Mahaveer Vani #37

It is difficult to find a human being who does not raise questions about life; who has no curiosity, who does not ask. That is the very difference between man and animal. The animal accepts life as it is. No question arises in animal consciousness, no curiosity is born. Man, as he is, is not content merely with being; he wants to know too: “What am I? Why am I? For what am I?”—questioning is the signature of man. Therefore, one who has not raised questions has not yet risen above the life of the animal. And in one whose life curiosity has not been born—even now—that person has not yet been born as a human being. Hence it is hard to find such a person for whom life is not a question, who is not asking.
Everyone asks questions, but some people take others’ answers to be their own and get stuck; others labor tirelessly until they discover their own answer. In those who stop by accepting others’ answers the question certainly took birth, but a foeticide of the question happened—an abortion. The seed of the question had arisen, but before it could sprout and become a tree, they killed it.
The method of this murder is: to accept borrowed answers. Remember, the question is yours, and until you find your own answer there will be no resolution. If the question belonged to someone else, it could be resolved by someone else’s answer. Your question, another’s answer—these two never meet. So whenever you accept others’ answers, you have quickly throttled the question; you did not allow the question to complete its work. A question can complete its work only when it becomes an inquiry and a thirst for life; when the question becomes even more important than life itself. On the day that knowing “What is life?” becomes more significant than life, that day sadhana is born. On the day you are ready to dedicate life itself to this search, that day you are no longer merely curious, you have become a mumukshu—one who longs for liberation. That day the question is no longer merely intellectual; it becomes the question of your every pore, of your total life; and when the question becomes so deep that even your every breath begins asking, that day the answer is not far.
And remember, just as a question arises from within, in the very same manner the answer too will come from within. Questions do not come from outside. And those that do come from outside have no real value; they can be disposed of with answers from outside. But the questions that arise from your breathing, from the depths of your life-energy, that awaken from your inner being—those questions have their answers hidden in your own inner being. And in the same depth from which the question arose, if you search, the answer too will be found. This is the difference between religion and philosophy. Philosophy is the intellectual search for questions. Religion is the living search for questions.
An intellectual search means: your intellect is involved, you are not involved in your entirety. One fragment of life is engaged, but your whole life—the whole of life—is distant.
A religious search means not only the intellect, but your heart—not only the heart, your body—your whole soul, all that you are in your totality, becomes engaged in the search. And when the search becomes unfragmented, whole, that day the answer is not far.
Whatever Mahavira has said, these are not the words of a philosopher—these are not the words of a Plato, an Aristotle, a Kant, or a Hegel. Whatever Mahavira has said are the words of a religious man, of one who has attained realization. Whatever Mahavira has said was not said after thinking, it was said after seeing.
Understand this distinction rightly, because it is very fundamental.
By thinking, many things can be said. But whatever is said through thought—however right it may appear—cannot be right. Someone may say many things about love through thought. Scriptures are available, poetry written on love is available; stories, analyses are available; the words of those who have known love are available—one can read all this and form an opinion about love; but it will be of the intellect. Yet if you have no personal experience of love, then whatever you say—however correct it may seem—cannot be true. Its seeming correctness will be very superficial, logical, merely verbal. For one who has not known love—what can he say about love?
There can be no philosophy of love—there can only be the experience of love. But then a great difficulty arises. For one who has known love, it becomes difficult to say; for one who has not known love, it is very easy to say—because he has no idea of the difficulty that arises out of experience. One who has not known love can repeat others’ words and think the matter is complete. But the one who has known love faces a tough, arduous question: how to pour what has been known into words? For what has been known is vast; words are very small. What has been known is like the sky; words are like little water-pots—smaller than those, indeed. To pour that great sky into those little pots, to put the ocean into a jar is supremely difficult, nearly impossible.
Whatever Mahavira is saying is what he has known. He has not thought it; it has been attained through dhyana, not through thought. And the processes of thought and dhyana are opposite.
Before this awakening, Mahavira remained in silence for twelve years. Then he abandoned all thinking. Then he bid farewell to the whole intellect. He set contemplation aside. He went on becoming only silence. Twelve years is a long time. Certainly, to be silent is difficult. If it takes Mahavira twelve years, you can imagine—it will take an ordinary person a lifetime.
To be silent is difficult, because silence is a kind of death. You live in thought. When thought is moving, you feel you are; when thoughts begin to be lost, you too begin to be lost. As thoughts scatter, you also scatter. And when the clouds of thought have all disappeared, emptiness remains within. That emptiness appears like a great death. One who is ready for that great death gains entry into dhyana. And only after dhyana is there experience. From thought there is no experience. Truly, thought is a hindrance to experience. When you begin to think, you are cut off from experience. When you do not think—only are—then you are joined to experience.
So for twelve years Mahavira cut off and let go of his thinking. Knot by knot, he untied each tangle of thought; and when all the knots of thought opened, when all the clouds scattered—only the empty sky of the self remained—then experience began. We are going to reflect upon the speech that has arisen from this experience. If you think about it, you will go astray. Think less—open the heart more—so that it may enter within as a seed enters the earth. If the earth begins to think about the seed—“First let me think, let me understand whether I should conceive this seed or not”—the earth will not be able to think at all. For in the seed no flower is yet manifest; in the seed even the tree is not visible. It will be—there is a possibility. It is not yet actual. All is hidden in the future. Yet the earth accepts the seed. The seed breaks within. The earth digests it. The seed is dissolved, disappears. And when the seed is completely gone—so completely that the earth does not even know that anything separate from her exists—then sprouting happens. Then a new life is born, and a tree arises.
If you get entangled in thinking and analysis about Mahavira’s words, they will not be able to reach that place within you where the soil of the heart is. Do not think. In the receptive soil of the heart simply accept them. If they are useless, if they are lifeless, then no sprout will be born—the seed will simply die. But if they are meaningful, if they are significant, if there is a hidden life within them, if something vast lies concealed as a possibility in them—then the day you digest them within, when in the heart they mingle and become one, when you will not even remember whether this thought is Mahavira’s or mine—when this thought becomes yours, melts, dissolves, becomes one within—then you will know what the meaning of this thought is. For only then, through this thought within you, a new life will be born; a new fragrance, a new meaning, an unveiling of a new horizon.
