Mahaveer Vani #41

Mahavira’s concern is neither poetry nor argument. His concern is with the fact of life, the scientific search of life, discovery. Therefore Mahavira sang no songs of Samadhi. Nor did he supply arguments in support of what he said. Arguments can be supplied—for anything. There is nothing for which arguments cannot be produced either pro or con. Argument is a double-edged sword. It can establish, and it can demolish. But no truth is ever arrived at by argument.
Poetry is expression. It can carry a glimpse of the joy of what has been experienced. But how that joy was experienced—the science of it—poetry does not construct. Most scriptures are for the logically itchy—their intellects itch; they will find taste there. The rest of the scriptures are poetic; those who have experienced find their expression in them. Very few scriptures are scientific; they are for those who neither suffer from the itch of intellect nor have they arrived—they are entangled in life and are seeking the path.
Mahavira speaks from that third angle alone.
I have heard: a Jewish pundit died. He was presented before God. God asked, “What were you doing on earth all your life?” The pundit said, “I was studying religion, scripture, and the arguments that establish scripture.” God said, “I am pleased. For my delight, present some argument as proof that ‘God is.’”
The pundit had argued all his life, but confronted with God, his intellect got stuck. What argument could he present for God’s existence? He pondered for two moments; nothing came. The intellect felt empty. He said, “It is very difficult—I cannot find anything worthy of Your ears. Better that You Yourself present some argument—You perform some point, and I will show You how to refute it.”
Understand well: argument is always negative, refutational. In truth, the nature of intellect is negation. Get this clear. The nature of intellect is negative. When intellect says ‘no’—then it is. And when you say ‘yes,’ intellect dissolves; the heart is. Whenever there is a ‘yes’ within you, then the heart is. And when there is ‘no,’ then the intellect is. Therefore the person who can say a total ‘yes’ to life is theist; and the person who keeps pressing upon ‘no’ is atheist.
Being atheist has nothing to do with whether one denies God or not. Atheist means ‘no’ is the structure of his life; saying ‘no’ is his pleasure, saying ‘yes’ is difficult, obstructed.
Hence you see: as soon as a child’s intellect begins to arise, he starts to refuse. As soon as the child begins to become young and his own intellect begins to function, he begins to relish the word ‘no’; to say ‘yes’ feels like a compulsion.
The nature of intellect is doubt; the nature of heart is trust. Some people have only this total restlessness—argument, pro or con. It makes no difference—the argument that is for can be made against. Argument is a courtesan. It is no housewife, no wife; it belongs to no single husband. Whoever pays, it goes with him.
I have heard: a very great lawyer, Dr. Harisingh Gaur, founder of Sagar University, was arguing a case in the Privy Council. He was forgetful by nature. His junior would feed him all the details on the way—what to contend in court, on which points. That day the junior was ill, and Gaur forgot whether he was for the plaintiff or the defendant. He began to speak in the Privy Council.
The judge was astonished; the opposing counsel was stunned—because he was speaking against his own client, with such force that no way remained. The opposing counsel wondered what he would do now—nothing was left to do. Just then the assistant, though ill, ran in lest something go awry. By the time he arrived, Gaur had already settled the case—completely against his own client. The assistant tugged his coat and whispered, “What are you doing? This is our client!” He said, “Don’t worry.”
He said, “My Lord! Until now I have presented those arguments which my opposing counsel would have presented; now I begin their refutation.” And he refuted them—with a force equal to that with which he had supported them.
Between lawyer and courtesan there is a deep kinship. The courtesan sells her body; the lawyer sells his intellect. He has no side of his own. Whichever side can buy him—that is his side.
Argument is a courtesan. Hence the interest of people like Mahavira, Buddha or Krishna is not in argument; and, as I said, not in poetry either, because poetry is the final flower. When one attains Samadhi, then the inspiration of song arises, music begins to flow, poetry enters even his sitting and standing—this is the last thing. Its flavor can be relished—but only by those who have reached that place. For the seeker it has no value. There is even danger.
In the Bible there is the Song of Solomon—songs of one in Samadhi. But a great danger occurred. For Solomon expressed that ultimate Samadhi through the symbol of man and woman—for no better symbol exists. The most ultimate experience of union available to an ordinary person is the union of two lovers. Hence Solomon disclosed his entire Samadhi through the love of woman and man.
But even those devoted to the Bible are afraid of the Song of Solomon; it seems extremely earthly. Yet there is a compulsion: even the ultimate must be expressed in the language of this world—and the language of song here is ‘love.’ Therefore many can glimpse lust in Meera’s songs, for Meera says, “Come, sleep upon my bed. I am ready; where are you? I have strewn flowers, prepared the bed; I have lit the lamp—I wait for you. And until you come and sleep with me upon my bed, I shall know no peace.”
This is the language of lovers. So if Freudians study Meera they will feel some repressed sexuality hidden within. If one must express the Ultimate in song, one must choose the language of love—there is no other way. For on this earth the closest to the Ultimate is love itself.
