Mahaveer Vani #38

The hallmark of consciousness is upayoga—use, or experience. We must understand “experience” a little. Existence belongs to matter too. A stone lying on the road also exists—it has existence—but that stone has no awareness of its own existence, no sense, no knowledge that “I am.” It has no experience.
The awareness of one’s own existence is called “experience”—and this is the very divide between the conscious and the non-conscious, between Atman and matter. Existence belongs to both—matter and Atman—but with Atman a new element arises, a new dimension opens: Atman also knows, “I am.”
In being there is no difference. The stone is, the soul is; but the soul also knows that “I am.” And this is a tremendous event. Around this very event revolves the whole of sadhana, the entire pilgrimage of life. That “I am” is known; and the day it is also known, “What am I?” the journey is complete.
Matter is—and does not know it is. The soul is—and knows “I am,” but does not yet know “Who am I?” And “Paramatman” is the name of that state where the third happening has occurred too: where it is known “Who I am.”
So there are three states of existence: first, bare existence—without awareness; second, filled existence—with experience; and third, fully blossomed existence—where it is also realized, “Who I am, what I am.”
And it is not that these are the states of the stone, of man, and of God separately—you go on shifting among all three. In some moments you are like a stone—where you are, yet you do not know. In some moments you are like man—where you also know that you are. And in certain moments you even touch the divine—where you know who you are.
These three are not merely states of existence—consciousness goes on swinging among all three. In certain moments you are almost next to Paramatman. In some moments you are human. In most moments you are only a stone.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a barber. Lather on the beard, a cloth tied round the neck—the barber was just about to begin when a boy came running: “Sheikh, your house is on fire!” Nasruddin flung off the cloth, even forgot to pick up his coat, lather on his face—and ran after the boy in panic. But after fifty steps he suddenly stopped: “What a fool I am! First—my name is not Sheikh, my name is Mulla Nasruddin; and second—I don’t even have a house to catch fire!”
Such moments exist in your life too. You neither know your own name nor your own home. You neither know who you are, nor where you come from and where you go. You are neither acquainted with your source, nor with your final destination; and the name you think is yours is purely makeshift—given. If instead of Rama you had been called Krishna, it would have served; instead of Krishna, Mohammed—it would have served. A name is given; it has no existence. Yet, mistaking this false name as “me,” we live. And we build a house that is no house—because what can be left behind cannot be called home. What needs to be constructed will also be destroyed. The search for that home is religion’s quest—the home we have not made, and which will not perish. Until we enter that home—which Mahavira calls Moksha, which Shankara calls Brahman, which Jesus called the Kingdom of God—until we enter that house, life remains a restless and sorrowful pilgrimage.
Mahavira calls the first characteristic of Jiva “experience”—the awareness “I am.” But this is only the first mark—the beginning of the journey. When it also comes into experience, “Who am I?” the journey is over; that is the journey’s end.
“Jnana, Darshan, Charitra, Tapas, Virya and Upayoga—these are the marks of Jiva.”
Let us understand these a little, for later we shall go into them in detail.
By jnana Mahavira means the capacity to know—not content but capacity; not information, not a storehouse of data, for a machine too can store information. Whatever information sits in your brain can also sit on a tape-recorder. And scientists say the brain is not very different from a tape-recorder! Injure the brain and memory is lost. Some memories can be removed from your brain so that you never know them again. And memories can also be implanted in your brain that you never actually lived.
Latest research says memory too can be transplanted. When Einstein dies, the entire repository of his memories is destroyed with him. This is a great loss. Now science says that within ten or twenty years—we have had preliminary success—while a dying Einstein will be allowed to die, we will save his memory; we will preserve the fabric of memories in his brain and transplant it into a newborn child. Join the newborn with those memories. The child will grow with that memory-set, and what he has never known will seem known to him. If Einstein’s wife appears, he will say, “This is my wife”—whom he never even saw—because now Einstein’s memory will function.
Small experiments have succeeded—on animals. So human experiments are not far.
You will be surprised to know Mahavira was the first in human history to call memory matter—who did not call memory consciousness; who said memory too is subtle matter.
If specific zones of your brain are electrically stimulated, particular memories begin to surface. Childhood memories lying in some corner—stimulate them with electricity and you are immediately back in childhood, all memories vivid. Stop the stimulation—memory stops. Stimulate again—the same memory returns, the same story repeats. As on a tape-recorder you can hear the same thing a thousand times—so too, stimulate that one spot a thousand times and the same memory will return.
The brain is part of the body, so memory too is a bodily process—a molecular material.
Jnana does not mean memory. Jnana means the inner principle that is aware even of memory. Understand this well, otherwise the mistake is easy. What you know is not the concern of jnana. If you become capable of knowing even your knowing, then the concern of jnana begins.
A thought is running in your mind. You can, if you wish, stand a little apart and watch the thought run. If that were not possible, no meditation would be possible. Meditation is possible because you can see even your thought. And whatsoever you can see becomes “other”; the seer becomes you.
So Mahavira’s jnana means—the capacity to know; not a stock of knowledge, but the witnessing behind the process of knowing. Only there is consciousness known. Otherwise if memory is man’s consciousness, then man can be manufactured very soon. No difficulty—memory can be produced. Computers exist—their memory is deeper than man’s. And where man may err, the computer will not.
Today or tomorrow, we will develop brains better than man’s—we already have. Yet one lack will remain: the computer will never meditate. The computer can think—and better than you; the latest computers have reached that point. I was reading a statistic: if the world’s ten thousand great mathematicians work on a problem, that which ten thousand mathematicians might solve in ten thousand years—a computer can solve in one second.
So the capacity for memory is highly developed—in the machine. Man’s memory-machine is out of date. Of little value now. Yet for all this—the work of ten thousand Einsteins in ten thousand years a computer can do in one second—but it cannot do even a little of Mahavira’s work. Because Mahavira’s work is not related to memory, but to the witness behind memory—the one who sees memory. A computer cannot be a witness. It cannot divide itself and stand aside to see what is happening within. We can. From that very art of dividing—jnana is born.
So Mahavira says: the mark of Atman is—jnana, darshan. The first glimpse of oneself is jnana. And when we are able to extend that glimpse to the whole world and existence, when a gestalt arises—when along with the glimpse of oneself the glimpse of the whole becomes conscious—that is darshan.
