Mahaveer Vani #36

Now, the aphorism:
“The seeker whose soul is so firmly resolved that even if the body go, I cannot abandon my discipline—such a one is never shaken by the senses, just as even a terrific whirlwind cannot shake Mount Sumeru.”

Because of such aphorisms great confusions have also arisen. Such aphorisms exist in the Quran, in the Gita, and they have created much upheaval in the world. They were not understood, and their misunderstanding was taken as their meaning. Because of such statements, many people think that if a danger comes upon religion—meaning upon Hinduism, upon Jainism—one should give one’s life; because Mahavira said, even if the body goes, I cannot abandon my religion.

So many have become martyrs out of unawareness. They think, I cannot abandon Jainism even if the body goes. The irony is, Jainism was never actually held—what is there to fear of losing? One was merely born in a Jain home; when did you ever hold it that it could slip from your hands? “We cannot leave Hinduism!” Yet when the question of leaving arises, only then is it discovered whether it was ever held—and it never was. “We cannot go to the mosque, because we are temple-goers.” But when did you ever go to the temple? There is no need to go to the temple; only when there is a quarrel with the mosque does the temple come to mind.

Hence the strange fact: only when Hindu-Muslim riots occur do we discover how Hindu the Hindus are, how Muslim the Muslims. Only then do we see who is truly religious; otherwise nothing is seen.

What is the matter? A religion you never held—where does the question of leaving it arise? One is not born with a religion, because the process of birth has nothing to do with religion. Birth is biological. It has no relation to religion. Raise your child in a Muslim home and he will become a Muslim; in a Hindu home and he will become a Hindu; in a Christian home, a Christian. What we get as religion is just conditioning, the family’s education. It has nothing to do with birth or blood. It is not that if your child is placed in a Christian home on the first day he will someday figure out, my blood is Hindu. Don’t fall into this delusion.

People live in great delusions. Mothers say to sons, “My blood!” And if twenty babies are born in a maternity home and placed together, and twenty mothers are let in—blindfolded they gave birth and now they are let in—not one will find which baby is hers. There is no way.

You do not sense blood; you sense only the given teachings and conditionings. Religion is in the skull, not in the blood. Whose religion got the chance to be poured into your skull? That becomes your religion. It’s only a matter of circumstance. But this creates no real holding, because what comes free is never deep. Religion that is sought, that transforms one’s life inch by inch through labor—that is religion.

So Mahavira says: “The soul of the firm-resolved is such that even if the body goes, he cannot abandon his discipline.”

“Discipline of religion” means: the discipline I have accepted; the vision, the practice, the way of life I have adopted—I will not abandon it. The body is here today and gone tomorrow. But the alchemy I have found to transform life—that I will not abandon.

When Buddha attained meditation—the supreme knowing—he sat beneath a tree that morning and said within his mind, Everything has been done—nothing happens. Now I sit under this tree with only this: if nothing happens, I will not rise from here. Then he dropped all doing and lay there. He said, Now I will not get up. The matter is finished. If the whole journey has been futile, why carry this body around? If nothing is found anywhere, where is there to go? If doing yields nothing, what is the use of doing? I will do nothing. Alive, I am as good as dead. I will not move from this place. Let this body rot here, decay here, return to dust. That very night the ray of knowing dawned. That very night the lamp was lit. That very night the great sun arose. What happened? For the first time, the last stake was placed on the table. The moment the last stake is placed, the event happens.

Even when we bet, we place small stakes. Someone says, Today I will fast. What stake are you placing? You will only benefit—what stake is that? Poor people don’t keep fasts; the overfed do. So you will gain some benefit—the doctor will say, Good—you did it; the blood pressure will drop a little; your life will lengthen a bit.

It is a fine joke: in societies where more food is available, only there is fasting considered religious. Jains, for instance, consider fasting a religion—meaning they are overfed. Because there is plenty to eat, it looks religious to fast. See the religion of the poor? On holy days he makes malpua! For the poor man, the day of religion is a feast of food; for the rich man, the religious day is a fast. Both are perfectly logical. It should be so. The poor man cannot eat malpua all year; he can only eat it on a religious day. Those who eat malpua all year—what can they do on a religious day? No way out—they can fast. At least they can do something new.

