Mahaveer Vani #39

Knowledge, vision, character and tapas — through this fourfold path of the inner journey, the mumukshu being attains moksha, the auspicious destiny.

Knowledge cannot be taught. Teaching can only be of information. Knowledge happens; it arises, it manifests. Knowledge is not something that can be poured from outside into the inside. Knowledge is the name of that current of life which flows from within outward. Information comes from outside to within; knowledge moves from within to without. Hence no school, no university can give knowledge; they can give information. No scripture, no guru can give knowledge; they can give information. Whatever can be given will not be knowledge — keep this fundamental point clear.

Knowledge is the very nature of the soul. You are born with it — as the tree is hidden in the seed, so knowledge is hidden within you. Therefore, to attain knowledge nothing has to be added; only the shell of the seed has to be broken. If the seed dissolves into the soil, dies in the soil, the sprouting of knowledge begins.

We are born carrying knowledge. Knowledge is the inner state of our being. The shell of the seed is the obstacle. Hence the process of attaining knowledge is negative. Something has to be broken, not acquired; something has to be erased, not constructed; something has to be dropped, not built. If asmita — the sense of 'I' — breaks, if the feeling of 'I' collapses, the birth of knowledge happens.

Therefore Mahavira has said: except for ego, there is no other ignorance. And the knowledge we bring in from outside, that too only strengthens our ego. Ego should collapse; instead, it gets fortified. The more we get to 'know', the more the idea takes root that I have known — and the 'I' becomes stronger. What we call knowledge becomes food for our ego. What Mahavira calls knowledge happens upon the death of ego. This difference must be understood clearly. And our 'I' knows no boundary. We say, 'Paramatma is infinite', we say, 'Atman is infinite', we say, 'Truth is infinite' — but these are only borrowed words. The fact of our own experience is only this: that ego is infinite — and ego is untrue.

I have heard: one night General de Gaulle was asleep in his bed. In the middle of the night Madame de Gaulle said, 'My God, it is so cold!' De Gaulle turned over and said, 'Madame, in bed you can call me Charles.'

The wife is saying, 'My God, the night is so cold' — and de Gaulle thought she was addressing him as 'My God'!

Ego is infinite.

I have also heard that once General de Gaulle told the American President Johnson: 'I received direct orders from the Divine to save France.' Johnson said, 'Strange — because I don't remember to have given any orders to you!'

Every man is vast in his ego, boundless. The one infinity we do know is ego, asmita — and nothing is a greater lie; for in the purest core of our being there is never any experience of 'I'. The more impure one is, the stronger the experience of 'I'. As one becomes purified, the 'I' disappears. In the state of supreme purity, the 'I' is not left at all. As dross is burnt away from gold in fire, so ego is burned away from life. Ego is the shell around the seed; the sprout is hidden within.

This does not mean ego is altogether useless; the seed-shell too has meaning. For the sprout within cannot even be, if there is no shell. So the shell is necessary up to a point — it protects, safeguards. But that which protects up to a point becomes a barrier beyond that point. If the shell then refuses to break, to dissolve, the seed will die.

Ego is absolutely needed for life’s initial protection and security. A child born without ego will not survive, because life is a struggle. In that struggle a sense of 'I' is needed. Without it he will be wiped out. Others' 'I's will destroy him. The 'I' is a primary necessity. But if at a certain stage it becomes so strong that when the moment to drop it arrives we cannot drop it, a danger has arisen. Then what was a ladder becomes an obstacle; what we had taken support of becomes bondage.

Ego is necessary in the primary stage — and at the final stage it is necessary that it break. That is why, as soon as a child is born, we begin to teach him ego. But if someone dies still wrapped in ego, then the seed dies within the shell, it never sprouted. That sprout never knew the sky, never knew the sun’s light. Hidden, blind, in darkness it died. The opportunity was lost.

With birth, ego is necessary; before death, it must be lost. And of the one whose ego dissolves before death, Mahavira says, his death becomes moksha.

All die. If we die with ego, we will have to enter life again, because life has not yet come to know itself. Then another life — so that life may be known. If we die with ego, die with the shell intact, we will have to be born again as a seed. If the shell breaks and we taste the open sky — moksha, freedom — if life, freed from the shell, begins to fly towards the sky, then there is no need for another birth. The schooling is complete; the opportunity has been used; what we could be, we became; what was our destiny, it flowered; meaning, intention, fulfillment have been attained. Then there is no need of any further birth.

If ego dies before death, moksha becomes available.

Now, let us take the sutra:

Mahavira says: 'The mumukshu-Atman, through knowledge, comes to know the living entities and other substances.'

Two things. First, we must understand 'the mumukshu-Atman'. There are two kinds of people. One, who remain engaged in mere curiosity. Behind that curiosity there is no life-force. They do not want to do anything; they only keep asking. Even if by asking they come to know, nothing changes in their lives; only their information increases. Whatever they collect, they collect in memory. Their life is not transformed by it. Such souls Mahavira called jigyasu — the merely curious.