Remember: whatsoever I know of myself, I cannot know more of anyone else than that. My knowledge, spread out from myself, becomes knowledge of the world. If you say there is no Paramatman anywhere, it only means you have no experience of your own Atman. If your Atman is experienced, the first knowledge is simply this: soul is. Darshan is: soul is everywhere. The moment what is known within is extended—made cosmic, universal—darshan is formed.
No animal has darshan, because it has no jnana. An animal cannot stand behind itself. Animals have memory. Your dog recognizes you. Your cow recognizes you. Trees too have memory...!
Now scientists experiment: if you go near a tree daily with lovingness, the tree’s response differs. If you go with anger, with hatred—it differs. Stand near a tree in love—the tree opens. There are scientific proofs now—when someone pats a tree with love, the tree is sensitively stirred within. The tree recognizes its friend and enemy. When an enemy comes close, the tree shrinks—just as you would shrink if someone came with a knife. And when a friend comes near, the tree expands.
It is now known that the tree too has memory. But attention—only man has. Therefore until one attains to attention, one does not attain the full dignity of being human. Merely being born in a human body does not make one human. It is only a possibility. The door is open—but the journey must be made. Man is not born with humanness; humanness is an attainment. And the direction of this attainment is jnana and darshan.
Understand Mahavira’s aphorism rightly.
Jnana means—the first glimpse of that which hides in my innermost depth as witness. Then to relate that glimpse to the totality, to see without what has been seen within—this is darshan. And then to let what is seen within flow into life—this is charitra: conduct. That which is seen within and recognized without—let that become your life, not remain a mere intellectual glimpse. You may say, “I am Atman—I have had such a glimpse.” But your conduct will say you are body; your behavior will say you are body; your very manner—sitting, standing—will say you are body; your eyes, your nose, your senses will report you are body. A mere intellectual glimpse will not do. Let it become your conduct—it will inevitably become so if your jnana is real and jnana flowers into darshan; then conduct is unavoidable. Mahavira calls that “charitra.”
An animal has no character—it cannot have; without jnana there is no darshan, without darshan no character.
Man’s capacity is to live what he sees. And remember, in this living no effort is needed. This is a little subtle. Jain monks have turned the whole situation upside down—first character. Mahavira never begins with character. He says—jnana, darshan, charitra. Ask a Jain monk: he says character first. If character comes before jnana and before darshan, it will be false and hypocritical. How can I live what I have not known? How can that which I have not seen become my true conduct? I can impose, force upon myself.
Man is skillful in violence—toward others and toward himself. You can try to be non-violent, but that non-violence will be false; inside, violence will boil. You may force celibacy—but it will be hollow; inside, sex will be seething.
Mahavira’s way is utterly scientific: the first glimpse—of one’s being—is jnana; then darshan—the whole harmony between one’s being and others’ being is seen, because only then can I be non-violent. If I know I am Atman, and know you are not, there is no need to be non-violent. The day I feel what is within me is within you too—the day my within and your within begin to be one—the day I see myself in you, and it is clear that the wound I inflict on you will be inflicted on myself—that day non-violence can be born.
Mahavira hesitates to set his foot on an ant—not because the ant will suffer; the ant’s pain will be Mahavira’s own pain. No one, in this world, cares for the ant—each cares only for himself. But the day one’s self expands so much that even the ant is included—that is “darshan.” Mahavira felt: what I am, that is within all and everywhere. When this recognition becomes deep, it begins to descend into conduct—it will descend.
So remember: whenever conduct has to be enforced, you are engaged in futility. At best you will produce a hypocrite—one thing outside, another inside—utterly the reverse; and in great restlessness, because life’s arrangement cannot become spontaneous; nothing is flowing from within; non-violence is not arising from the heart, it is being imposed from above. Then a curious thing happens: force non-violence on one side and violence will start on the other, because violence is within—it seeks an outlet. If you block a spring with stones, it will burst forth on the other side; block too much, and it will ooze out as drops from many places—the stream will no longer be a stream, but a thousand leaking drops.
Those who impose conduct from above—their misconduct begins to ooze drop by drop. In such ways that even they do not recognize. Pus collects within; everything rots; only a white covering remains on top.
Mahavira calls charitra that which happens after jnana and darshan. Before that it cannot happen. If man is to be transformed, it cannot begin by changing what he does; it must begin by changing what he is. When being changes, action inevitably changes—it is its shadow.
So Mahavira says: “Jnana, Darshan, Charitra, Tapas, Virya and Upayoga—these are the marks of Jiva.”
“Tapas” too is a word of Mahavira to be understood. Commonly we take tapas to mean torturing oneself, roasting oneself. No greater misunderstanding is possible—old, but traditional. Jain monks feel pride in constantly tormenting and roasting themselves. But tapas is a scientific process—alchemical.
Man’s life-energy is a kind of fire. Those who have tried to understand life say life is the name of an intense fire. Heraclitus in Greece—almost in Mahavira’s time—said fire is the basic element of life. Today science says “electricity” is the basic element of life. But electricity is a form of fire—or fire a form of electricity.
In your body, fire is born every moment. You are a lamp. As a lamp burns—so does your life burn. And, precisely scientifically, what happens in a lamp happens in you.
A lamp is burning—what is it doing? It is absorbing the oxygen around it, the life-air. That oxygen burns in the lamp. So sometimes you may think a storm is coming—you cover the lamp with a vessel to save it. The storm might not have been able to put it out—but your vessel will. The oxygen inside the vessel will finish quickly; when it is finished—the lamp goes out.
Without oxygen, there can be no fire. You are doing the same. By breathing, you give oxygen to the lamp of life. If your breathing stops—you go out. Scientists say life is oxidization. In the language of science this is exact. All life depends on oxygen. You are burning oxygen within; and when it burns, you throw out carbon dioxide. If oxygen were removed from the air even for a moment, life would vanish from the earth.
When oxygen burns within, the flame of life is produced.
This flame of life can be used in two ways. One way is to expel this flame outward in sexual desire.
Remember, when life becomes full within, if you do not use it somehow, you will feel burdened, uneasy. When its flow is blocked, restlessness arises.
Hence the attraction of sex. Sex is a method of throwing away the increased force of life. You become empty again; then, by breathing, you refill life; life accumulates; again you empty.