People place “stakes” by fasting. They drop trivial things. Someone says, I’ve given up salt. Another, I’ve given up ghee. None of this will do anything. These are not stakes; they are deceits. It is like a millionaire gambling and placing a single penny—what’s the thrill? There is a thrill only when the millionaire puts down everything, and for a moment comes to that brink: if I lose, I become a beggar. In that moment gambling itself becomes meditation. Thoughts stop in that moment.

You will be surprised: the thrill of gambling is that it too is a kind of meditation. When someone puts the whole stake down, for a second the heartbeat stops: now what will happen—this shore or that, hell or heaven—both are before him and he is in between. There is suspense. All thinking stops. Only waiting remains: now what will happen? All trembling stops; even the breath stops, lest a breath cause some mishap. The little peace of that moment—that is the charm of gambling. Hence its immense attraction.

And until the whole world tastes meditation, gambling cannot be abolished, because those who have no experience of meditation will keep taking a stolen glimpse of it by different tricks; gambling too gives a glimpse—the glimpse of staking all. Religion too is a great stake.

Mahavira says: Even if the body goes, the discipline I have accepted—I will not abandon it. One who makes such a firm resolve, such a pledge, then the senses can never shake him—just as the blasts of wind cannot shake Mount Sumeru.

“The body is called the boat, the soul the boatman, the world is called the ocean. The great sages cross this ocean of the world.”

The body is called the boat.

Understand this well, because it seems that those who follow Mahavira have forgotten this saying. If the body is a boat, the boat must be sturdy; otherwise the ocean will not be crossed. Look at the bodies of Jain monks: no one would be willing to sit in their boat—who knows where they might drown you? Their boat is already sinking. And they are using the body the way someone would use a boat by making more and more holes in it. We call this penance. Mahavira cannot have meant this, because Mahavira says, the body is a boat.

A boat should be sound—unpierced. There should be no holes. Disease is a hole. The body should be so healthy that it can carry you across. Mahavira had such a body. But somewhere a mistake has occurred; his followers have become enemies of the body. They think, melt the body, erase it—the more you erase, the greater you are. If the devotees discover their guru eats properly, his prestige is gone. If they find he lies down and truly rests, everything is spoiled. So if a Jain monk wants to lie down properly or eat properly, he must do even that in secret; the devotees all around are like enemies—checking what you are doing, what not.

A Digambara Jain muni halted in a village. A Digambara cannot sleep on anything—no cloth, no bedding. It was a cold night. What to do? He shuts the door to keep in a bit of warmth. What kinds of insanities go on! They pile straw in the room—the devotees do that. Because if the muni himself asks, “Spread some straw,” it will mean, you are attached to the body? When a man is only soul, then what are cold and heat? So they pile straw, but the straw must be put there by devotees. The muni cannot say, “Put it there.” The straw having been put, he, in compulsion, lies on it.

I was in that village. I found out that at night the very devotees who spread the straw come to check whether he has pulled the straw over him—whether it remains below. Such wicked devotees are also found! If he hasn’t pulled it over himself, they return reassured: good man. If he has, then everything is corrupted.

It seems there is a relish in others’ suffering. And those who relish others’ suffering can honor only those gurus who relish self-suffering. In psychological language: there are two kinds of people—the sadist and the masochist. The sadist enjoys giving pain to others; the masochist enjoys giving pain to himself. It seems that in India these two have made a great pact: the gurus are masochists, the disciples sadists.

So the more suffering the guru takes—if your guru merely raises his arms, the disciples say, What of your guru? Ours sleeps on thorns! As if this is a circus. Who is sleeping where will decide everything. Who is eating and who is not; who is drinking water—this will decide. The only criterion is: who commits violence against his body more dreadfully?