But then there is danger: the readers may incline not towards Samadhi but towards sex. The fear is that instead of the Ultimate, petty lust may be born in their minds.
Mahavira has no concern with argument. Nor with song. Mahavira wants to present the pure science of inner life. The direction is altogether different. To reveal what has been experienced is futile before those who have no experience. What is necessary is to reveal the process—how experience can happen. And to give the map of what will happen upon the path of experience. For the journey is infinite, and from anywhere one may go astray. Infinite are the riddles, infinite the turns; it is a network of footpaths. Without a clear map you will wander in a labyrinth.
Therefore Mahavira’s entire endeavor is to create a spiritual map—so that a true guide be in your hand, and you may examine each step; recognize each stage—that the journey is right, the direction right. And that where I am going, ultimately liberation will be possible. Keeping this perspective in view, Mahavira becomes very easy to understand.
Now let us take his sutra:
“Krishna, Neel, Kapot, Tej, Padma and Shukla—these are, respectively, the six names of the leshyas.”
This book of Mahavira’s utterances appears as if it were physics, chemistry, mathematics. Hence very few will savor it. The Gita can be recited; a great epic is hidden in it. Mahavira’s words are straight mathematics—as if Euclid were writing theorems of geometry.
“Krishna, Neel, Kapot, Tej, Padma and Shukla—these are the six names of the leshyas.”
First understand: what is ‘leshya’? Among Mahavira’s special technical terms, leshya is one.
Consider: the ocean is silent, no wave. A gust of wind arrives—waves begin to rise, billows arise; the ocean is tossed, the breast disordered, all becomes chaotic. Mahavira says: the pure Atman is like the silent ocean; the impure Atman is like the restless ocean, flooded with waves. Those waves are called ‘leshya.’ The waves in human consciousness—these are leshyas. And when all leshyas are stilled, the pure Atman is realized. Mahavira has also divided these leshyas into six kinds. Leshya means the modifications of mind.
What Patanjali called chitta-vritti, Mahavira calls leshya. The modifications of chitta, the thoughts of mind, desires, cravings, greed, ambitions, expectations—these are leshyas. Man is surrounded by infinite leshyas. Every moment he is seized by some wave or other.
And remember: when there are waves on the ocean, you see only the waves; the ocean is hidden. When there are no waves, then the ocean is, then the ocean is seen. So the more the waves of mind, the less the deep inner ocean is experienced. And we go on entangled in these waves, stuck with them—the inner journey does not happen.
These leshyas, these waves, are infinite. But Mahavira says: they have six forms. And these six are highly scientific. Now science too confirms that Mahavira’s way of classifying leshyas seems the only basis possible—there can be no other.
Mahavira classified them by color. In the West a deep study of color is underway. Many things are emerging from color. Color therapy has arisen—the healing of mind and body through color—with astonishing results. It seems there is some precious status of color in man’s inner world. Psychologists say: if your room is colored all around in red—the color of blood—everything red, the light red, the floor red, the walls red—you will go mad within three hours. Red will agitate you; it will stimulate the blood; the heartbeat will increase; blood pressure will rise and there will be bad effects on the brain.
When you look at green, the mind is soothed. Hence, in the forest you feel, “What peace!” A great part of that peace is green. Verdure fills the mind with coolness. Red can arouse excitation. No surprise then that the communists and all revolutionaries chose the red flag—it is the symbol of blood and upheaval.
…Nothing is accidental; nothing happens by accident in this world. Those who trust in blood and killing, naturally they choose red as their symbol.
Islam chose green for its flag. The reason: the very word ‘Islam’ means peace. So, keeping peace in view, green was chosen. It is another matter that Muslims neither gave evidence of green nor of peace. But it is not Muhammad’s fault. The word Islam means peace, and therefore green was chosen—for green is deeply peace-giving.
Colors move you, excite you. In the West, advertising advisors even tell you in what color box to sell your product, for not all colors appear the same; different colors catch differently. You would be amazed: often it has happened that the same soap, when sold in a yellow box, had poor sales. Advisors suggested: the mischief is the color—the soap is fine, but the box color is wrong; it is not attractive enough to catch the eye. Where thousands of boxes sit on a shelf, the color should attract, catch, hypnotize—so that nine hundred ninety-nine remain behind and the hand goes to just one.
By changing the color of the box, the sales rose. By changing the color of book covers, sales rise or fall. Experts survey markets to see which colors stir women who come to shop in supermarkets—what colors stir which age of woman. If you want to sell to a certain age, choose the color accordingly.
The clothes you wear also reveal the leshya of your mind. A lustful person will wear one kind of clothes; one who is moving away from lust will wear another. Colors will change; styles will change. The lustful will wear tight garments; the non-lustful will begin to wear loose garments, for tight clothes feed passion, feed violence.
A soldier cannot be put in loose clothing. If he goes to fight in loose clothes, he will come back defeated. To dress a sadhu in tight clothes is sheer foolishness, for tight clothes are not for a sadhu; hence a sadhu will continuously choose loose garments—touching the body, not binding it.