Curiosity is auspicious; it is not bad. But only curiosity is suicidal. A man may continue asking and collecting for lives upon lives — still no transformation will happen. And no taste of bliss ever comes by gathering information. Yes, one thing does happen: the man becomes more intoxicated by the pride of knowledge. Therefore pundits, more than the ignorant, get lost in deeper darkness. The ego of knowledge is the greatest ego in this world; even the ego of wealth is not so great. That is why, to preserve the ego of knowledge, a man can renounce wealth, can renounce fame, can renounce position. He can drop everything — but if the ego of knowledge is saved, he is ready to drop all else.

This has happened in this land with the Brahmins. The Brahmin had neither wealth nor position — yet emperors touched his feet. The ego of knowledge was strong. The wealthy also touched his feet. Even the wealthy felt, 'In front of the Brahmin, we are poor', and emperors felt, 'In front of the Brahmin, we are powerless.' So the Brahmin remained poor and yet was content; remained humble in means and yet content; lived in a hut and yet content. Therefore no revolution could happen in India — because revolutions are always led by Brahmins. The Brahmins of India were deeply satisfied. There was no scope for revolution. Shudras do not start revolutions, because the idea of revolution arises in those who have great intellectual restlessness.

Marx is a Brahmin, Lenin is a Brahmin, Trotsky is a Brahmin, Mao is a Brahmin — all intellectuals. These are men of the mind. In India, Marx and Mao and Lenin and Trotsky could not be born, because the emperor and the wealthy too were touching the Brahmin’s feet. The arrangement was so pleasing, so nourishing to their ego, that revolution was out of the question. Even in Russia revolution will become difficult, because Russia is doing what India once did. In Russia the intellectual is greatly honored — the university professor, the writer, the poet, the musician. They are supremely respected. And as long as they are honored, no upheaval can happen.

The ego of knowledge is the subtlest. And according to Mahavira, mere curiosity will only fill you with ego. Mumuksha is needed; curiosity is not enough. Mumuksha means: I am not eager to know as a goal in itself. If I want to know, it is only so that I may be transformed. Knowing is a means for me, not the end. Knowing alone will not satisfy me; by knowing I will seek to change myself. I have to transform my life — that is my goal. Purity has to come, freedom has to come — that is my goal. Let there remain nowhere any impurity, any kashaya; let there remain no bondage; let there not remain any thorn of sorrow — that is my goal. And if I want to know, it is only to know how this can happen. For the jigyasu, knowledge is the end; for the mumukshu, knowledge is the means and freedom the goal.

Buddha’s illustration is precious. Buddha kept saying: a man was struck by an arrow and fell. He was about to faint. The villagers gathered. They wished to pull out the arrow. Buddha too was passing through that village; he reached there as well. But the man said, 'First — before you pull out the arrow — let me know who shot it. Before you pull it out, let me know from which direction it came. Before you pull it out, let me know whether it is poisoned or not.' Buddha said: 'Fool! Let the arrow be pulled out first — then you can satisfy all your curiosities. Your questions are so long that if we try to satisfy them, by the time they are answered, the lamp of your life may go out!'

Thereafter Buddha made this event his base. He told people: 'Do not ask what God is; do not ask what the soul is. Ask only this: how can one be free from suffering, how can one be free from the arrow?' Life is pierced by an arrow; life is burning every moment — and we are asking childish curiosities! They appear very philosophical; talk of God seems very philosophical. But Buddha says, not even a little. The matter of the essential is just this: you are unhappy. Why are you unhappy, and how can unhappiness be ended? The essential is just this: you are in a prison. Where is the gate, where is the key — so that you can step out of prison? How can life be freed from this turmoil in which we are encircled, from this pain and anguish in which we lie? How can life come out of the pit, out of the darkness into light? That alone is essential.

There is a fundamental difference between mumukshu and jigyasu, and it is precious. Because if one keeps walking on the path of curiosity, one will enter philosophy. If one walks on the path of mumuksha, one enters religion — not philosophy. Religion is very practical, real, scientific. How can the real be changed? Religion has nothing to do with idle chatter.

But mumuksha must be there. Let your questions not arise from the intellect; let them arise from the experience of life — then they become mumuksha. Someone comes to me and asks: 'Is there God or not?' I ask him: 'From what experience of your life is this question arising? If there is God, what will you do? If there is not, what will you do?' The man says: 'I only want to know — whether He is or is not.'

If He is, the man will remain as he is. If He is not, he will remain as he is.

What difference does it make if one man believes in Jain philosophy, another in Hindu philosophy; one in Islam, one in Christianity…? Their philosophies differ, but the men are exactly alike. Abuse any of them and they will be angry — whether God figures in their philosophy or not; whether they believe the soul survives death or not; whether they accept rebirth or deny it. Hurl an insult and the test will show that all four are alike.

What difference is there between a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain?

The difference will be in talk; within, not a bit. Dig into the man and he is exactly the same. Only the skin differs.