Thus, we can behave in two ways with thought: one is the critic’s way—he will think, cut, analyze, argue. I do not forbid you. If you wish to be a critic with Mahavira, you can be. But then you will be deprived of what Mahavira can give. The other is the receptive way—the lover’s, the devotee’s viewpoint—he does not think; he is only receptive, only sensitive, he accepts. He hides it in his heart and waits for the day when a sprout will arise from this seed. Only then will full meaning be revealed.
Here I will try to make you understand what Mahavira’s intention is. But through that effort you will not know the meaning. Through that effort at most this can happen: that you agree, and you leave your heart open. Open the doors, the thresholds, so that this ray may enter within. My effort will be to open the door of your heart, not to convince your intellect. The meaning will be revealed only when the seeds enter within you and you digest them.
Remember, it is not enough merely to ingest something; it must be digested. Therefore, two kinds of people take Mahavira into themselves. The pundit also takes him in, but he cannot digest. What he has ingested remains undigested. Hence the pundit’s brain becomes heavy with that undigested intake. His ego grows thick. His soul remains empty, but his memory keeps getting filled. The knower too ingests thought, but he tries to digest it; and until it becomes blood, becomes his own, until it flows in every vein, until it becomes a part of his life, he does not rest.
If you wish to become a pundit, then think in the critic’s manner; if you wish to journey toward knowing, think with the feeling of a devotee.
As our life is, we need someone who can shake us, turn our journey around. As our life is, we need someone who gives us a strong push, a shock, so that the direction of our journey changes.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin boarded a train one evening from Chicago. In his compartment there was an old woman too. They were the only two. Five or seven minutes after the train left, the old woman noticed that the fellow passenger was crying. She thought perhaps he had parted from someone dear. She did not think it proper to speak.
Nasruddin sat with his head bent between his knees, held in his hands, crying away. His sobs shook his whole body. Night fell; the old woman slept. But in the morning when she woke again she saw he was still crying. He would wipe his tears, then sobs would come, then after a little while halt, and again begin to weep. She thought, “I am a stranger, and who knows what sorrow this man is in. My speaking or saying something might only increase his suffering, might scratch the wound.”
The second day also passed, and the third morning began. Then even the old woman could not hold herself back. She came near. She placed her hand on Nasruddin’s head, patted him and said, “What has happened? Tell me something—perhaps by telling it, the burden may grow lighter.” Nasruddin said, “Do not ask. The more I think, the more the mind is pained. Now it is three days that I have been riding on the wrong train.” Three days have passed and I am on the wrong train.
...One could have gotten off this train at any time!
You may laugh at Nasruddin, but in that laughter do not forget that your condition is almost the same. Not just three days—who knows how many births—you have been riding the wrong train. And it is not that you are not crying. You are crying badly; sobs have caught; eyes are wet; nowhere is happiness to be seen—only sorrow—yet you sit in the train. And that by which you are suffering, that by which you are going in the wrong direction, you are giving it your full cooperation.
Look a little rightly toward yourself and you will realize that wherever you are going wrongly, there your energy is cooperating; whatever in life is wrong, to that you are a collaborator and companion. And whatever in life is noble—where the direction of the journey could change, where the entire style of life could change—in that direction you give no cooperation. Even if you hear it, it never becomes the mainstream of your life. Your main current remains wrong. And then within this wrong main current whatever right you do hear, the interpretation you give it also turns into an aid to the wrong. For it is you who will interpret.
That is why I said: do not think, do not analyze. Toward Mahavira, a sympathy, a loving approach is needed. Because whatever you think—“you” will be the one thinking. And “you” are wrong. There is no way that your judgments will be right. If your judgments could be right, you would by now have become a Mahavira; there would be no need to hear or understand Mahavira. What is needed is what Western aestheticians call “sympathetic participation”—a compassionate meeting, a rapport—where you are not fighting, but open to understanding, to living, ready to look from a new angle.
Mahavira’s temperament is utterly different from yours. This man is of a wholly other kind. His journey is different. He is riding some other train. His direction is different. So if you think from where you are, you will miss Mahavira. Only if you are ready to bend into his posture will you be able to understand.
Therefore religions have given great value to shraddha—trust. Not that doubt is useless. Doubt is useful—but not in the direction of religion; in the direction of science it is useful. Doubt is precious if matter is to be understood, because with matter no sympathy is needed. In truth, if matter is to be understood and you are sympathetic, you will not be able to understand—because you will not remain impartial. Your biases will be added. The scientist must remain completely impartial, neutral—no sympathy, as if he is not there at all; he should not enter even a bit into the understanding of matter. He should be only an observer. Only then are science and scientist successful.
The exact opposite holds in religion. There if you are too neutral, standing far, only an observer, you will not be able to enter. In religion you will be able to enter if you are filled with great sympathy—as a mother takes her child into her lap—only if you can take Mahavira’s words into the closeness of your heart, only then will connection happen. And once the connection happens, your temperament changes, your manner of being changes. Then Mahavira’s words begin to make sense—because the direction of your eyes, the way of your seeing, the way of your being—everything changes. Before Mahavira can be your companion, you must become his companion; and before he can be understood by you, the whole manner of your understanding must change.
As you are, there is no way to understand Mahavira. Therefore there is no lack of those who “accept” Mahavira, but one who truly understands is hardly seen. Those who accept him also think; they too interpret Mahavira in their own way. Only one who goes to understand after wiping himself, after erasing himself, can understand.
Now let us enter the sutra.
These first sutras—primary sutras—will be a little difficult, because Mahavira is giving a framework to his experience, an arrangement. If that arrangement is understood, then the later entry is very easy.
“Dharma, adharma, Akasha, time, pudgala and jiva—these are the six substances (dravya). The Lords who hold Kevaldarshan have called all this the lok (the cosmos).”
The first point: neither Mahavira nor the remaining twenty-three tirthankaras of the Jains have faith in any scripture—not in any Veda, any Koran, any Bible. Because their vision is that experience cannot be preserved in words. Therefore the basic source is always the person, not the scripture.
As in the Hindu notion, there is trust in the Veda. The basic trust is in scripture. What the Veda says is right. And if some person says something that goes against the Veda, the person will be wrong, the Veda will not be wrong. Mahavira’s vision is exactly the reverse.