Tapas is the other process. The name “tapas” is not letting the extra energy of life flow into sex. That heat, that fire—do not let it go outward; turn it upward within. Let the flame of life flow inward—not outward, not toward another.
Sexuality means: toward the other. Sadhana means: toward oneself. Let life-energy move on the inner pilgrimage; let the fire being born flow within. Its scientific methods exist—how it can begin to flow inward.
Remember: whatsoever can flow outward can flow inward. Whatever flows can change direction. If the flow is eastward, it can be westward. One needs to know the process of how to reverse the current. All our life-energy is flowing outward.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was close to death. His wife said, “Nasruddin, if you die first, try to make contact after death. I want to know whether these Hindus are right—whether the soul takes birth again. If I die before you, I will try to contact you.”
Nasruddin died first. For a year his widow waited—nothing. No news. Then she slowly forgot. One evening, while making tea in the kitchen, suddenly Nasruddin’s voice: “Fatima!” She trembled. The voice was exactly like when he returned each evening from the market, from the shop... “Do not be afraid,” said Nasruddin. “As promised, I have come to inform you. I have been born again. And look across to the other field—there stands a beautiful cow—white with black.”
The wife was puzzled—why a cow? She tried to ignore it: “Tell me about yourself—are you happy, blissful?” Nasruddin said, “Very blissful—but let me tell you a little more about that cow. A very lovely, attractive cow, her hide is smooth and soft.” The wife said, “Stop this nonsense about the cow. What have I to do with a cow? I am eager to know of you, and you keep talking of a foolish cow!” Nasruddin said, “Forgive me—It seems I forgot to tell you that now I am a bull in Punjab.” A bull’s interest can only be in cows.
Life, as we know it, is sexuality—man eager for woman, woman eager for man. Tapas means: this eagerness turns toward oneself, away from the other. As long as eagerness is for the other—Mahavira says—samsara is. The day all eagerness returns to oneself, becomes a circle—tapas begins. It is rightly called tapas, because it is exceedingly difficult—to bring eagerness back from the other to oneself. Though it should not be difficult—for even in the other, we are eager for ourselves. Deep down, the eagerness is for oneself; via the other, we come back to ourselves.
The Upanishads say: No husband loves the wife; through the wife he loves only himself. No mother loves the son; through the son she loves only herself. We love only ourselves—but our love comes via someone. When love comes via someone, it is abrahmacharya. When love comes not via anyone, but settles directly in oneself—that is tapas, that is brahmacharya.
The word tapas was necessary, because when someone prevents energy from going out, he becomes heated; life fills with a new fire. That fire works wonders—changes the whole alchemy of life. Every cell changes in the stream of that fire. Alchemists say: when fire is near, iron becomes gold. Tapas is the name of that fire in which your ordinary metal—iron—becomes gold. The garbage burns away.
The Upanishads speak of Nachiketa’s fire. It is this fire. In the Katha Upanishad Nachiketa asks Yama—how can that ultimate, beyond death, be found? Yama says: three kinds of fire must be passed through; and because you ask first, these fires shall be known by your name—the Nachiketa fires. These three fires—Mahavira calls the process tapas.
Returning from the other to oneself is the first fire—losing, dropping the other is the first fire. In the second fire, even the self must be dropped. In the first—the other burns, only “I” remains. But there is no use for “I” when “you” is gone—the “I” is only a reference to “you,” a stuck fragment of “you.” In the second fire, “I” too must burn—let zero remain. And in the third fire even the sense of zero should not remain—such emptiness that not even the feeling remains, “I am now empty,” “I am now egoless.”
These three fires are called tapas. Passing through this tapas one attains that supreme state Mahavira calls “liberation”—the ultimate freedom, Moksha.
“Virya and upayoga—these too are marks of Jiva.”
Virya means manliness, valor. Virya also means sex-energy. Understand that sex-energy has two aspects. One is the bodily aspect we call semen. This is not what Mahavira calls virya. Along with the bodily semen there is an inner aspect—just as body and soul exist, so each semen-cell has a body and a soul. Hence from a semen-cell a new child can be born. Each semen-cell has two parts: its shell, bodily; and hidden within—life, its soul.
This inner life can be used in two ways: one—to give birth to a new body; and the other—to leave the semen-shell in the body and turn the hidden life-current upward within—thus a new birth of oneself happens, a new life of oneself.
Man can give two kinds of birth: one—to children, which is the journey of his body; and one—to himself, which is the journey of his soul. If you would give birth to yourself—free the energy hidden in semen from the body and make it upward-moving.
Mahavira discovered marvelous sutras for this—how the semen-energy can be freed, the shell left in the body and the power hidden within turned inward. Therefore the emphasis is not on hoarding semen, but on freeing its energy.
Mahavira succeeded in this; therefore we called him “Mahavira”—the Great Hero. His given name was Vardhaman, but when he succeeded in freeing the virya-energy, it was such a great struggle and such a victory that we called him Mahavira. Vardhaman was forgotten—Mahavira remained.
Mahavira said: the greatest victorious moment in a man’s life is when he makes his very life the basis of his new birth—when he turns the process of life for his own re-quickening and becomes the master of his life-energy.
This Mahavira calls “purusharth”—manly endeavor. And upayoga—these are the marks of Jiva.
“Sound, darkness, light, radiance, shadow, heat, color, taste, smell and touch—these are the marks of Pudgala.”
Mahavira is supremely scientific in his approach. His outlook is not of a philosopher, but of a scientist. Therefore he would not agree with Shankara that the world is maya, that the world is unreal. Nor with those who say only Brahman is and all else a dream. Mahavira says: your theory is not the issue—test life; do not impose theory upon life. Life is decisive, not your theory. Looking at life it is clear—life is divided in two parts: the conscious and the non-conscious, Atman and matter. Your theories are not the question.
Mahavira is not a doctrinaire—he is an empiricist. He says: look at life; logic is not the issue. And where does logic take man anyway?
Shankara strives mightily to prove the world unreal. But nothing becomes unreal. Shankara can also be asked: if the world is unreal, why so much effort to prove it unreal? Why even talk of what is not? Even Shankara must admit—it is certainly there, even if unreal. Matter has being; it cannot be denied. And there is another angle of Mahavira to understand.
