Mahaveer Vani #4

Religion is the supreme benediction—then what is inauspicious? What is sorrow? What is man’s pain and torment? If you do not understand that, then ‘Religion is benediction, auspiciousness, bliss’—this too will not be easy to understand. Mahavira says: Religion is the supreme auspicious. Whatever possibility of joy exists in life enters only through the door of Dharma. Whatever freedom becomes available in life is available only in the sky of Dharma. Whatever flowers of beauty bloom in life are nourished only by the roots of Dharma. And whatever suffering is in life is, in one way or another, due to falling away from Dharma, or becoming involved in adharma. In Mahavira’s vision, Dharma means: to live in the very being that I am; not to deviate even an inch from what I am.

Wherever I step outside what my being is—my very existence—wherever I transgress its boundary, wherever I relate to the alien, wherever I relate to that which I am not—there sorrow begins. And sorrow begins because, however much I may want what I am not, it can never become mine. What I am not—however much I may try to protect it—I cannot protect it. It is bound to be lost. However much labor I pour upon what I am not, in the end I will find it has never proved to be mine. Labor I shall get, anxiety I shall get, the waste of life I shall get—and finally I shall find I have been left utterly empty-handed. I can attain only that which, in some deep sense, I have always attained. I can be the master only of that which—whether I know it or not—I am even now the master. That which death cannot snatch from me—that alone is mine. Even if my body falls, that which does not fall—that alone is mine. Everything may become diseased, everything may become poor, everything may be destroyed—yet that which does not fade—that alone is mine. Should deep darkness spread, should the new-moon night descend all around in life—still, that which does not become darkness is my light.

But all of us seek ourselves where we are not. From there arises failure, from there frustration, from there melancholy is born. Whatever we desire, we desire everything except ourselves. It is strange—very few people in this world desire themselves. Perhaps you have never thought of it in this way—that you have never desired yourself; you have always desired someone else.

That ‘other’ may be a person; it may be an object, a position, a status—but always the other, the ‘other’—the Other. None of us ever directly desires ourselves. And there is only one realm in which we can find ourselves; nothing else can we truly find. We can only run. Whatever cannot be found but only chased will bring sorrow. From it will come disillusionment; somewhere the delusion will break, and the house of cards will collapse. Somewhere the boat will sink—because it was made of paper. Somewhere our dreams will shatter and turn into tears—because they were dreams.

Truth is only one—and it is this: apart from myself I can find nothing in this world. Yes, I can try to get; I can labor to get; I can weave hopes to get; I can dream of getting. And sometimes I can even deceive myself that I have come very close to getting it. But I never arrive—I can never arrive.

Adharma means: to attempt to gain anything other than oneself. Adharma means: to fix the gaze upon the ‘other’, leaving oneself. And we are all ‘other-oriented’. Our attention is always fixed on the other. Even if we sometimes look at our own face, even that is for the other. Even when we stand before the mirror and look at ourselves—it is for someone else: someone who will see us—we are preparing for him. None of us ever wants ourselves directly. And Dharma arises only from wanting oneself directly. Because Dharma means: swabhava—the ultimate nature; that which, finally, ultimately, is my being—what I am.

Sartre said a very valuable aphorism. He said: The Other is hell. That which is other is our hell. Sartre said it in one sense. But Mahavira agrees in another sense. He too says that the Other is hell—but the emphasis is not on the other as hell, but on oneself as the heaven. Mahavira does not say the other is hell—because even in saying that, the craving for the other, and the failure derived from the other, is hidden. Mahavira says: ‘To be oneself is moksha. Dharma is auspicious.’

Understand Sartre’s statement a little. Sartre’s emphasis is on saying that the other is hell. But why does the other appear as hell? Perhaps Sartre did not think of this. The other appears as hell precisely because we sought heaven in the other. We chased the other as if heaven were there—wife or husband, son or daughter, friend or wealth or fame. Whatever it may be—the other, which is not me. Sartre comes to say the other is hell because heaven was sought in the other. And when heaven was not found, hell was revealed. Mahavira does not say the other is hell. Mahavira says: ‘Dhammo mangalamukkiṭṭhaṁ—Dharma is auspicious.’ He does not even say adharma is inauspicious; he does not say the other is hell. He says: To be oneself is liberation, moksha, auspicious, the highest good.

There is a difference. The difference is this: that to know the other as hell becomes visible only because heaven has been presumed in the other. If I have never desired happiness from the other, then I can never receive sorrow from the other. Our expectations themselves become sorrow—expectations disillusioned. When the illusion of expectations breaks, the opposite is received. The other is not hell. If Mahavira is rightly understood, one would have to say to Sartre: the other is not hell—but since you took the other as heaven, therefore the other becomes hell for you. But you yourself are heaven.

And there is no need to ‘believe’ oneself to be heaven. One’s being heaven is one’s very nature. The other has to be ‘believed’ to be heaven, and therefore one day he must be known as hell. These are our own projections. As if someone tried to extract oil from sand—what fault is it of the sand? Or as if someone kept trying to pass through a wall by treating it as a door—what fault is it of the wall? And if the wall fails to prove a door, and your head is broken and bleeding, will you be angry and say the wall is wicked? That is what Sartre is saying. He says: the other is hell. In this there is a condemnation of the other, there is hidden anger toward the other.

