Mahaveer Vani #42

Mahavira has spoken the eight aphorisms of sadhana in these words. Life has two facets. One is its affirmative mode — active; the other is its prohibitive mode — passive. In what we do in life, and in what we become, both have a hand. Merit can be done actively, and merit can be done passively as well. Sin can be done actively, and sin can be done passively too.
Ordinarily we think that sin or merit can be performed only by doing something. A man is being robbed. The one who robs is committing sin; but you are standing there watching, doing nothing — even then Mahavira says, sin has happened; you are a negative collaborator. You could prevent it, you are not preventing it; you may not be committing the sin, but you are allowing it to happen. That allowing is also your responsibility.
So the sins you do are of course yours — but the sins others do, and you allow to be done — their responsibility is also upon you.
Wherever any sin is taking place on this earth, we all become participants, because if we wanted we could have stopped it — passive participants. Those who commit sins are able to commit them not because there are so many sinners in the world, but because there are so many negative sinners — those who will let sin happen.
It may surprise you to hear that there are not many bad people in the world. Certainly there are not many who actively do evil; but there are many who are passively bad — they do not do evil, but they let evil happen — they do not show the readiness to stop it from happening.
In these sutras Mahavira is dividing sadhana in two parts: the positive and the negative. There are five positive elements for the seeker, and three negative elements. One who learns the art of living between these eight gains the very form of Dharma. And only the one in whom Dharma has been directly realized can say anything about Dharma. Therefore Mahavira called them the 'Mothers of Discourse.' One who has not attained these eight — his talk has no value. ... It can even be dangerous; because to say anything about what we do not know is dangerous.
Life is a very subtle and intricate affair. Advice given unknowingly, in ignorance, becomes poison. Advice given even with good intention becomes poison, if you do not know the truth exactly. Irreligion could diminish in the world if those who have no direct experience of Dharma would stop speaking — but they go on speaking.
Speech can arise for many reasons. Most often the ego finds its relish in it. When someone speaks and someone listens, a very strange event is happening. The speaker can speak without knowing, because there are other relishes too. When someone speaks and someone listens, the one who is speaking becomes the master and the listener becomes the slave; the speaker goes above, the listener goes below; the speaker becomes violent and the listener becomes the victim of violence.
When someone is speaking, he is attacking you, dominating you, riding upon your mind. There is relish in it. There is great pleasure in being a guru. Because of that pleasure, without caring whether he knows or does not know — people go on speaking, go on writing, go on explaining.
There is no dearth of advice; guides stand everywhere. Those who have no path of their own can also guide — because in giving direction the ego is greatly satisfied. Think about yourself and you will notice. You give advice even unasked — and if someone asks, then it becomes very difficult to refrain! Then the temptation, the stimulation becomes too much, and you do advise!
Have you ever reflected whether the advice you are giving is certainly your own experience, or you are simply exploiting a person’s helplessness? Because he is in trouble, you can become an adviser! Hence advice is free in the world, available in excess — though no one actually follows it. Yet people keep on giving it.
In the world there are always more gurus than disciples. And the one who is a disciple is perhaps a disciple only because he is preparing to become a guru. And even a guru is not spared your advice! You will give advice to him too!
Man’s ego is gratified by the feeling, 'I know, the other does not.' There is great pleasure in proving the other ignorant. It is a subtle wrestling in which, by proving the other wrong, one strengthens the ego of being right.
Mahavira has said: one who has not passed through the sadhana of these eight sutras has no right even to speak. Mahavira himself remained silent for twelve years. Many occasions must have arisen when the intense lust to advise surged up, but he restrained it. He kept only one thing in mind: until I become totally silent, I have no authority over words.
This will look very paradoxical. Only the one who becomes silent has the authority over words; only the one who becomes empty has the right to discourse. One whose inside is filled with words — whatever he speaks is vomiting, regurgitation. He is so full that he needs to throw it out. You are only a vessel in which he vomits. But your need is not the issue — what you need is not the question; the real need is the speaker’s: what he needs to throw out of himself.
You yourself know that if you read something in the morning newspaper, a restlessness begins to tell someone quickly. Someone gives you some news, spreads a rumor, slanders someone, condemns someone — then you cannot hold it, you soon want to pass on this communication, this pleasant 'news', to another. And certainly, while giving it you use a little imagination too. You are somewhat a poet; you add something, you decorate it, you embellish it. If the morning’s rumor returns by evening to the one who started it, he will not recognize that 'this is what I had said.' Passing through so many hands it will get polished. If a theft of five rupees occurred in the morning, by evening it can easily become five lakhs.
Something arises in the mind and you want to give it quickly; why? Because then you will feel lighter; until you give it, a weight remains on the mind. That is why it is very difficult to keep anything secret. And those who can keep anything secret have a deep capacity. And when you cannot keep even a word secret, what else will you keep secret? Hence the rule of the guru-mantra: even if there is nothing in the mantra, keep it secret. The whole sadhana is in keeping it secret; the mantra is not that valuable. Because the urge to speak is so natural, so instinctive, that to stop anything feels quite unnatural. You will want to tell it to someone in some way.
Someone came to Mulla Nasruddin and said: 'I have heard you have found the key to the mystery of life — give me that key.' Nasruddin said, 'It is a very secret matter, a big secret.' The man said, 'I too will try to keep it secret.' Nasruddin said, 'Swear firmly that you will keep it secret.' The man swore; he said, 'I will keep it secret.' After hearing the oath Nasruddin said, 'Now go.' The man said, 'But you have not told me the key yet.' Nasruddin said, 'If you can keep it secret, why can’t I keep it secret? And if I myself cannot keep it, what guarantee is there that you will?'
It is difficult, highly unnatural, that something enters your mind and you do not say it. There is only one way: let the thing not remain a word; let it become blood, bone, be digested — become flesh and marrow. Only then can it remain secret. There is an art of keeping secret. Through that art, the words that enter you, you do not throw out; you allow them to be digested — they will take time. You throw them out, therefore I said — vomiting, regurgitation — what you had eaten is thrown back out of the mouth. It could not be digested. Silence digests — and only then speaks, when the inner peace has become so deep that now there is no inner disturbance to be hurled at anyone; now no one is to be made a victim.
