Mahaveer Vani #43

I have heard: in a dark night a fierce storm arose; with it came the jolts of an earthquake. Mulla Nasruddin’s whole house collapsed. Nothing remained; everything was destroyed. Nasruddin, however, ran out unhurt. He was terribly frightened; his hands and feet were trembling — but clutching a bottle of wine he emerged. In that falling, crumbling house, what appeared to him worth saving was that bottle of wine!
He sat outside; tears began to flow. The earnings of a lifetime had perished. Neighbors gathered. A physician from the neighborhood said to him, “Take a little of this wine. Your nerves will get some strength. You are very shaken; you may calm down a little.”
Nasruddin said, “Nothing doing — that I am saving for some emergency!” This bottle is for an accident; I’m saving it for some emergency, a crisis!
And you too — for what are you saving the treasure of life? For what are you saving the energy of life? You keep postponing to tomorrow, to the day after tomorrow — and the accident is happening now. Every moment life is entangled with death, and what you call life is nothing but dying.
Nietzsche has said: only if life can transcend itself — self-transcendence — is it life. That life which keeps moving in the same circle and gets destroyed is not life. When a person goes beyond himself, in those very moments the supreme realization of life becomes available. Only when you rise above yourself do you draw near to Paramatma. The more one goes beyond oneself, the nearer one reaches to the Divine. But what are you using the energy of life for? For which crisis are you saving it? The crisis is now — this very moment. And that which you call life — it is astonishing that you can even call it life — it is nothing but sorrow and misery and anguish; there is no music of joy there; no fragrance of existence; no experience of peace; no flowers of Samadhi bloom, nor does Paramatma’s vision happen. A life spent in the petty... perhaps it is not even right to call it life.
Before the First World War, when Adolf Hitler was bent upon breaking the morale of all the world’s powers — undermining their resolve before war — a great English statesman, a diplomat, went to meet him. On the seventh floor, in his office, Hitler spoke with him. And Hitler said: “Remember, go and tell your country that entangling with Germany is no gain. I have soldiers who, at my signal, can throw away their lives as one flings trash from the hand.”
Three soldiers stood at the door. Saying this, Hitler told the first soldier, “Jump from the window!” The first soldier ran. The English diplomat could not even understand — he leapt from the window. He did not even ask, “Why?” The Englishman’s chest began to tremble. He was greatly disturbed; sweat came upon him. Hitler said, “Perhaps you are still not convinced” — and told the second soldier, “Jump from the window!” The second soldier too jumped. Hitler said, “Perhaps still you are not convinced.” Then to the third he said, “You too jump!” By then the English diplomat had gathered courage; he ran, grabbed the arm of the soldier who was about to jump, and said, “Have you gone mad? What hurry is there to lose life like this?” The soldier said, “You call this life?” He freed his arm and jumped. You call this life?
What we call life — that too is not life. But we know only that; beyond it we have no experience of life. If we were to have even a little glimpse of real life, we too would agree to drop this life as readily as Hitler’s soldier, tormented below by Hitler’s excesses, was eager, impatient to drop it. But if there is no experience of another life, then it is difficult. We take what is, as all — and live by it. The petty keeps appearing to be everything, because no taste of the vast is available. And we have arranged things in such a way that the taste of the vast cannot even be had. We have left no space within for the Vast to descend.
Mahavira’s sutra says: who is worthy of worship? Worthy is only the one who gives space within himself for the Vast to descend. Petty is the one, unworthy is the one, who closes himself on all sides and drowns in his own pettiness. But we worship precisely those who make their pettiness the summit of life. We worship those who turn their ego into Mount Kailash. We worship politicians; we worship the powerful; we worship actors — our idea of the worshipful is very strange. Where there is nothing of the worshipful, where no touch of the Vast has happened in life, where in the dark heart no ray of light has descended — there we place our worship.
It is necessary to understand why we worship such people where there is nothing to worship. Perhaps you have not even noticed. You worship only that which you want to become. Your worship is your future. If you worship an actor, and a crowd of crazed people gathers around him, it means they are all mad, living with the aim that they too can be actors; if not, then perhaps someday; living in that hope.
Whom you worship reveals what your ideal is. If crowds gather around politicians, it means you too worship power, position, fame. And whom you worship is news of your ambition. Where your head bows is not without cause. You bow at those feet which are the idol of your future, what you want to become.
So in the worshipful-sutra Mahavira gives some pointers: “Who is worshipful?”
I have heard: a certain Israeli went to a large hospital in Tel Aviv; his brain had become old and worn. He said to the doctors, “I want someone else’s brain transplanted.”
This is a tale of the future. As there are blood banks today, so there will be brain banks in the future.
The Israeli said, “My doctors say my brain cannot serve for many more days. Remove it; replace it. I have come to find out what types of brains are available in the bank.”
The physician took him. He showed the first brain and said, “This will cost five thousand rupees. It is the brain of a sixty-year-old mathematician; since it is the brain of an old man, the price is a little less.” The Israeli said, “Sixty years! Much older than me. Not so old — something younger...” He showed, “This is a schoolteacher’s brain; the man died at thirty.” The Israeli said, “A schoolteacher’s status is much lower than mine — something befitting me!” So he showed a rich man’s brain: “Its price is fifteen thousand. The man died at fifty.”
At that very moment the Israeli’s eyes fell on a special glass jar with a bulb glowing over it. “Whose brain is in that jar?” The doctor said, “That is a costly item. Its price is five lakh rupees. Will it be within your means?”
The Israeli said, “I would like to know more. Why so costly? Five lakh rupees!” The doctor said, “It is the brain of a politician.”
Even then the Israeli asked, “Why such a price?” The doctor said, “If you insist: it has been never used!”
A politician has little need to use his brain. The less the brain, the greater the chances of success. But we give respect to brainlessness — provided brainlessness climbs the peak of ego. We honor stupidity — because we too are stupid, and we want the same.
Reflect on whom you worship. Your worship is your psychoanalysis. Whom do you revere? Then it becomes clear where your life-direction is going. If you succeed, you will become that. If you fail, that is another matter — but even in failure you will be on the same path.
