Mahaveer Vani #40

It is necessary to understand this classification of knowledge rightly. This is the first scientific delineation of human consciousness. The first three knowledges can occur, and do occur, even in an ordinary person. The last two enter the life of a seeker, and the final, the fifth knowledge, happens only in the life of the Siddha. That is why Western psychologists have begun to accept the first three; traces of them can be found even in the life of ordinary people. What happens in the consciousness of a seeker, and what happens in the consciousness of a Siddha—there is still time before clear information about that becomes available; but Mahavira’s vision is utterly clear.

Mahavira says, the first knowledge is ‘shruta’, the second ‘mati’, the third ‘avadhi.’ ‘Shruta-knowledge’: that which is obtained by hearing, in which there is no personal experience. Most of our knowledge is shruta-knowledge. Neither has our inner being any direct realization of it, nor have our senses any experience of it. We have heard it; upon hearing it has become part of our memory. Whoever stops here, mistaking this for knowledge, has halted at the very first step of knowing. This was only the beginning. What has been heard—until it is seen; what has been heard—until it becomes life; what has been heard—until it enters the very current of one’s living—until then, to call it knowledge is only a formality. Most of our so-called knowledge ends in this category. And the irony is: we take this very knowledge to be completion.

Whoever takes shruta-knowledge to be the whole becomes a pundit, never a knower. Schools, colleges, gurus, scriptures—whatever we receive from them is at most shruta-knowledge. It is shruti. And your ear is not your whole being; and that which, through the ear, passes into memory, is a very meager part of life—only a recording. You heard the words, “There is God,” they entered the ear, became part of memory; heard again and again the memory deepened; heard so often that you altogether forgot it was something merely heard.

Adolf Hitler used to say: keep repeating any untruth over and over—do not worry about the listener—just go on repeating; today or tomorrow the listener will forget that what is being said is untrue.

Among the things we hold as truth there are many such untruths, repeated so often that it doesn’t even occur to you they could be false. And untruth does not cause much trouble. In fact, trouble begins with truth. Untruth is very convenient, very comfortable.

Friedrich Nietzsche said something very rare: as truth enters human life, life will become more difficult; because man lives supported by untruth. It is his nourishment.

Nietzsche also said: therefore do not break another’s untruths. Do not give him restlessness; do not cause him pain. And if you do break his untruths, he will fabricate new ones. And compared to fabricating new untruths, the old untruths are far more comfortable, for they need no fabrication. They come to us by inheritance, by hearing. Our trust in them is strong.

The restlessness in the world today—Nietzsche says—it is because the old truths have all begun to look false, as indeed they were. All the untruths have been exposed—and to find new untruths is very hard. Man has fallen into a great dilemma. There is some truth in Nietzsche’s words. As man is—sick, deranged—he lives only by the support of untruth. But if he comes to know that it is untruth, then the difficulty begins. He can live by untruth only so long as he believes those untruths to be truth—then there is great peace.

Remember, if you are seeking contentment, only want to avoid restlessness, then untruths can also serve. But if you are seeking liberation, untruths cannot serve. However painful truth may be, one must come to its experience.

Shruta-knowledge is ninety-nine percent untruth; because those from whom we hear—their lives are untrue. But that untrue knowledge is tried and tested. For thousands of years it has served some utility.

Understand it thus:
You fall in love with a woman. You tell her, “Other than you there is none in the world beautiful or worthy of love. For me, other than you, there is no one at all.” And you yourself know this is not true. For you have said the same to other women before. And you also know—if you search a little—you will say it to other women again, because life has not ended. But this untruth is very sweet, and very useful to say. And the woman too knows that the statement cannot be absolutely right, yet she trusts it; it is pleasant to hear. And on this untruth your love is raised.

How long can such love endure?

And when this love breaks, you do not see that you had raised it upon an untruth. You think the person you chose was wrong. “What I said was right, but the person I chose was wrong. I shall choose another and say the same right thing again.”

You will say it to a second, and to a third—every time it will be effective. Because the mind has been brought up on untruth. If a lover were to say to his beloved, “You seem beautiful to me relatively—of the women I know, you seem the most beautiful; but there may be other women I do not know!” then poetry will be destroyed. Love will not even arise. The woman will say, “Are you doing some arithmetic—relative, comparative? If tomorrow a woman better than me appears, you will love her?”—then love will not stand up at all.

To raise love upon truth is very difficult; upon untruth it rises—and then breaks; it will break. You can build palaces of sand, but you cannot save them from falling. You can erect mansions of cards, but a small gust of wind will bring them down.

Our whole life stands upon such untruths. A mother thinks her son will love her forever. A father thinks the son will obey him always. But this father never obeyed his own father. He has no notion at all of what truth is. A moment must come when the son will have to say no to his father. As one must separate from the mother’s womb, so one must step out of the womb of the father’s command.

I have heard: a very famous Jewish fakir, Joshua, died. He was as virtuous, moral, pure as the purest. A reception was arranged in heaven. Great bands, great dance, great music, great fragrance, showers of fireworks—but he did not want to join the welcome. He hid his eyes, as if some deep pain was within, and he began to weep. Much persuasion, yet he was not ready. Then he was brought before God. And God said, “Joshua, this welcome befits you. You have lived a life so holy that it is essential heaven welcomes you at its gates. Why are you so anxious and restless? In your life there is no stain, no blemish; a person as pure as you rarely comes to heaven from earth. Therefore heaven rejoices; join in that rejoicing.”

Joshua said, “All is fine, but one pain is in my heart. Surely some sin must have been in my life; otherwise this would not be—my son...!” Joshua is a Jew—“my son, despite all my efforts, despite my example, despite my life—became a Christian. That pain is in my heart.”

God said, “Do not be afraid, do not be anxious. I can understand you—because the same was done by my own son, Jesus—he created the same mischief; he too became a Christian.”

But sons will, at some point, become separate from fathers—inevitable. Yet neither the son is ready to accept this truth, nor the father. The mother thinks the son will love her as he did in childhood—if he does, the son’s life is wasted. At some point he will have to step out of the mother’s circle. He will choose a woman, the mother will begin to fade; the relationship will remain formal. Because life’s current moves forward, not backward.

If a son loves his mother, the current will reverse. The mother will love the son; this son will love his son; but love’s current is not toward the past. Toward the past, sweet relations remain—that is enough. Even that often does not remain. But every mother will trust, hence every mother will be unhappy. Every father will be pained. The cause of pain is not the son; the cause is the foundation of an untruth. And it is not that the father of a bad son is pained—even the father of a noble son is pained.

Had Mahavira’s father been alive he would have been pained. When Mahavira told his father, “I want to renounce,” his father said, “Enough, do not raise this again. As long as I live, do not raise this again. Only upon my death may you become a sannyasi.”

Think—if Mahavira had not obeyed and had renounced, the father would have beaten his chest and wept. Buddha’s father wept. When Buddha left home—anguished, sorrowful! Buddha attained enlightenment, the great sun arose—but the father was tormented by his own pain. And when Buddha returned, the father said, “Look, this is a father’s heart; I can still forgive you. Return now. Leave this begging; in our lineage no one has ever been a beggar. I feel ashamed when I hear news that you beg—my head bows. What lack have you that you should beg? Never in our lineage has anyone begged—you are one who sinks our clan.”

So it is not that you are pained only if your son turns wicked, sinful, murderous. If he becomes a Buddha, still you are pained. Between father and son a distance will arise. The son will go beyond the father’s expectations. But we do not build life upon this truth—we build upon untruths. Untruths look convenient. In the end they bring suffering, but they appear convenient. If you examine your knowledge you will find ninety-nine percent rests upon untruth. It is heard.