You may not have noticed how very small things drive your life, for the mind is woven of tiny things. If you wear tight clothes you will start climbing stairs two at a time; in loose clothing your gait becomes royal—you barely climb one step at a time. Tight clothes bring speed; loose bring gentleness—the haste is lost.
The colors you choose also tell of your mind, for choice is not causeless—the mind is choosing.
Mahavira divided the mind’s waves into six by color. Three he calls adharma-leshyas—through which man falls. And three he calls dharma-leshyas—through which man is purified, sanctified.
The first leshya Mahavira calls Krishna—black. The second Neel—blue. The third Kapot—the color of a pigeon’s neck. The fourth Tej—the color of fire, scarlet red. The fifth Padma—peet, yellow. The sixth Shukla—shubhra, white. These are the six leshyas. The first three are adharma-leshyas; the last three, dharma-leshyas.
Why choose by color? Because when a particular modification is in your mind, an aura, a halo arises around your face. This halo can now even be photographed. The picture of your aura can tell what is going on within you—because your whole body is a flow of electricity. Perhaps you do not realize that the whole body is an electrical instrument.
In Scandinavia, some six or seven years ago, a woman fell from a roof and the electrical system of her body was disturbed—short-circuited. Whoever she touched got a shock. Her husband filed for divorce in court, for it became difficult even to go near her—you would get a shock on touching her. Scientific tests revealed something astonishing: a five-candle bulb could be lit in the woman’s hand.
The current that circulates within the body as a circuit—somewhere that circuit broke, a short occurred; wires went awry, and the electricity began to go outside the body. Even otherwise electricity goes out, but in a very slow measure.
You live your whole life by electricity. The basic foundation of the world is the electron. The body too is made of the same stuff. The entire functioning of the body is the journey of electricity.
A research on women has just been completed. It has clarified very deep things about the feminine mind, which were not clear till now. But the research is of electricity—what psychology could not clarify.
For thousands of years woman has been a problem. What she will do in which moment is uncertain. Woman is unpredictable; there can be no prophecy. Astrologers have been defeated by her. She may appear happy one moment and the very next become unhappy—and for the male intellect, which finds no cause presented, it makes no sense: a moment ago all was well, she was delighted, and a moment later she is sad, tears flowing, and she begins to beat her breast—she seems unreasonable!
After forty years of study Freud said: nothing can be said about woman. And those who have said something—their saying appears biased; it reveals their view, not woman.
A famous episode: Chekhov writes that Chekhov himself, Tolstoy and Gorky—the three great Russian writers—were sitting on a park bench talking. The talk reached woman. Men’s talk often reaches woman—and there is little else to talk about! Tolstoy had become quite old, yet he had given no statement about women. Chekhov and Gorky asked him to say something. He said, “I will say it when one leg is in the grave and one outside; then I will speak and go straight into the grave. If I speak the truth, I am still tied to women—they will kill me; and a lie I do not wish to speak!”
But bio-energy research has brought a new piece of news: as soon as a woman’s menstruation begins, the electrical flow of her body contracts every ten minutes—and expands. This continues until menopause, forty-five to fifty years. Every ten minutes—unknown even to her—her bodily electricity contracts, then expands, contracts, expands. Because of this change every ten minutes, her mind changes every ten minutes.
This contraction and expansion are necessary for the child. When the child is in the womb, this contracting and expanding gives the child a kind of inner exercise; thus the child grows. Therefore, between the beginning and the end of menstruation—thirty, thirty-five years—the woman’s whole body passes through a storm every ten minutes. That storm affects her mind. So when a woman is very troubled, you do not be troubled—wait a little; the storm is electrical. And if the woman becomes aware of it, she will not be so disturbed; she can be a witness.
In the man’s body there is no such storm. Hence man appears more logical, within a certain bound—predictable. One can say what he may do. No inner storm is running—there is a straight current. Because of this straight current, the leshyas of his mind are straightforward. Woman’s leshyas will take bigger waves—electricity contracting and expanding keeps her in storms and waves moment to moment.
Mahavira analyzed by color—perhaps the only possible way. Whenever there is a mood in the mind, a hue appears around the face. You do not see it. Small children perceive it more. You too could, if you became a little simple. When a person truly becomes saintly in heart, he gauges you by your aura—not by what you say. He does not look at you; he sees your aura.
Now a man is coming. Around him is a black aura—a dark layer around the face. Let him speak ever so many pure words—they are useless, because that black layer is giving the real news. Subtle cameras have now been developed; they can photograph this. The picture will tell what inner state is going on. And the aura changes every moment.
Around Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Rama, Christ—around the faces of all the awakened ones—we have drawn a halo. However many differences we may have—Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—on this one point we do not differ: all have drawn a halo around the faces of their awakened ones. That halo announces the final moment—when a white aura appears around the face, a pure aura.