Mahavira does not say that. His pronouncement is profoundly positive. He says: Dharma is benediction, swabhava is benediction, being oneself is moksha—and there is no need to believe that it is moksha. Remember, we only need to believe where it is not. We only need to explain where it is not. We only need to imagine where truth is otherwise. There is no need to believe oneself as truth, as Dharma, as bliss. One’s very being is bliss. But since we live with our gaze fastened on the other, how will we even come to know where the self is? We come to know only what our attention rests upon. Where the current of attention, the focus of attention, the light of attention falls—there the thing appears. We run toward the other, the light of attention falls upon the other; hell appears. If the light of attention falls upon oneself, heaven is revealed. With the other one must believe—and so one day the illusion breaks; it must break. How long can anyone stretch an illusion? That depends upon one’s capacity to stretch illusions. If one is intelligent, it breaks in a moment; if unintelligent, it takes time. And as soon as we become free of one illusion, instantly we set about searching for another ‘other’.

But it does not occur to us that the breaking of illusion with one ‘other’ does not mean that heaven will be found with some other ‘other’. For births upon births the same repetition goes on. That moksha is within oneself begins to be seen when the stream of attention is withdrawn from the other and returns to the self. If you wish to know ‘Dharma is benediction’—then wherever inauspiciousness appears, withdraw your attention from there. The opposite is the direction—the opposite. If it does not appear in wealth, if it does not appear in friendship, if it does not appear in husband or wife, if it does not appear outside, if it does not appear in the other—then do not begin to search for substitutes. Do not think: if it was not found in this wife, perhaps it can be found in another wife; if heaven is not built in this house, perhaps it will be built in another; if it is not in these clothes, perhaps in other clothes; if not in this post, then by climbing two more steps. These are substitutes.

One paper boat has not even finished sinking before we begin preparing to mount another paper boat, without thinking that the refutation of illusion happened not with this boat, but with the very fact of a paper boat. It did not happen with this wife; it happened with wife-ness itself. It did not happen with this man; it happened with man-ness itself. It did not happen with this ‘other’; it happened with the ‘other’ as such. Mahavira’s proclamation that Dharma is benediction is not a hypothetical, not a conjectured theory; nor is it a philosophical statement. Mahavira is not a philosopher in the Western sense—in the sense in which Hegel or Kant or Bertrand Russell are philosophers. Mahavira’s statement is simply an intimation of an experience, a fact. Mahavira does not think Dharma is benediction, Mahavira knows Dharma is benediction. Therefore this is a statement given without ‘reasons’.

When, for the first time, the thoughts of Eastern men were translated in the West, they were very surprised, because the Western mode of thinking—from Aristotle to today—still is this: whatever you say, give the reason. Here it is said: ‘Dhammo mangalamukkiṭṭhaṁ’—Dharma is benediction. If some Western philosopher had said this, the next statement would have been—why? But Mahavira’s next statement is not ‘why’, it is ‘what’.

Mahavira says: Dharma is benediction. Which Dharma? ‘Ahimsa sañjamo tavo.’ He does not say, why. If Aristotle had said this in the West, he would at once have told why he says Dharma is benediction. Mahavira says: I say, ‘Dharma is benediction. Which Dharma? That Dharma of Ahimsa, self-restraint, and tapas (austerity) is benediction.’ No reason is being given, no proof is being offered. Experiences have no proofs; theories have proofs. Theories have arguments; experience is its own argument. If you want to know whether an experience is right or wrong, you have to enter the experience. If you want to know whether a theory is right or wrong, you have to enter its syllogism, its chain of reasoning. And it can be that the chain of reasoning is perfectly correct and the theory perfectly wrong. And it can be that the proofs appear perfectly apt, and yet that for which they are given is not apt. For falsehood we can find apt proofs—indeed, it is for falsehood that apt proofs have to be sought, because falsehood cannot stand on its own feet; it needs the support of proofs.

People like Mahavira do not give proofs; they give statements. They say: it is so. Their statements are like those of an Einstein or some other scientist. If we ask Einstein why water is composed of hydrogen and oxygen, he will say there is no question of ‘why’—it is so. We do not know why it is so; we can only say it is so. And just as Einstein can say that water means H2O—two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen, this combination is water—so Mahavira says that Dharma—Ahimsa, saṃyama (restraint), tapas—their combination. This ‘Ahimsa sañjamo tavo’ is like the formula H2O. It is precisely such a statement—like a scientific statement. Science gives statements about the other, about objects; Dharma gives statements about oneself. Therefore, if a scientist’s statement is to be tested, it cannot be tested by argument—you have to go into the laboratory. Naturally, his laboratory is outside, because his statements are about the other. And if a Mahavira’s statement is to be tested, you also have to go into a laboratory. Certainly Mahavira’s laboratory is not outside; it is within each person. But we know at least this much—that whatever Mahavira says must be right. We may not yet know that Dharma is benediction; but we know well that adharma is inauspicious—at least this much we know. And for an intelligent person, this knowledge is enough to reach supreme knowledge. We may not know that Dharma is benediction; but we know completely that adharma is inauspicious—because we have done adharma. We know adharma.

Think about it a little. Do you know that whenever sorrow comes into your life it seems to come through the other? Whether it actually comes through the other or not, for you it always appears to come through the other. When anxiety comes into your life, have you noticed that anxiety seems to come from outside, not from within? Have you ever been anxious from within? You have always been anxious from outside. The center of anxiety has always been something other than you—wealth, a sick friend, a sinking shop, a lost election—whatever it may be, the other—always the other, other than you—becomes the cause of your sorrow.