Our knowledge is almost ignorance. Mahavira calls this knowledge shruta-knowledge—second-hand, borrowed. It is not very valuable; it is useful for the world. In the marketplace it is needed, because the marketplace stands on lies. If you become truthful there, you will be in difficulty; you will be thrown out of the market.

But we try to carry this knowledge into the realm of religion. One reads the Vedas, another the Gita, another the Koran, another Mahavira’s words—and imagines all is done by reading. This is not even the first step. And whoever mistakes this for knowledge makes further steps impossible.

Mahavira calls the second knowledge ‘mati.’ You will be surprised to know he calls the heard knowledge the first. Mati means known through the senses. He places it above shruta. This may worry you a little. He places what is heard by the mind below, and what is known through the senses above. Because ultimately, sensory knowing is more valuable, more alive, than the merely heard. Eyes see, hands touch, the tongue tastes—what is known through these is more real. But we have corrupted even the senses because of our heard knowledge. It obstructs there as well. You do not see what is, you interpret it.

We have corrupted sensory knowledge. You interpret. You do not see what is; you see what you want to see; you touch what you want to touch. Even the senses grasp only what fits your understanding.

We choose even with the senses; they are not pristine. You go to the market—if you are hungry, you will notice hotels and restaurants; if you are not hungry you will not notice them at all, you won’t even read their boards. So the question is not merely what appears; the question is what you want to see—that is what will appear. A woman goes to the bazaar; she notices jewelry shops, diamonds and gems.

I have heard: at a police station a person was brought in who was walking the street wearing a burqa. He was a spy from another nation. He had made the burqa and his clothes so convincingly feminine that the police officer asked the constable, “But how did you recognize he was not a woman?” The constable said, “He was walking past jewelry shops and did not even glance at them! I suspected—this cannot be a woman; this must be a burqa, with someone else inside.”

Nasruddin was cleaning the house. There were many flies. He and his wife were killing them. He killed four and came to say, “Two were females and two males.” His wife said, “You have become quite the investigator! How did you tell which flies were male or female?” He said, “Two were sitting on the mirror—they must be women.”

What do you see, what do you hear, what do you touch—this too is selection. Deep down you are interpreting. Therefore if you read the same book every year repeatedly, you will draw different meanings each time, for the interpreter has changed. The book is the same.

Hence in this land we decided that texts like the Gita or the Upanishads should not just be read and put aside as one reads a novel; they should be recited—read again and again. Because the meanings you will see are not those of the Gita; they are as your understanding is at that time.

Therefore if a person reads the Gita repeatedly for ten years and is a growing person, he will discover new meanings each time; the depth of meaning will go on increasing. Only after births without number can Krishna’s meaning be grasped, when one’s own depth has become equal. Before that it cannot be caught.

But Mahavira places the senses—pure sensory knowledge—at a height. He places the child above the pundit, because the sensory knowledge of a child is cleaner. He sees things with clarity. He has no intellect yet to rush into interpretation—what is right, what is wrong? He simply sees. With the eyes of a small child, reality will enter your knowing.

Remember, religions generally are entangled with ‘shruta’, science has moved to ‘mati.’ Science trusts the senses, not words. Hence the scientist says: what appears is worthy of trust; what comes into experience is worthy of trust.

The entire Charvaka tradition insisted: what is perceptible is trustworthy. What meaning is there that the Vedas say God exists? Make God perceptible; if he is before us, only then can he be accepted—able to be touched, seen!

There is meaning in Charvaka’s insistence. Their emphasis is on the second knowledge. And the second is indeed more precious than the first. That is why science was born in the West—they are sensualists. In the East science could not be born, because we remained stuck in shruta. We gave no concern to deepening the senses, purifying them; we did not bring what is known through the senses closer to truth. The entire effort of science is to see rightly. All experiments—all laboratories—are engaged in only one work: how to know what the senses know with greater purity.

Mahavira places ‘mati’ second. In the West a new movement is afoot—encounter groups, sensitivity training—to make people more sensitive. If Mahavira heard, he would say, “Good; mati is better than shruta.” Hundreds of laboratories in the West are working where people go to heighten the sensitivity of their senses. You are not even aware that your sensitivity has died. When you touch someone—do you really touch? When you take someone’s hand in your hand—like a corpse. Does your life-energy flow from your hand into the other, enter him, touch him—or do you just hold a hand in a hand?

If you take the hands of fifty people, you will have different experiences. If you are aware, some hand will feel utterly dead—the person did not want to meet. He gave his hand into your hand, but has withdrawn himself. Only the hand is there, not the soul. Some person will feel neutral—he has come up to the hand, but will not enter you; he will remain on the surface. As if two persons are standing on their boundaries, each within his own fence. Some hand will feel that energy has leapt and entered you; he did not merely touch the hand, he extended his hand to your heart.

Different hands will give different touch. But only to one who has the capacity to feel touch. That in us has died. We sense nothing in anything. We are unaware that around us, every moment, infinite sensations surround us, but we do not experience them.

Sit quietly on a chair sometime and just experience how many sensations are happening: the pressure of your body on the chair; the touch of the chair; your feet on the floor; the current of air touching you; the fragrance of a flower entering through the window; the sound of vessels in the kitchen, the scent of cooking touching your nostrils; the gurgling of a child touching you and delighting you; someone’s cry, someone’s sobbing that trembles you within.

If every day for fifteen minutes one simply sits and experiences the sensations around, deep meditation will begin to happen.

The senses are doors—wonderful doors; through them we enter life. But our senses have become utterly dead. The doors are closed; we do not open them. It is strange—our senses have become weaker than those of animals. A dog smells more than you—astonishing! A horse catches scent from miles away; we cannot. Animals hear with a depth we do not.

Have you seen a snake dance? The charmer plays his flute or horn and the snake dances. Scientists say: the snake has no ears, so it cannot hear. This is a difficulty. Yet the belief of centuries is that the snake is stirred by music. Scientists say: the snake has no ears—so where is the question of being stirred? But scientists also see that the snake dances when the flute sounds—so what is the matter? Through research it was found that the snake hears with its whole body. No ears. Each tiny hair of the snake is stirred by sound. Through every hair the sound enters. Therefore the ecstasy of the snake’s dance is not available to you even if you have excellent ears. But you too can hear with every pore; because air enters through every pore, and with the air the sound enters.

It would not be surprising if, in some primal time, man heard with his whole body; because you do not breathe only through the nose—you breathe through the whole body. If your nose were left open and your entire body sealed, you would die within three hours, no matter how you breathe. Because the whole body breathes. And if air enters through the whole body, then sound too enters through the whole body. Air carries sound—not only does sound go into the ear, it goes into the whole body.

Imagine a little: if your whole body could experience sound, the joy you would take in music, the depth of experience and knowing that would be possible—right now it is not. Yet you do get a hint: when you listen to music your foot begins to dance, your hands begin to tap—that means the hands too are hearing, the feet too are catching. If someone begins to dance upon hearing music—if every pore begins to dance—then he will have the total experience of sound. Otherwise it will not be total.

Mati-knowledge means: our senses become utterly pure, the doors open, and we are prepared to let life in. And we are prepared to move out into life.

You bathe, but you waste it. Bathe as I say: stand under the shower, drop all thoughts, forget the world. What cannot happen in a temple can happen in your bathroom. Only follow the touch of water as it falls on your head and streams along your body; drink the touch with your whole body. Let the freshness of water enter every pore.

You are seventy-five percent water—your body. So when water touches you from outside, if your whole body is sensitive, the water within will begin to be stirred. You are water—seventy-five percent. That is why the full moon night feels so delightful. It is not outside—it is your inner seventy-five percent water that begins to be stirred like the ocean. On the full moon night, what you feel good about—feels good because the water within is still part of the ocean. You will be surprised to know that the elements in the water of your body are the same as in the ocean’s water. The same salt, the same chemicals—exactly in the same proportion. Scientists say the first birth of man was as a fish; that was the first journey. Even now, though you have evolved far, your inner life still requires the ocean. The ocean is still there within.