Mumuksha means: what I want to know, I will use to change my life; for me it will be a tool — through it I will become a new man. Otherwise knowledge too will become an intoxication, a kind of wine. Many people use knowledge exactly like wine — to keep themselves forgetful. Wine means that in which we can forget ourselves, and by forgetting, a swagger is produced. Look at the swagger of the pundit! The swagger of the Brahmin has no equal in the world. And it has become so natural, mixed in the blood, that he does not even notice that he is swaggering.

The more unconscious we are, the stronger the ego becomes.

I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin went to a tavern. He ordered a glass of wine. People were surprised to see what he was up to. He poured a little of the wine into his coat pocket and drank the rest. Then a second glass; people were even more startled. Again he poured a little into his pocket and drank the rest.

In this way five glasses — every time, a little into the pocket, the rest he drank.

All became curious — what was he doing? After five glasses, his spine straightened, he stood stiff and proclaimed: 'Now I can knock down any bum in this place — anybody there?'

Lean and thin Nasruddin — he could not knock down anyone there. But unconsciousness strengthens the ego. And then, the miracle: from his pocket a mouse came out, and Mulla said, 'The same goes for any rotten cat too!'

Not only man — even the mouse, if he is in his senses, is afraid of the cat. He knows his condition. If he becomes unconscious, he challenges even the cat.

Ego thickens with stupor; it melts with awakening. The more awake a person becomes, the more egoless he will be; the more asleep, the more full of ego.

The mumukshu’s search is not to feed the ego. For him, knowledge is not wine; knowledge is a process of life-transformation. He will wish to know only that much which can change his life. He will be eager only for that which can be brought into practice.

Therefore Mahavira says: 'The mumukshu-Atman knows the elements through knowledge.'

The elements of which we have spoken — the six great categories, then the nine tattvas — the mumukshu-Atman tries to understand these elements only so that through them he may renew his life; so that a new birth may happen.

If this remains in your awareness, then knowledge will not become a stupor for you — it will become liberation. If this slips from awareness, you can pile up a mountain of knowledge, just as one piles up wealth. And the bigger the safe, the greater the swagger of the owner. Your knowledge will increase — and your swagger will increase.

Take care that knowledge does not become swagger. Therefore, in this country, we defined the fundamental sign of knowledge thus: that which increases humility is knowledge. Otherwise, to call it knowledge is futile — it is wine in the name of knowledge. And when one seeks knowledge with the intent of mumuksha, with the intent to change oneself, very soon vision begins to happen. Things begin to be seen. Whatever he experiences, whatever he understands, wherever understanding arises, there — there — a direct seeing begins. It must be so. For what I truly understand must enter my experience.

How many times you have heard that anger is a sin, that anger is bad, that anger is poison, that anger is madness. You have heard — but it has not become your vision. Because you continue to be angry. You have heard; it has become knowledge. If you have to explain to someone, you can. Your scholarship is for others, not for yourself. You will still go on becoming angry. Then this understanding has not become vision; it is not understanding at all. Like trash, you have stuffed words in your skull. You can repeat them. You have become a gramophone record — but your inner being remains untouched.

If truly you have experienced that anger is poison — if this has grown dense as perception, if you have tested it in life, observed it, become angry and watched: with eyes closed, meditated — 'poison is spreading through the body; smoke is rising in the mind — am I as I was before, or am I unconscious? Is my mind misty, or sharp and clear? Has smoke gathered within, are things disordered, or are things in their right places and I am collected? Am I in samyak order, or have I become disordered?' If, by being angry, you have known anger in experience — and that knowing becomes a direct seeing — then vision begins. Then you will not say, 'The scriptures say anger is poison.' You will say, 'I know anger is poison.' And the very moment you know anger is poison, it becomes impossible to drink it — for who knowingly drinks poison? Who, knowing a stone is a stone, eats it like bread?

Knowledge becomes revolution. But only when understanding begins to transform into vision. What you have heard from a Sadguru — as Mahavira has said, through the Sadguru’s upadesh — what you have heard from one in whom a revolution has happened, to connect that hearing with the experience of your life is what is called sadhana.

You heard — and it remained merely heard, a matter of the ear; it went in vain. Not only in vain — harmful too. For now you will become garrulous; you will start talking; you will begin to tell others.

Our condition is like this: someone tells us there is a diamond mine, and we run to the marketplace to tell people, 'Go there, there is a diamond mine!' — while we ourselves beg for alms.

Will anyone believe that you know of a diamond mine? You beg for alms, and whoever gives you a few coins you tell him, 'You go; the diamond mine is there — diamonds worth millions are lying there.'

If you came to know of a diamond mine, the first thing you would do is ensure that no one else finds out. The first impulse would be: May no one else know! And before anyone else knows, let this mine be emptied — you would not go about preaching in the bazaar.

This is the difference between the mumukshu and the jigyasu. As soon as the mumukshu comes to know there is a diamond here, he begins to dig. And the day the diamond is in his hand and its lustre begins to shine in his life, that day people themselves begin to ask him: What has happened? What have you found? What nectar, what new doorway, what music has entered your life — whose fragrance, whose sound touches others too?

'The mumukshu-Atman knows the substances by knowledge, and through darshan comes to shraddha.'