Only a silent person can be a true helper, a guide. Hindus called their sannyasin 'Swami' — in the sense that he has become his own master. Buddha called his sannyasin 'Bhikshu' — in the sense that in this world everyone believes himself a master, and is wrong. No one believes himself a beggar, no one the last. My sannyasin will consider himself the last, a beggar — so that he falls out of the race of ambition.
Mahavira called his renunciate 'Muni.' He called him muni because Mahavira lays the greatest emphasis on silence. And Mahavira says, unless one attains silence, becomes a muni, no ray of truth can manifest from him.
These eight sutras are very unique. In them, we shall consider, one by one.
'Five samitis and three guptis — thus there are eight Mothers of Discourse.'
...that will make you worthy of speaking. You do speak, but you have no worthiness to speak. Your speaking is an illness, a disease. Therefore by speaking you feel lightened, the burden falls. The other is not the purpose — if you do not find anyone to talk to, you will speak alone. If you are locked in a cell and find no one, after a little while you will begin to talk to yourself.
Even now, if you stand on the road you will see many people talking to themselves as they walk. Someone is moving his hands, someone is replying — to someone who is not present. His lips are moving, his eyes are trembling — he is with someone. Go to a madhouse and see — people talk to themselves.
You are not very different. When you are talking to another, the other is only a pretext; you are actually talking to yourself. Therefore, listen to two people conversing — with a quiet and silent mind — and you will be amazed that they are not speaking to each other; both are unloading their own burdens. Neither has any purpose with the other. The other has no significance, he is like a peg. You came, hung your coat on the peg. You have nothing to do with the peg; you need to hang the coat. Any peg will do. Whomever you find, whomever the unfortunate one is who falls into your hands — you unload upon him!
Mahavira says: the right to speak belongs only to him who has attained the art of not speaking. But the art of not speaking is a deep process. The whole foundation of life — the conception, the vision, the very base — has to be changed. These eight scientific processes change that base: the five samitis and the three guptis.
Samitis are affirmative, positive; guptis are negative. In samiti one has to be careful about what one does; in gupti one has to be careful about what one does not do. And when both positive and negative are taken care of, you go beyond both.
'Irya, Bhasha, Eshana, Adan and Ucchar — these are the five samitis.'
'Irya' means: whatever action the seeker does, he keeps awareness in it. Mahavira says: rise, sit, walk — with wakefulness, with awareness. Do any action, but let it not be from unconsciousness — this is called 'Irya-samiti'.
Whatever we are doing, we are unconscious. We are walking, but we are not with walking; the mind is doing something else. And when the mind is doing something else, we become unconscious in walking. We eat, but the mind is somewhere else — so we become unconscious in eating. Even when you are talking to someone the talk is on the surface; inside, your mind is somewhere else — so you are unconscious even in talking.
Mahavira says the primary step of the seeker is that all his actions become suffused with awareness. What Gurdjieff called 'self-remembering', and upon which he based his entire sadhana, or what Krishnamurti calls 'awareness' — Mahavira called it 'Irya-samiti'. It is his first element; seven more are yet there. But the first is so wondrous that if one masters it fully, even without the other seven one can reach the truth.
Whatever you are doing, your consciousness should be conjoined with the act while doing it. It is difficult, because for twenty-four hours you are doing something or other. Thousands of acts are occurring. If you keep awareness in all those acts you will be astonished — even to keep awareness for one second will seem difficult. Then for the first time you will know that you have been living in unconsciousness until now. For even one second, walk keeping the remembrance of walking — that your consciousness remains fully fixed on the act of walking. The left foot rises — let consciousness rise with it; the left foot goes down and the right rises — let consciousness rise with it. You will find — hardly for a second or two can this happen; the awareness is lost, the feet start moving on their own, the mind has gone elsewhere, thinking of something else. Then you will remember — I fell asleep!
Mahavira says: I call him a sadhu who is awake; I call him unholy who is asleep. Sutta amuni, asutta muni — the one who is awake, unsleeping, he is a 'muni'; the one who is asleep is 'amuni.'
So what you do is not the great question. How you do it — with awareness or with unconsciousness — is the question. It can also happen that a person donating is unholy, if he does it unconsciously; and a person stealing may turn holy, if he does it with awareness.
I am not saying: go and steal with awareness. I am saying — such is the reach of awareness, that if someone were to steal with awareness he would be a sadhu, and if someone were to donate in unconsciousness he would be unholy. The truth is that stealing cannot happen with awareness, and donating cannot happen in unconsciousness. Unconscious donation is false; its purposes are other. Theft in awareness is impossible, because for theft unconsciousness is an essential element. Whatever is bad in life needs stupor.
Therefore whenever you do something bad you become stupefied. Whenever you become stupefied, the possibility to do wrong deepens. In violence, in murder, in falsehood, in theft, in sin, in lust — you are not in awareness; you become unconscious. Something within you falls asleep. Many times you repent, when you wake up — when for a moment the awareness returns — then the thought arises, 'What have I done? I ought not to have done this! And I knew I should not! And how many times I had decided I would not, yet it happened!' ... How did it happen through you...? Certainly some inner smoke surrounded you, your consciousness was lost in sleep.
Mahavira says: the sadhu should walk with Irya, rise and sit with it, do every action with it. Whatever he does, even the meanest act, let it be done with awareness. Why? Because action connects you with the other. An unconscious person’s relations will be violent. He will hurt the other. As if a man drunk walks here and steps upon your foot — what will you say? You will say, 'He is drunk.' But we are walking like this in life — drunk.
Intoxicants are of many kinds, of many forms. Every person has his own intoxication. Someone is walking in the intoxication of wealth. See — when someone has money, his gait changes. Even when more coins are in your own pocket, your gait is not the same. Watch it. When there is no money in the pocket you walk differently. There is no intoxication. There seems to be no life in the gait. When the pocket is full, the spine becomes straight! The kundalini seems awakened! You walk with great stiffness.