When you sit by the ocean, watch the ocean’s movement, and become so absorbed that your inner ocean leaps to meet the outer—then you will have sensory knowledge.

Mahavira calls that ‘mati.’ Little children have it. As you grow older, it fades. Then only those have it who enter meditation, who again become like small children. Then a light touch of wind gives news of heaven; a tiny tremor of a flower becomes the dance of life; the flickering flame of a lamp becomes an experience of the energy of all life—then mati-knowledge begins to happen.

The trainings running in the West to reawaken the senses may seem childish to us; because we don’t even consider such a thing. For three or four weeks people gather at a center—they try in every way to experience life. They lie with eyes closed upon the sand of the seashore so that they can feel the touch of sand; they sit with heads bowed under a waterfall so they can experience water; they touch one another with closed eyes so that they can feel the sensation of each other’s bodies.

Even two lovers are acquainted with each other’s bodies in very orthodox, bound ways. Have you ever tried touching your beloved back to back—your back to her back? You will have a very different experience if you stand, eyes closed, with your back against your beloved’s back. For the first time you will experience a new person—because from the back, the beloved is utterly different.

But everything has become fixed, routine. Have you ever sat quietly with your child, pressing cheek to cheek? The child is still pure; his life-energy is still flowing. If you sit with your child, cheek to cheek, and can experience it, your child will prove life-giving to you; your span of life will increase a little.

It has been observed: sometimes when older men marry young girls their lifespan increases. Because with a young girl they have to bring their age down. To meet her, to relate, they have to descend; the inertia of their body has to be lowered.

It is not surprising that someone like Bertrand Russell remained youthful to his dying, ninetieth year. Because up to eighty he kept marrying anew. At eighty he married a twenty-year-old girl. That youth, that freshness of the senses, must have remained.

Russell was a sensualist. He believed that the more purity the senses have in life, the deeper the sensory experience, the more life reaches its peak. Mahavira does not stop there. He says, there are other dimensions ahead.

But we get stuck in ‘shruta’. We do not reach even ‘mati’. The seeker must have senses as pure as the animals—only then can he become a Siddha; otherwise not. Yet our whole arithmetic is upside down. We call a seeker one who is killing the senses, suppressing the senses. If your sadhu listens to music, you begin to doubt: what’s going on? If your sadhu eats with relish, you doubt there is trouble! But our sadhu is trying not to drop taste but to kill the sense—the tongue—so that nothing is felt at all.

Remember, his mati-knowledge will be dulled; his sensory capacity to know will shrink. And the more it shrinks, the more the expanse of his life will contract and wither.

Thus the sadhu becomes constricted, shrunken. Thus the sadhu’s life generally appears suicidal. He keeps shrinking from all sides—dulling, not opening, not becoming a free sky.

Mahavira’s statement is to be understood. He says: first knowledge is ‘shruta’, second ‘mati’, third ‘avadhi’; but the third happens only in one whose mati-knowledge has become deep. Behind each sense of man there is a subtle sense hidden. Avadhi-knowledge is the knowing through that subtle sense—as if you hear events without ears!

Hurkos is very famous in the West—Peter Hurkos. In the Second World War he fell. An ordinary man; he fainted from a head injury, was taken to hospital. When he regained consciousness after forty-eight hours, he was astonished. He could not believe it: in that accidental blow some inner sense had opened. The nurse nearby—he began to sense what was happening inside her. He became a little restless. He asked, “Are you thinking of meeting a lover?” The nurse said, “What do you mean?” She was startled, for inwardly she was hurrying to finish with this patient—her lover was waiting outside for her; she was to run away to meet him. She was attending to this patient mechanically; her mind had gone to her lover.

If anyone came near Hurkos, the inner happenings of that person would begin to be felt. If one gave him an object, a handkerchief, he would, by concentrating on it, describe the person. For ten years he was troubled by this. It is a great trouble. Imagine: everyone you pass on the street—if you get a glimpse of his interior; you are making love to your wife and suddenly you sense that she is thinking of her lover—often they do! Husbands and wives often think of someone else, but it isn’t caught—because our subtle senses are dead. Our gross senses are dead; how can the subtle be alive?

When the gross senses become sensitive, the subtle senses hidden behind them begin to move. The experience through those subtle senses Mahavira calls avadhi-knowledge. Telepathy, clairvoyance—all are forms of avadhi.

In the West, psychic science is working vigorously on avadhi-knowledge, and thousands of dimensions have opened. Many authentic experiments have been done that indicate man has subtle senses through which he sees without seeing, hears without hearing. You too get a glimpse sometimes, but you dismiss it; you keep no account of it.

Sometimes you are sitting at home; suddenly the thought of a friend arises—and you see that friend entering. The thought comes first; the friend enters by the door later. You think it a coincidence. It is not coincidence.

There is no such thing as coincidence in this existence. Everything is scientific, bound by cause and effect. Your friend’s arriving at the door—your subtle sense caught it first; the gross senses caught it later.

Sometimes a beloved is dying far away—thousands of miles—and some pain begins within you. You cannot catch it clearly. If clarity comes and you work in that direction, it will begin to fall within your grasp.

It has been observed that twins fall ill together even if thousands of miles apart. Twins born from one egg fall ill together. If one gets a cold here and the other is in Beijing, the other will catch a cold there. Astonishing—different climate, different land, different air. If this one got an infection, there is no reason the other should get it the same day. Here flu may be running, there not; yet both catch cold together.

Scientists were perplexed. How? Psychic research now says: the two are so alike, so united in birth, that their subtle senses are so connected that if a tremor occurs in one, the other gets the news. One catches a cold, the subtle senses of the other begin to experience it; by that cause the second also gets a cold. It is a mental cold, but it will happen.

Twins from one egg die almost together—the maximum difference is three months. Because when death happens to one, a blow lands on the subtle senses of the other; he comes close to death. Try small experiments—you will get a sense of your subtle senses.

All three knowledges are possible to all persons—easily: shruta, mati, avadhi. There is nothing special in these three. Therefore when you are amazed by the third, you are naive. Because of the third, people become ‘great men.’ But the third does not lift life to a higher state.

You go to some mahatma, and upon your arrival he tells you your name, where you come from, what your house is like, that there is a tree in front—finished, you are sold! “I have found the guru, I have met the true master!”

This person has only used subtle senses a little, which everyone has. That you do not use is another matter. You too have a radio; if you do not tune and do not set to a station, you will go about carrying it silent. This man tuned—no great art. His radio begins to bring sound, and you go about carrying yours.

Up to avadhi all three are utterly common; there is nothing extraordinary. But the third impresses us very much. Have you noticed: the third is often found more among the uneducated—villagers, rustics—tribals, more among them. Because you have forgotten there are subtle senses. You live only by the intellect—shruta; all your universities rest upon shruta-knowledge. There is no university yet that can give you mati-knowledge. The man in the jungle gets no training of intellect; and in the jungle he has no facility to live by intellect. He has to live by the subtle. A lion attacks—after the attack the intellect can work, but there is little left to do. The man living in the jungle has to be alert not only through the gross senses but through the subtle—so that even a hint of the lion is caught; the attack must be sensed before it happens, only then can there be defense.

In Australia there is a small tribe under scientific study—the most astonishing tribe. Every person in that tribe will appear to you like a mahatma, yet it is an utterly ordinary tribe—only very ancient, and unrelated to civilization. A strange phenomenon happens there. A scientist stayed to study what the matter was.

If more scientists go, they may or may not be able to study, but they will certainly spoil them—for they will plant doubt. And where doubt enters, avadhi declines. Avadhi requires faith, trust.