And until there is experience, there is no shraddha. People go on saying, 'Have faith' — but how can there be shraddha until there is one’s own experience? Someone says, 'Sugar is sweet.' How can there be shraddha just by hearing? And once you know, how can there be disbelief? The day someone places sugar in your mouth and you taste the sweetness, shraddha happens. While sweetness is on your tongue, no one will need to tell you, 'Have faith that sugar is sweet.'

Let understanding become vision, vision become experience — then experience becomes shraddha.

The world is not short of shraddha; the world is short of mumuksha. People are curious. And education has greatly helped this curiosity, because our entire pedagogy stands on curiosity, not on mumuksha. This is the difference between the education of the East and the West.

Our education was based on mumuksha: 'Learn that by which life changes.' Today’s education stands on: 'Learn that by which livelihood runs.' There is no question of transforming life — it is enough that life somehow runs. Convenience, money, running the life — livelihood is the base, not life.

Our total effort in the East was that when the child goes to the gurukul for the first day, he goes in the spirit of mumuksha — with the feeling that he will return transformed. He will return a new man, he will return dvija — twice-born. He is going to the Guru — he must return new. That he may come back having learned some things is not valuable. Valuable is that he returns with a new experience of Being, of existence. That new experience becomes the cornerstone of his life. Upon that foundation one can rise even to moksha.

From mumuksha arises knowledge; from knowledge, darshan; from darshan, shraddha. Mahavira does not say to you: accept that there is moksha. He does not say: accept that the world is suffering. He says: experience it. And the experience of all experiencers brings them to the same conclusion. The essence of all who experience will always be one. Those who talk will never have any harmony — reflect on this.

There are thousands of philosophies in the world — but science is one. Why is it that philosophies are so many and science is one? The reason is simple: philosophy is often talk; there is no realm of experience where two people can meet. Science is experience, experiment — one must meet. So wherever in the world a scientific discovery is made, scientists everywhere — today or tomorrow — will agree; they have to. If it is truth, they have to agree. And the touchstone is experience. You cannot deny it; you cannot say, 'I am a Muslim — in my house water does not turn to steam at one hundred degrees; you are a Hindu — in your house it might; our philosophies differ — in my house water turns to steam at one hundred and fifty degrees.'

Whether you are a Muslim or a Hindu, whether you are in Tibet or in England — it will make no difference: water will turn to steam at one hundred degrees. It is an experiment — one must agree. Four people can do it. And when the same result appears in their experience, there is no alternative. But one says God has four hands; another says, not four, but infinite; another says, only two; another says God has no hands, He is formless — then there is no way. Because the one being spoken of cannot be made experiential — it is imagined, thought-born.

Mahavira is very empirical, practical. He says: that which can become experiential — only that can become shraddha. Therefore do not wander in the talk of high heavens — begin from the foundation of life. The foundation is mumuksha, the search for freedom. Only he will search for freedom who is experiencing bondage.

Gurdjieff used to say: If people are imprisoned and have forgotten that it is a prison, naturally they will make no effort to get out — because where is the prison? If those in the prison think, 'This is our home', all their effort will be to decorate this home — to paint its walls, to arrange furniture, to adorn it. And if someone tells them, 'Come out!' they will be annoyed. If someone tells them, 'Outside too there is an open sky; do not remain in these dark cells', they will not be pleased. Because what you call dark cells is their all-in-all; it is their home.

Mumuksha means: it has begun to be your experience that life is bondage, pain, anguish, sorrow. From here two journeys can begin. Having experienced that life is sorrow, you may try to stupefy yourself so that you forget the sorrow — which is what almost everyone is doing. Someone drowns in sex, someone in wine; someone in music, someone in film; someone here, someone there; someone gambles, someone bets on the races. These are devices for forgetting — some place where I may forget myself.

A very curious fact: men become so excited about horse races — no horse is so excited about human races! Horses have no interest at all in human races. They will not give even a penny for it. Man is so absorbed in horse races — surely, there is some perversion. He is trying everywhere to forget himself. Some excitement — where for a while self-forgetfulness happens. He sits straight for the horse race, focused. The horse comes into such focus that he forgets himself. Any kind of excitement.

Man has invented thousands of excitements. In Greece they used to throw men before lions — and as the lions tore the men apart, tens of thousands sat and watched, enjoyed. What taste could there be? Man has not changed much. Even today when two wrestlers fight and you watch intently — what are you watching? Or when on the screen there is blood, murder, chase — why do you become so excited? Or when there is war in the world — why does your joy increase? It should decrease with war — yet you become excited! You begin to rise early in the morning. What is happening? Something is happening all around.

Excitement keeps you from returning to yourself — it takes you outward. In excitement, you drown in the other and forget yourself. Any excitement will do. It may even be that you do not feel joy in excitement but sorrow — still, it is forgetting. Imagine a lion tearing a man and your eyes are full of tears, yet the lion and the man are central; you are forgotten.

I have heard: a Jewish old woman was taken by her son to see a film for the first time. The film was based on an old Roman tale. The inevitable scene came in which Christians were being thrown before lions by the Roman emperor. Tears began to flow from the old woman’s eyes; a cry was about to escape her when the son said, 'Why so upset?' She said, 'See, poor men — the lions are tearing them apart.' The son said, 'They are not men, mother — they are Christians.'