But there is one illusion in our minds—it must break. Sometimes it seems the other is also the cause of happiness. The whole trouble continues because of this. It seems the other causes sorrow—but it also seems the other can cause happiness. Anxiety seems to come from the other, sorrow seems to come from the other—but happiness too appears to come from the other. Note well: sorrow that appears to come from the other comes only because you live in the illusion that happiness can come from the other. These are joint facts. If you understand only half—that sorrow comes from the other—and continue to believe that happiness comes from the other, then sorrow will continue to come from the other. Sorrow comes from the other precisely because we have maintained a delusive connection that happiness could come from the other. It never comes. It is always a ‘may come’; its possibility stands around us. ‘May come’ is always in the future. Explore a little and you will find reasons in your own experience.

Has there ever been a moment when you knew that happiness is arriving from the other? It always seems it will arrive—it never actually arrives. The house you think will bring happiness when you get it—until you have not got it, it ‘will arrive’. The day you get it, that very day you will find that the house has its own anxieties and sorrows; they have arrived. And happiness has not come. Within a few days you will see you have altogether forgotten that you had thought so much happiness would come from that house; it has not come at all.

But the mind is very cunning—it does not look back retrospectively. It never looks back to see that those things from which we thought happiness would come—some of them we did obtain—yet happiness did not come. This is why—if some day it were possible that whatever happiness you desire were granted to you instantly—the earth would become more miserable than it has ever been. Therefore, in those countries where the facilities for happiness increase, misery increases. Poor countries are less miserable; rich countries are more miserable. The poor man is less miserable. When I say this you will be surprised, because we all believe the poor are very miserable. But I say to you: the poor are less miserable—because the whole network of their hopes is still alive. They can still live in hopes, they can still dream. Imagination has not yet been destroyed; imagination still sustains them. But when all that they wanted is obtained, all the bridges of hope break—the future is destroyed.

And in the present, with the other, there is always sorrow. With the other there is only happiness in the future. So if the entire future is destroyed—if whatever was to be received in the future is given to you now, this very moment—you will be able to do nothing except commit suicide. Hence, as ‘happiness’ increases, suicides increase. As ‘happiness’ increases, insanity increases. As ‘happiness’ increases—what an upside-down fact!—for all scientists say that as means increase man will become very happy. But experience does not say so. Today America is as unhappy as no other country. And Mahavira, in his home, became more unhappy than the beggar who passed daily before his mansion—begging. The beggar was not that unhappy. Mahavira’s unhappiness was born of the fact that whatever could be had in that age was had. For Mahavira, no future remained—no future. And when there is no future, where will you erect dreams? When there is no future, in what ocean will you sail your paper boats? They sail only in the ocean of the future. When there is no future, on what foundation will you build your house of cards? To build that house, the foundation of the future is needed. Mahavira’s renunciation is born out of the ending of the future—no future. Now where is there to go? To what post to climb where happiness will be? What woman to seek where happiness will be? What heap of wealth to stand upon where bliss will be? All is already there.

We can imagine Mahavira’s frustration, his melancholy. And we can also understand the words of those simple folk who followed him outside the town, far away, urging him: Where are you going, leaving so much happiness? They were those who still had a future. They said: Have you gone mad? The palace for which we are mad, thinking that if someday we get it we shall be liberated—you are leaving that! Have you lost your mind? All the clever people tried to persuade Mahavira: do not go, do not leave. But the language broke between Mahavira and them. They could no longer speak the same tongue—because their future was still ahead, and Mahavira had no future left.

We too have experience—but we do not look back. We go on looking ahead. The man who keeps looking ahead will never become religious—for he will never reap from experience. There is no experience in the future; experience is in the past. The man who looks back—yet even when he looks back he forgets what he had thought while standing at those points in the past—that too he forgets.

Man’s memory is strange. You do not remember that the garment you are wearing today was not with you yesterday—and your sleep was spoiled at night—it was with someone else, or in some shop, in some show-window; and you could not sleep the whole night. And what tickling stirred within that when this garment is upon your body, who knows what revolution will happen in the world! What heaven will descend! You have already forgotten. Now that garment is on your body. No heaven descended; no revolution occurred. You are as unhappy as before. Yes—now your happiness is hanging in some other show-window. Still the same. Some other shop’s window is now disturbing your sleep.

If you look back you will find: whatever happiness you had imagined would become true—each one of them turned out sorrowful. You will not be able to cite even a single happiness that you had thought would come true and did. And yet astonishingly, man still goes on repeating the same thing; and again plans for tomorrow. All the plans for yesterday collapsed—yet again he plans for tomorrow. If Mahavira calls such people stupid, he speaks only a fact. We are stupid. What else is stupidity but this: the pit I fell into yesterday—I look again for the same pit today, by another path. And not just yesterday—I fall every day—and still the same!

I have heard: One night Mulla Nasruddin drank too much and returned home. He groped for the way; he could not find it. A kind man, seeing that the poor fellow could not find his way, took his hand. ‘Do you live in this building?’

Mulla said: Yes.

‘On which floor?’

‘On the second.’

With difficulty he dragged the almost unconscious man up the stairs to the second floor. Then, thinking he might have to face Mulla’s wife and be taken for an accomplice—lest there be trouble—he asked, ‘Is this your door?’

Mulla said: Yes.

He pushed him through the door and went down the stairs. At the bottom he was amazed to see a man in even worse shape, groping again at the door—exactly the same man! He rubbed his eyes: I am not drunk—but there he is, in even worse condition, feeling the ground. He went and asked: ‘Brother, have you also drunk too much?’

The man said: Yes.

‘Do you live in this building?’ He said: Yes.

‘On which floor?’

‘On the second.’

Astonishment!

‘Do you want to go up?’

With difficulty again—this time even harder, as the man was more limp—he took him up. At the door: ‘Is this your door?’ ‘Yes.’