No one in that tribe writes letters. They do not know writing. They have no script, no postman, no post office. Yet sometimes there is a need to send news to friends and dear ones. In the middle of the village there is a small plant—they use that plant. If a mother’s son is ten miles away and she wants him to return quickly, she will go to the plant and speak to her son there, as you speak at a telephone. She will say, “Listen, my health is bad; return by evening,” and the son will return by evening. And if you ask the son, he will say, “At noon I heard my mother’s voice: ‘return quickly, I am unwell.’”

This is under scientific study; scientists are astonished—what is happening?

Nothing much. These are simple, animal-like folk.

Man’s subtle senses are powerful, far-reaching; time and space are no barrier. Imagine that in ancient times science too developed, but all science was based on subtle senses. Modern science is based on gross senses. The ancient man had discovered the art of long-distance communication as well. We have discovered it too, but ours is based on external senses. We have telephone, radio, television—these are extensions of outer senses. The ancient man had extended the inner senses and on that basis had accomplished many things beyond our grasp—just as our instruments are beyond theirs.

Behind each gross sense of man there is a subtle sense. Behind the eye there is a subtle eye hidden within. It can be developed. Try a few small experiments and you will begin to sense it. And at least thirty in a hundred will easily succeed. So many are present here—many will succeed. In a hundred, thirty still have their avadhi intact.

Try a small experiment: take a deck of cards in hand; close your eyes. Draw one card and do not think—see what it is. King, queen, joker—what? Do not think; thinking will spoil it. Thinking, you will begin to guess: “Perhaps a king.” Then you will fall into doubt and restlessness. No—only close your eyes and see—what is it? And do not think. Trust the very first thing that comes—do not consider the second. If first comes “joker,” open your eyes and see.

Practice for a few days. You will be astonished: with eyes closed you can see through the deck what a card is.

I say this only so that you become aware that there is a subtle sense. If the idea arises, trust arises; if trust arises, the work begins.

Make a pact with a friend: every night at exactly eight he will, from Calcutta, send you a message—he will just sit with eyes closed and send a one-sentence message. And at exactly eight you will sit receptive to catch it. Do not think; whatever words come first—however absurd or pointless—note them. Do this experiment for three months. You will be astonished: within three months your subtle capacity to receive will have grown. And with one sense, all senses are connected likewise. You will be surprised how much work is done in this field.

With Gurdjieff many women experienced that when they met him they felt as if some blow had been delivered to their sex center. Some were frightened: “What is this? This man seems like a devil.” But the whole matter was simply that as each sense has a subtle counterpart, the generative organ too has a subtle sense. It can be struck. And Gurdjieff indicated only that he worked upon subtle senses. They can be touched.

Sometimes blows happen unknowingly, without your knowing. A woman passes and you suddenly become lustful; or a man passes and a woman suddenly contracts. It feels as if something is happening. Even if no one is doing anything, suddenly something happens because suddenly some subtle sense becomes active. In truth, what we call love is, in the language of avadhi-knowledge, the activation of subtle senses.

You become enchanted by a woman. Then the whole world will call you mad. People will ask, “What do you see in that woman?” But that person is seeing something no one else sees. What does he see? Some subtle sense in that contact becomes active. He is not seeing the woman as she appears from outside; he begins to sense her as she is within.

The happening of love is the happening of avadhi-knowledge. Mahavira says these three knowledges are ordinary. All miracles belong to the third. You are ill and go to a miracle-working mahatma. He says, “Go, in three days you will be well.” You think: “Because he said I would be well in three days, I am getting well in three days.” The matter is totally different. His subtle senses are active and he sees you will be well after three days; therefore he says so. And when you become well, you think a miracle happened; the mahatma healed you. He only sensed that after three days you would be well. This sensing, today or tomorrow, will be possible through scientific instruments as well.

In Russia cameras are being developed that can photograph in how many days an illness will end. They are like X-rays. It can be known that there is illness; it can be known how long it will take to be cured; and it can be known six months in advance what illness is going to begin—Russia is working in all three directions, with success. Any illness that will come into your life can be photographed six months in advance. And if it can be photographed six months before, you can be treated before it arrives.

Whatever the mind can do within, science will do from without through instruments.

Mahavira calls the fourth knowledge: ‘manah-paryaya.’ From here begins the journey of the seeker, the yogi. Manah-paryaya means: the witnessing of the modes and forms arising in one’s own mind. And when one becomes capable of witnessing one’s own mental modes, one becomes capable of witnessing the mental modes of others. When one becomes capable of seeing all the layers of one’s mind, one’s past births begin to appear; for all of them are stored in the layers of mind. No memory is lost; all are collected. They can be opened again and seen.

When mental modes begin to be experienced… You abuse me—one in manah-paryaya will not care about the abuse or about you; he will look within to see what forms and patterns arise in his own mind. What happens within me? Because the real question is me—not you. What have I to do with you? You abused me; I close my eyes and watch what happens within.

Through this witnessing the gaze slowly turns from without to within; we slip behind the mind. And one who slips behind the mind begins to experience the Atman. In the state of manah-paryaya the first glimpse of self begins. “Who am I?” Then mind appears like clouds gathered in the sky, and I—the sun—am hidden. Our identification with these clouds is so strong that we forget we are separate. We become one with them.

When you are filled with anger, your anger is not separate—you become anger. When you are gripped by hunger, you become hungry. But one in manah-paryaya will know: the body is hungry and I know it. There will be a clear distinction. You abuse, the mind is agitated; I know it. The agitation of mind is not my agitation; the restlessness of mind is not my restlessness. Mind is a mechanism. Mind is disturbed; I am not.

But to step out of mind’s circle requires great courage—the greatest. Because our whole life is the life of mind. Whatever we know about ourselves is mind. One who steps beyond mind feels he is entering the state of death.

Meditation is an experiment in death. Through meditation manah-paryaya arises. But we are afraid to step even a little outside; because to step outside mind means “I am lost.” My entire being is mind. Sometimes we put one foot out and, frightened, pull it back.

I have heard: some bandits attacked Nasruddin’s house. They shut all doors, bound his hands and feet, and drew a circle around him with chalk, saying, “Step out of this circle and you will be killed. Do not step outside.” They dragged his wife into another room. An hour later they all had left—Nasruddin still stood within his circle. His wife, in a pitiable state—torn clothes, blood stains—came running out and said, “You miserable coward! Do you know what they were doing to me in that room? You are a coward!”

Nasruddin said, “Coward? You call me a coward? Do you know what I did while they were in that room with you? On three separate occasions I stepped out of the circle!”

Just so, sometimes we too put a tiny foot outside mind’s circle and think ourselves very brave, and then pull it back. The robbers had gone; Nasruddin still stood in the circle—and thinks himself brave. The fear? That they might kill—death.

The same fear is in meditation. And there is no murderer greater than the guru. Hence in the Upanishads we have called the guru death. In the Katha Upanishad, when Nachiketa’s father becomes angry—because he was doing a charity festival and giving away, as people do, dead things—cows whose milk had dried, horses that could no longer carry loads, chariots that no longer ran—Nachiketa, sitting by, watched. He was puzzled and asked, “Father, what is the use of giving away cows that have no milk? To whom is this any benefit?” The father grew angrier.

Sons are simple. By nature—what is their age? Nachiketa was innocent. He saw clearly. The father thought he was giving charity; the son saw clearly—what charity? This cow cannot give milk; on the contrary, it will be a burden to the receiver—he will have to arrange grass, water. What is the use of giving an old cow? The father said, “Be quiet, what do you know!” But the son could not remain quiet. Finally he asked, “Will you give away everything?” The father said, “Yes, everything.” He asked, “To whom will you give me? I am also your son.” In anger the father said, “I will give you to Death—to Yama!”