Mahavira says there are two kinds of people in the world. One we call Brahmavadins, who say—Brahman is, matter is not. The other is their headstand—who say—Brahman is not, matter is. But both are monists—one-real-ists. On one side stand Marx, Diderot, Epicurus, Charvaka—only matter is, Brahman is not; Brahman is man’s imagination. Opposite them stand Shankara and the Advaitins, Berkeley and others—matter is unreal, Brahman is real. But both agree on one point—that there can be only one reality. Mahavira says both are far from fact; both are trying to impose their belief. And they even agree—there is little difference. Only this: that the one element, Shankara calls “Brahman,” Marx calls “matter.” There is no other difference. But reality must be one.
Mahavira says: I have no theory to impose. I look at life and find there are two: there is “matter” and there is “consciousness.” I look into the body and find there are two: matter and consciousness. And there is no unity between them, no sameness, no harmony. They are utterly opposite—because the mark of matter is “unconsciousness”; and the mark of Jiva is “consciousness.” This consciousness is a difference so clear that to deny it is futile. Therefore Mahavira accepts both.
But the name Mahavira gives to matter is most marvelous—nowhere else in the world is there such a name. No philosopher has called matter “Pudgala”—they have called it “matter,” “materia,” and a thousand names. But Pudgala is unique; it cannot be translated in any language.
“Padartha”—matter—simply means “that which is.” “Matter” too means—what is. “Pudgala” is a unique word. Pudgala means: that which is, has the capacity to be “not,” and even in being “not,” does not altogether become “not.” Pudgala means flux. Mahavira says—matter is not a state, but a flow.
In Pudgala, the syllable “gal” is significant—what is “melting, dissolving.” You see stone—it seems “is”—but Mahavira says—melting. For tomorrow it will be sand. A melting is on, a transformation is on. It is not; it is becoming. Flowing like a river. Mountains too are becoming.
Nothing stands still in the world. Pudgala is a kinetic word. Pudgala means: matter in process—moving matter. Mahavira says: nothing is stationary; things are flowing. Matter never entirely disappears, nor entirely is; it is only in between—in flow.
Look at your body. It was a child; became young; became old. Once you say—child body; once—youth; once—old; but look closely—the body is never in the state of “is”—it is always “becoming.” When the body is a child, it still is not—it is becoming youth. When youth, it still is not—it is becoming old. The body is becoming—flowing like a river.
Pudgala means flow. Matter is a flow—neither fully “is” so you can say “it is,” nor fully “is not” so you can say “it is not”—poised between the two. A profound vision—science now agrees with Mahavira. Science says—matter, even where it seems at rest, is not at rest.
The chair you sit on is moving; its electrons whirl—at great speed. So great that you cannot fall through—it supports you. As a fan, when it whirls fast, its three blades are not seen; the gaps between seem filled—you see a circle.
If a fan could spin as fast as the electrons in your chair, you could sit on the fan as you sit on the chair—without knowing something is spinning beneath. The speed would be such that before you could slip into a gap, a blade would arrive—the gap would not be available long enough—you would be held up.
Science says now—everything is moving. That piece of stone is not at rest either—flowing within itself. Mahavira’s word is worth pondering. Twenty-five centuries ago he said “Pudgala”—matter is kinetic. Much later Eddington said, only thirty years ago: there is a wrong word in human language—“rest”: nothing is at rest; all things move. Twenty-five centuries earlier Mahavira gave matter the name “Pudgala,” meaning “restlessness.”
Therefore another thing: as long as you are tied to the body, rest is not possible. As long as you are bound to body—there is restlessness. Hence Mahavira says—only freed from body can one be at peace. Because the body’s nature is change. Before you settle, the body changes. Now healthy, now sick. Now right, now wrong.
The body changes. Strictly speaking, the body is never healthy. What you call health is not truly health. The body cannot be healthy in the exact sense—only the soul can be. Therefore our word for health—swasthya—is worth understanding: “being established in oneself.” The body can never be established in itself—it is always flowing; always dependent on the other—needs food, needs breath; it is other-dependent; it can never be truly healthy—only Atman can be healthy.
Mahavira’s word “Pudgala” applies to the whole universe—except consciousness. Only consciousness is not Pudgala. Buddha used Pudgala even for consciousness—because he says: that too is changing. Here is the fundamental difference: Mahavira calls matter Pudgala; Buddha calls even soul Pudgala. Because Buddha says: not only matter—consciousness also changes. Why make an exception? All things change. In the evening you light a lamp; in the morning you put it out; you say you are putting out the same lamp. But Buddha says—no, that lamp changed all night; the flame kept changing, turning to smoke, a new flame arising; the flame was a flow. The lamp you lit—you cannot put it out. It went out unknown when; its progeny remains, its stream remains. In the morning you put out its descendant, not the one you lit. Buddha says: consciousness too burns like a lamp’s flame.
Buddha says: nothing is static; all is Pudgala. Mahavira seems more scientific—for a reason. Everything exists by polar opposition. If all is change, there is no way to measure or know change. If change is known, there must be something unchanging to witness it. Without the opposite, nothing is possible.
Without the opposite, life cannot be. If there were only darkness, you could not know darkness—how without light? If only life and no death, you could not know life—only with death. Only love and no hate—you could not know love. Only friendship and no enmity—you could not know friendship. Life is a polarity.
If it is known—Mahavira will say: if someone knows all is flux, one thing is certain—he himself cannot be flux, for someone must stand outside the flow. It seems the river flows because you stand. If you too flow—you cannot know the river flows.
Understand it so:
Einstein used to say: let two trains run in empty space, parallel, at the same speed—will it be known that they move? In empty space—nothing around. If trees were there, you would know—you move, they stand. But in empty space, if both trains run parallel at the same speed, passengers in both cannot know—they look out, the man opposite remains at the same window, same number—you cannot know movement, because movement is known only if something stands still. Therefore when one train stands and the other moves, sometimes even those in the standing train feel as if theirs is moving. When one stands and one moves—if one is at fifty miles per hour in the opposite direction, then relative speed is a hundred—so when one passes close by, you feel as if your standing train suddenly moved fast. Trees on the side stand—only then you know your train moves. If someday trees decide to run along, then soon you will feel your train is not moving—the station is moving along!