Ordinarily around our faces there is a black aura, or the intermediate hues. Each aura announces the inner state. If there is a black aura around you, there will be fierce violence within, anger, intense lust. You will be in that state where even if you yourself are harmed it does not matter; if another is harmed, you will feel joy. Even by harming yourself, if you can harm the other, you will be pleased. Such is the man of Krishna-leshya.
I have heard: a man was dying. He called his sons and said, “Fulfill my last wish.” The elder sons were wise; they knew the father well—that he was a mischief-maker. Lest he weave some snare that would trap them for life, they stayed away. The youngest was naive; he knew nothing of his father’s tricks. He came near… The dying father said, “First give your word that you will fulfill what I say.” He said, “If I do not fulfill a dying father’s wish, what will I do? Tell me.” The father said, “You alone are my real son.” He whispered in his ear: “Do this—when I die, cut my corpse into pieces and throw them into the neighbors’ houses, then report to the police that these people murdered me. My soul will be so delighted—when I see them go handcuffed!”
This is the man of Krishna-leshya. He cares not for himself.
There is an old story in the Panchatantra: A man was a devotee of Shiva, praying and worshipping for long. At last Shiva said, “Why are you after me? What do you want?”
After all, even deities must get nervous at such persistent prayer!
Another story about Shiva: the devotees prayed so excessively that, annoyed, he said, “Go, all of you—become pigeons.” Those pigeons circling the linga are ancient devotees.
When this man became too troublesome, Shiva said, “What do you want?” He said, “Just this—that whatever I ask be always granted.” Shiva set a perverse condition: “It will be granted, but whatever you ask will be granted to you—and the neighbors will receive double.”
The man said, “I’m ruined! The meaning is finished. If I ask for a palace, the neighbors will get two. If I ask for a diamond, they’ll get two each. The whole point is lost—spoiled everything!”
He worried for days—asked for nothing. Then he thought to consult a lawyer; there must be some way! A lawyer said, “Why worry? Ask for such things that the neighbors fall into trouble. Ask God to blind one of your eyes—both of theirs will be blinded.”
The man danced home, “Wonderful! Never thought of it!” Then he found the formula. He said, “Put out one of my eyes.” One eye was blinded; the neighbors’ both were. Even that did not satisfy him—he said, “Dig a well in front of my house.” One well was dug before his; two before the neighbors’. When the blind neighbors began to fall into the wells, his joy knew no bounds. Krishna-leshya will pluck out his own eye if the others lose two. There is no question of his own gain—the loss of the other is the very goal. Around such a man there will be a black ring.
Mahavira says, this is the lowest state—where another’s misery seems the only happiness. Such a man cannot be happy—he lives in delusion. For we receive exactly what we give—what we send returns. The world is an echo.
Therefore we have painted Yama, Death, in black—for his whole relish is but this: when will you die, that he may take you away. Your death is the basis of his life; hence he is painted black. Your death is his life’s foundation—his only business is to wait for your death.
Understand some scientific features of black. Black is the symbol of intense indulgence. Its scientific meaning: when the sun’s ray comes to you it contains all colors—hence the sun’s ray is white. White is the sum of all colors—if all colors fall together upon the eye, white emerges. In school children are given a wheel of all colors; spin it fast and the colors blur into white.
White is the sum of all colors. In white there is the total acceptance of life—no rejection, no negation. Black is the absence of all colors—no color is there. In life there are colors; in death there is none. Life is colorful; death is colorless.
Black means—black is not a color; it is the absence of color. The absence of all colors is black. The presence of all colors is white. Between these, the remaining colors are steps—scientifically. The old symbols prove very precious: we gave death the color black, for there the whole colorfulness of life ceases. No color remains.
The color of sorrow is black. When someone dies we wear black; all color of life becomes zero. Scientifically, what happens when you wear black? When sunrays fall on black cloth, none are reflected back. All rays sink into black cloth. Your eyes see—meaning, the black cloth is visible. Meaning: no portion of the ray is coming to your eye from that cloth. All rays have sunk into the black; none is coming back—hence the cloth appears black.
Remember, colors are what reach your eyes. If you see a red sari, it means the red ray is returning from that cloth. Light falls; the red ray returns from the cloth to your eye. Red cloth means it has drunk all colors except red—that red returned. Yellow cloth means it drank all, except yellow—that returned.
So what appears red has drunk all colors and left only red—the red is reaching your eye. White cloth means it returned all rays—drank nothing; hence you see white.
In one sense, black is absence of all colors, for the eye receives no ray. In another sense, white is the presence of all colors, for all rays reach the eye. And again, in another sense, white cloth means: it renounced all—it returned all rays, took nothing.
Therefore Mahavira called white the symbol of renunciation and black the symbol of indulgence. Black has drunk everything—left nothing—drank all rays. The more indulgent a man, the more he is drowned in Krishna-leshya. The more renunciate, the farther he rises from Krishna.