The sweet story says Nachiketa was thus given to Death. And from Death, Nachiketa asked the deepest questions of life, and returned with the supreme esoteric of sadhana. The deep symbol is: when the father says, “I give you to Death,” he says, “I give you to the guru.” For the meaning of guru is Death. Passing through the guru you will return new. Nachiketa returns new—having learned the element of immortality.

Our fear regarding meditation and Samadhi is just this: “Will I die? Will I disappear?” We want to meditate while preserving ourselves. Then meditation cannot happen. We must abandon ourselves, break, drop away. Manah-paryaya descends only into the life of those who move away from mind.

What to do…?
Wherever there is identification with mind, do not allow identification. Anger arises—the whole life in you will say “be angry.” Remain quiet within. Let anger move around; no need to suppress. If hands and feet tremble, let them; if fists clench, let them. Let anger heat the blood; let breath run fast—let it. But inwardly, at the center, stand apart, watching: anger is happening in my body and mind—but I am separate, other, different. I am only the seer. As if it is happening to someone else.

Lust grips—stand aside likewise. Greed grips—stand aside likewise. Storms of thought grip—stand aside likewise. You lie in bed at night; sleep does not come; thoughts are clinging. Thoughts do not obstruct sleep; your identification with thoughts does. Next time when this happens—sleep does not come and thoughts cling—do nothing. With eyes closed only feel: I am other; these thoughts are other. As clouds pass in the sky, so thoughts pass in mind; as cars pass on the road, so thoughts pass in mind. I sit in my home and watch—only watch. In a little while you will find thoughts have vanished; you have fallen into deep sleep.

The process of meditation is this: to break from thought. The moment one breaks, manah-paryaya begins. Mahavira calls this fourth knowledge. The fourth is available to the seeker. The fifth Mahavira calls ‘kevalya’—only knowledge, pure knowing, where nothing remains to be known. For in the fourth, mind remains to be known. While knowing the modes of mind, witnessing and witnessing, the modes drop, transformations drop, mind disappears; the sky becomes empty. In that emptiness only the sun remains—only light remains. That is the state of the Siddha—kevalya. These are the five knowledges. What is known in that state alone is truth.

Understand this well.

Mahavira’s emphasis is unique. He says: as you are, truth cannot be known. Therefore drop the search for truth; change your state. As you are, you can only know untruth. You attract untruth.

In the state of ‘shruta’ only untruth can be known. In the state of ‘mati’ the truths of the senses can be known—the truth of things. In ‘avadhi’ the truth of subtle senses can be known. In ‘manah-paryaya’ the beyond-mind can be glimpsed and the truth of all transformations of mind known. And in ‘kevalya’—pure truth is known, that which is—existence, mere existence. Call it Paramatma, or whatever name you choose: Nirvana, Moksha.

Mahavira has described these five knowledges. To my knowing, no other person has given such subtle, scientific characterization of knowledge. There is no possibility that beyond these five a sixth can be. None. Science has reached up to the third, placing its foot on the fourth. Experiments in meditation are ongoing in the West; attempts are being made to step onto the fourth. Today or tomorrow, memory of the fifth will begin to arise as well. Before this century ends, Mahavira can stand proven as the greatest scientist of mind.

“Jnanavaraniya, darsanavaraniya, vedaniya, mohaniya, ayu, nama, gotra, and antaraya—these eight karmas, in brief, have been declared.”

There are five knowledges, and those which cover them—the eight forms of karma that cover kevalya, that cover pure knowing.

Mahavira’s grip is that of an exact analyst—like a physician diagnosing: what is the disease, what are the causes, what are the remedies. He is not a poet. Therefore the poetry of the Upanishads is not in Mahavira’s language. Mahavira is pure mathematics, a scientific intelligence. Perhaps that is why his impact was less than it could have been; for people are less impressed by mathematics, more by poetry. People are impressed more by imagination, less by truth. One basic reason for Mahavira’s lesser influence is that he proceeds exactly like mathematics—straight calculation.

But for one who wants to walk the path of sadhana, poetry will not do. For one who wants to sit at home with closed eyes and dream, that is another matter. But one who has to travel needs clean maps. He must know the dangers—where are the pits and precipices, the misleading paths? And what are the causes that keep me standing in the world? How can each cause be removed so I may step out of the world?

Mahavira behaves like a pure physician in contemplating life. He says there are eight karmic defilements that prevent human purity. Let us consider them, one by one; they will become clear.

That which veils knowledge first—whatever covers your knowing—is ‘jnanavaraniya.’ All that obstructs your knowledge and nourishes your ignorance are veils upon knowledge.

What nourishes your ignorance?

First: you are not ready to accept that you are ignorant. You insist you are knowledgeable—this becomes a veil; the quest stops. This is the disease. It is as if a sick man insists, “I am healthy. Who says I am ill?” If the sick man takes it as an attack to be called ill, and begins to fight—“Who says I am ill? I am perfectly healthy; shame on you for calling me sick!”—then there is no way to treat him.

The ignorant does the same. He says, “Who says I am ignorant?” If someone proves your statement wrong, you are ready to fight. What danger is there in being proved wrong? The danger is he is proving you ignorant.

People do not fight for truth—they fight for “my statement is true.” These so many sects, so many camps—their quarrel is not for truth. What can be a quarrel for truth? The quarrel is: what I say is truth—and no other can be.

I have heard: a Sufi fakir died. He reached heaven and made his first prayer to God, “First, I want to know the full expanse of heaven—and I want to tour it before I choose a dwelling.”

God said, “This is not proper—it is against the rules. You are a Sufi; your place is fixed. Go to the part where Sufis dwell.”

But the Sufi insisted: “Even if you send me to hell, before I choose my place I want to see the whole of heaven.”

God said, “What obstinacy is this? No one insists thus; for everyone believes only his heaven is heaven. Jains come and go to their heaven; Hindus to theirs; Christians, Jews… and each believes his heaven is the only heaven, and that there is no other. What kind of man are you? This is against the rules! But because I love you, I will allow it. Tell no one.”

So an angel was assigned to him. He was shown the heavens of Muslims—millions upon millions; the heavens of Christians, Jews—everything. But everywhere the angel spoke in whispers. Finally the Sufi could not contain himself: “All this is fine, but why are you whispering?”

The angel said, “They must not know. Each believes only they are in heaven. If Muslims find Christians are here, they will be depressed; their joy will vanish. Christians believe all others are in hell. If Jains find Hindus are also in heaven, the very ground beneath their feet will slip. Their joy is that they think only they are in heaven and all others are in hell.”

Everyone takes his truth as the limit of truth. He thinks what he believes is right—and tries to make the whole world believe it. Such a person becomes doctrinaire and remains forever surrounded by ignorance.

One who moves toward knowledge should not accumulate such karmic grime. He should remain humble, open, willing that truth may come from anywhere—I am open. From where it comes is irrelevant. I am thirsty—whether the water is of Ganga or Yamuna does not matter—water is needed. From whose hands it comes also does not matter.

But some foolish ones go to eat mangoes and spend their life counting stones—no time remains to eat mangoes; the pits are enough.

Mahavira calls ‘jnanavaraniya’ all those tendencies that obstruct the blossoming of your knowledge: your ego, your dogmatism, your prejudices, your insistence that only this is right.

A mind without insistence is needed. Hence Mahavira developed the entire vision of non-insistence which he calls ‘syadvada.’ He says: do not call anything in such a way as to say “this alone is right,” because existence is vast. Others may also be right. The opposite too may be true; because life is complex. Whatever a man says will be partial, never total. Whatever can be said will be partial.