Look at a politician when he is in office; his gait is as if a garment has just been newly starched! And when he falls from office, look at his gait; as if he slept the whole night in those clothes! By morning he is disheveled. All the shine is gone. All the pomp has vanished. Let a rich man become poor — see. Let a healthy man become ill — see.
These are intoxications. Someone is drunk on knowledge — then there is the stiffness of knowledge: 'I know.' A thousand kinds of drunkenness. Intoxication is that which puffs you up, makes you unconscious, and you cannot walk with awareness.
The meaning of sadhana is to break intoxicants. Wherever anything makes us unconscious, from those ties we disconnect, and come to such a simple state where there is only consciousness, with no relationship left with any element of unconsciousness.
There is no danger in wealth. The danger is in those who become intoxicated by wealth. So becoming poor will not be enough; because man is so cunning that there can be intoxication in poverty as well.
A fakir came to see Socrates. He had put on rags full of holes. His rule was that even if someone gave him a new garment he would not wear it. The fakir — he would first make holes in it, soil it, tear it — then wear it! He would make it into a rag, and then put it on!
Wearing torn, dirty clothes the fakir came to meet Socrates. Socrates said to him, 'No matter how many ragged clothes you wear, your vanity peeps through your holes. Your holes too are a part of your ego; they also fill you. The stiffness with which you walk — even an emperor does not walk so!...' Because he thinks, 'I am a fakir, a renunciate!' ... Look at the renouncers! Look at their stiffness! As if all others have become petty before them. They look at the enjoyer as if at a worm — fallen into sin, into the dust of sin. They carry the burden that they must save you from sin. Your hell is certain. Whenever they see you they feel — poor fellow! He will rot in hell! But they do not notice that this idea of consigning you to hell is the idea of a very deep ego.
Renunciation is giving intoxication. So the renunciate rises and sits in a different way. His stiffness — his stiffness is amusing. He says, 'I have kicked money, denied the treasury; my wife was beautiful, I turned my eyes away! You are still sunk in sin!' With his every gesture he tries to say, 'I am something more, something significant, something special.'
And man has attempted so many ways to be special that there is no account. Man can do even any stupidity, if there is a chance to become special. Psychologists say that many turn to crime because by becoming a criminal they become special. After studying thousands of criminals, they reached the conclusion that had some other way to gratify their ego been found for them, they would not have committed crimes. Many murderers have made statements — and they are deep — that they simply wanted to see their name printed in the newspaper once. When they murdered someone, their name appeared in bold headlines.
Our newspapers too are collaborators in murders. Save someone — no newspaper will publish anything; kill someone — the news will be printed. It seems that to become famous doing evil is absolutely necessary. The good is never spoken of. As if the good is of no use!
Psychologists say that as long as we give value to the unwholesome, so long some will keep filling their ego through the unwholesome.
There is a relish in being special.
Robert Ripley wrote that he was young, and wanted to be famous. In youth everyone wants to be famous — it is natural; youth is so mad, so unconscious. The worry is when in old age someone remains in the same madness. Ripley wanted fame, but could not find a way to become famous.
The world is so big now, and so close, that the chances for fame have diminished. In the world, psychologists say that mental illness increases because the chances for fame keep decreasing. In the old world each village was a world unto itself. The poet of the village was a 'great poet,' because there was no comparison from another village. The cobbler of the village was a 'great cobbler,' because there was none like him making shoes. In the village the egos of hundreds were being gratified. Now, until you become a 'national cobbler,' a 'national poet,' you have no value. There are thousands of poets, thousands of cobblers, thousands of shopkeepers, thousands... In this number no one cares. And the world keeps shrinking. Until you become a world poet there is not much fun, until you get a Nobel Prize there is not much fun. It becomes difficult; more people cannot gratify their ego. When more people cannot gratify their stupor, they become sick.
Ripley was young and wanted to be famous. When he could not figure out anything, he asked a circus owner for advice. The circus man said, 'What is special in this? It is very simple. Shave half your head, half your beard, half your moustache — and just walk on the street; do not say anything to anyone. Let people look; if someone asks something, just smile.'
Ripley asked, 'What will happen from this?' The man said, 'Come after three days.'
There was no need to wait three days — all the newspapers carried stories. Crowds stood everywhere to see him. He had written his name on his chest — Robert Ripley — with his address. People asked, 'Who are you?' He only smiled. He just roamed the streets. In three days he became famous in New York. Within three months all of America knew him. Within three years there were very few in the world who did not know him. Then he did such things all his life. Very few people on this earth have become as famous as Robert Ripley. Then he began to do all sorts of odd things.
But fame comes; the ego is gratified — even if you only shave half your head. Those whom you call sadhus — among that species, ninety-nine out of a hundred have shaved half their head! But it brings fame, respect, honor; the stupor is gratified.
For stupor, the ego is food. For the ego, stupor is the helper.
Mahavira says: 'Irya-samiti' is the first samiti. Whatever a person does, let him do it with awareness. Drop the worry about what you are doing — worry whether you are doing it with awareness or not.
We all worry about what we are doing — whether it is wrong or right. Whether we are stealing or donating. Whether we are violent or non-violent.
Our emphasis is on 'what we are doing.' Mahavira’s entire emphasis is on whether what is being done is done awake or asleep.
So you can practice non-violence — asleep — and on the other side violence will continue.
In Calcutta I was a guest in a house of a very wealthy man. In the evening I saw some cots kept outside. I asked, 'What is this about?' He said, 'Because of ahimsa. Bedbugs have arisen in the cots; we cannot kill them, but if we put the cots in the sun they will die. So at night we make the servants sleep on them. We give the servants two rupees for the night.'
Now this is a very amusing affair. The attempt to be non-violent is going on — that the bedbugs may not die! But the man to whom you have given two rupees and made him sleep there — the bedbugs are eating him all night! But since they have given him two rupees there seems to be no problem! Everything looks clean and neat!