Perception of motion depends on something opposite to motion. All perception depends on the polar opposite. Man is known because woman is; woman because man—the polar opposites!
Even science now arrives here. A new notion—anti-matter: if matter is, its opposite must be. A strange idea has arisen, and a man received the Nobel Prize for it—that anti-matter must exist. He also said something even more strange: time flows from past to future—there must be an opposite current too—from future to past; otherwise time cannot flow.
It is a strange notion, hard to imagine. Heisenberg says: somewhere, at the edge of this very universe, there will be a world where time flows backward—an old man will be born, then become young, then a child, and then return to the womb. He got the Nobel Prize—his point is ontological.
There will be polarity—this is an eternal law. Therefore Buddha’s statement may have meaning in some sense, but not in the scientific sense. Mahavira is right—polarity is. There is Pudgala there—and here within—apudgala, anti-matter. There everything flows outward—in matter; here nothing flows—all stands, all is at rest.
The experience of this stillness is “liberation.” And being tied to the flowing is “samsara.” Samsara means flow. The marks of matter Mahavira has said: sound, darkness, light, radiance, shadow, heat, color, taste, smell, touch—these are marks of matter.
“Jiva, Ajiva, Bandha, Punya, Paap, Asrava, Samvara, Nirjara and Moksha—these are the nine true elements.”
First, Mahavira named six Mahatatvas—metaphysical. The universal world is contained in those six. Now the nine he speaks of concern the seeker, his dimensions and path. The world’s description is completed in the six; then, within each individual, the vast is hidden. Viewing man from the standpoint of sadhana, he is to be divided into these nine.
“Jiva” and “Ajiva”—this is the first division. Ajiva is Pudgala; Jiva is consciousness—the capacity to experience. This capacity can pass through seven states. Those seven are so valuable that Mahavira calls them “tattva”—though they are states: Bandha, Punya, Paap, Asrava, Samvara, Nirjara and Moksha. Each must be understood with care, for Mahavira’s entire path depends on understanding these seven.
Two divisions: Jiva and Ajiva—matter and Paramatman. From matter to Paramatman are seven steps—or from Paramatman down to matter—seven steps. Mahavira’s exposition is unique.
“Bandha”—bondage—is a tattva. No one else has called bondage a tattva. Mahavira does. What does it mean? Do you truly want to be free? All will say, “Yes.” Think a little—you will have to say, “No.”
Erich Fromm wrote a book—Fear of Freedom. People say they want to be free—but no one wants freedom. Think a little—do you? Daily you seek dependency—and until you find a dependence, you are not reassured. We seek bondage daily—a prop, a refuge, a shelter, security. We seek dependence.
A man accumulates wealth thinking: if I have money, I will be free—for power is wealth. But the more the money, the more the dependence. The rich are harder to find than the poor. They think they own the money—but the money becomes the master. It becomes difficult to part with even a penny.
Rockefeller came to London; he stayed in a hotel. He asked for the cheapest room. His photo had been in the papers. The manager recognized him: “You seem to be Rockefeller—and you ask for the cheapest room! When your sons come, they ask for the costliest.” Rockefeller sighed: “They are more fortunate—they have a rich father. I am not so fortunate—I am the son of a poor father.” They squander—sons of a rich father.
We think wealth gives freedom—it gives bondage. A king thinks he is free—for so much power—but the more power, the more bondage, the more entanglement.
In love we feel freedom should come—but it doesn’t. Whose love you fall into—there bondage begins. The wife tries to bind the husband, the husband tries to bind the wife—both hands on each other’s necks. Both strive to make the other a thing, matter. And both succeed—make slaves of each other. So the bravest of husbands, approaching home—watch—his hands and feet tremble; he prepares—what now? Wherever we love—bondage begins.
Love means: we relaxed a little—and the other took possession. We laid down our arms—and the other dominated. And you too are trying to dominate. The father tries to dominate the son; the sons try to dominate the father.
Our entire effort is to be master—but the final result: we become slaves of countless people. Deep down, we fear freedom. Think—if you were alone on the earth—you would be wholly free, no one to enslave you. But would you like to be alone? All comforts present—yet alone? Life’s juice would drain out. You would be fully free—but the juice would be gone.
There is no taste for freedom; hence people hear of Moksha—but do not seek it. Mahavira says: Bandha—dependence—is a fact in our lives. We want bondage—someone to bind us. And curious—if no one binds us, we feel bad; if someone binds us—we feel bad.
A friend asked a film actor: “You must get tired—wherever you go crowds surround you—autographs, pushing—you must be bored.” He said, “I am indeed bored. But there is worse—that no one surrounds and no one asks for autographs—that’s worse.”
I taught in a college. A young woman came to say: a boy sometimes throws letters at her, sometimes pebbles—she was angry. I said, “Sit—and think—if you stayed six years in college and no one ever threw a pebble or a letter—what then?” She became uneasy: “Why do you talk like that? That would be more painful.” I said, “Then let him throw letters. In what you say I see not only your anger, but your vanity. There is pride on your face—that someone throws pebbles, someone writes letters. Go, meditate and come back—are you also taking relish in it? I know girls no one even looks at—they are miserable.”
I have heard: a woman—fifty years old—unmarried—no one came to bind her or be bound—one morning phoned the fire department, in great panic: “Two young men are trying to enter my window—come quickly!” The firemen said, “Madam, you called the wrong place—this is the fire department; call the police.” She said, “I don’t want the police—I want the fire department.” “Why?” “Bring a long ladder—their ladder is too short!”
For fifty years if no one throws a pebble or writes a letter—this is bound to happen.
Man is eager to be bound. If he is not, he suffers—feels useless, meaningless. If someone binds him—then he suffers—how to be free? Man is a tangle—because he cannot see clearly what is what.
First understand: Bandha is a tattva within—we want to be bound. So long as we want bondage, no one in the world can free us.
The strange thing: if you want to be bound, you will bind yourself even to the one who comes to free you—people are bound to Mahavira. The element of bondage is at work. They say, “We are Jains.” What does your being Jain mean? Mahavira died twenty-five centuries ago—why keep clinging?