Mahavira says, trust belongs to the person; and if a person says something and the Vedas are opposite, then the Vedas are wrong, the person is not wrong.
Understand this difference rightly.
Scripture is dead, the person is living. Much trust in the dead is not appropriate. And if the dead has any value, it is only because someone living’s words are there. But however ancient or valuable a scripture may be, it cannot be used to invalidate the experience of any living person.
Mahavira trusts the person as much as no one else on earth has. The ultimate worth of the person is accepted by Mahavira. So even as precious a scripture as the Vedas, Mahavira will say must be left aside if they do not accord with a person’s experience. The living person is of ultimate value, the final unit.
This is a very revolutionary view. It deeply hurts the mind. And the ironic thing is that even the Jains could not live in accord with this view. Even now the Jains listen to Mahavira’s words, and if any person’s experience goes against Mahavira’s words, they will say this person is wrong. Then Mahavira’s word has become a Veda. Therefore, Jainism died as a part of the Hindu fold. It has no independent existence—cannot have—because Mahavira’s original view has been destroyed. Mahavira’s view is that an individual’s truth is ultimate. And so Mahavira repeatedly says that what he is saying is the experience of those who have attained Kevaljnana. This is experience. Mahavira does not give the testimony of any scripture. The testimony is always of persons.
“The Lords who hold Kevaldarshan have called all this the lok.”
There are more points here to note.
Kevaldarshan means: those who have attained that state where only knowing remains and there is nothing left to know. Whenever we know, we know something—an object. You are sitting here; I see you, I know you. But if you were to move away from here and nothing remains to be known, only my knower remains—does not fall asleep, is not unconscious, is in awareness—nothing is left to be known and only knowing remains; from the screen of the mind all pictures disappear and only the flow of consciousness remains—Mahavira calls that state Kevaljnana—pure knowing, mere knowing. Those who attain such mere knowing, Mahavira calls them Jina—the conquering ones—those who have attained the supreme victory of life, for whom nothing is left to be conquered. Such Jinas Mahavira calls “Bhagavan.”
It is also necessary to understand that for Mahavira the meaning of “Bhagavan” is not the same as for the Hindus, the Christians, the Muslims. Mahavira’s concept of “Bhagavan” is unique.
Three things to keep in mind—
First, Mahavira says there are as many Bhagavans as there are souls. God is not one. The idea of one God is very dictatorial, very tyrannical. Mahavira says each soul is a Bhagavan. The day it knows, it will be manifest. Until it knows, the tree remains hidden in the seed.
Mahavira’s idea is of infinite Bhagavans—innumerable—as many as there are lives. Do not think only you are. The life in an ant is also a hidden Bhagavan. Today or tomorrow, it too will manifest. The life in a tree is also Bhagavan. Today or tomorrow, it too will manifest. Only a matter of time. One moment—whatever is hidden will be revealed.
There is nowhere else in the world the conception of infinite Bhagavans. And behind it again is the value of the individual. To Mahavira it seems painful that there is one Brahman who is the owner of all. The very statement seems tyrannical. Nor does it seem proper to Mahavira that all will be lost in “the One.” Nor does it seem proper that “the One” created all, that he is the creator. This statement is absurd.
Mahavira says that if man’s soul is created, then it is no longer a soul—it has become a thing. That which can be made—what kind of soul is that? Mahavira says what can be made is a thing, not the soul. Therefore, if some Supreme Being created souls, then they all became objects. Then we became puppets in God’s hand, our value lost.
Therefore Mahavira rejects the notion of a creator. He says there is no creator. Because if there is a creator, the value of the soul is destroyed. The value of the soul is precisely that it is uncreated. It cannot be made. Whatever can be made is a thing, a mechanism—anything—but cannot be living consciousness.
Think a little. If living consciousness can be made, then its value, its dignity, its majesty—all are lost. Therefore Mahavira says there is no creator-God. And then Mahavira says: whatever can be made can also be destroyed.
Remember, whatever can be made can be unmade. If there is some God in the sky who once said, “Be created!” and souls were created, he could any day say, “Be destroyed!” and souls would be destroyed. Then life becomes a joke, a satire. Therefore Mahavira says: the soul can neither be created nor destroyed. That which cannot be made nor destroyed—Mahavira calls it dravya—substance.
Understand his definition. Dravya is that which can neither be made nor destroyed—which simply is. Therefore, Mahavira says, whatever fundamental substances exist in existence have been from always. No one made them, and no one will ever be able to erase them.
Modern science agrees with Mahavira. Because of the Jains, Mahavira’s thought does not reach the scientists; otherwise modern science agrees with Mahavira more than with anyone else. If Einstein had understood Mahavira, he could have praised him as no one could. But because of the Jains there is a difficulty.
A friend came to me. The 2,500th birth anniversary of Mahavira was approaching. He said to me, “How shall we celebrate so that Mahavira’s wisdom spreads to the whole world?” I told him, “As long as you are there, it is very difficult. You yourselves are the disturbance, you yourselves are the obstacle.”
Mahavira can be vast, but the Jains draw a very narrow circle; and because of their narrow mind, the picture of Mahavira that comes before the world becomes very narrow. A free study of Mahavira does not happen. People with fixed grooves cannot discover anything. Mahavira needs to be rediscovered—but then the fixed grooves will have to be broken.
Mahavira’s view that “dravya” is what modern science calls “element”—it can never be destroyed and never created; it is transformed, it takes shape and breaks down; but becoming and breaking belong only to form; the basic element neither becomes nor breaks. Mahavira has spoken of six such dravyas.
The first dravya is Dharma, the second Adharma, the third Akasha, the fourth Kala (time), the fifth Pudgala (matter), the sixth Jiva (life). There is no place for a Supreme God; these six are the basic substances. These six have always been and will always be. And whatever appears in between is the meeting and parting of these six—their joining together and separating. The whole world is a conjunction; these six are the basic substances.
Souls are infinite and each soul has the capacity to be Paramatman. Therefore understand rightly Mahavira’s notion of Paramatman. Mahavira says the soul has three states. One state is bahir-atman—when consciousness flows outward. The second state is antar-atman—when consciousness flows inward.