The man was very surprised: Perhaps, dealing with drunkards, I too have become drunk in such a short while! He pushed him through and came down. He saw a third man below, in even worse condition, lying by the roadside, looking for the way—but exactly the same. Fear arose: better to run away; this looks a mess. The man looked the same—the same clothes, the same manner, more troubled. He asked, ‘Brother, do you live in this building?’

He said: Yes.

‘Which floor?’

‘Second floor.’

‘Want to go up?’

‘Yes.’

‘What a calamity! Now let me deliver this one too.’ He took him up, shoved him in, and ran down lest there be a fourth—but the fourth man was already there below. He could not even move. As soon as he saw him approaching, he cried, ‘Save me! This man will kill me!’

‘I am not trying to kill you. Who are you?’

He said: ‘You keep shoving me out of the lift door again and again and throwing me down!’

‘Good man! I have thrown you down three times—why didn’t you say so?’

‘I thought—maybe this time he won’t!’

But if another throws you down, you laugh so much. You keep throwing yourself down. The same person—and next time in even worse shape—and nothing else happens. It goes on like this your whole life. In the end, except for wounds of sorrow, we have no attainment. Only wounds remain, only pain remains.

This much we know: adharma is inauspicious. And understand the meaning of adharma—adharma means the desire to find happiness in the other. That is sorrow; that is inauspiciousness—there is no other inauspiciousness. Whenever sorrow comes, know that you have sought happiness somewhere from the other. Even if I want to obtain happiness from my own body, then too I want it from the other—and I will get sorrow. Tomorrow illness will come; tomorrow the body will be diseased; the day after it will be old; then it will die. If I want from this body—which seems so close yet is still alien—if we were to ask Mahavira, he would say: whatever can give you sorrow—know it is ‘other’. Take this as a criterion: whatever can give sorrow—know it is other, it is not you. So wherever sorrow is found, know—there, I am not.

Happiness is unfamiliar because our entire acquaintance is with the ‘other’. Happiness is only in imagination; sorrow is in experience. But sorrow, which is in experience, we keep forgetting; and happiness, which is imagination—we keep running after it. Mahavira’s aphorism seeks to change this whole pattern. He says: ‘Dhammo mangalamukkiṭṭhaṁ’—Dharma is benediction. The search for bliss is in swabhava. If ever a small ray of bliss has descended in your life, it descends only when—unknowingly or knowingly—for a moment you come into some relation with yourself—any time. But we are so deluded that even there we believe the other to be the cause.

You are sitting on the seashore. Evening has fallen; the sun sets. In the sinking sun, in the sound of waves, in solitude, seated alone—you feel as if some ray of joy has descended. The mind concludes: perhaps joy is in this sea, in this setting sun. Tomorrow you will come again. It will not descend so much. The day after you will come again. If you come every day, the noise of the sea will cease to be heard. The setting of the sun will cease to be seen.

What you experienced the first day was not because of the sea or the sun. It was only that, in a strange situation, you could not relate properly with the other, and for a little while you related with yourself. Understand this well. Change feels good for a moment because a moment of transition—between the old and the new—before you relate with the new and after you have broken with the old—in that small gap you pass through yourself. You move house; between leaving one house and adjusting to the other there will be a moment of unstructuredness. Neither this house nor that; and for an instant you will come into the house that is within you.

The little glimmer of joy that comes in that in-between—you may think it came by entering the new house, by coming to the hills, by entering solitude, by listening to this thread of music, by watching this play. You are deluded. If that joy came by watching this play, then watch it every day—soon you will know. Tomorrow it will not come—because tomorrow you will be adjusted; the play familiar. The day after, the play will begin to grate. Watch for a few days and you will feel you are doing violence to yourself. The instant joy that seems to come with changing one wife for another is only the joy of change. And even that, only because, in changing, between two things, you must pass through yourself for an instant. That is all—no other reason.

It is inevitable: when I break from one and join to another, where will I be for a moment? In the gap between breaking and joining, I will be in myself. That moment of being in oneself reflects—and it seems joy has been found in the other. All change appears pleasant. The joy of change is only the sudden passing through oneself for a moment. Therefore a man flees from the city to the forest; the man of the forest comes to the city. The Indian goes to Europe; the European comes to India. Both get that moment of change… The Indian is surprised seeing the Westerner among us: you have come here seeking happiness! We alone know the kind of happiness we are getting here. The Westerner, seeing the Indian there, is surprised: you have come here seeking happiness! We are busy trying to save ourselves from the happiness we are getting here. The reasons are there: both get a moment of joy. Scientists say that to get adjusted to anything new, a little interval is needed. There is a rhythm in our life.

Gauquelin wrote a book: The Cosmic Clock. He wrote that the whole existence moves like a clock—an extraordinary book, on scientific bases. And the human personality too moves like a clock. Whenever change happens, the clock wobbles. If you travel from East to West, your inner clock gets disturbed—because everything changes: the time of sunrise changes, the time of sunset changes, and so fast your body cannot keep track. Hence a moment of inner anarchy arises. All changes bring a state in which, for a little while, you are compelled to pass through yourself. Its reflection appears to you as joy. And when even unconsciously passing through oneself for a moment feels like joy—then those who live in themselves forever—if Mahavira says they attain benediction, supreme benediction, bliss—then we can measure, we can infer.

If our experience matures that what we called life is sorrow; that which we chase is only a descent into hell—if this becomes clear, then half of Mahavira’s saying will be clear through our experience. Remember: no truth is half-truth. Truth is whole. If even half of it becomes visible, the remaining half will become visible—if not today, then tomorrow—and will enter experience.