In a corner of your heart, investigate: who is my worshipful? And for what reason do I worship? The question is not about the worshipful; through this you will become able to understand yourself. This will be self-analysis. And if you change yourself, the feeling of your worship will also change; the objects of worship will also change.
Look back. As today an actor is worshipful, once a sannyasin was worshipful — because people considered sannyas the supreme value of life. Today the actor is worshipful — life has become so false! What can be more false than an actor? To be an actor means to be false — an untruth. If sannyas was the symbol of truth, the actor is the symbol of untruth. If sannyas was the symbol of egolessness, the leader is the symbol of ego. If the bhikshu was the symbol of renunciation, the wealthy is the symbol of indulgence.
Whom do you worship? The actor’s price is rising even beyond the leader’s. What news is this? What season is this announcing? Within you, the prestige of untruth is rising; the prestige of entertainment is rising; that of truth is declining.
And remember, the prestige of entertainment rises only when people are deeply unhappy — because only an unhappy person seeks entertainment. A happy person does not seek entertainment. If you are cheerful, blissful, you will not go and sit in a movie — three hours of sheer foolishness. Time will be wasted; the brain will be spoiled; the eyes will suffer; health will suffer — and nothing will be gained.
But the unhappy runs; the unhappy seeks entertainment. So as the search for entertainment increases, it shows that man is becoming more unhappy. A happy person is delighted even sitting under a tree; delighted sitting at home; delighted playing with his children; delighted sitting silently beside his wife. There is nowhere to go. To go somewhere else means where you are there is sorrow — you want to escape from there.
The actor is untruth, yet his price keeps rising. The leader is the symbol of the lowest in man. Politics is the play of the lowermost tendencies in man; yet it is honored. Untruth is becoming our ideal.
I have heard: a woman was passing by a bridge. On the side of the bridge she saw a blind man sitting with a board that read: Please help the blind. His condition looked so pitiful that the woman took out a five-rupee note and put it in his hand. The blind man said, “If you could change the note it would be better — it seems a little old, torn; who knows whether it will pass or not.” The woman said, “Being blind, how did you know the note looks old and dirty?” The man said, “Forgive me, I am not blind; my friend is blind. He has gone to watch a film today; I am working in his place — a mere representative. As for me, I am deaf and mute.”
The blind has gone to the cinema; I am deaf and mute — so he says! But almost the whole arrangement of life has become this false. From signboards one cannot tell who is behind; from names one cannot tell who is behind; from publicity one cannot tell who is behind. A false face is over everyone; within there is someone else, something else going on. The worship of acting is proof of this hypocrisy. The worship of position and prestige indicates a disease within you — that you are mad for being special; you want to climb on everyone’s chest, to be on top. The ladders for climbing can be anything — wealth, position, knowledge, even renunciation. If you must build a ladder to climb, anything can become a ladder.
Whom does Mahavira call worshipful? It is necessary to reflect upon whom a man like Mahavira calls worshipful.
“Who uses Vinaya to attain achara.”
A very difficult condition. You too want to be moral, but Mahavira places the condition of Vinaya, which is very contrary. From childhood we teach children: keep your character high, because character is respected. If you are virtuous, all will respect you. If you are virtuous, no one will condemn you. If you are virtuous, society’s reverence will be towards you; you will become worshipful.
We are teaching the child ego, not conduct. We are telling the child: if you want to establish your ego, then conduct is necessary. For the characterless, no one shows reverence; no one gives respect; people condemn him. On the surface it appears that parents are teaching conduct — but parents are teaching ego. Parents do not say: be humble, be egoless. They say: be clever, be cunning — because if you have conduct, society will give you fewer inconveniences and more conveniences. If you are without conduct, society will give inconvenience; it will trouble you, punish you, harass you — society will become your enemy. Then whatever you want in life — wealth, position, prestige — you will not get it.
And our morality is constructed upon this insistence for prestige. Even those who seem moral among us — within, their morality is not based on Vinaya, not based on humility; it is based on ego. Mahavira says the matter is spoiled; poison has been poured into the root. The flowers that bloom will be poisonous. Vinaya is the foundation. And it is a great wonder that in humility the whole of conduct is contained. Vinaya means the feeling of egolessness; to drop the madness that “I am something.” Let that stiffness within melt — “I am something.” But we immediately install another stiffness.
It is necessary to understand man’s cleverness well — we can say, “I am nothing,” and that itself can become an arrogance — “I am a nobody,” yet while saying it a strong ego sits within: “I am humble; none is more humble than I...”
Man finds devices, and unless there is awareness, it is difficult to escape the devices. So you can be humble and still have ego within. To be humble means: neither the pride that “I am something,” nor the pride that “I am nothing” — in between these two is humility. Where it is not even known to me that “I am” — my being is simple, natural. This naturalness Mahavira calls the basis of conduct.
“Who uses Vinaya to attain achara; who listens to the Guru’s words with devotion, accepts them and completes the work according to the words; who never disobeys the Guru — only he is worshipful.”
Vinaya means to regard oneself as a zero — and until you become a zero, the Guru cannot be found. You cannot search for the Guru — remember. Whomever you search, he will be a guru-like humbug like you, not a Guru. You will search, won’t you? You cannot search anything other than what you are. You will think, interpret — you will do it, won’t you? Then the Guru will be secondary; number two will be the Guru; number one will be you. You will determine who is right, who is wrong; what a Guru should be — you will decide; you will judge whether he is moral or immoral. You — who know nothing! You will be the determiner of the Guru; then the one you choose will be your own reflection, your echo. And if you are wrong, the Guru cannot be right; you will only choose a wrong guru.
The first sutra for the search for the Guru: you should not be. Then you do not choose; the Guru chooses you. Then you do not come in between; you set no conditions; you are not the examiner.
I see these days: people roam about examining gurus — who is the right guru, who is not. If you are so able to decide, if you are the examiner, you need not be a disciple at all; you are the maha-guru of the Guru! Sit at home; those who need to learn will come to you. You need not go.
And however much you wander, you cannot find the Guru. Only a wrong person can impress you — the one who is ready to fulfill your conditions. Who will fulfill your conditions? Will a Mahavira or a Buddha fulfill your conditions? Only a petty man can fulfill your conditions. If he wants to be your guru, he will satisfy your conditions. Your conditions are obvious; there is no difficulty in them. What feelings exist in the mind of a petty man are all obvious. A cunning man will fulfill your conditions and sit as your guru. If you honor fasting, he can fast; if you honor filth, he can live filthy.