On the one side you attempt non-violence; on the other side violence goes on. Because the inner consciousness is not changing — only the form of action is changing; the man inside is not changing — only his behavior is changing. Those who will try to change behavior will find that what they changed will enter from the other side.
It is very surprising that hunters, whom we might call purely violent, are always friendly and good people. If you have a hunter friend, you will be astonished at how friendly he is — though he is a killer! But a person attempting non-violence, whose inner consciousness is unchanged, will often not be friendly — he will seem mean, hard. You cannot bend him; he will not bend, he will not come to meet you.
Why is it that hunters are so friendly, who are violent? Their violence is released in the hunt; there is no need for it to flow toward man. The one who blocks violence on all sides will find that his violence starts flowing toward man. If the Jains, who follow ahimsa, have collected more wealth in this country than any other community, there is a reason. Because the entire current of violence was saved from other sides, it could not find outlet elsewhere; it flowed in the pursuit of wealth, in drawing money.
What I am saying is a scientific fact: if your drives are blocked on one side they will flow from another. You will be surprised to know that if a fast runner does not have sex for fifteen days before the race his running speed increases; if he has sex it decreases. If an examinee sits a morning examination and has sex the night before, the sharpness of his intelligence decreases; if he abstains during exam time, the sharpness increases. Soldiers are not allowed to take their wives, because if they have sex their capacity to fight diminishes. They are kept away from sex so that the energy clusters so much it enters the knife. When they kill someone, the killing becomes an act of sex.
You will be surprised — whenever a society becomes prosperous its days of defeat draw near, because its soldiers too begin to live in comfort. When a society is poor and deprived, its days of defeat are not there. Whenever an extremely poor society clashes with a rich one, the rich must lose. India has already passed through this experience. For three thousand years India was attacked again and again. And whoever attacked this land was always poor, wretched, distressed, troubled. But his trouble was so intense that it became violence. We here were utterly at ease, eating and drinking, happy and delighted; not enough lust had accumulated to become violence.
Watch: if you practice brahmacharya for two or four days, you will find your anger has increased. A very amusing thing — anger ought not to increase from brahmacharya, it should decrease. But if you practice brahmacharya for fifteen days, your anger will increase, because the energy gathering within seeks another route. Until you find the path of meditation, brahmacharya is dangerous; because the brahmachari will become wicked. Fast for two or three days — you will become tight, short-tempered.
Everyone has experienced that if one person in the house becomes 'religious' an uproar starts in the whole house; because the religious man begins to invent tricks to harass everyone. His tricks are 'good,' so it is difficult to escape them. His tricks are such that you cannot even say, 'You are wrong.' Because he is so good — he fasts, practices celibacy, does yogasanas from early morning — you cannot find vice in him. He neither smokes, nor drinks, nor goes to hotels, nor watches cinema; he sits at home reading the Gita and Ramayana. But as much as he accumulates, that much he will throw out — he will become irritable. It is very difficult to find a religious man who is not irritable. When a religious man is not irritable, understand that he is rightly religious. But the religious man will be irritable, ninety-nine times out of a hundred; because what he has blocked must come out somewhere. It will become peevishness — an uproar!
You can impose ahimsa, then violence will start flowing from a new side.
Know this — the whole of life is an economics, an economics of energy. You cannot change this economics directly until the inner master changes. If you block the stream on one side, it starts flowing from another.
Mahavira’s emphasis is not on the act, but on the doer. What you do is not very significant. That you do it with awareness — that alone is significant. And the interesting thing is, when something is done with awareness, what is bad does not happen; because the essential condition for the bad is unconsciousness. It is mathematics. Done in awareness, only the good happens; because out of awareness the wrong cannot arise. Therefore Mahavira called 'Irya' the first samiti — awareness in action.
'Bhasha' — careful, mindful use of speech. This restraint must go to that limit where speech becomes silence.
If 'Irya' becomes a constant awareness, such a natural awareness that one does not have to remember to be aware, such that there is no separate effort to be aware — then 'Irya' is complete. The completion of 'Bhasha' — the understanding and samiti of speech — is when silence becomes natural. Use words only when communication is absolutely essential, when it is necessary to speak. And when you speak, let it be the proper employment of speech; and when you do not, let not inner speech go on. Now, even when you are not speaking outwardly, inner speech continues; inwardly you keep talking. Outwardly you sometimes remain quiet; inwardly you are never quiet. Discussions continue even in dreams.
This inner language is drinking up the energy of life. Your brain is deranged — as if you were sitting and moving your leg. Some people keep moving their legs sitting. Moving the leg while walking is fine, because there is a need. But why are you shaking your leg on a chair? It is unnecessary. If someone points it out, only then will you notice. When you are speaking, language is needed; when you are sitting silently, why is language running within? Why is the leg moving?
For twelve years Mahavira also remained immersed in silence, only to attain Bhasha-samiti — to become the master of the word, so that the word is not the master.
Right now the word is your master. Even if you wish to stop language, it does not stop; it continues. You say to your mind, 'Be quiet,' it does not listen. You may say it repeatedly, but it goes on speaking. Ultimately, you get tired and say, 'All right, let it go on.' Slowly, you even forget that you have become a slave and the mind has become the master. There is no other way to break the lordship of mind than silence.
There is only one method to break the mind’s lordship: withdraw your cooperation from the words running within. Even if inner words run, do not take relish in them. Even if the inner word runs, feel as if it is happening far away, it has nothing to do with me — become a witness. Slowly, when you stop taking relish, language will begin to fall; gaps will start to appear; sometimes a sky of silence will arrive. And the sky of silence is such a wondrous experience — the first glimpse of life is had only then.
To speak to the other, language; to speak to oneself, silence. For connecting with the other, the bridge of language is needed; for connecting with oneself, the bridge of language must disappear. The current of silence must arise. To connect with oneself — what need is there to speak? But speaking has become such a sickness, such an obsession, that you split yourself into two.