The much-praised charity and renunciation are experiments to change leshyas. Whenever you give something to someone, your leshya changes instantly. But as I said, if you give something useless, the leshya cannot change. When you give something meaningful—valuable to you, useful to the other—your leshya transforms immediately. For you are moving toward white—letting go of something.
Mahavira, in the end, let go even of clothes—let go of all. The sole meaning is: no clinging remained. And when no clinging remains, the white, shukla, pure leshya is born. It is the final leshya; beyond it there are no leshyas.
The densest leshya is black. Black is the lowest state; white, the highest.
‘Krishna-leshya’ is the first…
‘Neel’ is the second. The person who takes delight in harming another even by harming himself is sunk in Krishna-leshya. The one who strives to harm another only so long as he himself is not harmed—but stops when harm begins to come to him—that person is in Neel-leshya.
Neel is better than Krishna—the black lightens a little into blue. Those who live in vested interest… The first man, who said, “Blind one of my eyes”—he is not selfish; he has fallen even below self-interest. He cares not for his own eye; his relish is in blinding the others’ two. He is below self-interest.
The man of Neel-leshya is the one we call selfish—he always worries about himself. If he gains, he can harm you; but if he is harmed, he will not harm you. Such a man can be stopped by punishment. The first cannot. The man of Krishna-leshya cannot be stopped by any punishment, for he does not care what happens to him; his relish is to hurt the other. But the one in Neel can be stopped by punishment—the court, police, fear of being caught and punished can restrain him from harming another.
Note: the criminals who commit crime even after so much law and court—surely Krishna-leshya will be found in them. And if you refrain from wrongdoing out of fear—seeing the policeman on the road you stop at the red light; if no policeman—Neel-leshya—no fear, no harm will come, slip through in a second.
I have heard: one day Mulla Nasruddin was going with a friend in a car. The friend was driving madly. A policeman on a motorcycle followed, siren blaring; the man paid no heed.
After ten minutes the policeman somehow caught up and said, “I arrest you for four reasons: you were driving fifty-sixty miles per hour in a crowded area; you have no concern for signals—you drive through red lights; this is a one-way street and entry is prohibited; and I have been sounding my siren for ten minutes, and you refuse to listen.”
Nasruddin, sitting beside the friend, leaned out the window and said, “You must not mind him, officer—he is dead drunk.” He added the fifth reason. “Do not mind—he is smashed, forgivable.”
Whenever you do something wrong, you are drunk—because wrong cannot happen without unconsciousness. But even unconsciousness keeps this much watch: that no harm come to oneself. Most of us do not live in Krishna-leshya; sometimes we slip into it—not our daily mode. In anger we slip—and therefore we repent afterward. We say, “What I should not have done, I did. What I did not want to do, I did. It happened despite me.” How can you say that? You did it. You stepped one rung down from the level where you usually live—Neel. When you descend, it feels as if someone else made you do it, for you are unfamiliar with that leshya. Neel—pure self-interest—but better than Krishna.
The third leshya Mahavira calls Kapot—the color of a dove’s throat. The blue fades further—becomes sky-blue. Such a person, even if he suffers some harm himself, will not harm another. He will bear some loss, but he will not cause a loss to another for that reason. Such a person begins to be other-centered. Concern for the other, attention to the other, begins to arise.
Remember: the first two cannot love. The man of Krishna can only hate. The one of Neel can only build relationships of self-interest. The one of Kapot can love—the first step of love can arise. For love means: the other is more valuable than me. As long as you are more valuable and the other less, there is no love. You are exploiting; the other is an object, not a person. The day the other becomes valuable—and sometimes more valuable than you—when the time comes you will bear the harm but you will not let the other be harmed—then a new direction has arisen in your life.
This third leshya is on the very edge of adharma and dharma; here the door opens. A small glimpse of otherness, of love, compassion enters—but only a small glimpse.
You pay attention to the other—but still, deep down, for your own sake. Your wife—if someone attacks her, you will protect her—this is Kapot-leshya. You protect her because she is your wife. If someone attacks another’s wife, you will stand and watch.
‘Mine’ has expanded, but ‘my’ remains. And if you come to know that this wife is unfaithful, you will step aside; all compassion, all love, will vanish. Even this love has a deep self-interest—that she is mine, and without her my life will be painful; she is necessary. You have given value to her—but for your own sake.
Kapot is the thinnest and least heavy of the adharma-leshyas—but adharma is there. Very few among us rise to this, where the other becomes valuable. Even this is a great event. You have arrived at the gate of adharma’s end, where entry into another world is possible. But ordinarily our relationships are not so high; they are on Neel. Some relationships—even of ‘love’—are on Krishna.
You must have heard of de Sade, a great French writer, after whom a whole disease is named—sadism. Whenever de Sade loved a woman he would first beat her, whip her, gouge with nails, drive in pins, make her bleed—only then could he make love, could he ‘love.’ He said: unless you torment, the other does not awaken. First awaken her—when lashes fall, the blood runs fast, she becomes excited, mad; then the rasa of sex is there—otherwise in quiet lovemaking it cannot be. This man is of Krishna-leshya—his love comes through violence. Until violence is intense, there is no taste in his love. Like those who cannot taste the meal without chili—de Sade cannot taste love until he has beaten.