She was Jewish. 'They are not men — they are Christians.' The old woman said: 'Oh!' She wiped her tears and began to watch with delight. But within two minutes her tears again began to flow. Again the son asked, 'Now what is the matter?' She said, 'See — one poor lion is standing and he hasn’t got a single man!'

Whether man laughs or cries — as long as attention is on the other, there is self-forgetting. That is why tragedy has so much relish. Strange — the world is full of tragedy, of sorrow — still you go to watch tragic plays!

And note, tragic plays run more than happy-ending plays. This is strange. The world has enough sorrow — have you not yet had your fill, that you go to see sorrow on the stage? But if a story has no sorrow and ends in happiness, it does not create as much excitement. Why? Because if happiness is happening to the other, we get no relish. If sorrow is happening to the other, only then we get relish. That is why ninety percent of stories in the world are written as tragedies, and only ten percent as comedies — and even that ten percent does not last in the marketplace, compared to the tragedies.

Man is strange. If sorrow is experienced, he tries to forget — not to change the way of living so that he rises above sorrow and the causes of sorrow are erased. When one begins to prepare to erase sorrow — not to forget it — mumuksha is born; the search for moksha begins.

From vision arises shraddha, and from shraddha, character. Only the one with shraddha can attain character. When your own experience tells you what is right and what is wrong — and when trust in your own experience becomes deep — then character begins to change. That which is right, your life begins to flow towards it of its own accord — as water flows downhill. That which is wrong, life begins to turn away from it of its own accord. We have to force ourselves to turn away from the wrong because there is no shraddha and no experience. We have to make effort to bring the right because there is no shraddha.

Let there be mumuksha, let there be knowledge, let there be vision, let there be shraddha — then character comes like a shadow follows you. You need not bring it. You do not have to keep looking back to see if the shadow is coming — it comes. Character is the shadow of shraddha.

The faithless becomes of bad character; the one with shraddha attains character. But understand what Mahavira means by shraddha. Shraddha is not that you accept my word and that becomes faith. Until it matches your experience, there will be no shraddha. So you are listening to Mahavira — experiment a little in life. Wherever you find that what Mahavira says matches life, there and there shraddha will be born. Wherever shraddha is born, the shadow of character will begin to follow.

To go against the right is impossible — and yet everyone is going against the right. In Greece there was an ancient debate that Socrates raised. Socrates said: to go against the right is impossible. For centuries the debate continued, and hundreds of philosophers said Socrates is wrong — because we know what is right, and yet we do the opposite. Outer experience says so: people know what is right. Do you not know what is right? You certainly know — and yet you do the opposite. But Socrates, Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna — they say a very contrary thing: to go against the right is impossible.

Knowledge is character. Then somewhere a mistake is happening — in our words some snag is there. What we call knowing the right is not knowledge at all — it is only information. There lies the snag. You too know one should speak truth. You are aware — but it is a heard awareness. Someone has told you — father, guru, scripture; the air around says speak truth. But when difficulty comes you know that by lying you can save yourself. That is your experience — that speaking truth you will get into trouble, by lying you will be saved. And everyone wants to be saved. That saving — your real knowledge is this: by lying I can be saved.

Let all scriptures and all Tirthankaras speak — what difference does it make? All the Tirthankaras of the world together are weak against your tiny personal experience — your experience is true for you. You know: by lying I will be saved. Earlier too you saved yourself by lying; earlier too you were caught by speaking truth. Your experience is this; this is your knowledge. In your real scripture it is written, 'Lie is dharma' — because dharma is that which protects. Lie protects. In your unreal intellect it is written, 'Truth is dharma, supreme good.' There is no harmony between these two. You live by your own scripture. Your conduct moves like the shadow of your knowledge. Mahavira’s conduct is the shadow of Mahavira’s knowledge. Mahavira’s knowledge cannot cast its shadow in you — how will his shadow follow you? It will follow him alone.

Understand clearly: what we call knowing the right is no knowing at all — the right is far away. Our entire difficulty is that our minds have been educated, and our consciousness has remained uneducated. In one sense we know everything; in another sense we know nothing. Therefore the one who wishes to walk on the path of moksha must first be freed from this false conceit of knowledge. He needs to become ignorant once again. He must make it clear: what is my knowledge, otherwise deception will continue.

If you take Mahavira’s knowledge as your knowledge, you are deceived — you will go astray. What is your knowledge? Each should make a small personal scripture — private scripture. In it write your knowledge: 'For me, lie is dharma' — because dharma is that which protects, and lie protects. Write your little private scripture — and then you will find that your conduct is always the shadow of your scripture. Then you will never find any mismatch. What is written in your scripture, that your life will be. But the scripture you have is Mahavira’s, and the conduct is your own. Here is the snag. You are deceived. Then the question arises: what use is knowing? I have known — but life does not change. Then Mahavira will not be understood.