There are Jain monks; their devotees have made such a misinterpretation of Mahavira’s words that there is no accounting for it. Mahavira said: do not decorate the body; there is no need — that is the talk of a lustful mind.
You do not decorate the body for yourself; you decorate it for others — that someone should see, be attracted, that lust should arise in someone, even if you are not conscious of it — this is man’s dilemma, that he does everything unconsciously. Women walking in the streets — if someone jostles them, they are angry; but from home they have gone fully decorated — hidden within is the invitation to be jostled. If no one jostles them, they will return sad — perhaps there was some lack in the decoration. If someone does jostle, they will create a scene; yet they carry the invitation.
It is amusing that at home a woman sits like Mahakali — an incarnation of Chandi — and while stepping out...? The reason is: there is no longer any need to attract the husband — taken for granted; he is accepted. But the market is full... and then if someone jostles, if someone teases, abuses, speaks obscenely — there is trouble!
Man lives very unconsciously; what he wants to do and what he does — he has no clarity.
I have heard: one day a man knocked on Nasruddin’s house with his wife. When the door opened, both were astonished. The wife was very frightened. Nasruddin stood completely naked, wearing only a cap. Finally the woman could not hold back, “Do you remain like a digambar in your house?”
Nasruddin said, “Yes — because no one comes to visit me.” The woman’s curiosity grew: “If so, then why the cap?”
He said, “Just in case someone does happen to come.”
No one comes — so naked; and the cap so that if someone does come, then for that!
Man is split in great duality. Nothing is clear. Mahavira said: decoration of the body is for the lustful; for the yogi, no decoration. But when the indulgent stepped onto Mahavira’s path, they took a very strange meaning. Decoration is one thing; cleanliness is totally another. Cleanliness is for oneself; decoration will be for the other. Cleanliness has its own private joy — no concern with the other. But even cleanliness has become decoration. So the Jain muni will not bathe; the body will stink; he will not brush his teeth; his mouth will stink.
Now it is amusing: just as decoration was to impress others, this filth too is to impress others. If the Jain shravaka comes to know that the muni’s breath smells of Macleans, then all is spoiled! He will rush to proclaim that the man is corrupt — he is brushing. Not just brushing with a twig — with a brush!
You want fragrance in your teeth for the other, and stench for the other — then there is no difference. Mahavira’s emphasis is: forget the other. Seek that which is wholesome, healthy, for yourself, for your own nature.
As I told you yesterday, how perversions become possible. I said Mahavira has said: while excreting, be mindful that no one is hurt, no one suffers. Mahavira thought very subtly — that no one be pained by filth. Twenty-five hundred years ago there were no septic tanks, no flush latrines. And India as a whole excreted outside the village. Mahavira said: on wet places where grass grows — where there is the possibility of insects, of life; grass too is life — your excreta will harm the grass — not there. On dry ground, clean ground, where there is no possibility of life — there you excrete.
Now madness ensued! In Mumbai Jain sadhus and sadhvis are staying — where to find flat land except roads? So they use the roads — with cleverness! Now the trick is: they collect urine and stools in vessels and in the darkness of night pour it on the streets.
See what stupidity can be born of a rule. A flush latrine at present would be most useful. But there the rule turns upside down — because it is wet... there is flush water — so scripture...!
Scriptures can make people blind. And for those who become so blind, how will light ever happen in their lives? They are fakirs of the scripture’s line. It is written “not on wet ground” — there is water in the flush, therefore they cannot urinate there, cannot defecate there. So they will do it in a dry plate or vessel, keep it safe, and when night comes, in the dark they will leave it on the dry road!
This has become madness. Lao Tzu sometimes seems right: prophets can create great stupidity. Mahavira could not have imagined — and could not — that behind him would come a crowd of such fools who would make it a rigid rule.
No scripture is a rule. All scriptures are indicative — only information. One should catch the spirit; catch the words and there will be trouble, for the words will become old. Mahavira spoke to those for whom it was suitable. Time changes, situation changes, arrangements change, instruments change — words remain the same. Scripture is not a tree that grows and has new flowers. Scripture is dead. People clutch those dead scriptures.
Mahavira said, “Who uses Vinaya for the attainment of achara...”
But observe carefully: whenever you employ any means to attain morality, the cause is ego. Hence the moral person walks stiffly; the immoral may walk in fear. The immoral is a little anxious that no one finds out. He fears that his conduct may be discovered. The one we call virtuous tries that his conduct should be known to you. He keeps accounts — how many fasts in which year, how much worship, how many repetitions of the mantra; all accounts — how many lakhs of repetitions have been done.
For whom are these accounts?
The accounts reveal that the clever fellow within is present, not erased — he is keeping the ledger.
Vinaya is the first condition. Vinaya means: to bring oneself to a state of “nothingness.” Do not even grasp the idea “I am nothing.” One so humble obtains the Guru. And even if you do not go to seek him, he will come seeking you.
There are inner-laws of life. Wherever the need for a Guru arises, those in whose lives the flower of awakening has bloomed begin to feel it. Like in nature: where it becomes very hot, gusts of wind start running there. When the wind comes, you know why — it does not come for its own reasons. Where the heat becomes intense, the air becomes rarified, less dense; heated, it rises — there a hollow is created. To fill that hollow, surrounding winds rush. You fill a pot with river water — a hollow is created. As soon as the hollow is there, nearby water runs to fill it.
Exactly so is the law of the inner life: whenever someone disappears, someone who has attained the peak rushes to fill him. But these are subtle laws; not so obvious. In Egypt it is said: “When the disciple is ready, the Master appears.” The disciple need not search for the Guru; the Guru searches for the disciple — because once the need is there, those who have will rush to give. The vessel is ready. Those who have will fill it, because those who have are burdened by their having — remember.
Like rain-clouds: when they fill with water they become heavy; if they do not rain, there is a weight. Like a mother: she becomes pregnant; the child comes; her breasts fill with milk. If she does not give to the child, there will be pain. Even if the child dies, she will feed a neighbor’s child — because now giving is part — she is full. If the milk does not flow, there will be difficulty. So instruments are made: if the child dies, instruments draw the milk as if a child.