This too is why Mahavira did not impact more—for his thought does not make a sect. Those who have made a sect behind him are the wonder-workers. A sect cannot be built behind Mahavira—should not be. For Mahavira breaks the very foundation of sectarianism—“only we are right.”

What sect can be built that says, “You too are right”? If a temple says, “The mosque is also right, no harm—if you go there it’s fine,” the temple’s business will collapse. The temple must say all others are wrong. And the louder the temple cries, “The mosque is wrong, the church is wrong,” and the more it convinces the listener that only the temple is right—removes his doubt—only then will anyone come.

This is all shopkeeping. If the shopkeeper says, “The goods in my shop are the same as in all shops; the prices are the same; buy from anywhere—it’s all one,” this shop will close. It cannot survive. The shopkeeper must say, “Goods are only here; all others are imitations.”

Mahavira is a strange shopkeeper! He says, “The other may also be right.” He does not call anyone wrong. His effort is: however wrong someone may seem, there will be a little truth in him—choose that. For no statement wholly false can stand—something of truth is needed for it to stand. Therefore when you see an untruth also walking around, Mahavira says, search—because if it is walking, behind it somewhere there must be some truth. Without truth there is no life; untruth cannot move. Even untruth needs truth’s legs to walk—catch that truth and leave the untruth. Why emphasize untruth? Catch hold of the truth in it.

Someone asks Mahavira: “Is there Nirvana or not?” He says, “There is; there is not.” A sect finds this difficult. Because that man wants one fixed statement. “This man does not say anything definite—sometimes this, sometimes that. Sometimes he says, ‘It is’; sometimes, ‘It is not.’ What do you mean? Either say ‘is’, or say ‘is not’—clearly.”

To make a sect one needs clear statements. It is not that Mahavira’s statements are unclear. They are so clear that to us blind ones their clarity is not visible. We are habituated to seeing small, courtyard-sized truths. Mahavira’s truth is vast like the sky; we are people of small courtyards.

Mahavira says: Nirvana is—for one who has reached ‘kevalya.’ Nirvana is not—for one who is still in shruta. For one who stands in the world—there is no Nirvana. Where is it? That which is not my experience—what meaning has its being?

Someone asks: “Is the world Maya?” The Mayavadin says the world is illusory. Mahavira says, “It is—and is not.” For to one who stands in the world, the world is not Maya, and to one who has gone beyond, it is Maya. There nothing remains; the dream has dissolved. The rainbow is there when seen from afar; from up close it is not there.

So Mahavira says: all truths we speak are partial; their opposites may also be true. Such a person cuts off the karmas that cover knowledge. Dogmatic insistence is bondage—non-insistence is freedom.

Mahavira is amazing. Recently Mahatma Gandhi popularized a word—satyagraha, insistence on truth. Mahavira is not agreeable even to that. He says: do not insist even on truth; because wherever insistence comes, untruth enters. Mahavira says—an-agreh, non-insistence.

We insist even upon untruth. Because my untruth appears more pleasing than your truth—because it is ‘mine.’ For my untruth I will fight and say it is truth. Why so much fighting? Because if this untruth breaks, I break. I stand supported by it. If all my beliefs turn out wrong, then I am wrong.

But one who goes in search of knowledge is ready to be completely wrong. One who is ready to be totally wrong will become totally right. His journey has begun.

Mahavira says, second is the karmic net that covers seeing—darsanavaraniya. There is a veil upon your eyes, upon your seeing. Interpretation enters what you see. Understand:

I have heard an American millionaire bought a painting of Picasso, paying lakhs. He installed it in his drawing room, praising it to all who came—how many lakhs he spent, how marvelous it is. Later it was discovered the painting was fake; not painted by Picasso, but a copy. The matter ended. The beautiful, priceless painting lost its beauty and worth. He threw it into the junk-room.

Did this man truly see beauty, or was it only an idea? If he had seen the beauty with his own eyes, he would have said, “What difference does it make who painted it? The painting is beautiful and will remain in the drawing room. It is worth lakhs even if it is a copy. What difference does it make? In itself it is beautiful—and the one who copied is greater than Picasso, for he could copy him. Perhaps even Picasso could not copy his own work. No difference.”

But the painting was thrown away because the real issue was not the painting—it was that it was Picasso’s. A few months later it was found that the first belief was wrong—the painting was indeed Picasso’s. He retrieved it, cleaned it—dust had gathered—and again said, “How marvelous!” Are these your eyes? You are doing just the same.

If someone is playing the flute and you think he is a nobody, you say, “Why this nuisance?” If you learn he is a great artist, you sit up straight: “What amazing music!”

People listen to classical music; they have no idea what is happening. But because it is classical, by listening they too appear cultured. They nod their heads—darsanavaraniya!

You do not have your own eyes, ears, hands—an expert tells you what is precious, beautiful, valuable.

If a diamond is placed in your hand and you are not told it is a diamond but called a shiny pebble, you will give it to children to play. One day you learn experts say it is the Kohinoor—you will snatch it, lock it in the safe.

You have no direct perception; your seeing is not pure—impure, borrowed. Eyes are yours, veils upon them belong to others. So many things are like this. Every day I see it. You too experience it daily; it is happening all around.

I took a friend to see a statue—of Mahavira; but a little unorthodox, not as Mahavira’s should be—somewhat different. He stood there. I said, “Bow, pay respect.” He said, “What is there to bow to?” I said, “Look carefully below—Mahavira’s emblem is carved.” He looked below carefully—then lay prostrate, head to the ground!

Does anything arise from within you, or is all managed by others?

He whose vision is not his own, Mahavira says, has a veil upon his seeing. Find your own eyes. If a stone pleases you, keep it as a diamond in your safe; if a diamond seems ordinary, throw it in the trash!

Such courage is needed. Without it one never attains the capacity to see. And one who has no eyes of his own—how will he find his Paramatma! No way.

Nijata—authenticity—is valuable.

The third karma that encircles us on all sides Mahavira calls ‘vedaniya.’ Around us are atoms of suffering. Because of them we remain continually miserable. Some people—you know—indeed, most people—cannot be made happy. Whatever you do, they will extract sorrow from it.

Nasruddin lamented every year: “The crop failed—the rains came too much; too much sun; cattle grazed it; birds ate it.” One year an impossibility happened: no birds came, no insects, neither excessive sun nor rain nor less. The crop was so marvelous that villagers said such a harvest happens perhaps once in a thousand years. The oldest in the village agreed. Yet Nasruddin sat at his door, head hanging, sad. Neighbors said, “Nasruddin, now be happy—there is no cause to be gloomy.” He said, “No cause? Nothing has rotted or spoiled—what will we feed the animals?”

Vedaniya—he will find sorrow! It cannot be that there is no sorrow anywhere.

We have, from births upon births, such vedaniya-atoms which incite us: “Seek sorrow—seek sorrow.” And it is impossible not to find misery if one is eager to find it. Life has enough sorrow; and if you are keen, what to say!

Our state is as when you hurt your foot—then all day strikes hit that spot. You think: how strange—this silly rule of the world—when there was no wound, nothing struck here; now there is a wound and all day it is struck! You are mistaken. The world does not care for your wound. Neither door nor chair nor table nor child cares to hit your wound. But when there is a wound, vedaniya-karmas gather around it. Then everything that touches it seems painful. Yesterday too things touched you, but you had no capacity to catch pain; there was no wound. Yesterday too the boy put his foot in the same place; nothing was felt. Today he does the same, and you feel it—because today there is a wound.

Remember: no one is giving you sorrow—you are taking it. No one can give another sorrow. This will be hard. Understand it by the reverse: can anyone give anyone happiness? A wife tries to give the husband happiness; the husband tries to give the wife happiness. Both are miserable—dying in hell. If no one can give happiness, how can anyone give sorrow?