When it flows outward in desire, in thought—you are bahir-atman, the lowest state of the soul. When in dhyana it flows inward, in silence it flows inward—you are antar-atman, the second state. And the third state of the soul is when consciousness does not flow anywhere—neither outward nor inward—only is. The flowing stops. There is no movement, no vibration—Samadhi. In that third state the name of the soul is Paramatman.
From bahir-atman to antar-atman, from antar-atman to Paramatman. And since souls are infinite, Paramatmans are infinite. And no soul merges into another, because every soul is an independent dravya in itself. In the ultimate state there remains no difference between two souls—no walls, no separation, no controversy or opposition—but still each soul remains private, individual.
These six dravyas of Mahavira are very unique. Their exposition is worth understanding.
“The mark of the Dharma-dravya is movement.”
It is a very unique vision. Mahavira says: that by which movement happens is Dharma; and that by which movement stops is Adharma. That by which evolution happens is Dharma; that by which expression reaches toward its fullness is Dharma; and that by which evolution halts is Adharma.
Mahavira calls Adharma the element of stillness—what arrests; and Dharma the element of movement—what furthers. Both exist. It depends on you with which element you join yourself. If you join with Adharma, you stop. You can remain stopped for births upon births. If you join with Dharma, you begin to move.
A fish has the capacity to swim, but if it does not take the support of water, it will not be able to swim; the capacity is there—if it takes the support of water, it can swim. You have the capacity to be Paramatman, but if you take the support of Dharma you will swim; if you take the support of Adharma you will halt. If you remain a bahir-atman, the cause is that somewhere you have taken hold of Adharma.
This is something to ponder: Mahavira does not call “evil” Adharma. Whatever arrests—stops—this is Adharma. Then the definition of evil, of inauspicious, of sin becomes new. Wherever in life there are arresting elements—and your alliances with them—that is Adharma.
Dharma will open, liberate, make free, cut the bonds. The boat is tied to the bank—Dharma will loosen the pegs from the shore; as the pegs are removed, the boat becomes free to move. Where are we tied?
Whatever our desires are—those are the pegs by which our boat is moored to the riverbank. And we keep the pegs strong lest they break. We give them strength, lest they become weak. We nourish our bonds. What binds us—what is our prison—that is what we dedicate our life to. That by which we are stuck, we take to be our support. And until we see clearly what is support and what is hindrance—until this is clear—no movement is possible.
If Mahavira leaves his palace, do not think there is some evil in the palace; that is not why he leaves. If he leaves wealth and opulence, do not think wealth and opulence are evil. Mahavira sees they are pegs; and as long as I am around them, my relation with the element of Dharma cannot be established. I will not be able to move.
Rightly understood, Mahavira does not abandon wealth—he frees himself from wealth. The difference is fundamental. Abandoning wealth is very easy; freeing oneself from wealth is very difficult. For by abandoning wealth you can escape, but immediately you will create another wealth to cling to. Wealth is not confined to coins and notes—wherever there is security, there is wealth; wherever there is assurance for the future, there is wealth.
What does wealth mean?
It means: if I have a thousand rupees, my tomorrow is safe. I will not die of hunger. There will be a house to live in, food, clothing—I am safe for tomorrow. Such grasping after wealth is for the security of the future. If you suddenly come to know that the world will end tomorrow morning, your grip on wealth will loosen this very moment; the most miserly will be seen distributing.
If the world is ending tomorrow morning, why does the value of wealth end?
Wealth’s value lies in the security of the future—if there is no future, there is no value. You can abandon wealth; but if the need for security of the future remains with you, you will create new wealth.
So a man abandons wealth and then grasps merit (punya). Then merit becomes wealth. He thinks: if I have merit, I will get heaven. In your view that man is arranging for an even greater future. You can use wealth till death; he can use punya after death too. The currency he is collecting is spendable on the other side of life; your notes will not work there. Hence the sadhus and sannyasins explain to householders: “What are you holding on to wealth for? It is transient. Hold on to punya, which will remain forever.”
But it is amusing that they say: “Hold on.” Their statement is only this much: “You are holding the wrong wealth; hold the right wealth. The wealth you hold will serve you till death; after death you will be in difficulty. We have held the right wealth. You have taken refuge in the wrong bank; we have taken the right bank.” ...But they are still supports!
Abandoning wealth is easy, for you will create new wealth. A mind that is insecure will inevitably create wealth. Wealth is the child of the insecure mind. That wealth can be of many kinds.
But Mahavira did not abandon wealth; he freed himself from wealth. This process is different. The focus is not on wealth—it is on oneself: “Whatever clutches me—the clutch should not remain.”
Then remember, wealth is not holding you—you are holding wealth. Hence the real question is not to abandon wealth; the real question is to drop your clutching. So it can happen that someone in the midst of wealth drops his clutching—it has happened. And it can also happen that someone abandons wealth yet does not drop clutching—this happens every day.
The path between them is subtle. Mahavira is loosening his grip. Wherever he finds a clutch, he releases it. Wherever there is a support, he lets it go—because it becomes evident that all supports have become hindrances. Because of them the boat is tied.
Dharma is the element of movement. A hundred years ago science faced a difficulty; so science imagined an element—ether. Science had the difficulty that the sun’s rays travel—so some element must exist through which they travel. Ether was hypothesized: some element must be there—otherwise how would the ray travel? In this vast sky that appears void, there must be some element. There was no evidence of that element. Ether was hypothesized because travel was happening, so some medium was needed. Now the acceptance of ether has grown thin. Yet somewhere in the mind of science this question still moves: if something is traveling, a medium is necessary. If a river flows, two banks are necessary. Without those two banks the river cannot flow.
Darwin proved that man is evolving. But Darwin is unaware of what Mahavira is aware. If man is evolving, then movement is happening; then there must be a conception of movement, and a basic element of movement—otherwise movement would not be. Man is journeying—from animal to man, or from monkey to man. According to Darwin—from fish... And the journey continues. According to Darwin the first element of life was the green algae on stones by the river’s edge—the moss. From that green algae the journey has arrived at you. Not only you—to Mahavira too.
So Mahavira says: this evolution that is going on, such movement—there must be an element for this movement. He calls it “Dharma.” And one who recognizes that element of movement in his life, becomes its companion, lets himself be in it—he reaches the ultimate state of evolution. That ultimate state is Paramatman. Therefore Dharma ends where you become Paramatman. There the journey is complete. The destination has come.