Where knowledge condenses, where it arises, the Guru’s heart becomes full like the mother’s breasts. He wishes that someone come and lighten him.
So when you are ready, the Guru appears. If you go searching, you are in error. First disappear — and disappearing, move; the Guru will catch hold of you. And if you decide, you will keep wandering. You are not in the position to decide; cannot be. Then fear arises: this will become blind faith. Reason says: this is blind — we will be nothing!
If reason is not yet tired, then contrive with reason and search. A moment will come when you are tired of reason. And a moment will come when you know that whomever you search is as wrong as you. In that moment of despondency man stops his search; by himself becoming an empty vessel, he moves. Wherever there is someone full — as winds run towards the empty, as water runs towards the hollow, as the mother’s milk flows towards the child — so the Guru begins to flow towards the disciple.
In that moment the meeting that happens between Guru and disciple is the greatest event on this earth. Those in whose lives that event has not occurred will die incomplete. They have kept themselves deprived of a unique experience.
There is no greater moment of bliss on earth than this: when you are empty like a vessel and someone full begins to flow towards you. But to receive this flow, one must be receptive; and receptive is he who is not a critic. The critic is stiff, thinks himself, assesses on his own. That is why the formulas of science and religion are different. Science lives by criticism, by logic. Religion is alogical; it lives by shraddha, by surrender.
A friend went with me to a hill station — a sick critic. Critics are indeed sick. Whatever they see, they look for what is wrong. They have no trust that something can be right. Whatever is, must be wrong.
Wherever I took him — by a beautiful waterfall — he said: “What is there in it? Remove the water and there is nothing.”
I took him to a beautiful mountain to watch the sunset. He said: “Nothing special. No meaning to coming so far. In a moment the sun will set; then what remains? Returning, he said: “We came in vain. Except for mountains, waterfalls, the sun — remove them, all is a flat plain.”
Such a man can never attain the Guru. He has begun the search from the wrong end. The right end means sensitivity, receptivity. The more humble a person is, the more receptive he becomes. The more swiftly the Guru can run towards him.
“Who listens to the Guru’s words with devotion.”
“With devotion” — as a lover listens to the beloved. And you know how meanings change according to how you listen.
You have fallen in love with a new woman. Whatever she speaks seems golden. Another passer-by hears and thinks: childish! To you it appears golden, heavenly. Whatever you say to her — trivial, ordinary — those too get studded with diamonds and pearls; they become precious. Even a little gesture becomes valuable. Another will say: so what?
There is nothing there. But a heart full of love takes things very deep, because it opens that much. The meanings of things change. A simple flower offered by your beloved becomes memorable. Even if someone wants to exchange it for the Kohinoor, you will not. The Kohinoor is worth two pennies against that flower. Something else has come into the flower. What? The flower is only a flower; a scientific test will find nothing more. But the flower has penetrated your heart; it was taken in a moment of love. Then you were open; things resonated within. Therefore if the lover gifts even a stone, it becomes precious.
The Guru’s words may appear ordinary if not heard with devotion. If heard with devotion, even his ordinary words become revolutionary. There is nothing in the words — everything is in hearing with devotion. So if you read the Quran and you are not a Muslim, you will say: what is there? If you wish to read the Quran, you need the heart of a Muslim; then the meaning will be revealed. A Jain reads the Gita and says: what is in it? Why do Hindus make such noise? For the Gita again the heart of a Hindu is needed. If a Jain reads the Bhagavata, he will say: what is this? Rasa-lila — all hypocrisy! His own notion will intrude. Ask Chaitanya or Meera the rasa of the Bhagavata — they dance madly. But their dance arises from their receptivity, not from the Bhagavata. The Bhagavata is merely a support, a medium.
The Guru is the medium; the bliss will arise from you. But if you do not let the medium enter, it is difficult. And remember, the Guru cannot be aggressive — because one who can be aggressive cannot attain to being a Guru. The Guru is utterly non-aggressive. He will not grab your neck and pour something down you. If you are open, in that open moment he will enter. He will not even knock at your door — that too is violence. If you are sleeping deep, dreaming sweet dreams, and you are not willing to receive now — nothing can be given to one unwilling.
So the Guru will not force. But we imagine compulsion — because all we have known are parents, schools, colleges — everywhere compulsion runs. They are all devices of violence — hammering ideas into your head. The spiritual cannot be hammered that way.
I was a guest at a lady’s house — well-educated, cultured, educated in the West. Whenever I went, she would lament the same thing: my parents forced me to learn piano; I never liked it. And she is right, because she is tone-deaf — no sensibility for sound. But parents insisted their daughter must learn piano; by force they drilled it into her. Somehow by rote, by cramming, she passed the exams. One morning again she lamented; I said, “At least remember not to do to your daughter what your parents did to you.” She said emphatically, “Certainly I will never make that mistake with my daughter. Whether she likes it or not, she will have to learn dancing.”
This is what goes on. Parents impose; schools and teachers impose. From all sides things are imposed upon man. Thus the illusion is created that perhaps the Guru too will impose upon you. You need only arrive like a lump of clay and he will mould you by hammering.
Remember: a Guru who imposes upon you has no news of the spiritual. He is a guru of this world. Better he be a teacher in a school. The difference between teacher and Guru: a teacher is eager to teach; eager to make you; aggressive. That is why if violence has erupted in the universities, the primary cause is not the student but the teacher.
Till now the teacher has been imposing. Now the time has come when people are not willing to have things imposed upon them. The teacher has been violent for thousands of years; now the children are revolting. Now the children are violent. And until the teacher stops being violent, the universities cannot be peaceful.
But our whole mode of thinking is aggressive. The Guru cannot do so — impossible. If you are willing to drink, to receive, he will give unconditionally, tirelessly, infinitely — he will pour himself into you. Into your small pot he will pour the whole ocean. But the call must come from you. The thirst must come from you. This thirst and this call is called bhakti-bhava.
“Who listens to the Guru’s words with devotion, accepts them and fulfills the work according to the words.”