There are also the opposite kind. Another writer, Masoch—he was the reverse. Until he beat himself, harmed himself, he could not enter love. The beloved would stand watching; he would beat himself and ask the beloved to help: “Beat me, whip me, make me bleed,” then…
There are two types in Krishna-leshya: masochist and sadist. If these two meet, the marriage is very pleasant—if a self-tormentor and an other-tormentor become husband and wife, it is hard to find a better pair. If the husband beats, the wife enjoys; if the wife beats, the husband enjoys—Ram-milai jodi, a heaven-made match. They are perfectly attuned—two complements in Krishna-leshya.
Sometimes such a pair indeed forms—but rarely. Often it doesn’t, because when we arrange marriages we think of everything but this—we never consider that one should be a pain-giver and the other a pain-taker, else how will life go on?
If we handed over the choice to a psychologist to decide the best pair, he would choose this first—such a couple will be perfectly fine. No quarrel—there is no cause.
In Krishna-leshya, even if love is born, it will be through violence. Courts hold tales of lovers who killed their beloved on the nuptial night—and had married out of great love. A little of this is in you too—in all—the urge to press, to scratch with nails. Vatsyayana, in his Kama Sutras, has included this as part of love: bite with teeth; he details the process of love—how to love—he includes biting, scratching, leaving marks on the body—love marks.
Vatsyayana was experienced, his vision deep; he knew there are people of Krishna-leshya—until they torment, they cannot taste; until they make each other suffer, twist and wrench, there is no taste—their taste is pain.
It awakens in small children too—not only in grown-ups. A small child, seeing an insect, instantly crushes it underfoot; sees a butterfly—tears its wings to see what happens; throws stones at a frog to see what happens; ties a tin to a dog’s tail—the little child! He too relishes pain.
The little child is your own small version—growing. You don’t tie tins to dogs’ tails; you tie them to people’s tails—take relish, “Now what happens?” Some call it politics, some business, some the competition of life—but there is great relish in tormenting the other. When you fell another flat on his back, you feel a strange delight—as if some ultimate secret of life has been attained.
The person of Neel-leshya, ordinarily, what we call marriage—that is the symptom of Neel—no concern for the other, no event of love. Therefore if Indians emphasized arranged marriage and almost none on love marriage, the big reason is that ninety-nine of a hundred live in Neel-leshya. Love is not in their life; there is no reason to give it a place. They only need a woman in life to use—an instrument.
Mulla Nasruddin was to be married. The girl had not been shown—old times. On the day of the engagement, the father and some villagers took the groom, decked out, to the bride’s village—nearby. Neither the girl, her home, nor family had been seen. There the girl was adorned, her friends too. Fifteen-twenty girls stood to welcome them.
Nasruddin’s father asked casually—he knew his son was slightly askew—“Can you tell, Nasruddin, among these twenty, which is to be your wife?” Nasruddin said, “Certain!” He glanced once and said, “That one.”
The father was amazed. It was indeed the same girl. “Incredible, Nasruddin! How did you recognize—never having seen her?” Nasruddin said, “There is a reason—upon seeing her I felt a sudden dread. She is certainly to be my wife; there is no doubt. Already my heart is trembling.”
No relation of love—no talk of love—an instrument is needed. Therefore marriage is a long quarrel in which husband uses wife and wife uses husband. They somehow live together—enough if they can walk side by side. Living together, both remain alone—alone together. No meeting happens—for meeting is possible only through love.
Kapot—the sky-blue leshya—is where the first ray of love enters. In the world of adharma, love is the highest occurrence—and the utmost event in adharma. If love is valuable in your life, it means the other has become valuable. Though even now it is for you. Not so valuable that you can say, “Even if she is not mine, she is valuable.” If my wife falls in love with another, I will be happy because she is happy—this value has not arisen; her personhood holds no value beyond my pleasure—if another’s joy arises through her, I remain joyful.
Then come three leshyas: Tej, Padma and Shukla. Tej means: scarlet like fire. As one enters Tej-leshya, love deepens—now love is not to use the other; now love is not taking but giving—sheer giving. The whole life of this person begins to be formed around love. About this red, understand a few things, for on the religious journey this is the first color. The sky-blue was the last on the journey of adharma; red is the first on the journey of dharma. Hence Hindus chose red—ochre—for the sannyasin; for on the path of dharma it is the first color. For the seeker, saffron is chosen so that his whole aura becomes filled with red—his halo red; his garments attuned to it, in harmony—so no contradiction remains between body and aura, garment and aura—there is a single accord, a music.
Hindus chose red for the sannyasin because from there the goal begins. Jains chose shukla—white—for the sannyasin, because there the goal ends, is fulfilled.