This cannot be Mahavira’s meaning. Mahavira says, I call the body a boat. What greater honor for the body can there be? Without the boat, the river cannot be crossed. So the body is a friend, not an enemy. The body is a means, not an enemy. The body is a path, not an enemy. The body is an instrument, not an enemy. And as one uses an instrument, so one should use the body. If someone says, We want to travel by car but will not give it petrol; if someone says, We want to travel by the body but will not give it food—then he has not understood the body as an instrument.

What Mahavira has said is: do not become imbalanced in any direction. Do not put in so much food that the boat sinks with its burden; and do not fast so much that the boat dies midway in the river. Right measure—only as much as supports the crossing, not as a burden. Not so little that it becomes feeble and sinks midway. Let there be right feeling toward the body, and full care of the body is necessary.

“The soul is the boatman and the world the ocean.”

That inner self, that consciousness, is the traveler. And the whole world is an ocean; it is to be crossed. It is not bad, nor should one cultivate ill will toward it. But there is no shore there, no place of rest. There will be unrest, storms, tempests. If you want to be free of the storms, of unrest, of pains and afflictions, then cross this ocean of the world and reach the shore where storms and tempests have no effect. While you are in the ocean, the fear of drowning remains—even if the boat is good. Not only does sinking depend on the boat; there are the heaving waves of the ocean, the fierce impacts, the storms, the winds, rains. Therefore, cross as quickly as possible.

If we understand this symbol rightly and look around at the world, there is anger, sorrow, pain, torment—upheaval upon upheaval; and we stand in the midst of it. And this one body is the only means by which we can rise beyond it.

If you can see the world as an ocean, it will indeed appear as an ocean. In Mahavira’s time the ocean was small; now it appears vast. In his era India’s population was not more than twenty million. Now India is overtaking the world in population. It seems we have left no land to stand on—it’s all becoming ocean. The world’s population is three and a half billion. By the end of this century India alone will be a billion. It is an ocean of men. And in that ocean of men, the tendencies of men—the senses, anger, rage, honor, insult—there is a terrible tempest of all that.

If Mahavira were to see this ocean, he would say, Now, steer the boat even more carefully. A man is not born alone; he is born carrying all his sins, all his diseases, all his tendencies. And each person creates waves in this vast ocean. Just as if I throw a stone into the sea: it falls in one place, but its ripples touch the whole ocean. When a child is born into this world, one more stone has fallen; its ripples touch the whole world. He may become a Hitler, a Mussolini, a Tojo—who knows? His ripples will shake the entire world.

This ocean we have—great sages cross it. Between a worldly man and a religious man there is only one difference: the worldly man goes round and round in this ocean. Have you seen a boat? It needs two oars. Stop one oar and row with only one, and you will know what a worldly man is like. If you row with only one oar, the boat will circle round and round. The place remains the same, the journey is long, the destination nowhere—but plenty of sweat. It feels like reaching, and you go in circles.

Is your life a round of circles? A vicious circle? What are you doing—going round and round? What you did yesterday, you are doing today; what you did the day before, you have done your whole life, day after day. It seems only one oar moves and you go in circles.

A religious man does not go in circles; he travels in a straight line toward the shore. You need both oars in hand—both paddles. Neither lean to the left nor to the right. Understand this well: this is the meaning of discipline (sanyam). If you want to steer the boat properly, you must use both; the boat should not lean left or right. If it leans right, adjust to the left; if it leans left, adjust to the right; and travel in the straight line—the linear line. Then one day you can reach the shore.

Discipline means only this: there are extremes on both sides—of indulgence and of renunciation; between them is discipline. Of hell and of heaven—between them is discipline. Of pleasure and of pain—between them is discipline. Enemies pull you; friends also pull you. Between the two is discipline. Let neither pull you, and keep your boat moving in the middle. If you can steer in the middle, in a straight line, then one day you may reach the shore. But the experiences of one who travels in a straight line will change. There should be no repetition in his life. Where there is repetition, that man is going in circles. But don’t misunderstand this to mean that if you eat a new dish daily there will be no repetition, or if you wear new clothes daily there will be no repetition. It is not about food and clothes; it is about tendencies. Are your tendencies moving in repetition—circular? Keep an eye on that.