Half the truth we already have: the ‘other’ is sorrow. Desire is sorrow, passion is sorrow—because desire and passion are the mind’s running toward the other. Passion means the current of consciousness running toward the other. Passion means a boat of life oriented toward the future. If the ‘other’ is sorrow, then the bridge that takes us to the other is the bridge to hell. Mahavira calls it ‘vasana’—Buddha calls it ‘trishna’—thirst. Call it whatever you want: the run of our energy toward the other—that is passion; that is sorrow.

And benediction—that bliss, that Dharma, that swabhava—will certainly be found in the moment when our passion is running nowhere. The non-running of passion is the becoming of the Atman. The running of passion is the losing of the Atman. Atman is the name of that energy which does not run—stands in itself. Passion is the name of that Atman which runs outside itself for someone else. Therefore in the second half of this aphorism Mahavira says: ‘Which Dharma? Ahimsa, saṃyama, and tapas.’ These—Ahimsa, restraint, tapas—are the names of methods to halt the running energy. How is this passion that runs toward the other to stop? And when it stops, runs no more toward the other—then it will delight in itself, dwell in itself, be still in itself—like a flame that does not quiver in the wind. The means Mahavira offers are these.

So Dharma is swabhava—in one sense. And Dharma is the method—the way to reach swabhava—in another sense. Dharma has two forms: its ultimate form is swabhava, one’s own nature. And toward this swabhava—because we have strayed from it, otherwise there would be no need to say anything—the other meaning of Dharma, for us, is experimental, procedural, instrumental. The first definition is of the goal; the second is of the means. Mahavira says: Which Dharma? ‘Ahimsa sañjamo tavo.’ Perhaps never has such a small formula been given in which the whole of Dharma is contained. Ahimsa, restraint, tapas—first let us understand their arrangement; then we can enter into each one.

Ahimsa is the soul of Dharma—the center. Tapas is the circumference. And restraint is the bridge in-between which joins center and circumference. Understand it thus: Ahimsa is soul; tapas is body; and restraint is prana—the breath that connects the two. If breath breaks, body may be there, soul may be there—but ‘you’ will not be. If restraint breaks, tapas can be there, Ahimsa can be there—but Dharma cannot be. The personality will scatter. Restraint is like breath. Understand this order first; then entering the depth of each will be easier.

Ahimsa is the soul in Mahavira’s vision. If we ask Mahavira: in one word tell us—what is Dharma? He will say: Ahimsa. He has said: ‘Ahimsa paramo dharmah’—Ahimsa is the supreme Dharma. Why does Mahavira put so much emphasis on Ahimsa? No one else has said such a thing. Some will say: Paramatma; some will say: Atman; some will say: service; some will say: meditation; some will say: Samadhi; some will say: Yoga; some will say: prayer; some will say: worship. If we ask Mahavira, in his innermost one word resides—Ahimsa. Why? If Ahimsa means only what Mahavira’s followers take it to mean, then Mahavira is mistaken. Then a very petty thing is being said. The meaning his followers understand is childish: Do not cause pain to others. This is not Mahavira’s meaning—because in the definition of Dharma Mahavira will not tolerate the presence of the ‘other’ at all.

Understand this. The definition of Dharma is swabhava; and if Dharma has to be defined through the other—‘Do not give pain to others’—then Dharma again becomes dependent upon the other, centered upon the other. Mahavira will not even say: Give happiness to the other, that is Dharma—because then the ‘other’ still stands there. Mahavira says: Dharma is where the other is not. Therefore it will not be defined through the other. ‘Do not cause pain to others’ cannot be Mahavira’s definition also because Mahavira does not accept that you can give pain to another—unless the other wishes to receive it. Understand this a little. It is an illusion that I can give pain to another—and this illusion rests on the same base as the illusions that I can receive pain from another, that I can obtain happiness from another, that I can give happiness to another. All these illusions stand on one foundation.

If you can give pain to the other, do you think you can give pain to Mahavira? If you can give pain to Mahavira, then the matter ends. No—you cannot give pain to Mahavira, because Mahavira is not ready to receive pain. You can give pain only to one who is ready to take it. And you will be surprised—we are so eager to take pain—eager beyond measure. We are impatient; we are praying that someone should give us pain. It is not visible—but search within. If a man praises you twenty-four hours, you will not receive happiness; and if he gives one abuse, you will receive sorrow for a lifetime. If a man serves you for years, you do not receive happiness; and if one day he speaks a word against you, you receive so much sorrow that all that ‘happiness’ is washed away. What does this prove?

It proves that you do not appear as eager to take happiness as you are eager to take sorrow. That is, your eagerness to take sorrow is greater than your eagerness to take happiness. If someone salutes me nineteen times and once does not—then the nineteen salutations do not give me as much happiness as the one omission gives sorrow. Strange! I should say: no matter—the account is still heavy on one side. Not until he omits twenty should it balance. Even then there is no reason for sorrow—then the matter would be equal. But no—so little a thing gives such pain.

We are so sensitive to sorrow—what is the reason? The reason is the same: we desire happiness from the other so much that that very desire becomes the door through which sorrow enters—and since happiness does not come from the other, sorrow at least can, and we keep receiving it. Mahavira cannot say that Ahimsa means ‘do not give pain to others’—because who can give pain if the other does not want to take it? And the one who wants to take it—even if no one gives—will take it. Let me tell you this too. No one will wait around for you to give it; if you do not, he will take it from the sky. Those who want sorrow are very inventive. They take sorrow in this way and that—beyond reckoning. They will take sorrow from your standing, from your sitting, from your walking—from anything. If you speak, they will take sorrow; if you keep quiet they will take sorrow—‘Why are you silent? What does it mean?’