If knowing does not change life, it only means one thing: it is not knowing. Drop that 'knowing' and enter the effort to know. Only he will enter who senses his ignorance. You are all 'knowers'; the sense of ignorance never arises — so the question of knowing never arises. And until there is right knowledge, there cannot be right character.

Character is a link — before which certain essential links must be passed. Until those essential links are passed, the link of character does not come to hand. But you can create a false paper character; you can create a cover; you can be a hypocrite; you can wear faces. And faces sometimes become so deep, so old, that they seem your real face.

Rilke, a poet, has written a childhood memory. He wrote: I was small, and my father had great interest in cultural activities — drama, poetry, music — and artists stayed in our home. Once a theater troupe stayed. In those days actors wore faces — masks — in plays. They had very strange faces.

They were staying at our house. One day I, little Rilke, slipped into their room when all were at dinner. I reached their dressing room. I too thought to put on a face — I put on a terrifying one; children relish the terrible — a demon’s face, and tied it tight. Tied a turban on top so the edges were hidden. The face fit upon my face. Then I began to walk like a demon in the room, picked up a toy sword. Children’s imagination is deep — I completely forgot myself, I got into a frenzy. So much so that I swung the sword. By swinging, some bottles on a nearby table fell, colors spilled, some items broke. I got scared, hurried to gather things so no one came. In putting things back, I completely forgot 'who I am'. When all was set right, I ran to my room — before I was caught; but I forgot to remove the mask. In my room, when I saw myself in the mirror, I screamed. I panicked: what has happened? I fainted. People ran in. Family gathered. They laughed seeing my drama.

But Rilke wrote: no one understood my pain. Their laughter made me panic more. Their laughter convinced me further that something had gone wrong; now there seems no way to be rid of this face. It did not occur to me that I am one thing and the face is another.

And in everyone’s life this trouble starts right from childhood — because from childhood faces are imposed. Father tells you when to laugh; even to laugh you need father’s permission. Mother too orders when to laugh, when not to laugh. So when the child wants to laugh, he suppresses it; he has to put on another face — a face that is not of laughter.

And the child’s laughter will be different from yours — because his mode of thinking is different from yours. He is not old. He laughs at things you cannot laugh at; and at what you laugh at, he cannot even understand where the laughter is.

A small child’s mother told him: a guest is coming; be careful, do not bring up his nose. Because the guest had no nose — it had been lost in an operation. The mother was worried that the child might suddenly ask, 'What happened to your nose?' — which would embarrass the guest. The mother instructed: do not mention the nose at all; be careful — say everything, but not a word about the nose.

Now the child sat even more eagerly, curious what the matter was — such a thing had never happened. When the man came, the child said: 'Mother, there is no nose — what is there to discuss? If there were a nose, there could be a discussion!'

The child’s world is different; his arithmetic of thinking is different. We tell him when to laugh, when to cry, when to stand, how to sit; what to do, what not to do. We are teaching him falsehood; we are giving him faces. He is helpless, weak — he has to obey. He depends on us. The more faces he puts on, the more we call him cultured, mannerly. We call him genteel to the extent he wears faces. After years, he will not even remember where his real face is. These faces become his life. He will laugh, but that laughter will be false, a pasted-on grin. He will cry — but there will be no sob in it. He will say, 'I am pleased to see you' — and there will be no joy.

Everything becomes false.

We all stand in this falsity; society is a great untruth. But faces are imposed so early that we forget we ever had a real face. In the mirror we have always seen these faces; we identify with them.

You will be amazed to know: if someone is made to do deep meditation for three months and not allowed to look in a mirror, then after three months if he looks, he will find it difficult to recognize himself — that this face is his. Because all the layers will have dropped and a new face will appear.

In Japan the guru tells the seeker who comes to him: 'Find out your original face.' That alone is meditation.

Mahavira says: when knowledge becomes shraddha, when experience becomes shraddha — then character follows of its own accord. If your character is not following your knowledge, stop blaming character. Begin to blame your knowledge.

But your monks and sannyasins tell you that your character is wrong — your knowledge is fine. Here the fundamental mistake is made. There is no greater mistake in understanding the mind than this. Monks and sannyasins tell you: fix your character; your knowledge is fine — because you have memorized the scriptures. Fix your character. The monks are also fixing their character. Their knowledge too is 'fine'.

Character is not to be fixed; only knowledge is to be set right. When knowledge is set right, character begins to be set right at once. The rectifying of character is only a symptom — of knowledge having become right.

Life’s revolution depends on knowledge, not on character. That is why the world is so characterless — because everyone is busy fixing character. The day the world becomes busy fixing knowledge, character will come of itself.

Mahavira is a knower — not a moralist preaching character. But there is great confusion — West, East, everywhere. People know Mahavira very little. Those who surround Mahavira have made such a representation of him that he does not seem worth knowing. Who will want to know Mahavira after seeing the Jain monks? One feels, God forbid such a thing ever happen to me — such sickness, such gloom, such hardness, such deadness, such war with life! The sense of wonder lost, celebration destroyed, living like a corpse, floating like a dead log — show a Jain monk to anyone — other than the Jain himself, because he sees with a particular lens — and he will feel this is pathological, diseased. Something has gone wrong. Body is ill, mind is unwell. And a wickedness is there that the Jain cannot even conceive of. A flavor of violence is there — whether you torture another or yourself, it makes no difference. There is a taste in tormenting — some torment others, some torment themselves.