Parents try greatly to give the son happiness; the son thinks: when will I be rid of them? What is the matter?

No one can give happiness; no one can give sorrow. In this world sorrow can be taken, happiness can be taken—not given. This is a fundamental principle, basic. Therefore if you live in sorrow, understand you are skilled at taking sorrow. That skill is called vedaniya-karma.

You are skilled—always eager to take sorrow. If a person serves you all day, you will not notice; if he disobeys once, all is ruined. A wife may serve all her life, press your feet—you never notice, never even thank; one day she says, “No, today I won’t make tea—make it yourself,” the whole life is destroyed, the family ruined. Thoughts of divorce arise.

Nasruddin stood in court saying, “Enough, now I want divorce.” The magistrate asked, “What’s the matter?” Nasruddin said, “It has gone too far. We have only one room to live, and my wife keeps three goats—and such filth, such stink—either I die, or divorce—no other way.” The judge said, “It is understandable; a bad situation. But why not open the windows so the stink can go out?” Nasruddin said, “What! Windows? And my five hundred pigeons fly away…!”

We cannot open windows—because five hundred pigeons are our own—vedaniya-karma!

Man searches for sorrow. If he does not find it, he is troubled even by that. If no one in the day is found who can make you angry, you feel something’s empty. If no one is found who can give you sorrow, you feel nothing happened today—everything looks drab. Man cannot even bear happiness; he will create sorrow out of it.

What happens in your life is your receptivity. Mahavira emphasizes that you have vedaniya-karmas. Through births you have collected sorrow; because of that you become more and more miserable. Break this sequence. It will break only when you stop giving responsibility to the other—and stop saying the other is giving me sorrow. It will break when you understand: I am choosing sorrow. So whenever you are miserable, immediately inspect how you chose—how did you choose sorrow? Stop that choice. Slowly the choosing will cease; bridges will fall. Then you can learn the other process—choose happiness.

One who learns to drop sorrow begins to choose happiness. He will squeeze joy even from the worst situation. He alone knows the art of living; he alone drinks the juice of life; he alone enjoys life. He selects happiness even from the worst situation.

You fall ill. A friend of mine fell ill—very disturbed. I told him, “Good—it is nice to have a month of leisure! Leisure cannot be had otherwise. It is God’s compassion that he made you ill and you are confined to bed. Now enjoy the bed! Why worry? You cannot go to the shop, cannot get up, cannot do anything—and what have you done for fifty years anyway? Rest in bed peacefully for a month—what is the harm? People hope for this in Moksha—that they lie, no work, no trouble! Do you not want Moksha? You have it for a month—compulsory. Take it! Read something; listen to music; meditate. Many things you could not do in the rush—useless work—talk to your children, sit with your wife. Do something—enjoy these days—the month of holiday.”

He said, “Not now—I have many pending works.” I told him, “If they are tangled, let them be tangled—you cannot go. But he lies in bed and the shop drags him in, the office drags him!”

If someone sends you forcibly to Moksha, you will return—“Much work remains, we cannot go now!”

The fourth karma Mahavira calls ‘mohaniya.’ When you are attracted to someone, you think the object attracts you. Mahavira says, no. The whole process starts from you. You are becoming attracted; no one is attracting you.

It is said Laila was ugly, not beautiful; and Majnun was attracted. The ugliest girl in the village, they say—yet Majnun was mad. His madness was such that now whenever anyone is mad in love he is called Majnun. The emperor called Majnun and said, “Seeing your poverty, your grief, your wailing, I feel pity. Fool, there is nothing in that girl—you suffer unnecessarily. So much pity I feel for you that I have summoned all the beautiful girls of the town—pick one.” Majnun said, “Laila is not among them.” The emperor said, “Laila is utterly ordinary.” Majnun said, “But how will you recognize her? To see Laila, one needs Majnun’s eyes. She is extraordinary.” For Majnun, Laila is extraordinary. It is not about Laila; it is about Majnun’s eyes. What attracts you?

One day Nasruddin was walking. His wife lagged behind. He bent and picked up something from the road, then threw it angrily. The wife came near. Nasruddin said, “If I catch the man who spits like this—like a half-coin—I would cut his neck!” The wife said, “What man? There’s no one here.” He said, “This man who spits in a way that looks like an eight-anna coin—if I catch him, I’ll cut his neck!”

It has nothing to do with a coin; your own mohaniya-karma is holding you in attraction, infatuation, greed.

Mahavira calls the fifth ‘ayu.’ The lifespan we get, he says, is obtained according to karma. To try to make it longer or shorter is futile. And one who tries to lengthen it does not truly lengthen it, but creates a new birth.

Mahavira says each person is born with a span according to his past karma. One person is to live seventy years—but no one wants to live seventy. Even seven hundred seems too little. If someone says seven thousand, you will still ask, “Can it not be a bit longer?” This desire to extend does not lengthen this life, Mahavira says, but it lengthens future births. This body will fall in seventy years, but if you want to live seven hundred, you will have to take fifteen or twenty more births. Your craving makes you be born.

Ayu is received by karma. Therefore accept it as it is—and the race for new births stops. Mahavira says: do not worry to live more, do not worry to live less. In both cases you err.

Some grow weary of life—house burned, bank failed, bankruptcy—something happened—they want to die. They want to shorten their age. But the span received from karma must be lived. If a man is to live seventy years and dies at forty, the thirty-year remainder he will carry to a new birth. If he is to live seventy and desires seven hundred, that desire will carry him into future births.

Mahavira says ayu is obtained from past births’ karma. Therefore accept it. Do not attempt to kill yourself; do not attempt to prolong yourself. With the witness-attitude live what is—this is our past debt—let it be paid. Then all calms. If the thirst-to-live remains, it drags one on. Because of this thirst there is a wandering through endless lives.

This ayu is not in your hands; it depends on your past karma. This is very true, even scientifically. Scientists will not agree; they say: what is fixed about lifespan? Give proper facilities—health, treatment—and a man can live seventy; do not give food or treatment and he can die at forty. Mahavira says he can die at forty—at four days even, if shot or poisoned. But this does not reduce his ayu-karma. He will complete it in a new birth. It makes no difference. He will have to complete as much as his karma has accumulated—the momentum of wanting-to-live. That momentum will be completed.

Mahavira says life runs by the law of cause and effect. Whatever has been accumulated must bear fruit. Therefore one who lives with simple acceptance becomes free.

‘Nama’—Mahavira says name, ego, fame, rank, lineage, prestige—these too are karmas. A man is born in a Brahmin home, in a good home where there is an atmosphere of knowledge and auspiciousness—he is born there because in a past birth, Mahavira says, he was humble and peaceful. But as a Brahmin’s son he becomes arrogant—“I am a Brahmin, higher than a Shudra”—now he is arranging to become a Shudra in the next birth.

Name, family, form—do not emphasize the formed; remember the formless—then karmas are cut. Emphasize the formed and karmas increase. Therefore Mahavira says: talk of family, name, rank, prestige is not appropriate. He never asks anyone who comes for initiation: what is your caste? Your family? Your name? What wealth was in your house? Do you come from a noble family or ignoble? No—regarding the formed life he asks nothing. He looks into the formless life.

Therefore, do not emphasize the forms around you. If you do, forms will go on being created. Emphasize the formless hidden within. That cuts the process of form.

‘Gotra’—by gotra Mahavira means the sense of inequality—“I am higher, you lower.” Mahavira tried greatly to break the feeling of higher and lower because he says it is a very subtle ego—“I am higher.”

We all live in that notion. Someone appears low to you, someone high; someone you consider below, someone above. And you strive to be above—Mahavira says: one striving to be above, in competition, is by his own hands sinking below. One who stands utterly simple and drops the feeling of higher-lower, of gotra—only he becomes free of this circle; only he steps outside the vicious circle.