I observe: when I speak on Mahavira, certain faces appear; when I speak on Lao Tzu—others. You have no bondage to Lao Tzu, the bondage-element is toward Mahavira. Then you are not seen where Lao Tzu is. You appear where your bondage is—where your neck is tied, there you go—slaves.
Mahavira wants to free you—but it makes no difference. What can Mahavira do—you want bondage. Mahavira says, “Stand on your own feet.” You say, “You are our refuge.” Mahavira says, “No one is anyone’s support”—you say, “Without you how will we cross the ocean of becoming?” He says, “Because of me you are drowning.”
Through the other a man drowns; through himself he rises. No guru can rescue. But you are determined to drown. Your whole effort is to drown somehow.
See this inner element clearly. As long as the tendency to bind is at work, you cannot be touched even by the breeze of liberation. Observe how wherever you go, you are eager to become bound. Being free feels painful—why?
Because being alone feels painful. Alone, you cannot sit—you open a newspaper, a book, the radio, television—if none—clubs, hotels, Rotary, Lions—so many arrangements—why? What difficulty is there in being a little alone? What suffering is there in being with oneself? Why is the other so necessary?
Alone—fear arises. Alone, the whole problem of life stands before you. In a crowd you know who you are, because the crowd reminds you—your name, your village, your house, your profession. Alone—there is no reminder.
And the labels given by the crowd fall away in solitude. Therefore Mahavira says: the one who would be free of bondage must take delight in solitude—ras in being alone—joy in oneself. Slowly leave dependence on the other. Come to that place where, if I am alone—I am sufficient.
If someone is sufficient alone—the bondage-element has dropped. If not, he will bind—he will search. He needs some prop with which to drown. When someone else drowns us, we can blame the other—see faults in him. But why did we search for that other? And when you marry a wrong woman—you think, “A mistake—I married the wrong one.” You do not know—you can marry only a wrong woman. Do not search for the right one.
I have heard of a man who died unmarried while searching for the perfect woman. He had vowed—until the perfect woman is found, I will not marry. In old age he was asked: “You searched all your life—did you not find a perfect woman on this vast earth?” He said: “At first it was very hard—then I did find one...” “Then why didn’t you marry?” “She too was searching for the perfect man.” Then I knew—it is impossible! It cannot be.”
She too perhaps died unmarried—we do not know.
We find only what we are. Only that can come to us. So whomever you find—that is your own search, your own mind reflected. If you found a wrong woman—you are very skillful at finding wrong ones. You will find another of the same kind. You cannot do otherwise—because you are the finder.
All that we do around us—sorrow, anxiety, pain—are our own devices. You will be amazed: if your miseries were taken away, you would not agree—because they are your creations; they serve a purpose.
People come to me—they talk of their worries. And they talk of their worries as if it is some great achievement. They take relish in anxiety. People narrate their suffering with such relish—you get bored; they do not. Their tale of woe—how much relish they take! In the West a whole profession has arisen—psychoanalysis—based on the fact that people take relish in telling their suffering. No one is willing to listen now—no one has time. A professional listener is needed. The psychoanalyst is a professional listener—he takes money. He only listens—perhaps his attention is only a show.
I have heard: one day a young disciple asked Freud: “I get tired after listening to two, three, four patients—and you, even in the evening, look fresh!” Freud said: “Who listens? Only the face is arranged as if listening.” But the person, unburdening, gets well.
Talking of suffering brings relish—one feels important, that something is happening in one’s life.
A woman went to a doctor: “Do some operation.” The doctor said, “There is no need—you are healthy.” She said, “That may be—but whenever women meet—one says her appendix was removed, another—tonsils; nothing has happened to me. Life is passing uselessly—do something—for conversation!”
Man relishes his disease, his pain, his worry. Mahavira calls this very relish “bandha.”
“Punya” and “Paap”—Mahavira’s notion is different. He even calls Punya and Paap “pudgalic”—material. He says, when you do Paap (sin), specific atoms gather around your consciousness; when you do Punya (merit), different atoms gather. Therefore he says: by Punya no one is freed—Punya too collects atoms. Through Punya you may get a good body—Punya’s atoms; through Paap a bad body—bad atoms.
He says: Paap is like iron handcuffs; Punya is like golden handcuffs. But golden handcuffs are not called handcuffs—people call them ornaments. If you want to bind a woman—do not gift iron handcuffs—give gold; people call them ornaments. Gold binds more than iron—because iron creates no relish. Therefore Punya also binds.
Bad deeds bind—good deeds also bind. Every karma is pudgalic—this is revolutionary. When you do auspicious acts, auspicious atoms gather around you—literally. Around your consciousness good elements assemble. That is why you feel good. As flowers bloom around and one feels good—so with Punya. With Paap you feel bad—as if sitting in stench.
So when you steal—you feel bad; when you lie—you feel bad; when you are angry—you feel bad; the reason is—you are inviting wrong, distorted, stench-full atoms to yourself. And when you are compassionate, kind, when you give a hand to the fallen—even a small act—smiling at an old man whom no one smiles at—then a lightness descends within; you begin to fly; wings sprout.
This sense of flying, this lessening of gravitation, this grace-filled state—Mahavira calls “Punya.”
According to him, whatsoever makes you light, joyous, blooming like a flower—is Punya. And whatsoever makes you heavy, stony, sinking—adds burden—is Paap. What pulls you down—is Paap; what lifts you up, makes you light, opens the sky—is Punya.
If you grasp this, you will be surprised: if your religion makes you heavy and serious—it is Paap. If your religion gives you festivity, joy, dance—only then is it Punya. The sign of Punya is—you become light, dancing like a child. Paap means—you become heavy, like a stone.
Look closely at our monks, sannyasins—is there festivity in their lives? Without festivity, Moksha is far—Punya has not yet arrived. Can your monk laugh? Laugh like a child? Dance? Be jubilant?
No—he is heavy. And not only heavy—if you approach him laughing, he feels insulted. He makes you heavy too. So when you enter a temple, not only your shoes you leave outside—you leave your lightness too. You straighten the spine, lower the eyes, make them heavy—and enter.
There seems no place in the temple for a living man—only for half-dead. If children enter a temple, all feel disturbed. The truth is the reverse: children bring Punya to the temple. If you too could jump and dance and sing like children—only then will the temple give elements of Punya.