Note: the powerful often torment others; the weak begin to torment themselves. Because there is danger in tormenting others — the other will not sit silently. So the weak, the cowardly, the impotent cannot enjoy tormenting others — for them there is only one way: torment yourself. Keep yourself hungry, keep yourself naked, keep yourself sick. In every way torment yourself and enjoy it.

A harshness, cruelty, violence will be seen hidden there — but the Jain sees ahimsa there. The reason is only the lens.

Ask any psychologist; all the psychologists of the world assembled will bear witness to what I am saying: this man is pathological, sick. He is torturing himself — a masochist.

There are two tendencies of violence: to torment others and to torment oneself. The ahimsak is only he who torments no one — neither the other nor himself. The very notion of torment has fallen. But such a man will not appear a 'sadhu' to you, who does not torment himself — because how is a sadhu? He sits at ease — he does not even torment himself!

Do some austerity, some fasting, stay hungry, show some dying — only then will he look like a sadhu. If you see a sadhu at ease, sitting silently, cheerful, joyous — you will suspect he is not a sadhu. Because we have made harshness and violence an element of sainthood.

Mahavira’s understanding is entirely otherwise. By seeing Mahavira’s body, no one can say pathological, sick. Seeing the joy on Mahavira’s face, no one can say he tortured himself — otherwise the face would be withered. He does not look tortured. He looks like one who forgot torment — neither of others, nor of oneself.

But this understanding and this image of Mahavira has not become visible to the world. The reason is apparent: what Mahavira said, the thought he gave — it has been badly misinterpreted. The possibility was there — there were seeds. Mahavira stood naked.

In the West, psychologists say some people feel pleasure in standing naked and being seen. These are those whose sex-energy is unhealthy, perverted. They get aroused if someone sees them naked. Such a man will be drawn to Mahavira — he will say: this is perfect! Under the cover of religion I can stand naked and people will worship me.

Man gets a taste of victory in torturing himself — 'I am winning, I am the master.' What taste do you get torturing another? The taste that he cannot retaliate — you are the master, he is weak, you are strong. When man torments himself, then too the ego enjoys: 'I am powerful. Look — I have fasted for fifteen days. The entire body pleaded it was hungry — I did not listen once.'

Who is this that does not listen? This is the wicked ego. Otherwise when the body says it is hungry — whether it is another’s body or your own — what is the difference? Another is sitting hungry — you say, 'I will not let him eat'; and your own body says, 'I am hungry', and you say, 'I will not let you eat — I have taken a vow.' Who takes the vow?

All vows are parts of the ego. Because the vow gives pleasure: 'I will do fifteen days. I will teach this body a lesson.' Who is this body? It is only your instrument. You are doing the same madness as if someone drives a car and says, 'I will not give it petrol — I will show it!' What joy will the car 'taste' without petrol? You alone are tasting the joy. If someone behaved this way with a car, you would call him mad. But those who behave like this with the body become worship-worthy, become mahatmas. You too are partners in their madness — a partnership is going on.

For Mahavira, character is the inevitable outcome of shraddha. And shraddha accompanies experience. Experience arises from knowledge. Knowledge is born from the seed of mumuksha.

'By character, the indulgent impulses are restrained; and by tapas one becomes free of the grime of karma and wholly pure.'

Strange — Mahavira places tapas after character. First mumuksha, then knowledge, then experience, then shraddha, then character — and then tapas. When passions have withered from life, character is born. When the movement towards the wrong ceases, when the energy that was flowing towards the wrong stops — only then can tapas be born. Because tapas is born in great energy. The fire that burns you pure — before the gathering of that fire, the happening of character is necessary. Those who have no energy, no fuel — how will they kindle the inner fire?

In truth, the characterless is not a sinner — only foolish. The characterless is merely unwise. He is wasting the very energy by which great tapas could be created, by which he could be refined and attain a new birth. The nectar that could flow — he is squandering it. He is merely foolish.

Therefore Mahavira says: he is only ignorant. Have compassion on the sinner — he is only ignorant. Do not arrange to punish him — he is only making mistakes. The fault is in his understanding. He is squandering the very things by which he could buy the priceless — wasting them on the trivial. But we do not see.

For Mahavira, character is not a moral goal — it is an indispensable part of spiritual transformation. And character is valuable because it conserves your energies — your powers remain saved, become gathered. And at a certain point when gathering comes, as science says, quantity becomes qualitative transformation. When a certain quantity comes together, the quality changes.

Understand this — as it is a principle of science, so of spirituality. You heat water — up to ninety-nine degrees it does not become steam. At one hundred degrees the evaporating point arrives. What is the difference at one hundred? Only one degree more — nothing else. Yet at one hundred, suddenly water begins to turn into steam — revolution begins. Water drops its old form and takes on a new one.