If you see a stone lying on the road, you never ask why it is stopped. What is the difference between you and the stone? Right by the stone a plant is sprouting—what is the difference between the plant and the stone?
The plant is growing, moving; the stone is motionless, fixed. Because of its immobility its consciousness is blunt. Even there the Divine is hidden, but adharma is gripped very tightly—so tightly that no movement happens.
Let us keep two points of movement in mind. One is the stone-like state—closed, from all sides nothing enters, no flow; all is arrested, frozen, congealed. And then a fluid state—the state of Mahavira—where nothing is stopped, nothing is stuck, nothing is arrested; a living flow, only flow.
“Adharma and Dharma”—we usually think of adharma in the language of morality and of dharma in the language of ethics. Mahavira thinks in the language of science, not of morality. Therefore whatever takes you toward Paramatman is Dharma.
This too each person must consider: “What will take me toward Paramatman?” It is not necessary that the way another goes toward the Divine will be the way you can go—because the other stands at a different point and you at another; the other is in a different condition and you in another. Sometimes by following another you get entangled. Nor is it that the other was wrong—he might have been right for himself. Therefore Dharma is a profoundly personal search.
I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin was limping along the road. A friend met him and said, “I had the same trouble. I had my teeth extracted; since then I am perfectly fine.”
Nasruddin thought: there is no harm in it. What harm is there in getting teeth removed? He got them pulled. The limping continued; his mouth worsened! Another friend met him. There is no lack of friends. He said, “What! Teeth will not help. I had the same trouble. I had my appendix removed; since then I am completely fine.”
Mulla thought: the appendix has no use anyway—he had it removed. The condition worsened; his back bent more. A third friend met him. He said, “What are you doing? Teeth and appendix won’t do—tonsils are the real trouble. I had them removed; since then I feel absolutely young.”
Mulla had the tonsils removed too—no benefit. But one day the first friend met him again and saw Mulla walking proudly without a limp. He said, “Ah! Seems you had the teeth out—good, it worked.”
Mulla said, “Neither by removing teeth, nor by removing the appendix, nor by removing the tonsils—there was a nail in my shoe; by removing that everything became right...!”
Beware of friends! Beware of gurus! Perhaps removing teeth helped them. It is not their fault—benefit may have happened; it depends on what the trouble was.
Recognize your own trouble—your condition, your point; from there your journey will begin. You cannot journey from where Mahavira is speaking; you cannot journey from where I am speaking; you cannot journey from where anyone else is speaking; you will journey only from where you stand.
Therefore in your life a continuous observation is needed: What is it that stops me? What makes me blunt, stone-like? What makes me inert? And what will open me? What opens me?
Then you will not need to follow any guru. You will have become your own guru. And when a person becomes his own guru and calmly observes the state of his life, it is not difficult to know what Dharma is.
If you yourself observe, you will find that anger binds you, stops you, makes you inert, makes you unconscious; you become diseased, temporarily insane. Psychologists say it is temporary madness. Madness which is permanent is what a lunatic has; in anger, temporarily, you become the same! Otherwise you indeed become that.
You fall downward; you become bahir-atman. When you look upon someone with compassion and mercy, the exact opposite happens—the reverse of anger. You open—not bind—you are freed. The peg breaks, the boat loosens, you flow.
Whenever you are in a moment of compassion, you find the weight of the body lost. When you are in anger, all gravitation, the whole earth pulls you downward. In anger you become heavy. In compassion you become light.
Within yourself you must continuously test and discover what frees me and what binds me? What is Adharma and what is Dharma? These are matters each person must test daily. There are no fixed formulas available in the Vedas. This is Mahavira’s insistence—there is no book that will work for you. Walking by the support of any book you are more likely to go astray than arrive—because every book is someone’s private experience. And individuals are different. And the primary religious experience of each person is different.
People used to come to Gurdjieff, and sometimes he would create astonishing situations that we cannot even imagine could be religious. A man came who had never smoked; another came who was addicted to cigarettes and could not leave them. To the addict Gurdjieff would say, “Stop smoking,” and to the one who had never smoked and had aversion—who said, “If I smoke I will vomit”—to him Gurdjieff would say, “You start.” We cannot imagine what the purpose might be! Habit binds—whether it is the habit of smoking or the habit of not smoking. Habit is Adharma.
So Gurdjieff says something utterly contrary. The one who has never smoked, who says, “If someone else is smoking my insides revolt, I begin to retch,” Gurdjieff says to him, “You smoke,” because you too are blunt in a habit—and this one too is blunt in a habit. He too has to be brought out of his habit, you too have to be brought out of yours. Habit is Adharma.
Gurdjieff had no idea of Mahavira; otherwise he would have been delighted. But you know, those who accept Mahavira think “habit is Adharma?” No—they say “good habits are Dharma, bad habits are Adharma.”
The great question is not of good and bad habits. Habit makes you inert; fluidity is lost. Then whatever the habit—whether to get up each morning and do samayika, or to pray—if it is habit!
People come to me and say, “If I do not meditate today I don’t feel good.” And one who smokes—if he does not smoke, he too does not feel good. What is the difference? But if one does not smoke and feels bad, we say, “Keep courage—stand firm.” And to the meditator we say, “No, you should have meditated.” But he too is becoming a slave of habit; a habit is building a wall around him.
It is very amusing—people come and say, “No joy comes from meditation, but if I don’t do it, I feel distressed.” That indeed is the problem of the smoker. He too says, “Nothing is gained by smoking, but if I don’t, I feel restless.”
Habit means a mechanical arrangement of doing something has formed. If you go with that mechanicalness you feel right; if you step out, you feel wrong.
To be non-mechanical is to be religious. Let no habit seize you; let no prison be formed. Let consciousness remain free of habit. Let consciousness never be pressed beneath habit; let it always prevail above habit; let it be in our hands.
This does not mean you should not meditate—only that meditation should not become habit. Otherwise even love becomes a habit, meditation becomes a habit.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife had died; he was beating his chest and weeping. Friends suggested, “What is this? In six months all wounds heal; you will fall in love again; you will marry again. Do not weep so brokenly. All wounds heal—only a matter of time.” Mulla said, “Six months! And what will I do tonight?”
He was not even weeping for the wife. It was a habit.