This is a different alchemy — the alchemy of the spirit. If the Guru says something, the mind will first want to think — is it right or wrong? What will you think? How will you think? Do you know what is right? If you knew, you could determine whether the Guru is right or wrong. If you do not know what is right — and certainly you do not; otherwise there was no need to come to a Guru — how will you think what is right and what is wrong? And the intelligence with which you will think — that is your accumulated knowledge till now; with that you reached nowhere. With that you will examine the Guru’s knowledge that goes into the future. The Guru speaks of what you will be in the future; you will test it by the knowledge of what you were in the past.
There can be no meeting. As you leave your shoes outside the temple, so will you have to leave your skull outside and come. Only then can there be a meeting with the Guru. Not that the Guru forbids your asking. There is no prohibition to ask — but ask in a way that is meant to help acceptance. Ask to know more — not to set up opposition. Do not bring your own self to test.
If you must examine, examine fully beforehand. But once the feeling of Guru arises towards someone, then put all examination aside. Almost as when you are to undergo an operation — delicate, subtle — you inquire first: who is the best surgeon? Good — inquire first. But once you lie on the operating table, please do nothing more. Do not say, “Pick up this spoon, that forceps, use this knife; cut like this; remove this way.” Do nothing. Now leave yourself entirely in the surgeon’s hands. One trust is needed. If you leave yourself wholly, your suffering will be least.
Psychology observes that if on the surgeon’s table the patient surrenders completely, there will be no need to anesthetize him. If he accepts so totally, there will be no need to put him to sleep. Anesthesia is needed because the ego within will interfere: “What are you doing? Will you not make a mistake? Will you take my life? What is happening?” He is put to sleep so that he sleeps utterly and the surgeon, forgetting the patient, can operate freely.
Spirituality is a very deep surgery. No surgeon does surgery so deep — for there is no bone to be cut, no flesh or marrow; the very samskaras joined to your soul, the very atoms joined to your Atman have to be cut. There can be no greater operation. Such a great operation is possible only when someone leaves himself so simply in the Guru’s hands that even if he strikes him, no doubt arises.
In that undoubting state the words heard are easily accepted. The intellect does not come in between; they enter your whole life. No guard at the door stops them; they reach the heart. And he fulfills the work according to the accepted words.
“Who never disobeys the Guru — only he is worshipful.”
If you must disobey the Guru, you should leave the Guru — there is no need to disobey. Seek another Guru. Guru means you have found the man whom you will not disobey. The Guru means nothing else. You have found the place where you can leave yourself entirely in someone’s hands, in total trust. Now you will not disobey. And certainly the Guru will say many things in which your mind will want to disobey. Certainly! Because if the Guru says only such things as you cannot disobey, your discipleship will never be born.
Understand this.
If the Guru is truly Guru, he will say and do many things in which disobedience seems entirely natural. And when you drop even that natural disobedience, only then is the disciple fully born.
But we are very clever. We will accept what we want to accept. Many kinds of people come to me. One man came — a sannyasin — I said: “It will be good if you join a traveling kirtan group for a while.” He said, “My health is not good; I cannot go on any journey.” We talked a while about other things. Then I said, “All right, I will send you to America. There is an ashram — you take care of it.” He said, “As you command. I have surrendered everything to you — then what!” We spoke a while more. I said, “So it is — I shall send you to America, but first join the kirtan group for six months...”
He said, “You know my health is not well.”
Yet that man thinks he never disobeys me!
To be obedient is very easy when the order suits you. Then obedience has no meaning.
Nasruddin’s son is crying. Nasruddin says, “Stop crying. I am your father — obey me.” But he does not stop. What can the father do if the child does not stop? Nasruddin beats him. He cries more. Meanwhile someone comes to see Nasruddin. Seeing the man, Nasruddin says, “Son, cry with all your heart! Cry as much as you want! It is my command!”
The boy too is startled; the visitor asks, “What is this? Why are you asking him to cry?” He says, “The question is not of crying. I want him not to cry — but my order must not be broken. In any case I must preserve the dignity of being a father. So I tell him: cry — that is my command.”
But the son goes silent. Now Nasruddin says, “Rascal! In no situation will you obey me.”
You too — when it is the mind’s wish, you are ready to obey; when it is not, you create obstacles, a hundred excuses, clevernesses.
With the Guru these will not work. All your cleverness is ignorance. You will have to go absolutely innocent.
“Who never disobeys the Guru — only he is worshipful.”
“The one who, only for the sustenance of the journey of restraint, with an unfamiliar attitude and faultless unchh-vritti wanders for alms; who is not dejected when food is not obtained and not delighted when obtained — only he is worshipful.”
“For the sustenance of the journey of restraint...”
Mahavira says: life has only one use — that the Great Life be attained. If life becomes an instrument, a means, to attain the Great Life, the life of Paramatma — only then is it used. There is no other use. Therefore Mahavira says: if you must live, then live only so much as sustains restraint — as much strength as the body needs so that sadhana can happen. With this feeling, sustenance — only that much.
“...from unfamiliar houses...”
Mahavira’s conditions are very unique. He says: his bhikshu, his sadhu should not beg in familiar houses — because where there is familiarity, attachment is born; where attachment is born, the giver begins to give the things he wants to give.
If the bhikshu comes daily to your house and attachment grows, you will give sweets, prepare special food. And Mahavira says: that householder in whose house you begin to beg with familiarity will get into preparation for you; for him anxiety will arise. He will think, plan — from the previous night — what to prepare for the muni. Your becoming the cause of his anxiety, thought, is karma for him; it binds. Therefore, beg at unfamiliar houses — arrive suddenly, so he need not prepare.
And Mahavira says: preparation specially for you produces your ego, your specialness. Stand before an unfamiliar house that did not even know you would beg there — then whatever he gives will be what he daily eats; what he prepared for himself, he will give. No special anxiety for you.
But at an unfamiliar house it may or may not be given. Hence we would prefer familiar houses. At an unfamiliar house there is uncertainty — he may or may not give. Therefore Mahavira says: if given, do not be delighted; if not, do not be dejected — because unfamiliar means all is uncertain.
And remember: the more unfamiliar the house, the less the possibility of dejection, for there will be no expectation. If you know me and I come to your door for alms and you do not give, dejection is likely — you were known, trusted, yet refused two chapatis. If an unfamiliar person says, “I have nothing,” there is less possibility of dejection.