At a certain measure of heat, water becomes steam. At a certain measure of heat, everything changes. Lower the heat and at a point water becomes ice. Iron too turns to vapor at a certain heat. At a certain heat, everything changes. Which means: behind all change is heat — fire.

There is no change without heat — whether of matter or of life. When you are filled with love, you know you are filled with a special warmth — that is why we call love 'warm'. When a man is without love we call him 'cold'. A certain warmth pervades you in love. In sexual union you become totally heated — only then can a new child be born from you.

A Western thinker has recently proposed something important — and it may be accepted, because it seems valuable, scientific, experimentally sound. Ancient scriptures around the world say: during pregnancy the woman should not have sexual intercourse. But there was no scientific basis offered. Now a Western scientist has given one. He says: in the moment of sexual intercourse such heat is produced that it destroys the delicate neural tissues of the unborn child. Therefore if intercourse is done during pregnancy, children are born disabled and with diminished brain-power.

For two reasons: first, heat increases in the woman’s body — and the unborn child’s nerves are so soft that with a little heat they burn. Second, oxygen is reduced in the woman’s body. Hence during intercourse you breathe heavily, as if you are running — because within, with heat, oxygen begins to burn. Oxygen burns and you have to breathe hard. The woman breathes strongly. Her whole blood is heated. In that heated blood, the child’s nerves are burned and, in the state of oxygen shortage, his IQ falls.

According to this scientist, one basic cause of the increasing mental sickness in the world is that, ignoring all religious counsel, people are having intercourse even during pregnancy.

Curiously, no animal, except man, has intercourse during pregnancy. Only man. Hence no animal becomes as perverted as man. Keep in mind: every transformation is of energy, of heat, of fire.

Tapas is the ultimate transformation — where a person drops all identification with the body, where the soul becomes separate from all karma-mala. A great heat is needed. Before that heat, the event of character must happen — because bad character means leakage. Energy is leaking from life — as if there are holes in the boat, or in the bucket. When the bucket is in the well it seems full; as you lift it, water begins to leak. By the time it reaches the top, not a drop is left — all has leaked.

At the time of death your bucket is empty. The pain is not of death — it is of empty life which comes to hand at death. It should be otherwise. If the foundation of character had been laid in life, at the moment of death you would be most full. And he who can die full has no birth again. He who dies empty dies with the craving to be filled — and then a new birth begins.

When your empty bucket reaches the well’s rim, naturally you will lower it again — you were trying to fill it. But you are lowering the same bucket whose holes drained it. The same will happen again. The holes of the bucket are 'bad character'; the closing of the holes is 'character'.

It is very interesting: the more a man is of character, the less he loses energy. Character increases energy; bad character dissipates it. So whatever you do after which you feel more powerful — that, understand, is character. Whatever you do after which you feel tired and broken — take that as bad character.

Do not fall into crude notions — for crude notions vary from society to society. Something may be taken as character in India and as bad character in Pakistan. No need to go so far — what your house calls character, the neighbor may call bad character.

Mahavira has nothing to do with that. Mahavira relates to that character which saves energy. Wherever you are, just keep one thing in mind: Is my life-energy being wasted? Am I squandering it?

But this awareness too will arise step by step, link by link.

'And by tapas, becoming free of the grime of karma, one becomes completely pure.'

And when energy is totally gathered, a moment comes — an evaporating point — where so much heat is produced that all that is futile burns away. The world burns away — and only the purest remains. That which remains after passing through that fire — that is freedom, that is moksha.

'Knowledge, vision, character and tapas — having attained this fourfold spiritual path, the mumukshu being attains moksha, the auspicious destiny.'

To be free is the one — the only — goal of all the running and turmoil of life. But this is the science of moksha: begin with mumuksha; let knowledge become experience; experience will become shraddha; from shraddha, character will be born; with character, energy will begin to accumulate. You will become a lake of power. At a certain measure — which has no fixed measurement, for no scientist has yet tried to measure at what point inner energy ushers one into moksha — but I think, today or tomorrow, we will measure even that.

Science is growing — and deepening. So many things it could not measure, it now measures. Now even your night’s sleep can be measured — when it is deep and when light, when dreams are moving, when not. Because the brain-waves change. When dreams run, the waves are different; when not, different. When there is deep sleep, again different waves. For the whole night a graph is made — when you dreamed. Now even when you are dreaming with sex-energy, that too is caught — it shows on the graph. When sex-energy arises within, the heat changes.

You may have noticed small boys — many times in the night their genitals become active. In men too, till death. At least ten times in the night, in a normal healthy person, the genitals become active. Whenever they become active, the whole temperature level of the body changes — the breath changes. All this shows on the graph. The possibility grows that we will one day graph character too. Because as energy gathers within, chemical changes are happening — a way can be found to measure them. And then even a clock can be fixed: at this hour, when energy reaches this point, a person’s consciousness drops out of matter, becomes free.

A certain degree of heat — and the person becomes separate from the body and the world. The name of that event of separation is moksha.

Stop for five minutes, do kirtan — and then go…!