A lady asked me: What shall I do with my husband? If I speak, quarrels arise. If I do not, he asks: What is the matter? If I do not speak, quarrel arises—he thinks I am angry. If I speak, anger is anyway on the way—it will come out somehow. So what shall I do—speak or be silent? What advice can I give?

Of the sorrows you receive, ninety-nine percent are your inventions. Ninety-nine percent! Search how you invent sorrow; what devices you have set up! In truth, you cannot live without being miserable. For there are only two ways: either a man can live if there is bliss, or he can live if there is sorrow. If both are not there, he cannot live. Sorrow too is a sufficient excuse to live. See how zestfully the miserable live! Observe it. And how zestfully they narrate their misery! Listen to the tale of a miserable man—how he relishes it. And how he magnifies it, makes it huge. A pinprick becomes a sword thrust.

Have you noticed: if you go to a doctor and he says, ‘No, you are absolutely not ill’—what pain arises! That doctor does not seem right. A bigger expert must be sought—this will not do. Is he a doctor at all! You, such a great man—and you are not ill at all! Or if he says: ‘A small thing—drink warm water and you’ll be fine’—the mind is not satisfied. Therefore doctors, the poor fellows, have to keep the names of their medicines in Latin—even if it is only essence of carom! But when the name is Latin, the patient stiffens his back and returns home with a prescription—now something has been done! How will you live if you are not miserable! If bliss is not there, at least let there be sorrow.

Mark Twain has said—and he was experienced, with eyes that could go deep into the mind—he said: you may praise me or you may insult me, but do not remain indifferent. That hurts greatly. If you like, even abuse me—that too acknowledges that I am something. But if you pass by me without seeing me, neither abusing nor respecting—then you hurt me with a fatal wound for which I will take revenge. People take greater revenge for neglect than for insult. If you consider yourself, you will find you are hurt the most by the person who neglects you, who is indifferent—for an enemy does not neglect you; he grants you enough recognition.

We are eager even for sorrow—at least give sorrow if you cannot give happiness. Give something—even sorrow will do; but give. Hence we keep our senses ever alert on all sides for one task: in case sorrow is coming from somewhere, we should not miss it. Take it quickly—lest someone else take it; lest we miss the chance. This sorrow is our reason to live.

So Mahavira’s Ahimsa cannot mean ‘do not give pain to others’—for Mahavira says clearly: no one can give happiness or sorrow to another. Ahimsa also cannot mean ‘do not kill’—for who can kill whom? More than Mahavira, who will know that death is impossible? Nothing dies. So it cannot mean: do not kill anyone. Mahavira knows perfectly well; and if he did not, his being ‘Mahavira’ would lose meaning.

But those who follow Mahavira have piled up very ordinary definitions. They say: Ahimsa means tie a band over your mouth; walk carefully so that no insect dies; do not drink water at night, lest violence occur. All this is fine—no harm in a band over the mouth; to filter water is very good; to place your feet carefully is very good too—but not in the illusion that you could kill someone. Not in that illusion. Do not give pain to anyone—very good—but not in the illusion that you could give pain to anyone.

Understand my nuance. I am not saying: go and kill and cut—because no one can kill anyway. I am not saying that. Mahavira’s Ahimsa is not of that meaning. Mahavira’s Ahimsa is exactly like Buddha’s tathata. Understand this a little. The meaning of Mahavira’s Ahimsa is like Buddha’s tathata. Tathata means total acceptability—what is, as it is, is accepted. We will not make any interference.

Now an ant is walking on the path—who am I to cause any interference in her path? Even if my foot were to fall, I become at least a cause, a condition for interference in her journey. Paths are many—she would have gone on. Perhaps she goes to gather food for her children—who knows. She has her own world of plans. Let me not come in-between. It is not that by not coming I can save—still it may happen. But Mahavira says: at least from my side let me not come in between. It is not necessary that only if I place my foot on the ant she will die—the ant herself may come under my foot and die. That is her affair, her plan. Mahavira believes each one on the path of life is engaged in his own plan. That plan is not small—it is vast—of births upon births. It is the wide expanse of his karmas. He has a long journey of actions and fruits. I should not become a hindrance in anyone’s journey for any reason. I should walk quietly on my own footpath. Let no obstacle arise on anyone’s path even as a condition because of me. Let me become such as if I am not.

Mahavira’s deepest meaning of Ahimsa is: become such that you are not. Let the ant pass here just as she would have passed had I never trodden this way; let the birds sit upon these trees just as they would have sat had I never sat under them; let these people of the village live just as they would have lived had I not passed through. As if I am not. The profoundest meaning of Ahimsa is absence—my presence be not experienced anywhere; my being become not even a slight obstacle to another’s being. Let me become as if I am not. Let me die while living… let me die while living.

What is everyone’s endeavor? Understand from many angles and it will be easy—it is this: that our presence be felt; the other should know that I am, that I exist. All our devices are to make our presence felt. That is why politics becomes so effective—because in the political way your presence can be made to be felt as in no other way. Hence politics overshadows the whole of life. If we define politics rightly, it means the effort to make one’s presence felt. I am something—I am not a nobody. People should know; I should prick; my thorns be experienced everywhere; people should not pass as if I was not there. And Mahavira says: let me pass as if it were known I was not, as if I never was.