But it is easy to think oneself high. The reverse is also easy—to think oneself low.

Adler discovered in the West: there are two tendencies—superiority-complex and inferiority-complex; a feeling of being higher and a feeling of being lower. You will take one of the two. Some think themselves high; some always think themselves low. Because of it they are fearful, shrunken, always afraid.

Mahavira says both are karmic stains—drop both. Know only that “I am”—neither high nor low. Do not put yourself into comparison; do not weigh yourself against anyone—there is no need to be weighed; comparison has no meaning. You are you, and there is none like you in the world. Therefore there can be no comparison; weighing can happen only where there is another like you.

Thus none can be lower than you. Can you say a mango is lower than tamarind? Such talk is madness. You can say “this royal mango is superior to a common mango.” Between two mangoes comparison can be made; not between a mango and a tamarind.

Mahavira says each person is an unrepeatable Paramatma—unique, unparalleled. There is no comparison. Therefore when Mahavira opposed caste it was not a social revolution; it was a spiritual contemplation. Gandhi opposes caste; Keshab Chandra Sen opposes; Rammohan Roy opposes—but theirs is a social notion. Mahavira’s opposition is very inner, deep. He says each human being is so unique that there is no way to compare. And when you weigh yourself, you unnecessarily put yourself into the net of karma. Do not think yourself low; do not think yourself high; do not weigh yourself with another—then the karma of gotra is destroyed.

And the eighth is ‘antaraya’—a great obstruction is working in your life.

A friend came to me and asked, “Why do you ride in an Impala?” I said, “No devotee has yet given a Rolls-Royce—no other reason.” He said, “No—everything else you say I understand; only this riding in an Impala…!”

Now this has become an ‘antaraya’—an obstruction. The Impala is not telling him to ride in it; if he gets one, let him not ride! Because I ride in an Impala he…

“All else seems right, but because of the Impala everything is spoiled.” The Impala is becoming an obstruction—coming in the way for him. And it is not only Impalas—strangest things become obstacles.

When I was in Jabalpur, a high court lawyer came to see me. He said, “All else is fine, everything you say I understand—but why do you wear such long-sleeved kurtas?”

My kurta—what has it got to do with you? It’s my arm!

He said, “It causes me such difficulty. Even if I come to listen to you, my attention remains on your kurta—why do you wear such long sleeves? Many times I miss listening.”

Antaraya means: some useless thing that becomes a hindrance in the meaningful. And you all live like this. One who seeks life must break obstructions. He should choose what seems right; what seems wrong—what of it? What is your concern? What is your purpose with it?

A friend came—he is with some sadguru. The guru is certainly a precious man. He said, “One thing spoils it all—they sometimes use abusive words. A knower should not abuse, should he?”

I said, “What do you know of what a knower should or should not? Make a list of all knowers, then find how many abused and how many did not. Ramakrishna used to abuse. It is not written in books because writing it looks difficult—he abused quite well! But it is not written—who will write it?”

He said, “Ramakrishna abused? This is too much! I have been reading his books till now!”

An obstruction arose! Whether he did or not is not even the question! Till now you read with such delight!

What have you to do with his abusing? If Ramakrishna goes to hell for abusing, he will go. If someone goes to hell for sitting in an Impala, he will go. What have you to do with it? If you are concerned with your life, choose what is meaningful to you. But inner obstructions are great.

Now note, one who says the Impala disturbs him certainly wants to sit in an Impala. There can be no other reason. Somewhere there is a taste. If his taste is more in the car than in my words, then it is understandable. But he will not see that his taste is obstructing him; he will see that my sitting is obstructing him.

To that lawyer who spoke to me I said, “It seems you have a desire to wear a long-sleeved kurta.” He said, “What are you saying? Never!” I said, “You become so excited, so strongly you deny—it means just that. Otherwise why be so excited? You could have laughed. Some desire is in your mind, and you lack courage.”

He became thoughtful, a little lightened, and said, “It may be so. My father never allowed me to wear a kurta. He too was a lawyer—he used to say, ‘Tie a tie.’ Perhaps you have caught the pulse correctly. He never allowed me to wear a kurta; later I became a high court lawyer—ought to go as per rules. Perhaps a desire to wear a kurta remained within.”

I said, “Then attend to that. Why my kurta?”

“If you want my kurta, take it. What else can I do?”

Man always thinks about the outside; but the real causes are within. They are antaraya. They cause great suffering—so much suffering, for which there is no purpose at all.

Another friend came from Africa. He said, “A mahatma came there—everything else fine, but while speaking he scratched his ear in the middle.”

“What have you to do with his scratching?”

“It doesn’t seem polite.”

If this person were psychoanalyzed, some repressed knot would be found regarding ear-scratching. Some obstacle must be inside.

Leave the mahatma alone! A mahatma should have at least this much freedom that if he scratches his ear no one prevents him! But even that you will not allow.

By antaraya Mahavira means: those useless things because of which obstruction comes in reaching the meaningful.

These are the eight karmas. One who becomes aware regarding these eight and begins to drop them rises gradually toward kevala-jnana. These eight are the weights that hold you to the ground. Leaving them little by little…

Many people stopped coming to Mahavira because he was naked—that became an obstruction. Many hesitate to come to my camps because someone becomes naked there.

Someone becomes naked! If you were to do so, perhaps there would be difficulty—although even then there should not be; for what has he done—only removed cloth! But even if someone else does it, keeps his clothes aside, you become restless.

Surely you have some inner disturbance regarding nakedness. Either you want to be naked and cannot; or seeing another naked, thoughts arise in you that you do not want to arise. But the inner event is the cause.

If a naked woman is passing, your restlessness does not arise because she is naked; it arises because, “She is naked—what if I do something?” You do not trust yourself; therefore a naked woman frightens you—“What if I do something? What if I become so mad seeing her naked that something happens?” Instead of understanding your inner tendency, you make laws that no one can be naked. And you will find supporters for your law, because they have the same disease. Many will join you immediately: “You are right—no one should be naked.”

I read a small story: an aunt took a small boy to the seashore. A half-naked beggar sat in the open sun. The aunt was immediately disturbed—she began to pull the boy away. The boy said, “Wait—the beggar is sitting in such bliss!” She said, “Do not look there.” When one is stopped—he wants to look more: “What is the matter? Aunt never pulled me like this!” The aunt dragged him anxiously; he kept looking back. She said, “You are a devil!” The boy said, “But he is sitting in such joy—under the tree—half-naked!”

They reached home. The aunt spoke with the mother; both were upset. They called the police; the police came. The boy was bewildered: “He harmed no one, didn’t say anything—he was sitting in his own joy—what is happening?” He had done nothing! He went to the roof; the police beat the beggar with sticks; kicked him in the genitals. The boy screamed and cried—for it was beyond his understanding. In the evening he asked his father, “What was the matter? Why was that man persecuted?” The father said, “He is a very bad man.” The boy said, “But he did nothing—how can he be bad?” The father said, “You will not understand now—later you will. This cannot be explained. He did a very bad thing.” The boy said, “But he did nothing—I was there—and aunt is lying!”

That man did nothing. Something happened to the aunt. But how can the boy understand—he is not yet so ill. He is new to this crowd of mad people; initiation has not happened yet.

So the father said, “It was a very bad thing—and do not raise this again—forget it completely.” The boy said, “But the police beating that poor man was certainly bad.” The father said, “The police beating was not bad, you fool—that man was bad!” And the man did nothing—only sat half-naked! Something is always happening within us; we suppress it and cast the blame outside.

One whose attention turns toward antaraya begins to become light—burdens, chains begin to fall. The chains are in your hands—drop them. Freedom is your nature.

Let us sing for five minutes—and then go…!