Have you ever noticed that whenever you get angry, you do it in the same way you did before? You have learned nothing from life. When you fall in love again, you fall in the same way you fell before; you say the same things you already said earlier and caused trouble. The same stupidity—you repeat. Examine life a little. Throw a searchlight back on your life. It is necessary to look back and see: are you living or just going around in circles? If you are going around, understand this is the world—the wheel.

We call samsara “the wheel” in this land. It goes round and round—the illusion of journey, no arrival of destination. Whoever wants to arrive must learn the art of traveling in a straight line—that is religion.

Learn from what happened yesterday and go beyond—do not repeat. Drop the attachment to paths already taken. There is no meaning in clinging. If you have gone past a point, then pass by—don’t hold on to it. Yesterday someone abused you—it happened. Leave that road now; move ahead. But the abuse is stuck. Whoever has yesterday’s abuse stuck in his mind has stopped there. He has made that abuse a milestone—driven a stake into the ground and said, I will stay here; I will not go forward.

If the past still haunts you, the bygone day, then you have stopped there. If we think about it, we will be shocked at where we have stopped. Psychologists say people generally stop in childhood; only the body grows thereafter. Neither intelligence grows nor soul—nothing grows; they stop there. That is why your childhood can be teased out. If someone suddenly attacks you, you will scream and jump and dance; you will forget what you are doing. If your picture is taken, or if you are reminded afterward, perhaps you will see: you did exactly what you used to do at five. Psychologists say your regression happened—you went back to childhood, to the peg where you are tethered.

Therefore, when a therapist wants to remove someone’s mental illness, he first enters into the person’s past life, especially into childhood. He says, Until we know your childhood, we cannot know where you stopped—from where all your disturbance is arising. We are all stopped people. There is no movement, no journey.

Mahavira says, “Great sages cross this ocean.”

The way to cross is discipline. The formula of practice is discipline—balance, escaping the extremes. Whoever stays between two extremes reaches the shore. But what do we do? We are like a clock’s pendulum.

The pendulum of an old wall clock—watch an old clock. The wall clock’s pendulum goes left, right; it keeps swinging. When it goes right, it seems it will never come left—there you err. When it goes right, it is gathering energy to go left; it is collecting momentum. It goes left precisely so it can gather force to go right; then it goes right and collects force to go left. Similarly, we… One person says, I will fast—he is going left. Now he is gathering strength to gorge. One says, We are bored with desires; now we will renounce—he is going left.

It is very easy to swing between extremes. That is why a great phenomenon happens in the world: an angry man, if he wishes, can become forgiving in a single moment. A wicked man can, in a single moment, adopt peace. A sensualist can, in a single moment, become an ascetic. It doesn’t take long. Because returning from one extreme to the other is not obstructed by anything. Stopping in the middle is difficult. For an indulger to come to discipline is difficult; he can go to renunciation. For a renunciate to come to discipline is difficult; he can go to indulgence. To come to balance is hard. Choosing one disturbance instead of another is easy, because disturbance is our habit—any disturbance we can choose. To stop in the middle, to become non-disturbed, is very difficult.

Mahavira calls discipline the formula of religion. This body is a boat—use it as an instrument. This soul is the traveler—do not spin it in circles; move it in a line. This world is an ocean—do not be a one-oar boat. Hold both paddles in your hands, and let both paddles serve in stabilizing the middle—keep your eyes on that. Then one day a person surely crosses the world.

To cross the world means: to go beyond sorrow, beyond torment.

To cross the world means: to enter into bliss.

What Hindus have called sat-chit-ananda, Mahavira called moksha. What Buddha called nirvana. What Jesus called the Kingdom of God. Whatever the name, where we are—in turmoil—there, that is not. Beyond this tumult there is a shore where no storm touches, where no tempest rises, where all is empty and still.

That’s all.

Now let us sing…!