If we understand rightly: the effort to make one’s presence felt is violence. Whenever we try to make someone feel that I am—violence happens. Whether the husband is telling the wife: understand that I am—or the wife is saying: do you think, sitting there reading the newspaper, that you are alone?—I am here! The wife can become the enemy of the newspaper, because the paper can become a screen and her absence felt. She can tear and throw the paper, she can remove books, switch off the radio. And the poor husband has switched on the radio and held up the paper in the hope that, please, your presence may not be felt. We are all engaged in this effort: that my presence be felt by the other, and that the other’s presence be not felt by me. This is violence. These are two sides of one coin. When I want my presence to be felt by you, I will also want that your presence be not felt by me—because both cannot happen together. My presence can be felt by you only when I erase your presence as if it is not. Our effort is that the other’s presence be erased and ours become dense, condensed. This is violence.

Ahimsa is its opposite: the other be present—and so present—that my presence creates no obstruction in his presence. Let me pass through the crowd in such a way that no one even knows I was there. The profound meaning of Ahimsa is this—an unpresent personality. We can say it thus—and Mahavira has said so—ego is violence and egolessness is Ahimsa. Meaning the same: that endeavor to make one’s presence felt by the other. See how many methods we employ—perhaps all our methods are this—whatever the form: whether we stand wearing a diamond necklace, or robes worth lakhs, or stand naked—the effort is the same: the other must feel I am! I will not let you sit in peace; you must acknowledge I am.

Little children begin to become adept in this violence. Have you noticed that small children begin to create more mischief when guests are in the house? If no one is there, they sit quietly. Why? You are surprised: the child was sitting quietly; someone comes to the house, and he raises twenty-five issues, gets up again and again, drops something. What is he doing? He is only provoking attention—saying: I am also here. And you say to him: sit quietly. You are trying to say: you are not. The old man is doing the same, the child the same. You say: sit quietly. The child too is surprised: when there is no one in the house, this father does not say ‘sit quietly’. Then he says nothing—shout as you may, run about, he sits still. Only when guests come does he say: sit quietly. What is the matter? When guests come—that is the time not to sit quietly.

The struggle between the two is that the child wants to assert. He too wants to announce: I am here. Sir, I am also here. Therefore sometimes the child clings to such a demand before guests that the parents are amazed—he never made such a demand before! He wants to show them who is master of the house, whose will prevails, who is decisive at last. Even small children begin to learn politics well. The reason is: our entire arrangement—our society, our culture—is a culture of ego, of adharma. The whole world is the same. Man has not yet been able to develop a culture of Dharma. We have not yet been able to bring about such a culture—and we do not listen to Mahavira, who could have been sources for such a culture. They say: no—the less your presence is felt, the more the benediction—for you and for the other. Become such as if you are not.

When Mahavira wanted to leave home, his mother said, ‘Do not go; I will be hurt.’ Mahavira did not go—because even insisting so much on going would have revealed his being. The insistence was: No, I will go! If anyone else were in Mahavira’s place, his renunciation would have grown more stubborn. He would have said: Who is mother? Who is father? All relations are useless—this is the world. The more you try to persuade, the higher he will climb the peak. Many sannyasins and renouncers have been produced by your persuasion. Do not persuade by mistake. If someone says, ‘I am going’—say, ‘Namaskar’. Then the man will think twenty-five times whether to go or not. You circle him—you give attention—then it becomes important, necessary; now it is a battle of personalities; now it must be proved. There will be far fewer renouncers in the world if those around them do not insist—ninety percent will disappear—and then the world will be benefited, because the ten percent who remain will bear the dignity of renunciation; it will have meaning. But you stop them—this becomes the cause.

Mahavira stayed. The mother too must have been a bit surprised: what kind of renunciation is this! Mahavira did not again say, ‘Once more, allow me to go.’ He dropped the matter. Until the mother died, he spoke no more. He said nothing. The mother must have thought—indeed she would have thought—what sort of renunciation is this! For the renunciate stands obstinate. The mother died. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira said to his elder brother: May I go now? Because she had said she would be hurt. The matter is finished—she is no more.

The brother said: What kind of man are you! Such a great mountain of sorrow has fallen upon us—mother has died—and now you speak of leaving! Do not utter such words.

Mahavira fell silent. For two years more. The brother too was amazed: what kind of renunciation is this! For he completely fell silent. He did not broach the subject again. To remove one’s presence to such a depth is called Ahimsa.

In two years the household themselves began to worry: Perhaps we are being unjust; perhaps we are mistaken. They felt it seemed it is not that he stayed because they stopped him—but because, needlessly, why should their presence be felt; why should they be pained that he went against their words. But it seemed to them as if he had already gone; that he was not in the house. So all of them together said—this is the only incident on earth of its kind—they said together: You have already gone, in one sense. Now it seems only the earthly body remains—your presence is not in this house. We remove ourselves from your path—lest we become your obstacles without cause. Mahavira rose and departed.

This is Ahimsa. Ahimsa means the deepest absence. That is why I said: Buddha’s spirit of tathata is the spirit of Mahavira’s Ahimsa. Tathata means: whatsoever is, is acceptable. Ahimsa also means this: we shall not make even the slightest effort to transform. Whatever happens is right; whatever will happen is right. If life remains—good; if death comes—good. From what does our violence arise? From this: that what is happening is not what we want; we want what we want—then violence arises. What is violence? Therefore the more the craving for change increases in an age, the more violent the age becomes. The more man wants ‘such to happen’, the more violence will increase.