I say again and again—sometimes a garden can hold Punya, sometimes a riverbank, sometimes a mountain solitude. Not necessarily a temple. Temples have been occupied by serious people since old days. The serious are dangerous—they drive out the light-hearted.
Economics has a law: bad coins drive good coins out of circulation. If a counterfeit note is in your pocket, you will spend that before the real one. The counterfeit pushes the real out.
Serious people always push out cheerfulness. They have created such a situation that cheerfulness itself looks sinful. If you laugh—you are a sinner. You must wear a long, weeping face—then you look virtuous.
Mahavira says: the element of Punya is that which makes one cheerful. This is exactly right. If you have ever felt lightness in life—know that there you attracted Punya. If you feel heaviness, burden—body grows weighty, soul loses strength—body smothers.
The search for cheerfulness is the search for Punya. And remember—one who wants to be cheerful will make others cheerful; cheerfulness is contagious. If all around you are crying, you cannot be cheerful alone—you will be pressed down. One who wants to be blissful will not inflict sorrow on others—because the basic condition for bliss is a blissful climate around you. One who wants to remain miserable will produce miserable faces around himself—for only amidst misery can one stay miserable.
When religion is born—it dances; when religion becomes a sect—it dies—a corpse—serious. Those who sit around it become like neighbors around a corpse. In temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras—people sit around a corpse.
The cheer that must have been around Mahavira has not remained around Mahavira’s statue. Just look at Mahavira’s face—your own temple’s statue—look closely. It is utterly light—no burden even in a trace; innocent like a small child; no weight, no worry. Mahavira stood naked too—only a small child can stand naked.
Not that if you stand naked you will become a child—some madmen too stand naked. But if you stand naked and you know you are naked—you are not a child.
Mahavira had become so light that he stood naked. He would not even have known he was naked. And others too would not perceive his nakedness. An innocence, a virginity within—where all burdens have fallen.
Mahavira says: Punya makes one light; Paap makes one heavy. But remember: by Punya alone one is not freed. Punya frees from Paap. And the last moment comes when one must be free even of Punya—however light, it is still a little heavy. As a thing, it has some weight. Even the finest muslin bears weight. That too is an obstacle to Moksha.
So Mahavira says: the first station is freedom from Paap; the second—freedom from Punya; and the third is not a station—it is the goal, for then nothing remains to be left.
“Asrava” means: to invite, to let in, to allow to flow in. You open to certain things. A beautiful woman passes—within you a door opens. If the wife is beside you—it is different; you hold the door shut. If no wife—the door opens.
“Asrava” means: your tendency to open—toward Paap. Wherever wrong is—you open. There is a liquor-shop—something inside says: Come.
Asrava means: the tendency to open toward the wrong. It is in us. We all live in asrava. It may be that each has his own conditions.
I have heard: a sadhu earned his living by ferrying people across the river in a small boat. One day a smuggler said, “Take this bundle of gold across—I’ll give you a hundred rupees.”
“Never speak so,” said the sadhu. “I cannot enter into any sin. I row only to earn my livelihood...”
The smuggler climbed into the boat: “A thousand.” The sadhu said, “Don’t talk of money—you cannot tempt me with money.” “Ten thousand.”
At “ten thousand” the sadhu pushed him into the water: “Why not speak plainly? You were coming too close to my asrava. Ten thousand—my door was about to open. Go, get away!”
Each has a limit. We all draw our own line. One is tempted at five; one at fifty; one at five hundred; one at five lakhs. It makes no difference. It only means your asrava-door has a condition—when that is met, it opens. Whenever you feel restless—it means the door is about to open. You pass by many women utterly at ease—their presence does not knock enough to open your door. Where restlessness begins—the door wants to open. Restlessness means—within something wants to open and something from outside seeks to enter.
It is essential to be constantly aware of what we are open to. If open to Paap, Paap will gather; if open to Punya, Punya will gather. To what you are open—you will seek that. Every man searches his own asrava. If you are a thief, you will soon mix with thieves. If you are religious, you will soon seek religious people. If you are open toward saintliness, you will find a saint, begin satsang. If you are dishonest—dishonest people will gather around you.
Whatever you are within—you slide that way. Each person finds his own world. It is not necessary that if you lived in Mahavira’s village, you would go to him. Many did not. They felt no business with him.
I lived eight years in one house. Above me lived a professor. Eight years! When he walked, I could hear his footsteps; when we talked below, our voices must have gone up. Never even a namaste occurred. Then he was transferred—became principal somewhere. Two years later I went to speak in his college, in his new town. On hearing me he wept: “What happened? For eight years I sat directly above you!”
Contact forms only when something opens within. Watch which way you are open. Mahavira calls asrava a tattva—openness. If open toward Paap, life descends—and the signs: you grow heavy, unhappy, worried, unhinged. If open toward Punya, life becomes light, cheerful; life becomes a song; unknown flowers bloom; strange fragrance surrounds you.
“Samvara”: Mahavira says—if asrava is letting in, samvara is stopping. Letting things in is one side; letting energy out is another. Much energy constantly goes out of you—for no reason, only out of unawareness. To conserve it—to stop it—that too is a tattva.
You walk the road—you read every advertisement—what for? Whatever you read will not leave you untouched—it enters—so asrava happens. All kinds of rubbish go in: “Panama saras cigarette che”—you read it; you carry it. It accumulates—and will work. And when you read—your energy goes out; your consciousness goes out; your power goes out.
Even in small acts energy is wasted. So Mahavira says: a sadhu should walk looking four steps ahead. No need to look more—four are enough. When he has walked four, the eyes will see four more. But keep eyes on the ground. Reasons are many: when you walk looking at the earth, you will be surprised—your eyes do not tire. Looking elsewhere—eyes tire—because the earth is our life-giver—we are born of it. The body is a tree that has grown from the earth; its particles are soil.
When you walk looking at the earth, the energy that goes to the earth returns—doubled. Look at grass—energy returns. Do not look at people’s acts—do not look at people. Save yourself—man is dangerous. The smallest thing about him pulls you out.
But we keep wasting energy—samvara does not occur to us. We do not know the joy of samvara. Mahavira says there is a joy in samvara. When pure energy is within—you do not use it—it simply is; it boils, it dances—no use—you simply enjoy pure power—that is samvara. The one who avoids asrava and practices samvara—becomes powerful. He will have virya; he will have purusharth; he will have courage. If he looks into your eyes—something will stir in you. But your eyes are spent—like a fired cartridge—however you look—nothing stirs within the other.
