear Rinzai’s words. But had Gautam Buddha heard them, he would have danced with joy.

Rinzai used to tell his disciples: If anywhere you meet the Buddha, kill him immediately. If Buddha even appears somewhere, finish him off at once—don’t give him a minute.

Someone asked Rinzai, “What are you saying—kill him?” Rinzai said: Until you put an end to the Buddha outside, you will not discover your own Buddha. And as long as a Buddha appears outside, you are in illusion. The day the Buddha appears within—that day. So if you meet the Buddha anywhere, finish him. And remember my words, Rinzai said: while finishing him off, tell him Rinzai said so—and Buddha will approve! Rinzai speaks with great authority because he stands exactly where Gautam Buddha stands—no difference at all.

Rinzai also told his disciples: If the name of Buddha comes to your lips, rinse your mouth; it has become unclean. Disciples would panic: “Hearing such things from you makes the mind very restless—what are you saying!” He would say: As long as you think that remembering the Buddha’s name will do something, how will you search for the Buddha within? And when the Buddha himself keeps taking the Buddha’s name, what greater foolishness can there be?

No—be it Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira—their pointers… But we are mad: we clutch the pointer and ignore that toward which it points, the hidden within.

There is no fear. And once you have seen that you are clinging to a straw, what is there to fear in letting go? If you keep clutching a straw, you will still drown. You might even save yourself without any prop, because if a man has no support at all he may start swimming. But if he believes the straw is support, then he will surely drown. No straw can save you. And because of the straw, you won’t even try to swim.

Let go. Once it is known to be a straw, holding on is pointless. So long as it seemed a boat, holding made sense. Let go—swim. To be without support is, in a way, good. False supports are of no use.

And here is the very delightful paradox: the one who becomes utterly supportless receives the ultimate support. It is hidden within you—the only support you need. You don’t need the straw; that which is hidden within is the true support. Drop words; drop scriptures. Not because scriptures are something bad, but because by clinging to them you may settle for the substitute that was meant only to be supplementary. You might get satisfied with words themselves.

There is great danger with words; there is none with truth. Yet we feel danger with truth and none with words. Why? Only because words allow us to keep living quietly—with no disturbance, no change, no revolution. Read the Gita every day and keep doing whatever you are doing—and do it cheerfully, because after all, we are readers of the Gita. Sin with an open heart—for what else are the places of pilgrimage for? What will the holy places do if you don’t sin? What are temples for—if you don’t sin, what use is worship then? And what is God for? For mercy—Rahman, the compassionate, Rahim. If you don’t sin, what will become of God’s being Rahman, Rahim? On whom will he have compassion? Have some compassion on him—sin, so he can be merciful to you!

Thus people live in words. And life itself? It runs frenziedly in instincts and passions. Dropping words simply means this: look at life—don’t get entangled in words. And if one day you want freedom, liberation, bliss, then change life. Nothing is going to happen by changing words.