If we open the depth of Mahavira’s Ahimsa, it means: we are content with what is. There is no question of violence; no change is to be made. If you slap me—fine. We are content; we have nothing further to do—the matter is finished. There is no reply from us. Not even as much as in Jesus. Jesus says: turn the other cheek. Mahavira does not say even that. For that too is an answer—a sort of answer. A slap is an answer; turning the other cheek is also an answer. But you were no longer simply content; you did something beyond what was. Mahavira says: doing is violence; karma itself is violence. Non-doing is Ahimsa. The slap is given—just as a dry leaf falls from a tree—that’s all. You go your way. A man abuses you—you hear and pass on. There is not even the question of forgiving—for that too is action. Do nothing. A wave rises on the water and dissipates by itself. So too will waves of karma rise and fall all around. You do not do anything. You pass silently. When a wave rises on water, you do not need to erase it—it disappears by itself.

In this world what is happening around you—let it happen; it will rise of itself and fall of itself. It has its rules for rising and its rules for falling—do not come in vain between. Remain quietly away. Remain tatastha—on the bank, a witness. Know that you are not there. When someone slaps you—become such that you are not there—then who will answer? Which cheek will you turn? Who will abuse? Who will forgive? Know thus: you are not. In your absence—in the absence of your presence—whatever current of karma rises will, like a wave rising on water, vanish on its own. Do not even touch it. Violence means: I want the world to be this way.

Omar Khayyam said: If I had my way and God gave me strength, I would break your whole world and make another. If you had your way, would you leave the world as it is? The world! The world is a big thing—you would not leave even small things as they are. In Omar Khayyam’s statement the longing of all men is manifest—and violence too. If we say to Mahavira: If you were given total power to make the world as you wished—Mahavira would say: as it is, let it be—as it is. I would do nothing.

Lao Tzu has said: The best ruler is the one of whom the subjects do not even know. The best ruler is the one of whom the subjects cannot tell whether he is or not. Mahavira’s Ahimsa means: become such that you are not known. And our entire effort is to become such that no one remains who does not know us—no one remains who is unaware of us. All attention should be focused upon us; the whole world should look at us; we should stand in the center of all eyes. This is violence. And this is the violence that we constantly desire—this should happen, that should not happen. We desire it all the time. Why do we desire? There is a reason. As I said in defining Dharma: we are running—that house, that wealth, that post—and to do so we must pass through violence. Passion cannot be without violence. The run of any passion cannot be without violence. We can understand it thus: the energy required for passion takes the form of violence. Therefore the more passionate a man, the more violent he will be. The more passionless, the more non-violent.

Those who think Mahavira says Ahimsa is for attaining moksha—they misunderstand. Because if there is passion for attaining moksha, your Ahimsa too will become violent. And many people’s Ahimsa is violent. Even Ahimsa can be violent. You can pursue Ahimsa so forcefully that your pursuit becomes violent. Whoever pursues Ahimsa with the passion of attaining moksha—his Ahimsa will become violent. Therefore the so-called practitioners of Ahimsa cannot be called non-violent—they are after it so hard: they must achieve, at any cost. In that must-achieve there is deep violence.

Mahavira says: There is nothing to attain—what is worth attaining is already attained. There is nothing to change—this world changes by its own law. There is no need to make a revolution; revolution is constantly happening. No one does revolution—revolution happens. But the revolutionary feels he is making revolution. His feeling is like that of a straw which happens to fall upon a great wave in the ocean and rises up, and perched atop the wave it says: I created the wave! That is all.

I have heard: When the chariot of Jagannath set forth, a dog once went before the chariot. Many flowers were showered; many prostrated themselves, rolling on the ground. The dog’s swagger kept growing. He said: Amazing! Not only are people bowing to me—behind me a golden chariot is being drawn. I am such—there is no cause for it.

In Russia, Chizhevsky was thrown into prison by Stalin and killed—because he said that revolutions do not happen through men, they happen under the influence of the sun. His reason was a scientific study of astrology. He investigated the details of thousands of years of revolutions and the changes on the sun. He said: every eleven and a half years, such a great electrical change happens on the sun that transformations occur on earth as a result. And every ninety years such a great change happens on the sun that revolutions happen on earth as a result. He proved all revolutions, all disturbances, all wars to be results of cosmic changes on the sun.

Scientists all over the world accept that Chizhevsky was speaking rightly. But how could Stalin accept it? If Chizhevsky is right, then the revolution of 1917 happened due to rays emanating from the sun—then what of Lenin and Stalin and Trotsky! Chizhevsky had to be killed. But after Stalin’s death, work began again on Chizhevsky in Russia—and Russian astro-scientists are saying he is right: transformations on earth have cosmic causes—causes that are of the whole cosmos. You will be surprised to know that in Prague a very large laboratory has been set up by the Czech government that works on astronomical birth control—and their results have been 98 percent correct. The man working there claims that within fifteen years there will be no need for any pills or artificial means of birth control. The dates of a woman’s birth and of her own conception, and the changes on the sun and the moon and stars—on that basis he decides on what dates this woman can conceive. If those dates are avoided for intercourse, there will never be conception. On ten thousand women, 98 percent success. He says also that if a woman wants a boy or a girl, their dates can also be determined—because that too is governed by cosmic influences; it is not happening because of you. Astrology is likely to return with great force.

Mahavira says: Events are happening—you need not become their doers. Do not think ‘I will do this.’ Do only this much: become a non-doer.

Ahimsa means non-action. Ahimsa means: I will not change anything; I will not desire anything. I will become absent.

We will have to speak more on Ahimsa—we shall speak tomorrow.

Enough for today.

But let no one leave—carry a little of the music of this note within you…!