I have heard — there was a case against Mulla Nasruddin. Tired of lawyers, he said to the court that he wanted to plead his own case. It was a theft case, an allegation of theft; there was no obstacle in the law. The magistrate said, 'Fine, if you can, do it yourself.' So Mulla stood in the dock, then stepped out and stood as a lawyer. He had brought a black coat; wearing it, he stood outside and asked toward the dock, 'Nasruddin, where were you on the night of the 13th? Did you steal? Did you enter that house?' Then he would remove the coat, run to the dock and say, 'What do you mean, the night of the 13th? I know nothing! Who was robbed? What happened?...' He was asking and answering himself!
You do this twenty-four hours. You divide yourself so that conversation becomes easy. The son is speaking from his side and also from the father’s side, giving the replies! The wife is speaking from her side; what the husband will say — that too she is speaking — the inner question and answer are going on!
Within, you have made fragments; without dividing it becomes very difficult to talk — it will feel like madness. Look within, what a conflict you have created. Mahavira says, when silence happens the duality dissolves. When you are silent you become one. As long as you speak, you remain divided. This division must be removed.
Bhasha-samiti means: speak only when there is something to say to the other — first. When there is nothing to say to the other, stop speaking and become silent within. Second — even when speaking to the other, speak only keeping the other’s welfare in view, not because you want to speak. Do not speak because the other is trapped and will have to listen. Third — speak only when what you are saying is certainly true to your own experience; otherwise do not speak. Because what is spoken enters the other and will affect the other’s life — affect it for endless births. Therefore it is dangerous. To give the other a wrong direction, to send him astray, is sin.
Hence Mahavira says: speak only that which is the certainty of your own experience. And speak only if it is for the other’s welfare. Because even if you have the complete experience of truth, and the other has no need of it; the time has not come for him to hear the truth; the moment has not arrived for him to understand it; it will become a burden upon him and burden his life — then do not speak. And use only that many words in which there is not one word extra — speak telegraphically. If a thing can be done in five words, do it in five; do not do it in fifty.
If a person attains so much awareness over language, meditation begins to happen on its own. The derangement of language is an obstacle in meditation. And if you can move back from language you will become simple like a child. As you were born — without language, without words. You were — but there was no covering of thought — again you will become light, fresh, pure and new.
The meditator attains childhood again — the same innocence. The third samiti is 'Eshana.'
Mahavira says: as long as there is body, the body will need to be maintained — to be maintained! Not to be adorned! But it will need to be maintained. Food will be needed; it must be given. Water will be needed; it must be given. Clothing may be needed. Shade may be needed somewhere.
So Mahavira says in Eshana-samiti: for running life, take only that much as is absolutely necessary, deciding with utter awareness, with great care, only that much.
Eshana — lust, the drive for life — must be limited to the very final base. If life can be run by one meal, then two meals are unnecessary; they become lust. If sleep is complete in four hours, the body becomes fresh and life runs, then eight hours’ sleep is indulgence; it will create disease. As much as life needs to run...!
Understand this difference: we do not live in order to run life; we do not enjoy in order to run life — we live only to enjoy. How much to enjoy, how much more to enjoy — this becomes the goal. As if the only purpose of life is to stuff the senses.
Mahavira says: such a person destroys himself by drowning in his own lusts, in his own pursuits. It is not that he gets any happiness; he gets nothing, not even health. The more the run of these lusts increases, the more he breaks down, the more he fills with burden.
It is a very amusing thing — a poor man perhaps gets taste in food; a rich man has no taste left in food, he only sees new diseases. Physicians say that fewer people die of hunger in the world than from eating. Fifty percent of diseases arise from overeating. With what you eat, half fills your own belly, the other half fills your doctor’s belly. From this you do not get happiness; even health is lost.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin worked as a tailor in the poorest lane of a town. He could earn just enough bread to keep his children going. But he had one habit: every Sunday he saved one rupee out of the seven days to buy a lottery ticket. For twelve years he did this. He never got a lottery, nor did he think he would. It had just become a habit to go and buy a ticket every Sunday. But one night at eight or nine, as he was busy cutting cloth, a car stopped at his door. A car never came into that lane; a big car. Two very respectable gentlemen knocked. Nasruddin opened; they patted his back and said, 'You are fortunate; you have won the lottery of one million rupees!'
Nasruddin lost his senses! He threw the scissors there, kicked the clothes! He rushed out, locked the door and threw the key into the well! For a whole year there was no prostitute in that town who had not come to Nasruddin’s house; no wine he had not drunk; no wrongdoing he had not done. In a year he wasted the million. And along with it, something he had never noticed — the health which had been with him all his life — that too he destroyed. Because nights gave him no sleep — music and dance and wine. After a year, when the money was gone, he realized what hell he had been living in.
He returned; climbed into the well to find his key, opened the door; started his shop again. But by old habit he kept buying a ticket for one rupee on Sundays. Two years later again a car stopped; the same people got out and came to the door. They again patted his back and said, 'This has never happened before in history — a second time you have won a million!' Nasruddin hit his head and said, 'My God, have I to go through that whole hell again?'
...He must have had to go through it — for if a million falls into your hands what else will you do? But now he had the experience that one year was hell.
Wealth does not bring heaven; it opens all the doors to hell. And those who have any curiosity, they enter through the doors of hell.
Eshana means: the lust for life — and the lust for life becomes passion.
Mahavira says: those who want to know the Supreme Life must draw their energy back from useless lusts. The minimum for life — only that much. Only that much by which sadhana is possible; only that much by which life can become meditation. Only that much by which the energy of life can remain flowing and flow toward moksha.
Mahavira does not say to break life’s stream, but to purify it. To bring it to the most essential — that alone is renunciation. Eshana means: ask only that much, take only that much, keep only that much with you, which is not a hair’s breadth more than necessary. Do not hoard.
Jesus said to his disciples: 'Look at the birds — they do not store. Look at the lilies — they do not worry about tomorrow. The day you too will not store like the birds, and be free of tomorrow like the flowers, on that day there will be no distance between you and the Kingdom of God.'
