Mahaveer Vani #46

For the quest of truth, an immeasurable courage is needed—the courage to challenge prestige, to shatter accepted assumptions, to break revered idols. However established untruth may be, for the seeker it is indispensable to declare it as untruth, to know it as untruth. Very often we take the prestigious to be the true; we take the traditional as true; we take what is accepted by the many as true. Out of self-interest we too think, “Why enter unnecessary entanglements? Let us believe as everyone believes and stand with the crowd.” But the crowd never arrives at truth; the group ever wanders in darkness. One needs the daring to rise away from the crowd.

In rising away from the crowd there will be difficulty, obstacles, inconvenience—but that too is the tapas of the search for truth. Whether it is science or religion, in one regard both are agreed: prestige, tradition, the mind of the crowd—of the “crowd consciousness”—must be challenged.

Mahavira is a seeker of pure truth. Wherever self-interest has raised temples to untruth, there a blow is necessary. The blow is not upon human beings, but upon the errors of human beings.

In the scientific circles of the world a small and very sweet tale is told. The Austrian physicist Wolfgang Pauli died in 1958. The tale says that God had long been waiting for him—when will he die, when will he come; for men like Pauli are rare. It is said that in all the history of mankind, in the lineage of science, there was no second man with such a capacity to catch untruth. In a flash he would seize upon the false, detect the mistake—this was Pauli’s mastery. And no matter what had to be lost, no matter what was at stake, to accept an error, to keep it in view, to hide it—was impossible for him.

Perhaps God does wait for such a one—for whom else would God wait but the seeker of truth?

Pauli died, and the tale says God said to him, “You are indeed a rare man. For tiny mistakes you spent you-don’t-know-how-many nights without sleep. Certainly many of life’s mysteries—he was a physicist—many mysteries of physics must have remained unknown to you; perhaps you were waiting, ‘When I meet the Supreme, I shall ask.’ Is there something you wish to ask? I am pleased.”

Pauli said, “Thank you, Lord. One question has troubled me for years. The theories my friends—my colleagues—proposed, all were wrong, and the matter never got resolved. Now that You are present, who made the world, there can be no difficulty in resolving it.”

He asked God a knotted question in physics. “The proton and the electron differ in mass by about eighteen hundred times—the proton’s mass is roughly eighteen hundred times that of the electron. Yet their electrical charge is equal. This is astonishing—how could it be? What is the reason? There must be some reason.”

God picked up some papers from His table and gave them to Pauli. “Here—the whole theory, the entire secret of this difference.” Pauli read with care; he read again; he cast a third glance—and, handing the papers back, said, “Still wrong.”

The story says God was greatly delighted, and He said, “I gave you the wrong thing on purpose. I wanted to know whether you had the courage to call even God wrong.”

There can be no prestige higher than God’s; but in the shelter of the search for truth, if even God stands in the way, He too must be set aside. In the research Mahavira undertook into truth, many things stood as screens. The prestige of the Veda was there—and in this land the Veda was no less prestigious than God. It was the word of God. One should say, it was more prestigious than God. Even if God Himself were to return and speak against the Veda, God would be rejected and the Veda accepted—the Veda was the supreme word. Mahavira rejected the Veda, for he said that only experience can be supreme; words cannot be supreme. And all the prestigious traditions—Mahavira struck at them. The brahmin was prestigious; Mahavira changed the whole definition of brahmin. At that time none could even imagine that a shudra could become a brahmin by his karma, or a brahmin become a shudra by his karma. But Mahavira shattered the entire arrangement of birth and said: by his consciousness a person becomes a brahmin or a shudra—not by his body.

Naturally, when tradition is struck, tradition takes revenge. It will—for who knows how many vested interests will fall, how many hidden interests will be wounded—they will retaliate. They did retaliate. But that does not change truth. From the fire of retaliation truth shines forth more refined, like gold.

Before entering this sutra, one thing must first be grasped: the greatest nuisance to religion, always and everywhere, has been this—that we measure the inner by the outer. The reason is clear: the outer of man is visible to us; the inner is not. We have no instrument to weigh the inner. And yet the inner is valuable; the outer is only a wrapping, like garments.