Both can be right and wrong. The Hindu may say: what is not yet, it is not right to choose its color; choose the first, for the seeker is starting, the goal not attained. The Jain can say: keep the goal in view; what is today is not valuable—what will ultimately be is valuable—fix your gaze upon that.
Both may be right, both may be wrong—but both are precious.
Hindus chose red for the sannyasin; Jains chose white; Buddhists chose yellow—between the two. Buddha was always a partisan of the middle way—in everything.
These are the three colors of dharma—Tej, Padma, Shukla. Hindus chose Tej. Jains chose Shukla. Buddhists chose Padma—yellow garments for their bhikshus—because Buddha says: what is, is not valuable, for it is to be left; and what is not yet is also not very valuable, for it is yet to come—between these two is the seeker.
Red is the first stage of the journey; white is the final—while the entire journey is of yellow. Therefore Buddha chose yellow for the monks. All three choices are valuable.
This red appears around you only when self-interest becomes utterly zero, when ego breaks completely. This red burns your ego—this fire consumes your ego. The day you live as if ‘I am not,’ the waves of dharma begin to arise. The more you feel ‘I am,’ the more waves of adharma arise—because the very feeling ‘I’ is the urge to harm the other. I can be only when I suppress you; the more I suppress, the stronger my ‘I.’ Only when I press the whole world under my feet will I then feel ‘I am.’
Ego is the destruction of the other. Dharma begins where we leave the ego. Where I say: the craving of ego—the ambition of ego—I abandon. I leave competition, struggle; I leave the urge to defeat the other, erase the other, suppress the other. The race to be first stops. Even if I stand last, I am content.
Sannyasin means: one ready to stand last. Jesus said: In my Father’s kingdom those will be first who here in the kingdom of earth are willing to stand last.
Note: he did not say ‘are standing last’—he said ‘willing to stand last.’ Many stand last—but not willingly. Compulsion—the queue does not allow them to go ahead; stronger people stand in front. They cannot get out—though the heart longs to. They wish to be up front. Such a one will not be given the first chance in God’s kingdom.
Jesus says: the one willing to stand last—the one who does not seek the first; who stands quietly behind, content behind; who wonders why this race to be first—what will happen if I am first? Sannyasin means: he who drops ambition, struggle; who drops the urge to fight other egos. In that moment a red, saffron hue arises around the face—like the rising sun. If the sannyasin is truly a sannyasin, the ruddy glow, the freshness of dawn on his face—these will announce it.
Padma—Mahavira calls the second dharma-leshya ‘peet’—yellow. After this redness, when the ego has burned—fire is needed only until the ego burns. As soon as the ego burns away, the red becomes yellow. As the morning sun rises higher, it is no longer red; it becomes yellow. The golden hue appears. When competition drops, struggle drops, comparison with others drops—and the person is reconciled to himself, lives in himself—as if whether the world is or not, it makes no difference—this is the state of meditation.
In red, the person is full of love; he vanishes, the other becomes important. In yellow, neither self remains nor other; all becomes silent. Yellow is the state of meditation—when one is in oneself—there is no sense of the other. The moment I forget ‘I am,’ that very moment I forget that the other is.
Yellow is very calm, very silent, unagitated—pure like gold, but without excitation. Red has excitation; it is the first step of dharma.
Therefore note: those in the first step of dharma are very excited—obsessed with religion. Religion pulls them strongly—like a fever. But as the movement goes deeper, all becomes quiet.
The Western religions—Christianity—have not yet crossed red; because they still have the urge to convert others. Islam has not crossed red—deep concern with the other—change him at any cost; hence bigotry.
You will be surprised: the two ancient religions—Hindu and Jewish—both are in yellow. Hindus and Jews never tried to convert anyone. In fact, even if someone wants to enter, it is hard to let him in—the doors seem closed; all is quiet. No curiosity about the other. No concern for numbers.
When one first becomes religious, there is great zeal. These become the cause of upheaval, because in their zeal they become fanatic; they hold themselves right and all others wrong, and set out to make everyone right—out of compassion! But even that compassion can be harsh.
As soon as meditation arises, love becomes silent—because love’s gaze is on the other, meditation’s gaze comes upon oneself. Padma-leshya—yellow—is the state of the meditator. For twelve years Mahavira was in this state. And when the yellow diffuses further, dissolves, white is born. As at dusk when the sun sets—night has not yet come and the sun has gone and evening spreads—white, no excitation—that is the state of Samadhi. In that moment, all leshyas are stilled, all become white—only purity remains. That is the ultimate state from the side of mind.
These are leshyas of mind. ‘Shukla’ is the final state of mind. The thinnest of veils still remains—that too will go. Mahavira did not count a seventh—for the seventh is not a state of mind but the nature of Atman. Even white does not remain; even that much excitation vanishes—all colors are lost.
Not as in death—where black swallows the rays—but as in liberation. In black, all colors are lost because black digests them, drinks them, enjoys them. In liberation, colors are lost because there is no clinging to any color—no desire for life, no craving, no tanha—so all colors disappear. The final leap after white is also beyond color.