The lustful will have to worry about tomorrow, because lust needs future. Meditation can be now; enjoyment can only be tomorrow. Enjoyment needs expansion; time; preparation; means. Another person is to be found; enjoyment cannot be alone. Meditation can happen now.
But the world is very strange. People say, 'We will meditate tomorrow; let us enjoy now.' Enjoyment is only possible in the future. Those who have known the ultimate truth of life say the very search for time has happened because of lust; lust is the expansion of time. This vast future that appears is the expansion of our lust — because we see no completion in the present. And some psychologists say — rightly —
Buddha said: people believe in the next birth because they know for certain that their lusts are so many they cannot be fulfilled in this life. They need another birth. Whether it exists or not is not the question — but they need it.
When two persons fall in love, lovers often come to believe in rebirth. For lovers to not believe in rebirth is a little difficult! Muslim lovers too, Christian lovers too, begin to believe in rebirth. Because they feel, 'How can love be completed in such a short life? We need more life.'
Some psychologists say that the theory of rebirth must have been discovered by lovers; because for them life looks small and desire looks big. Such a big desire — such a small life — seems illogical, incongruous. If there is any order in the world, then as much desire, so much life must be given. Hence the expansion to the infinite.
Mahavira says: stop at the moment; do not bring even tomorrow’s worry today — otherwise the world is created. Today’s concern is enough for today. And today’s concern is not worry.
So Mahavira — in the morning he would look at his stomach — if hunger was there he would go for alms. Not even that he would go habitually for alms every day at eleven o’clock. In the twelve years of Mahavira’s sadhana, it is said that altogether he begged for alms three hundred and sixty-five days — meaning in twelve years he asked for alms for one year. Sometimes a whole month he did not ask, sometimes two months, sometimes ten days, sometimes eight, sometimes four. There was no fixed rule, no vow, no resolve. Understand — he did not decide: 'I will not eat for ten days,' because that is excess of the other side. Mahavira would wait — when the body itself said 'food is now needed,' he would rise. And he found one more unique device, which belongs only to Mahavira; no other siddha has spoken of it. It is very unique.
Mahavira devised this: when hunger arose, he would observe, witness it; if the hunger was such that food was necessary, he would go for alms. But he would decide in the morning that only if such-and-such a situation is met will I accept that it is in my destiny; otherwise I will not take it.
For example: a black cow will be standing before the house; the woman who gives alms will be pregnant; or she will have a child in her lap; two men will be quarrelling at the door. He would decide something in the morning and then go out for alms. If that day such a situation came about — and it is a big coincidence — if it came, he would accept alms. If not, he would return, saying, 'It is not in my destiny today. Hunger has arisen in the body, but it is not in my fate, not the fruit of past karma. If hunger is my fate, then today I shall remain hungry.'
It is astonishing that even in twelve years he still got alms three hundred and sixty-five times. But Mahavira would come back unconcerned: 'What is not in destiny — not for me; what is not in fate — is not.' It means: I am no longer the doer; I am not going to beg for alms. If Existence wants to keep me alive today, it will arrange alms, it will fulfill my condition. If it does not fulfill it, that means Existence has no need to give me food today.
And it is very surprising that Mahavira did not become sick; he did not become withered in those twelve years; he did not shrivel. A man so contented begins to receive food from a different direction. One so contented, who has left even food to destiny — as if the whole Existence takes him in its hands. And if Existence can run the moon and the stars, make the flowers bloom, grow the trees, flow the rivers — if Existence does such a great arrangement — then to think it cannot care for Mahavira’s small stomach and body has no basis.
So Mahavira says: only if Existence wants to run me shall I run; I have no lust to run.
As long as you live from the lust to run, you create the world. The day you stop and go only where the stream of Existence carries you, that day you begin to be free.
So Mahavira made 'Eshana': food, clothing, security — all are to be limited to the final point — beyond which is death, on this side life — right at the center.
Fourth: 'Adan-Nikshep.' Even when people give, keep a limit — and keep awareness.
People often become eager to give to a renunciate. To the one who has nothing, who has left all — in a sense, everyone becomes eager to give. Mahavira said, 'Adan-Nikshep': if people give, do not take just because someone gave; do not take because it was coming — 'What to do, I did not ask, I did not say anything; it came without asking!' Even then, Mahavira says: take only if it is needed for you, otherwise offer thanks and move on — do not take.
And the fifth: 'Ucchar' or 'Utsarga' — disposal. This is very precious. Mahavira said: defecate or urinate only in such a place where no one suffers, no one is pained, no foul smell comes, no creature’s life is destroyed. Find such a place — clean, plain, having first looked with awareness that no insect, no living creature will be crushed in your excrement. Find such a place that no one will be made uncomfortable by your excretion; no one will feel pain on seeing it; no one will be troubled by the smell.
This is its gross meaning, which Jain monks hold; its subtle meaning is very deep, and has been lost. Excrement alone is not the only excrement — whatever you throw out of yourself is all excrement. From all your senses, that which has become useless is thrown out. You do not know that your eyes also throw waste; your hands also throw waste through touch; your ears, your tongue — all throw out waste. In truth, whatever you take in has to be thrown out in some form.
Whatever has come from outside must go out. You ate food — either it will be digested, become blood, and go out as excrement; or if not digested, then it will be vomited out. But whatever is taken from outside must go out. Only that which is inner remains inner; all else must go. You read the scripture — if it is digested it will become your life; if not digested you will dump it like excrement on someone’s head. Whatever you enjoy, if it is digested — fine; if not, your enjoyment too will be seen as garbage all around.
All the time you radiate waves of electricity from yourself — waves that have become waste inside you. So Mahavira says: your garbage, your excrement — by this he includes everything that has gone in and must be thrown out — includes everything: your words, your scriptures, your 'knowledge'; what you drank with your eyes, what you heard with your ears, what smells you took through your nose — all will be thrown out. Let no one suffer pain or harm from this. Let no violence come to the other from it.
Mahavira called this 'Ucchar-samiti': whatever goes out, let it not cause pain to anyone.