A man may wear white clothes; he does not thereby become of a stainless heart. A man may wear black; he does not thereby become dark of heart. What has the heart to do with clothes? Clothes cannot change the heart. The reverse may happen—that if the heart is stainless, black clothes may not please, and one may not wish to wear black. But merely putting on black garments does not make one’s heart black. It may be that the heart is black and a man chooses white garments to hide it. Many people do this. The blacker the heart, the whiter the wrapping it needs. If the cloth be homespun khadi—so much the better! Thus what is black within remains concealed.

From clothes there is no way to recognize the within. The revolution of the inner reaches up to the garments, but a change of garments does not penetrate within. Yet our difficulty is that we can see only the outside of a man; we have no way to reach inside. And religion happens from within—while we see only behavior, not the inner being. Hence entire religious traditions become diseased.

Mahavira became naked; not that by nakedness he attained supreme knowledge. But as supreme knowledge happened in his life, he became so innocent that nakedness arrived. Nakedness came later; innocence came first. We cannot see innocence—but we can see his standing naked like a child. Many of us too were influenced; the fragrance of his life, his light touched us. Some resonances were struck upon the veena of our heart; a certain song stirred within us; some echo resounded in us. We, who are almost inert, were shaken a little. But we did not see Mahavira’s innocence—we saw his nakedness. And we thought: if we too stand naked, Mahavira’s knowledge will be ours. The whole thing got reversed.

We can stand naked—and to practice nakedness is not very difficult. It will be awkward for a day or two. Once it becomes known to all that you are naked, the matter is finished. After two or four days, nakedness will feel as natural as clothes feel now.

In the West there are many nudist clubs. Those who become members feel awkward a day or two. The truth is—only on the first day; from the second day they forget. By the third day one hardly remembers that anyone is naked—because all are naked.

One of my friends was a member of a nudist club in America. He told me, “We had completely forgotten that anyone was naked. We remembered only when one day a man entered wearing clothes. Where five hundred people were naked, the entry of one clothed man immediately made us aware—‘Ah, we are naked!’ Otherwise, we had no sense of nakedness.”

Mind becomes habituated. But those sitting in nudist clubs will not become Mahaviras. No one becomes a Mahavira by the membership of a nudist club.

So here in India there are Jain monks who are naked. They will not become Mahaviras by being naked. Twenty-five hundred years have gone by since Mahavira. Many have gone naked after him; not a single one has shown the radiance of Mahavira. Somewhere a mistake crept in. What happened as a movement from the inner to the outer—as the fountain ever flows from within to without—we tried to carry from the outside to the inside. Flowers blossom on the plant; they come from within, then they bloom. We may go to the market, bring flowers and stick them upon a branch—perhaps a stranger may be deceived, and one who does not know the inner life of flowers may be wonderstruck, exclaiming, “What a beautiful flower!”—but the gardener cannot be deceived. Nor can ordinary people be deceived for long, because a flower stuck from outside will hang with a certain withered, drooping look. The life, the flow, the movement that are in the flower that comes from within—these cannot be in what is hung from outside.

So the flower of Mahavira’s nakedness issues from within; while the follower who goes behind Mahavira imposes nakedness from above, and thinks that once outside we have become like Mahavira, inside too we will become like him. The arithmetic appears quite correct—and is utterly wrong.

This will happen everywhere, in all traditions. Mahavira steps most carefully lest any violence happen; around his life the breeze blows from all sides—let no violence be. But the reason is inner. The day Mahavira knew, “Who am I?” that very day he knew that the same consciousness abides in all—injuring another is ultimately injuring oneself.

Thus Mahavira’s ahimsa is the shadow of his knowledge. After him comes the Jain community; it too tries to be non-violent. Its ahimsa is not the shadow of knowledge. It is busy with the reverse experiment: “When I become non-violent, knowledge will happen to me.” Mahavira’s conduct arises from the revolution of the inner being; the Jain’s conduct arises from conduct—and he thinks that later the inner revolution will come.

We are doing something almost insane, which is impossible. We put fuel in the furnace, then fire burns. Fire comes after, fuel first. We are trying to place the fire first and bring the fuel later. It won’t happen; yet it appears to be happening. One can be deceived. A man can paste the conduct on. Then he himself is not deceived—he remains what he was—but others are deceived. Worship, honor, respect are obtained.