So sex becomes a habit, love becomes a habit. There are good habits, bad habits—but religion’s concern is that there be no habit—you be free. Let nothing bind you; let there be no addiction. Such freedom will take you in the direction of Dharma. Addictions can be anything—even religious addictions: to go daily to hear religious talk, to go daily to the temple. I am not saying do not go to the temple daily—but if going becomes a habit, it becomes a dead thing; you go and come like a mechanism—no result. A temple should liberate consciousness—that is needed.
Mahavira’s sutra is greatly worth pondering:
“The mark of the Dharma-dravya is movement.”
Wherever you are dynamic, there is Dharma. But look at the Jain monks—it is hard to find people more static than they. No one can call a Jain monk dynamic. There is no movement. The very signs that defined a Jain monk 2,500 years ago are the same even now. As if in 2,500 years time has not flowed—nothing has changed. He still lives where he lived 2,500 years ago. Everything else has changed—but he is fettered by his habits; he stands there. And still he reads daily the sutra “the mark of Dharma is movement.” If the mark of Dharma is movement, then there should be no more revolutionary a person than a Jain monk. He should not stop. He should remain in the flow of life.
But he is as still as a rock, as inert as stone. And the more stone-like he is, the more the followers say, “He is an ascetic.” If even a slight hint of movement appears—some sprouting is seen—then the man is a rebel, not right, he has strayed from the path. If movement is seen, he has strayed; if stillness is seen, he is perfectly right.
We all are worshipers of stillness—we are worshipers of Adharma—therefore we are all orthodox. Remember, if Mahavira’s statement is understood, there can be no such thing as an orthodox religion—can there? Whatever is orthodox, rigid, is Adharma. Religion can only be revolutionary. No form of religion can be dead. Religion will be flowing; there will be movement in it.
I say: Dharma means revolution. And the day religion ceases to be revolution, that day it becomes a sect. And as soon as it becomes a sect, it becomes a useless burden and a prison.
The mark of Dharma is movement. The mark of Adharma is stasis—static, being stopped. If you are stopped, you are irreligious; even if you go to the temple daily, even if you worship daily—if you are stopped, you are irreligious. If you are moving, flowing like a river—not closed like a pond—going daily toward the ocean, and you are not afraid of what tomorrow will bring; there is a joyful acceptance, a welcome of tomorrow—you are religious. But our mind clings to stasis.
Understand this a little.
Our mind always clings to stasis. Why? Because it is convenient for the mind. Whenever something new happens, the mind is inconvenienced—because it has to learn the new. Whenever a new event occurs, the mind has to readjust. Hence the mind always prefers habits—because with habits there is nothing new, all is old; you drift along the stream of the old. The new causes hindrance.
Therefore the mind does not like the new. When you hear something new, you will immediately find resistance within—opposition. When you hear something old, which you already know and believe, you accept completely—not because it is absolutely correct, but because you are accustomed; you already know “it is so.” The mind has nothing to learn. The mind is the enemy of learning. In learning there is flow. The mind wants: do not learn; remain where you are.
Look at animals; animals do not learn anything. There is no possibility of learning in the animal. At most, with great difficulty, they can be persuaded to a little bit of circus—barely! They are completely static—fixed.
If you understand religion, they are fixed in Adharma. For where their forefathers were, they are; where the forefathers’ forefathers were, there they are—never any difference. If the monkey of ten hundred thousand years ago was of one kind, the monkey is still the same. A very staunch follower of his forefathers—practitioner of the ancient, the eternal—that is their notion. He never changes. No disturbance, no revolution, no transformation.
In your view, such should be religious. In Mahavira’s view, he is living in Adharma. Man changes. He changes, therefore he moves—he learns, he researches anew, he invents, he discovers. He keeps opening new horizons and is always ready to drop the old, to cut it, to change it.
Therefore I say: Mahavira’s vision is scientific. Science never claims that what it knows is final truth. It says: as per what we know up to now, it is right. Tomorrow, by what we know then, it may be wrong. Therefore Mahavira never says “only this is right.” He says the opposite may also be right; something different may also be right. This is one viewpoint; there are other viewpoints; from them this thing may be wrong.
Life is a flow of learning and knowing. We cling to knowledge; we avoid knowing. Knowledge is a dead thing. I have said something to you—you grasp it and say “absolutely right.” But you did not go through the process of knowing. We seize knowledge; we escape knowing. Because knowing is painful—as if someone were flaying the skin. All the old must be shed; one must enter the new.
Hence you will see that in our so-called religions, youths are not interested—old people are interested. It should be the reverse. Mahavira transformed life when he was young. But Jains come to me and say, “There is still plenty of time; these are things for the end. Let us see the world first; at the end…”
In truth, a dying man is completely incapable of learning. Everything has become inert, all is stopped. In that stasis people become religious—because what we call “religion” has itself become a stasis.
If religion is alive, the young will be interested; if religion is dead, the old will be interested. Who gathers in the temple will show whether the temple is alive or dead. If the old gather, the temple is already dead—long since dead. It suits the old. If the young gather, the temple is still alive. It does not mean the old should not go to the temple. But if the temple is youthful, the old will have to become young; if the temple is old and a young person goes, he will have to become old. Only then can there be harmony.
Mahavira’s religion is the religion of youth. Mahavira made a great revolution. The Hindu idea was that religion is the final thing—sannyas in the fourth stage of life; first experience the world. Brahmacharya—the period of study; then householder—the time of enjoyment; then vanaprastha—preparation for sannyas; and then at seventy-five, in the last twenty-five years, sannyas.
This was the Hindu concept—based on two supports: the four varnas and the four ashramas. Mahavira broke both. Mahavira said: there is no varna. By birth there is no varna. By birth all are born shudra. From among these shudras, only sometimes someone becomes a brahmin. To be a brahmin is an attainment. No one is a brahmin by birth.
Therefore when we read Mahavira’s definition of brahmin it is very unique. Whom does Mahavira call a brahmin? One who has experienced Brahman. So how can anyone be a brahmin by birth? By birth all are shudras.
So Mahavira shattered the notion of varna—that there is no high or low by birth. And Mahavira shattered the notion of four ashramas; he said there is no such thing that at the end, religion. In fact, that very idea is wrong. Religion should be when life is at its full energy—youthful. When life is at its peak, when sexuality is in full flood—only then the joy, the juice of transformation can be. In old age it cannot, because in old age everything has withered by itself.