Now this is very interesting, and often becomes tricky. A Jain monk will not touch anyone — thinking that by touching the other he may become impure. Mahavira’s purpose is entirely different. Do not touch the other so that the other may not become impure from your impurity. But man’s ego is very cunning; it finds ways through it. A Jain monk walks carefully so that he does not touch anyone. He thinks, 'I may become impure if I touch a sinner.'
No — Mahavira says: when you touch another, the energy going out through your hand, through your body — let it not cause suffering, pain, harm to the other. These harms can be of many kinds.
A Jain monk will not touch a woman because he fears the woman’s lust may enter him. This is foolishness. A monk at least should be in such a state that others cannot influence him. The reason is entirely different. Mahavira’s perspective is different. Mahavira says: do not touch a woman lest your lust be aroused in her; lest your lust enter her and become a cause of her pain and violence.
Mahavira’s whole concern is one: that by you no means of harm, pain or suffering comes to anyone — whatever you must discard of yourself, discard it in such a way.
If grasped rightly, this is precious; if grasped in a petty way, it becomes a joke and a laughing-stock. There is a class of Jain monks who tie a cloth over their mouths. They do this because of Ucchar-samiti — lest some insect in the air be killed by the breath.
The point is fine...! The point is fine, but it has become ridiculous. A joke has been made — the thing brought to a petty place. Then, by moving too, someone is dying. By breathing too someone is dying; in one breath a hundred thousand microbes are destroyed — not by Mahavira’s account, by science’s. They are being destroyed. That cloth cannot stop them; they are so subtle. That is why hundreds of thousands are destroyed in one breath. They are so subtle they cannot be seen by the eye; only by microscope. They are being destroyed anyway — but a joke has been made. By tying the cloth over the mouth a man believes everything has been made right, the samiti is fulfilled. The samiti has been brought to a petty level.
It is not bad — there is no harm in tying it. But to think tying it is great glory is foolish. Tie it — the less violence, the better. But to think of it as sadhana or siddhi, and to think a great thing has been achieved, and that those who do not tie a cloth on the nose are sinners and will go to hell — is delusion!
These are the five samitis and the three guptis — Mano-gupti, Vachana-gupti and Kaya-gupti.
'Gupti' means: to contract and to make secret. 'Mano-gupti' means: to contract the spread of your mind. Your mind is spread very wide. The sky is small; your mind is spread wider than that. You keep spreading it. You may live in Bombay, but your mind wanders in New York, in London — when shall I travel? The mind keeps spreading.
A Japanese company is selling tickets to go to the moon in 1975. The price is substantial. But not everyone gets one — there is a queue. Man’s mind! 1975 is still far. Whether you will live till then is in question. And there is nothing on the moon — nothing worth seeing. Still, the mind wants to go to the moon.
The mind wants to spread. The more it spreads the more relish it gets. So Mahavira says: contract the mind. Contract it so much that it remains only in your heart — let it have no spread anywhere. Do not spread it into any lust, any desire, any eshana. Keep pulling it back — and the day the mind settles in the pure heart, a wondrous bliss is born.
Hell is the spread of our mind — and you go on spreading it. You must have read the story of Sheikh Chilli — who kept spreading and got into trouble. He is going to sell milk, carrying a pot on his head; and the thought arises, if the milk is sold I will get four annas. And if it goes on like this, within half a year I will buy a buffalo. If I buy a buffalo, it will have calves. Wealth will increase, then I will marry. Marriage will happen, children will be born. The little one will coo and sit in my lap, pull my beard and say, 'Baba!'
...Lest he fall, he put his hand down to steady the child... The pot on his head fell and broke!... Even those four annas were lost!
But this is not the story of Sheikh Chilli — it is the story of man’s mind. The mind is Sheikh Chilli. Everyone’s mind is calculating — this will happen, then that, then that will go on happening. And the fear is that the pot may break. It often breaks. At the end of life, a man finds that the pot has broken; even the four annas at hand are lost!
Mahavira says: contract the mind. The more spread the mind, the more sorrow — this is the sutra. The more contracted the mind, the more joy. If the mind comes to complete zero, meditation happens. When the mind is contracted so much that nothing remains to contract — it has reached the very center; all rays have contracted back; it has returned to its own nest — Mahavira calls this 'Mano-gupti.'
'Vachana-gupti' — do not spread words either; for words cast nets. The moment you speak, disturbance begins; relationship is created. Speaking means reaching another. Speaking is a bridge; it constructs a relationship with the other. There will be trouble. Even if you say a good thing, it is not necessary that the other will take it as good — he will take it in his own way.
By speaking, disturbance is created. Think about your life: the disturbances you have created, the quarrels and conflicts — all have been created by speaking. If only you had remained quiet, perhaps your life would have been different. So when speaking seems of no one’s benefit, then hold it back. But we want to speak — we go on speaking, saying anything.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was traveling in a train. In the seat next to him a man was peacefully reading his newspaper. But Mulla was restless — if only the man would put down his paper, there could be some conversation.
That is why people quickly start talking in the train. And they will say such things to strangers which they would not have told their wife or husband at home. They start confessing to strangers, because there is a restlessness to speak. Sitting in the train brings restlessness.
Nasruddin asked, 'Are you a Mohammedan? You look like a Mohammedan.' The man looked up from his paper just to say, 'No, I am not a Mohammedan.' He was a little afraid — this man looks like a Mohammedan; if I say I am a Mohammedan he will go on talking. The matter ended. He was not a Mohammedan anyway. He again began reading. But Nasruddin said, 'Absolutely certain? Certainly you are not a Mohammedan?'
The man said, 'I have told you — what is there to be certain about? I am not a Mohammedan.' After a while Nasruddin said, 'Absolutely? Fully sure?' To get rid of the nuisance, the man said, 'All right, I am — I made a mistake saying I was not.' Then Nasruddin said, 'Funny — you don’t look like a Mohammedan!'
It was he who had made him say 'I am a Mohammedan' on the third try — and now he says, 'You don’t look like a Mohammedan!'