Remember, the measure of dejection is equal to the measure of expectation. But there is a strange thing — understand it a little. If you go to a familiar person and he does not give, there will be great dejection; but if he gives, there will be no great joy — because he had to give. There was nothing special. If an unfamiliar person does not give, there is less dejection; but if he gives, there is great joy — what a good person, it was not necessary and yet he gave.
So pay attention to both — Mahavira says — do not be delighted either. Begging at unfamiliar houses — the possibility of dejection is less; yet the possibility is there, for the mind expects — and especially munis, sadhus, swamis expect greatly. They take it for granted: “I am such a great renunciate — and they refused me two chapatis! What do they think? I have left the whole world, kicked away everything — and they refuse me two chapatis!”
You know the stories of Hindu rishis — that at the slightest they curse. Even today when a Hindu bhikshu stands at your door, you feel fear — if you do not give, who knows? Whether he knows anything or not, if he starts shaking his tongs, closes his eyes, mutters a mantra — you hurry to give and be done.
Mahavira says: do not be dejected; do not be delighted — only he is worshipful. And beg at unfamiliar houses so that he need not be anxious — one — and so that you too do not think what you will get. Otherwise you too will think, plan. Go unknown; do not fix the future.
But the Jain sadhu does not do so. He begs at familiar houses. He does not beg at a non-Jain house; he searches for Jains and begs only where he gets good food. Jain sadhus, when going on foot pilgrimages through villages where there are no Jains, are accompanied by householders who carry supplies on bullock carts. In each village they set up a kitchen.
This is more expensive than a common householder’s way. Ten or five people accompany them. For Shvetambar sadhus it is not as much a case — because one person can cook and serve, it is fine. But for the Digambar muni the difficulty is greater: he does not take food from one house, as Mahavira’s sutra says; he takes from many. A group of ten-fifteen-twenty men walks behind him, because not every village has Jains; he cannot accept from non-Jains. So twenty-five kitchens are prepared in every village; those twenty-five who follow him will set up twenty-five kitchens — for the meal of one man! Then he will go asking a little from each!
See how things become crazy. One man is spoiling the food of twenty-five people. Twenty-five kitchens are unnecessarily laboring; the expense of traveling by twenty-five people, carrying supplies — all useless. And Mahavira says: from unfamiliar houses... Certainly these twenty-five who carry the kitchens with the muni will become familiar with his habits — what he likes, what he does not — and will begin to prepare delicacies. And the muni will accept in a “natural” way.
Naturalness is deceptive. Mahavira says: from unfamiliar houses, with unchh-vritti... and do not take from one house only, lest a burden fall on any one. So a little-little — like a pigeon pecks: one grain here, another there, a third elsewhere.
Unchh-vritti means, like a pigeon: before one house half a chapati is obtained — move on; before another some lentils — move on; before a third some vegetables... so no one is burdened. And do not arrive at the same house daily; search for unfamiliar houses.
Mahavira said: do not stay in one village for more than three days — very wondrous. For psychologists say: to create any attachment, three days are needed. If you change house, for three days it feels new; on the fourth, old. If you sleep in a new house, for three days at most you will have trouble sleeping; on the fourth it settles; you become accustomed. Three days at minimum is the time in which the mind makes things old.
So Mahavira says: do not stay more than three days in one village — so no attachment is created. And when you are not to stay, there is no purpose in forming attachments; move on. Today Jain sadhus do this, but by arithmetic: they consider Vile Parle a separate village, then Santa Cruz another, Marine Drive another, and spend twenty-five years in Mumbai.
Man’s cleverness is such that whether Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna — he brings all to his path. Whatever you do, he will find a trick — and everything moves by planning. Mahavira means only this: that the sadhaka should not plan; no arranging. The householder means he will plan for tomorrow, the day after, year, two years, for the whole life — that is the worldly. The mark of the sadhu, Mahavira says: he will not think of tomorrow; he will live what is today. And those who claim to follow his sadhana should not search for clevernesses. If you must search cleverness, then do not claim his sadhana. There are other disciplines — move. Whichever Guru you choose to follow — follow wholly; only then can you arrive. Otherwise better follow another.
By following wholly one reaches. By being joined wholly one reaches. The particular Guru matters less. Follow Mahavira, or Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ, or Mohammed — there is no big difference. Paths differ, but one condition is common: whomever you follow, follow with your whole being; then do not search for tricks. Do not play games with the Guru — you will be the loser; there is no way to defeat the Guru. For defeat is not the question.
My grandfather kept a cloth shop. When I was small, I enjoyed listening to him. He spoke little, but sometimes he said to customers something very telling. He liked one price only. He would say: “This sari is ten rupees.” If the customer bargained, he would say, “Look, whether the watermelon falls on the knife or the knife on the watermelon — in both cases the watermelon is cut. If you must bargain, say so; we will put this sari aside and bring another. But remember — it is you who will be cut; whether bargaining or one price. The knife is not to be cut — how can the shopkeeper be cut?”
Whenever I think of the Guru-disciple relationship, I remember his words. The disciple will be cut; there is no way for the Guru to be cut — for he no longer is, who can be cut. Therefore at least do not be clever with the Guru. Yet all monks and sannyasins are doing exactly this — saving themselves by tricks, and also deceiving that they are following Mahavira.
Do not follow. Mahavira lays no insistence. There is no need if you do not like. Follow where you like — but wherever you follow, follow with your whole heart.
“The one who, even when greater benefit of bedding, seat, or food and drink is available, still takes only a little according to his need; who, steeped in the primacy of contentment, keeps himself always satisfied — only he is worshipful.”
The mark of the householder: he always lives in lack. That is his basic mark. Always what he wants, he does not have. The house you live in is not the one you want — you want a bigger one. The car you ride is not your car — you want another. The clothes you wear are not worthy of you — you want others. The wife you married is not worthy of you — you want another woman.
Always you want what is not. What is — appears worthless. What is not — appears meaningful. That too will be obtained, and that too you will make worthless — because you are an artist. There is no woman whom, one day or another, you will not be ready to divorce — for divorce does not come from the woman, it comes from your attitude. What you do not have looks desirable; what you have is familiar — not worth having.