Try an experiment. For seven days walk looking at the ground. On the eighth—look at someone. A strange experience: if for seven days you have looked only at the ground, and a man walks ahead of you—fix both eyes on the back of his head and say within, “Turn and look”—he will turn that very moment. You have power. You need not do it—try once or twice if you must—but it too wastes energy.
If people are hypnotized near Mahavira—it is not that he hypnotizes them. What purpose has Mahavira? But he is so full of energy that naturally you are drawn like iron to a magnet. You may feel you were hypnotized, that Mahavira drew you—he is not drawing you. But conserved energy attracts—becomes magnetic.
“Nirjara” and “Moksha.”
“Nirjara” is Mahavira’s special and precious word. Nirjara means: what karmas we have accumulated over births, what bondages we have taken—Paap, Punya—these have gathered around us like dust—like a traveler’s clothes collect dust on the road. When the dust is shaken off the clothes—the falling of dust is called Nirjara.
Nirjara means: what we have accumulated over births—let it all fall; let us become empty again, a zero. Nirjara means: let the whole hoard fall. In this hoard—there are very subtle hoards: our knowledge, our memory, our karmas, our sanskaras of many births—all gathered. Let them begin to drop. The process of Nirjara—this is Mahavira’s yoga—how they drop.
Change asrava. Do not keep the door open toward the wrong. Do not let power go to waste; let it go only when needed. Practice samvara. And what has been collected within—the old—will stop collecting anew if asrava and samvara are in awareness. But what is already there—toward that be a witness. Just watch it—do not feed it power.
Someone abuses you. The moment he abuses—you feel like abusing back. Watch this urge—this is an old habit, an old sanskara. Whenever abused—you abused; it is only a trace. Watch it—do not let it act. For if you abuse, you send energy outward; a new sanskara is formed; new karma is made.
Mahavira stands in a forest. A cowherd comes: “I am in a hurry—my cows are sitting here—keep watch.” He does not know Mahavira is silent. He does not hear a yes or no—he rushes off. By evening he returns—Mahavira stands silent as before. He has said neither yes nor no. He has said neither for a long time. He has loosened all ties with the outer, broken all bridges. The cows got up and wandered into the forest. The cowherd returns: “Where are my cows?” Seeing Mahavira silent, he thinks—the man is cunning. “Where are my cows?” Still silent—he thinks perhaps a madman. “What kind of man—neither opens eyes nor speaks! I told the wrong man.” He goes to search in the forest. While he searches, the cows, having grazed, return and sit around Mahavira as before. Evening deepens—they return to their shed. The cowherd comes back and sees the cows near Mahavira. “This man intended to steal them—hid them and now has brought them out—now in the dark he would have run.” He thrashes Mahavira hard; and seeing he does not speak—he says, “Are you deaf?” Anger rises—he picks two sticks and drives them into Mahavira’s ears. Mahavira keeps watching. The man goes away.
It is a beautiful story: Indra felt hurt. The divine feels pain when the innocent is troubled. He came and spoke within Mahavira’s heart: “It hurts—without cause you were hurt.” Mahavira answered within: “Nothing happens without cause. I must have done something sometime—this is the fruit. Nirjara has happened; one account ended; one trouble ended. That man did what he had to do.” Indra said, “Say something—let us arrange protection, put some restriction.” Mahavira said: “Do not do anything. If I ask you to do something—that asking becomes a new bondage—a new karma. Then I must settle that too. Leave me. Let the old accounts be paid. I want no new trading; I am shrinking my business.”
Nirjara means: let the old accounts finish. When someone abuses—just watch—so the old account is paid. Slowly a moment comes—every sanskara falls. When Nirjara is complete, what remains—that is Moksha—the free state—where consciousness carries no bondage, no weight, no conditioning, no sanskara.
These are true elements. To place one’s trust in such true elements—by the Sadguru’s instruction, or by one’s own feeling—is called Samyaktva.
Samyaktva means: becoming balanced—totally balanced. This can happen in two ways: through a Sadguru’s teaching, or by one’s own effort.
“Sadguru” means: one who knows himself. Not by a pundit’s instruction. One who has known—by his instruction. But what can happen by his instruction—if you do not receive it? Like rainwater falling on the body, it will roll off and be lost in dust.
When rain falls—if you catch it in your mouth while it is still in the sky—it is pure. If it touches the ground—impure. Hearing pundits is collecting water fallen to the ground. Hearing a Mahavira is taking the pure drop straight from the sky into your mouth.
Sadguru means: one who has known—not one who repeats others’ knowing; one whose is his own vision, his own seeing—by his instruction... If you are prepared to receive—mind open, heart unlatched—then shraddha arises. Simply by listening—if the listener is ready. Hence Mahavira gave the listener a special name—“Shravaka.”
Not all who hear are shravakas. Many are listening here—not all are shravakas. The shravaka—listening so heartfully, so sympathetically, so lovingly—that there is no inner opposition, no resistance, no defense. He is ready to flow wherever the master leads—even if to death. In that simplicity of listening—shraddha is born. Or—by one’s own effort.
One in a hundred can do it by his own effort—but his effort succeeds because in past births he has been near a Sadguru—some glimpse, some contact from someone who knew has already happened.
As birth does not come by oneself—it comes through parents—so too shraddha does not truly come by oneself; it also comes through the Sadguru. If a man tries to give birth to himself—becoming his own mother and father—what a trouble! Perhaps impossible. Likewise the birth of knowing—near one where knowing has happened—occurs easily.
Not that he gives you knowledge. Knowledge is not a thing to be given. The Guru is a catalytic agent. In his presence the event happens. The event happens within you, through you—but his presence gives you courage. In his presence you can become innocent. His music calms you. His presence lifts you to heights you cannot reach by your own strength. On those heights the vision of truth happens. That state of the vision of truth is called “Samyaktva.”
Such a person becomes balanced—samyak. And for one who attains Samyaktva, the greatest difficulty of life is removed; the direction changes—the journey turns. He turns his back to the world—and his face toward Moksha.
Enough for today.
Sit for five minutes, sing kirtan—and then go...!