Remember: death and liberation are alike—and opposite. In both, colors are lost. In one, because life is lost; in the other, because life is fulfilled and no wish for colors remains.
Moksha resembles death; hence we fear liberation. Only one who is ready to die can be liberated. One who clings to life remains bound. Tanha—what Buddha called lust for life—is the spread of these colors. If tanha becomes too strong it becomes another’s death—Krishna-leshya. If tanha becomes thin, less, it becomes another’s life—love.
Thus Mahavira has spoken of six leshyas. Even in the West research is going on; it appears these six colors will be almost scientifically confirmed. And there can be no more skillful key to measure the mind’s state, for it can be measured from outside; no need to go within. As with x-ray one can tell what disease is within, so if your facial aura is caught, from it one can know how the mind is diseased or stuck—and then ways can be sought: what to do so that the mind rises above this leshya.
The last moment is the goal—where no leshya remains. Leshya means: that which binds, that by which we are in bondage, that which surrounds us like ropes. When all leshyas fall, the supreme energy of life is set free. That moment of freedom the Hindus called Brahman—the Buddha called Nirvana—Mahavira called Kaivalya.
“Krishna, Neel, Kapot—these three are the adharma-leshyas. A being endowed with these three is born into a bad destiny.”
“Tej, Padma and Shukla—these three are the dharma-leshyas. A being endowed with these three is born into a good destiny.”
Remember, even after the arising of the white leshya there will be birth—an auspicious birth, the life of a sadhu. But birth will happen, for leshya is still there—a slight bondage of white remains. Therefore an entire science developed in ancient times: at the dying man’s side attention was kept upon which leshya was present at the moment of death. From it one could estimate where he would go, what destiny he would meet.
At everyone’s death people did not weep—seeing the leshya… Only if there was Krishna-leshya did it make sense to weep—if any adharma-leshya was present—for then the person was going to bad destinies, into sorrow, wandering in hell.
In Tibet there is the whole science of Bardo—and the entire effort was to change the dying man’s leshya even then. If, at the time of death, his leshya changed from black to blue, even then the level of his next life would change—for the manner, the state in which we die—exactly in that we are born. Just as at night you sleep—the thought that is last, in the morning that very thought is first.
Experiment and see: the very last thought at night, after which you drop into the darkness of sleep—in the morning, as you awaken, the very same thought will be first. The night is a suspension—what was last becomes first. Between is a gap, darkness, emptiness. Hence we call death the great sleep. At the last moment of death—whatever the leshya—at birth that is the first.
Therefore at the time of dying it can be known where a person is going, whether he will go anywhere or not—or become one with the Great Void. At the time of birth too it can be known. Astrology wandered and got lost in rubbish; otherwise at birth the entire inquiry was: with which leshya the person is being born—for his whole life’s mode and pattern will be that.
Buddha was born… Whenever someone dies with white leshya, those who live in dharma-leshyas—yellow or red—feel it, for that event is cosmic. And whenever someone is born with white, those who are near dharma and yellow, or are in white themselves—experience where that one is being born.
At Jesus’ birth, three men set out from the East in search of him. He was born in a Bethlehem cowshed—to a poor carpenter. From the East three seers journeyed, “Somewhere one with white leshya is born.” Because of these three, Herod, the emperor, came to know, for they first came to him—thinking he would be pleased. They said, “In your realm someone has been born, for we three have received the signal. In meditation we have known. A white star in the sky has led us, and it has stopped over Bethlehem—in your kingdom. In this village a real emperor is born.”
This offended Herod—‘a real emperor!’ He said, “Go, find him, and on returning inform me.” He decided to kill the child—if a real emperor is born, what of me? Ego, competition!
The three searched and reached the cowshed where Jesus was born. They offered gifts to his mother; they touched Jesus’ feet. That night they dreamed: do not return to Herod—flee. And tell Jesus’ mother to leave Bethlehem with the child as soon as possible. That very night the three left the kingdom, and Jesus’ mother and father took him to Egypt.
When Buddha was born, from the Himalayas a great seer ran to the capital. Seeing the old ascetic, Buddha’s father was amazed. “How did you know?” He said, “I came to know, because from the leshya-state I am in, it can be seen—if such a white star is born on earth. Your child is to be a Tirthankara—a Buddha.”
The child was brought. The father was stunned; he could not believe—the seer placed his head at the infant’s feet, and wept profusely. The father feared and asked, “Is something inauspicious going to happen? Why do you weep?”
He said, “No—I weep because my death is near; and when this being attains Buddhahood, I will not be able to be in his presence. Such a moment comes only once in hundreds of years. I weep for myself, not for him. For him, this is the summit of his last life.”
One who is born with white leshya can attain Nirvana—in this very life. For he has reached the final limit of dharma; now he can go beyond even dharma.
Nirvana, Brahman, Moksha—are not only beyond adharma, they are beyond dharma too.
Let us pause five minutes, sing kirtan, then go…!