If you can find such a husband who continues to love his own wife — he is rare, a sadhu. It is very difficult to love one’s own wife; that is great sadhana. To fall in love with another’s wife is very easy. What is far attracts. Not only distant drums sound sweet — all distant things are sweet.
The mark of a sadhu is contentment. The mark of a householder is lack. The householder fixes his eyes upon what he does not have; what he has is useless. The sadhu keeps his eyes upon what is — that is meaningful. Of what is not he has no thought. The realization that what is, is meaningful — that is called contentment. Therefore it is not necessary that you leave home to be a sadhu. If you become content with what is, sadhuta will come to where you are.
He who is content is a sadhu. Unsainthood has fallen. But those whom you call sadhus are not content either. It may be that the direction of their discontent has changed — they are discontent for new things for which they were not before. There is competition there too — whose name is larger; restlessness begins. Whose fame grows greater — the smaller saints begin to condemn him; it is necessary to pull him down, keep him in bounds.
If you hear the talk of saints, you will be surprised — they are engaged in the same discussions as common men. Only their profession is a bit different — so when they speak against another saint you do not feel something is wrong. But when one shopkeeper speaks against another, you understand he is doing something wrong, trying to harm. They have ambitions too. There too the striving remains: more… more… more… It may even be that they are anxious to obtain Paramatma, thinking: how to get more Paramatma? One Samadhi is attained — how to get a deeper Samadhi? But attention is on the future — then the householder continues.
Sannyas means: what is — we are so content that even if nothing more happens, no discontent will arise.
Difficult! Leaving the house is easy; leaving the attitude of lack is difficult. Whatever I have, if I die this very moment, at the moment of death it should not feel that something is lacking — that there was something more to get; if I had lived till tomorrow I would have gotten it. Such a state that if death suddenly arrives she finds you utterly willing and you say, “I am ready.” For whatever was to be has happened; whatever was to be attained is attained; whatever could be received has been received — I am content. There was no demand for more. Life has opened its full meaning.
Think: if death comes now, will she find you willing? Or will you say, “Wait for two days! I have money tied in a business — at least let me see the outcome; a lottery ticket — it opens the day after; news is due; my daughter’s marriage; my son has gone to university — the result will come in two days...” Or will you be willing? If death comes and says, “Are you ready?” will you stand and say, “I am coming”?
If you can stand, you are sannyast. If you ask for time, you are a householder. Mahavira says: contentment is worshipful; the one who is content is worshipful.
“It is by virtues that one becomes a sadhu, and by vices one becomes unsaintly. Therefore, O mumukshu! Adopt the good and leave the bad. The sadhaka who, by his Atman, recognizes the true nature of his Atman and remains equal in both raga and dvesha — only he is worshipful.”
Man becomes a sadhu by virtues — not by leaving the house; not by leaving clothes; not by leaving husband, wife, family; not by leaving shop and market. By virtues a person becomes a sadhu. But most sadhus do not care for virtues because changing qualities is complex, difficult. They change the situation, not the mind-state. One who thinks to be a sadhu says: leave home; escape. The truth is: whose home is delightful? Those who remain are great sadhakas. Those who run — they reveal only that they were weak; weakness becomes escape.
Mahavira’s escape is not the escape of weakness. Mahavira says: the world can be left, but with strength, not with weakness. Leave the world on the day it becomes futile. But we leave because of suffering — not because of futility. This is a great difference. Mahavira leaves because there is nothing there worth grasping. All is futile. Then the world falls like a snake’s slough falls and the snake glides on. The snake does not look back again and again to see how valuable a slough it has left — “Oh, someone please understand! Come, see what I have renounced! I am a great renunciate; I left my skin!”
The snake slips out of the skin; the skin has become useless. Mahavira says: the world can be left — but only when it becomes so futile that even leaving it does not feel like leaving.
Remember, you feel like leaving only what earlier felt like grasping. The thought of leaving is part of the grasping tendency. If we ask each person: if you had the real chance to run from home, and no inconvenience would arise — or less there than here — all would agree. They do not leave only because “Where will we go? And wherever we go there are troubles.” But a weak person runs. He understands only the language of suffering.
I have heard: the owner of a large firm was a little eccentric; whimsical. Suddenly one day he announced to his employees: I will give you your old pension dues, and when each retires, fifty thousand rupees too. Everyone who is willing — sign within a month. One condition: everyone must sign; if even one does not, this rule will not be applied.
People said: what a delightful condition — who will not sign? There was a line to sign; lest the month pass. The first day all signed except Mulla Nasruddin. Mulla did not come. One day, two, three — people became anxious. They said, “Brother, why don’t you sign?” Nasruddin said, “This is too complicated, and I don’t understand — and unless I understand rightly, I am not going to sign. It is a little complex — the whole scheme — and I cannot trust; it does not fit that anyone will give fifty thousand rupees. There must be some trick — he is trapping!”
All explained — friends, officers, the manager, union men — but the Mulla stuck: “Nothing fits. There is some trick in this. Fifty thousand — for what? And not one man — five hundred employees... two and a half crores! Cannot believe! It does not enter my head!”
At last all said: he will kill us all. The last day arrived. No way out. The manager went to the owner: “There is one man — Mulla Nasruddin — who will not sign. We are trapped. We thought only you were eccentric — one among us too is beyond you.”
The owner said, “Bring him.” On the twentieth floor was the owner’s office. Nasruddin was brought in; as the door closed, he saw five wrestlers standing by the door.
The owner said, “Sign this. I will count to ten. If you have not signed, these wrestlers will lift you and throw you out of the window.” Nasruddin happily signed — no questions, no quibbles, no arguments, no doubt — with great joy, delight.
The owner was astonished: “Nasruddin, then why didn’t you sign earlier?” Nasruddin said, “No one explained to me so clearly. The matter is perfectly clear — if someone explains.”
We too understand only the language of sorrow and death. If you become sannyast it is from fear of death; if you become sannyast it is from the misery, pain, anguish of householding. We understand only the language of death. We have no knowledge of the language of bliss. Mahavira became sannyast out of great bliss. The crowd of sadhus following him is a crowd of unhappy people. One was harassed by his wife; another because his wife died. There is a large number of women among Jain renunciates — five to seven times more than men. Many are widows, for whom no means of joy was left; or poor girls whose marriage could not happen for lack of dowry; or ugly women whom no man could desire; or sick and infirm women, so troubled by their body they wanted freedom from it.