What meaning is there in brahmacharya in old age? What meaning will it have after seventy-five? The body is flaccid, senses do not function, diseased, the body has become ugly—no one is attracted; all are waiting for your departure. If then you say, “Now I take the vow of brahmacharya,” you are indeed an astonishing man.
When the hair of the body is bristling with passion, when every cell of the body is demanding, when all the life-energy of the body is flowing in one direction—sex—if one can stop then, get off the train then, the peak experience of a change in the flow of life happens; it cannot happen in old age. Therefore Mahavira gave sannyas to the young.
People were very angry with Mahavira. Among many reasons the greatest anger was that the youth take sannyas. Because you know—what does the sannyas of a youth mean? It means the whole web of household life is thrown into chaos. The father is old—he depends on the youth; the wife newly arrived—she depends on him; small children—they depend on him.
Society’s whole web wants that you take sannyas after seventy-five. There could be no greater rebellion than that a youth becomes a sannyasin. Because it means the entire structure of society becomes anarchic. Mahavira is an anarchist. Lakhs of young men became sannyasins; lakhs of young women became nuns. You can imagine how the whole social web of that time must have been disrupted.
Difficulties must have arisen everywhere. Hindrances from all sides. But Mahavira said that hindrance is to be borne—because when energy is in its vigorous surge, only then can revolution happen; only then can there be a leap. As energy relaxes, the leap becomes difficult. Then a man can die; he cannot enter Samadhi. With weakening senses nothing can happen—because the body is the chariot of the journey.
Therefore Mahavira gave sannyas to the young—also because Dharma is movement, and the young can be dynamic; the old cannot. The Hindus created a society that is static, a stagnant pond. In that Hindu society no wave ever arose—hence the Hindus could not forgive Mahavira. You will be surprised—their greatest sign of anger is that the Hindus did not even mention Mahavira by name in their scriptures.
And remember, this is the ultimate thing. If I love you—that is one relation. If I hate you—that too is a relation, because my connection remains. But if I neither love you nor hate you—if I ignore you—that is the ultimate. Whenever we hate someone we still give value.
With Mahavira the Hindus used the final strategy—they ignored him. They did not even raise mention of his name—as if this man never was. Forget him altogether. Even his mention is dangerous. To keep his mention alive means the points he raised will continue.
Mahavira—utterly—as if no event happened. If only Hindu texts were available, Mahavira would become a non-historical person. There is no mention of Mahavira. The man must have been very dangerous, for such ignoring had to be done. He must have been so anarchic that society did not consider even preserving his name proper.
The great revolution was that the young—when the stream of energy is strong—only then can one be religious. A youthful consciousness can be religious because it requires speed, vigor, capacity.
“To give room to all substances—that is the mark of Akasha.”
Akasha means the capacity to give room—space. This too is very worth thinking. Mahavira says: to give room to all substances is Akasha. Whatever you wish to do, Akasha gives you the room to do it. You wish to steal—steal. You wish to be a stone—be a stone. You wish to be Paramatman—be Paramatman. Akasha gives you all kinds of room.
This space that surrounds us from all sides does not exert to make you into anything. It is utterly neutral. It does not say to you “be like this.” However you become, it accepts. And it gives you full support. Akasha is no one’s enemy and no one’s friend. It is only a capacity of room.
So whatever you are—you are by your own cause. No one oppresses you and makes you into something. The Hindu notion was different. The Hindu notion was: you are like this because of God, destiny, fate! Something is written in your lot, therefore you are such—you are dependent. Mahavira says: you are absolutely free. And it is not God surrounding all, in Mahavira’s vision—it is Akasha. Akasha is not eager to make you into anything. However you wish to become, Akasha agrees. It will give you the place for it.
A seed becomes a tree—a banyan tree—Akasha does not hinder. It gives room. It is receptive. A rosebush is there—Akasha gives it the facility to be a rose.
Akasha is utterly neutral facility. What surrounds us is not some God who has his own notion of what to make of us—there is no fate surrounding us. Apart from ourselves we have no fate. But this is a very difficult thing. It is freedom—and a great responsibility.
Surely wherever there is freedom there will be responsibility—answerability. With God there is a danger—you are dependent—but a benefit too: you are not responsible. Then even if you sin, he is responsible; then even if you fall into hell, he is responsible. Whatever happens, he is responsible. You are dependent, but there is a gain: you have no responsibility, no anxiety. You are carefree. As he wills. Not a leaf moves without his will.
Mahavira establishes the concept of Akasha in place of God. He says: the leaf moves by its own will—there is no other will. Akasha has no will of its own to move you. Akasha only gives room. If the leaf wants to move, it gives room; if the leaf wants to be still, it gives the facility to be still.
On all sides is an impartial existence. This existence neither pulls you nor pushes you. Whatever you are doing—apart from you there is no one else responsible. You are utterly free. But then anxiety arises. Because it means: if the wrong is happening, I am responsible; if I am suffering, I am responsible. There is no God above.
Therefore a very large number could not become Mahavira’s followers—because people want to drop anxiety, not to take it up. People go to the guru: “Take my burden.” And this Mahavira is a dangerous man—he puts the burden of the whole world on you. You go to a guru, place your head at his feet: “Hold me! Now you alone. As you will.” That you surrender to a God seated in the sky.
But what will you surrender? What do you have to surrender except sorrow and trouble? Then you say “Your will”—but what are you leaving? Illnesses, disturbances, madness!
Yet there is one benefit: whether God exists or not, when you feel something has been left to another, you become carefree.
Mahavira’s process is entirely the opposite. Mahavira says the religious person will be filled with extreme concern. Understand this, because it is entirely contrary. There is no surrender in Mahavira’s view—there is resolve. Mahavira says only the religious person will be anxious; the irreligious is not anxious. And this is true. There is no anxiety greater than religious anxiety—for it means: whatever I am, I am responsible; and whatever I will be tomorrow, I alone will be responsible. Therefore each step must be taken with utmost care; responsibility cannot be put on another; no one else’s shoulders can bear the load; faults cannot be given to others. All faults are mine.