Mahavira says: let not words go out in vain. And how many words are meaningful? If you watch and keep account for twenty-four hours, you will find that hardly five or ten sentences would suffice; even being dumb would suffice. But you keep talking; even the dumb talk. Even the dumb have no peace.
I have heard: in a factory, the owner arranged work for dumb women. A group of ten or twelve dumb women... The work was by hand. But the dumb women kept conversing with each other by gestures. Then a dumb man was also sent to the same department — it would be suitable, there are so many dumb there. After three days he returned and wrote on paper, 'Accept my resignation.' They asked, 'What is the matter?' — 'Those women talk too much. They have eaten my head.' They said, 'But they are dumb!' He wrote, 'What difference does that make? They all gesture to each other — I was trapped alone there.'
'Women are women even if they are dumb. I will lose my life there. And I understand the meaning of their gestures, because I am dumb too.'
A lot of conversation is going on. Even the dumb are busy in conversation.
So for us who talk, Mahavira says, we should gradually learn the art of being dumb.
Hold back speech — 'Vachana-gupti.' Guard it within; do not be in a hurry. Hold back the useless — even the useful, hold back within so that it remains in the soil like a seed and can sprout. But we throw out both the useful and the useless — we keep spilling them.
And the third, Mahavira says, 'Kaya-gupti.' Contract the body as well — this is a special process of Mahavira. Walking, rising, sitting — move as if the body is contracting, becoming smaller.
You will be surprised to know: the expansion of the body is the expansion of your desire; the expansion of the body depends on your imagination. Psychologists say that in countries where people are tall, they become taller still. The reason is partly heredity, but also that by seeing tall people around him, the child’s imagination to be tall deepens. Where short people live, they tend to become shorter.
A few years before his death, Bernard Shaw went to all the cemeteries around London to see in which village people live the longest. In the end he found a village where on one grave it was written: 'This man was born in the seventeenth century and died in the eighteenth — at a young age — only a hundred years old.' Bernard Shaw decided to live in that village. His friends asked, 'What do you mean?' He said, 'In a village where people think dying at a hundred is dying young, there is a way to live longer — the imagination is expansive.'
If the rishis of old blessed children — 'Live a hundred years!' — no one can live a hundred years just by their blessing. But where all the elders say 'Live a hundred years,' the child’s imagination to live a hundred becomes deep. That imagination pulls the body.
Fortune-tellers sometimes kill people. They say, 'Now the end is near — within two years you will die.' The astrologer says this not because the man was going to die in two years; but the man will die in two years because the astrologer said so. Now for two years he will think only of death: 'The days are near.' He will begin to contract; he will begin to die inwardly; begin preparing to die — and he will die.
Prophecies of death become successful because prophecies charge the imagination. Your mind is very powerful. So Mahavira says 'Kaya-gupti' — contract the body, and experience the body as growing smaller and smaller.
There are two experiments. One experiment the Brahmavadins, Shankara, the rishis of the Upanishads have done: expand the body... expand it... expand it — imagine the body so vast that the whole cosmos fits into it. The day it begins to be felt that the moons and stars move within me, the sun rises within me, trees bloom within me, the whole world moves within me — that day Brahman is experienced.
This too is true. If such expansion happens that only I remain and all else is contained in me, the person attains truth — because he is free of the petty ego.
The second way: contract the 'I' so much, contract so much; carefully make the body small... smaller... so small that even I cannot remain in it; so small, so atomic, that I cannot remain within it — no space remains and I am thrown out.
Mahavira trusts 'Kaya-gupti.' These two experiments are the same from opposite directions. Mahavira says: small... smaller... go on considering the body small. There comes a point where the body becomes so small that restlessness will arise — how can I be in it? If this restlessness deepens and you keep making the body smaller, make it atomic, like an atom — you will be thrown out; the same state will be attained as through becoming vast.
Either become small like zero, or become vast like Brahman.
Mahavira says: 'The five samitis come into play in the compassionate acts of character, and the three guptis are helpful in withdrawing from all kinds of unwholesome dealings.'
'The learned muni who practices these eight Mothers of Discourse well becomes, very soon, free forever from the entire world.'
These are sutras of liberation: processes for breaking, one by one, the chains where we are bound. Try them a little and see — for from my saying alone it will not be understood. Try any one small experiment from these eight; a unique experience will happen. Merely begin to think that the body is becoming smaller. Walking, rising, sitting — the body is becoming smaller; while sleeping, the body is becoming smaller. You will be amazed — as soon as the conception of the body’s smallness arises, many transactions of your body will change, because they were linked to your old conception of the body. As the conception falls, those transactions will fall.
If you find a little taste in even one of these eight experiments, the remaining seven will also feel worth doing. Choose any one experiment for twenty-one days. The experiment of making the body small is very simple. Just keep the thought, and you will find that as the conception of the body changes, you begin to become smaller — so small that you will be surprised that your behavior with people starts changing.
If someone says to you, 'What are you? Nothing!' — it will feel perfectly right. If he had said the same earlier — 'What are you? Nothing; petty, nobody' — you would have stiffened and stood to fight. If your body is shrinking, you will say, 'You are right, perfectly right — I am utterly petty.' And if you can say, 'I am utterly petty,' perhaps the other will be compelled to change his conception — because one who is petty never accepts that he is petty. The small never accepts, 'I am small.' The ignorant never agrees that he is ignorant; he says, 'I am knowledgeable.' We always declare the opposite.
Go on becoming smaller, shrinking with the body; or make the mind small, contract it, do not let it spread — and you will find, slowly, the world begins to change; your form changes, and the world’s form changes.
The world remains what it is — for the bound, for the free — but the free has changed within, and so the world changes. The very world becomes moksha if you are free within. As you are — if by mistake you were to enter moksha, by some bribe somewhere, by some guru’s 'grace' you were to sneak into moksha — you would see nothing there but the world. Therefore there is no way to enter moksha by bribery. Even if you go there, you will see the world. You will create the world there too. You are the world; you are moksha.
Pause for five minutes, do kirtan, and then go...!