It is worth collecting the psycho-stories of sadhus and sadhvis — why did someone become a sadhu? If someone became a sadhu out of sorrow, he cannot be connected with Mahavira. For Mahavira... only if you know the language of bliss can you be connected with him.
Man does not become a sadhu by leaving something — he becomes by qualities. Qualities must be born. And note too: Mahavira first says: by virtues man becomes a sadhu, by vices unsaintly. Note also: vices cannot be directly dropped — because the process of dropping is negative. Virtues can be created — that is creative. When virtues are created, vices begin to drop. If you keep attention on vices and strive to drop them, you will waste yourself — because vices exist only because virtues are absent.
Do not worry about vices; endeavor to create virtues. Understand: a man smokes, drinks; he keeps trying to drop — cannot, because he cannot see that within there is a valuable lack due to which alcohol has become valuable.
A friend of mine is here. He keeps drinking. He is a good man. His wife is after him: “Quit.” She is too good — better than him — hence clings to him: “Quit drinking.” She does not see that for twenty years her effort “Quit, quit” is pushing him towards drink. She told me: “In the day he is quiet, subdued before me; but at night when he comes drunk he begins to display great knowledge, high talk! And if he has heard you, he preaches your words till two or three in the night; then he does not submit to me; he is not willing even to sleep; he fears no one; acknowledges no one. But in the day he is meek!”
Now understand: perhaps to erase his meekness he began to drink. The wife has subdued him so much that as long as he is sober he feels inferior; when intoxicated he does not care for the wife; and pestering someone endlessly for twenty years — “Don’t drink, don’t drink” — without considering why he drinks!
No one goes to drink without cause. There is some sorrow that must be forgotten. All know that alcohol harms; yet, enduring the harm, man drinks — because there is much that must be forgotten; to bear the remembrance is more painful than to bear the harm.
But we insist on abandoning the vice. The wife is mistaken. He will never quit. She has fifty percent share in his drinking — perhaps more — because the husband fears the wife. Where there is fear, love is lost; where love is lost, man begins to try to forget himself. I told his wife: “For at least three months stop saying it.” After a few days she told me: “Very difficult! As he has become addicted to drinking, so I have become addicted to making him quit.”
Now you cannot be sure — if the husband really stops, the wife will be more troubled — because there will be nothing left to make him quit.
I told her: “When you feel you cannot stop saying, think how difficult it is for him to stop drinking! Have some compassion — and you know that your saying does not help — twenty years is enough experience.”
No vice can be directly dropped. Those who try are foolish — they strengthen the vice. Virtue must be created. Someone drinks to forget himself — there is nothing joyful in his life. Let something joyous arise; then he will stop forgetting, because no one wants to forget joy; all want to forget sorrow. He himself does not know what he is doing. He tries to quit — nothing happens. What will happen by quitting? Something fundamental is missing. That must be created first.
Not all who drink are criminals — they are simply stupefied; mentally ill; there is no celebration within — so alcohol is needed. To this friend I say: create the celebration of life — sing, dance, meditate, be joyful; let a small line of joy arise within — you will stop drinking, because whenever you drink that line of joy will be erased. Now there is sorrow within; by drinking, sorrow is erased. When there is joy — joy will be erased. No one wants to erase joy. So try to be joyful — forget alcohol. Keep drinking and try to be joyful. Create virtue; do not fight vice.
To fight vice is foolish. Therefore Mahavira says: by virtues man becomes a sadhu, by vices unsaintly.
“O mumukshu! Adopt the good and leave the bad.”
Vices drop by themselves when virtues are adopted; there is no need even to try to drop — they fall away like dry leaves from a tree.
“The sadhaka who, by his own Atman, recognizes the true nature of his Atman and remains equal in both raga and dvesha — only he is worshipful.”
There are two dualities in life. When something attracts, raga is born; when something repels, dvesha is born. We want some to remain near us; some we want not to be near. Some we want to live forever; some we want to die right now. We choose in the world — this is good, this is bad; this is my friend — this is my enemy.
Mahavira says: that is a sadhu — worshipful — who harbors neither raga nor dvesha. For Mahavira says: other than you, there is no one for you. You are your friend, and you alone are your enemy. Mahavira has said a unique thing: the Atman is friend and the Atman is enemy. Do not seek friend-enemy outside. There is neither friend nor enemy. All live for themselves — not for you. They have nothing to do with you. You too seek your friend within and dissolve your enemy within.
A wondrous event occurs: the moment a person understands, “I am my friend and I am my enemy,” life begins to be transformed — because the gaze is withdrawn from others and turns upon oneself. Then that which is bad — he cuts it, because it is the enemy. That which is auspicious — he gives birth to it, because it is the friend. And the day a person attains the full friendship of his own Atman, that day no enemy appears to him in this world.
It is not that enemies will vanish — they will remain; but they will be enemies for their own reasons, not because of you. And for those enemies too, you will feel compassion — for they are needlessly troubled; nothing to take or give.
Mahavira says: the one who, knowing himself by himself, becomes free of raga-dvesha and gradually lives in himself — who cuts his dependencies upon others... This does not mean he will not be related to others — but then a new kind of relatedness is born, not bondage. Now we are related — it is bondage, like chains. Another relatedness is born when a person is stable in himself: people come to him as bees come to a flower. Many will come; many will be related; but he remains unattached. Bees take the honey and fly away; the flower remains where it is. The flower will not weep that the bees have gone; nor will it worry when they will come. If they do not come, the flower is blissful; if they come, the flower is blissful; neither their coming nor their not coming makes any difference. Relatedness no longer goes from within outward.
One who is stable in himself — many people come around him, are related to him — but they are related for their own reasons. He remains unattached.
To be alone in the midst of the crowd is sannyas. To be alone in the midst of householding is sannyas. To be unrelated amidst relationships is sannyas. Mahavira says: such a person is worshipful.
Enough for today.
Wait five minutes, do kirtan — and then go...!