There is danger. A heavy burden of concern will be on the head. I will be alone—no support. Therefore Mahavira says man is helpless, helpless. The Hindus also say man is helpless. But the Hindus say: because man is helpless, seek God’s support. Mahavira says: man is helpless, and there is no support—therefore attempt to stand on your own support.
Surely great anxiety will surround the head. But remember: one who is ready to bear this anxiety—no one can match his bliss. For by this same anxiety there is evolution; by this anxiety and struggle there is refinement. From this anxiety will be born steel—from this very fire. There is no support. In this helpless state, to remain standing—this courage, this bravery—will become the birth of the soul. And a moment will come when there will be no need for any support—no desire for support either. Man will stand fully on his own feet.
Mahavira says: whenever a soul stands fully in its own state and needs no outer support—that is the state of Siddha. As long as outer support is needed, there is samsara. Therefore in Mahavira’s vision there is no room for bhakti. But the Jains are wonderful people—they stand with folded hands before Mahavira; they are worshiping and praying to him. And Mahavira says there is no way for bhakti.
And from Mahavira no support can be had. If you need support, you must go elsewhere—you must go to Krishna. Krishna says to Arjuna, “Leave all dharmas and come to my refuge.” That is a different path, a different method. Mahavira says, “Leave me—and stand on your own feet.”
Therefore Mahavira can never say what Krishna says. And if the Jains have thrown Krishna into hell, there is a reason. Mahavira’s vision is utterly opposite. He will say: the very idea that someone should go to someone’s refuge is itself problematic. It is dangerous. It is the murder of this man’s soul. If Arjuna had gone to Mahavira, he would have said, “Into whose tangle have you fallen!” And Krishna says: “Sarva dharman parityajya mam ekam sharanam vraja.” Leave all dharmas—come to my refuge alone. Mahavira would say, “Leave all refuges—be your own refuge.” Mahavira’s word is: “Become asharan”—without refuge. And when you become asharan, only then can you become Siddha.
This does not mean that by Krishna’s path people do not arrive. People arrive by that path too—more people do. But Mahavira’s path is unique. It is a challenge for the courageous. For those who have a little bravery, a little manliness—Mahavira’s path is for them.
Krishna’s path is feminine—for the feminine mind—surrender. Mahavira’s path is virile—of the man. But men are few; women are many. Even among men the feminine mind is more—because man is weak, fearful, frightened; the mind longs for some support, someone to say...
That is why so many gurus are born in the world. Otherwise there would be no way for so many gurus. They are not gurus—you are searching for support. Stand a donkey and disciples will gather. It is no merit of the donkey—but there is a search for support, so he too will get followers. Place a stone and smear it with vermilion—after a while you will see someone putting flowers and his head on it. Someone needs to rest his head. The stone has no value—the stone only fulfills a need, a demand.
Mahavira’s path is deserted—alone—solitary. Only for those who have courage. For those who have the nerve to be alone.
“The mark of Akasha is to give room. The mark of time is ongoingness.”
Time—time means: movement, functioning. Do not blame time. People keep blaming time—“These are bad times.” As space gives you room in the directions, so time gives you room in the directions of future and past. Einstein has just established that time too is a limb of space—it too is a direction. Space has four directions. These two directions too are of space; the difference is only that in them there is the journey of before and after.
Time also gives you room. Time also does not exert on you. Yet nowadays I hear even Jains saying: this is the fifth era—Panchamkal. In this era no tirthankara can happen; no Siddha can happen; no one can attain Kevaljnana. The era itself is bad.
Time is not bad. Time is pure change. You load your weight onto time and become carefree. You want to be freed from the anxiety of being a tirthankara. For if becoming a tirthankara were possible, you would become restless: why am I not becoming one? If someone announces that he is a tirthankara, you will all try to prove together that he cannot be—this era is not one in which tirthankaras happen. This very statement is wrong.
You do not know what you are really fighting. The mind is cunning. You are resisting the fact that if a tirthankara is possible, then why am I not? That is the hindrance.
Nietzsche has written: if there is a God anywhere, I will be in great difficulty—then why am I not God? Therefore there are two ways: one is Nietzsche’s—he says, “There is no God”—now I am carefree. The other is Mahavira’s—the logic is the same. Mahavira, in the anxiety of God, attempts to become God—and becomes God. The concern is the same. Nietzsche says: “If there is God, then how can I remain without being a God? Therefore there is no God.” Mahavira also says: “If there is God, how can I stop without becoming God?”—therefore he insists and becomes God.
So a concern arises. We say: this era is bad, Kaliyuga, the fifth time—time is bad. We want the convenience to be bad ourselves. If time is bad, convenience is obtained. For time gives convenience. If you want to be bad, it gives the room to be bad. If you want to be Mahavira, time gives that room too. Time has no bias. Time is the pure stream of life’s flow. All these elements are impartial.
“And upayoga—that is, experiencing—is the mark of the Jiva. The Jivatman is recognized through knowledge, vision, happiness and sorrow.”
The final element is the Jiva. The mark of the Jiva—just as the mark of Akasha is room, of time is movement, of Dharma is motion, of Adharma is stillness—so the mark of Jiva is experience.
As your capacity for experience deepens, you begin to become soul. The less your capacity for experience, the nearer you are to matter and farther from soul. And the final experience is pure experience—when nothing is left to be experienced—only the experiencer remains. Everything else is gone—only the pure knower, the experiencer remains. That is the ultimate capacity.
What is the difference between a stone and you?
Morning will come; the sun will rise. The stone will not blossom, nor say, “What a beautiful morning.” You can blossom. It is not necessary that you will—ninety-nine out of a hundred do not. The sun keeps rising—they have no concern when it rises, when it sets. Flowers keep blooming—they have no concern when spring comes, when autumn. They have no use. They too live closed within themselves like a stone.
The mark of consciousness is experience. The sun rises in the morning—something within you rises too. There is an experiencing of light. You know something is happening. A flower blossoms—something blossoms within you too. The stone lies as if nothing has happened.
Happiness, sorrow, knowledge, awakening—these are all marks of life. As they grow in measure, the depth of life increases. Life is at the ultimate depth when we experience the whole of life in its purest form. That Mahavira calls truth—the supreme experience of life. Happiness and sorrow are primary experiences; bliss is the supreme experience. We shall try to understand this further in detail.
Let us pause five minutes, do kirtan, and then go...