Outer indications create grave difficulties. If the religious people of the world were stripped of their religious costumes, an irreligious man would be found sitting within. But the signals hide everything, and we interpret the signals from the outside.

I have heard that in the Middle Ages it happened: in Rome some Christians made a deep petition to the Pope, flattered him, and greatly vilified the Jews, saying, “In Rome—the citadel of Christians—it is not right that a single Jew should live. Let the Jews be driven out of Rome.”

The Pope was a good man; but even good men, on a throne, fall into great difficulty. Office can corrupt anyone. And if there is even a slight desire to remain in office, then compromise with evil becomes necessary.

He was a good man, but he had the desire to remain in office. He felt, “This is unfair—but if the Christian moneyed men are displeased, it will be difficult.” So he said, “All right,” but added, “One device—we will separate the Jews, but before that they should be given a chance.” He announced that whoever was their chief or leader should come and debate with him. All of Rome would gather. If in the debate the Jews won, they could remain in Rome; if they lost, they would have to leave. “At least it will appear just—that they left because they lost.”

The Jews were disturbed. Their leaders, their rabbis assembled in the synagogue and said, “We are in great difficulty.” The chief rabbi said, “Here loss is certain, for the judge is the Pope himself—he will debate on one side and judge on the other. There is no way to win—this is a trick.”

The chief rabbi said, “I am not ready to go to the debate; it has no meaning. And if I lose—which is certain—then I shall always feel a sin upon my heart that because of my losing, all Jews had to leave Rome. Therefore, I will not go. If we leave without losing, that is more fitting.”

But the Jews were not ready to leave so soon; they asked the rabbis—but none agreed. In the synagogue there was an old Jew who swept the floor. For a long time he had been listening, cleaning as well. He said, “All right, then I will go.” People said, “Are you mad? What do you understand? You only sweep.” He said, “Whatever little I have understood—when no one is ready to go, someone must go—so I will go.”

Seeing no other way, they agreed. The whole crowd gathered—Jews and Christians—in the central square of Rome. The Pope too felt a little concerned, seeing that a sweeping old man had come to debate. But there was no alternative; they had chosen him as leader. The Pope began the debate. He raised his hand towards the sky, indicating the heavens to the Jew. When he did so, the Jew pointed his hand towards the earth. The Pope was greatly pleased: “What a clever man—no wonder they chose him.” The Pope held up one finger in front of the Jew; the Jew held up three fingers in front of the Pope’s face.

The Pope began to sweat. “This man will win!” Seeing no way, he took an apple from his pocket and held it out to the Jew. The Jew at once took a piece of bread from the pouch tied at his waist and held it out.

The Pope declared, “This man is victorious—and the Jews can remain in Rome.”

All the Christian priests were astonished. They came close: as soon as the Jews had left with their leader, they asked the Pope, “So swift an exchange took place between you two, so miraculously that we could not understand what was happening at all—and he even won! What was the matter? Explain to us.”

The Pope said, “I indicated that throughout the universe there is the sovereignty of the One God. The Jew was very shrewd—he was a master of debates. He said: and below there is also the realm of the Devil, the netherworld. Do not forget that!

“It was true. Still I said, ‘But God is one—how can there be two?’ I held up one finger. He raised three fingers before my face and defeated me: the Trinity—God is three, not one.

“Christians believe God is three—as Hindus believe in the Trimurti—God, the Holy Ghost and His Son.

“There was no way. He used my own thing to strike me—by saying three. I thought, ‘To entangle him in doctrines will be difficult. Let me bring out some simpler thing; perhaps there he will lose.’ I took out an apple and said—within myself—‘Some foolish people say the earth is flat like a plate. At that time new scientific discoveries were afoot; science was proving the earth is spherical, not flat.’ The Jew was amazing; he had brought his lunch. He showed me the bread. He said, ‘Whatever anyone may say—yet as it is said in the Bible—the earth is flat like a bread.’ There was nothing but to lose.”

The Jews, running with their leader, asked the sweeper, “You have done wonders! What happened?” He said, “Everything was nonsense. That man is mad. Had he asked a fourth question, I would have leapt upon him. I was very angry.”

“Still—you won!”

He said, “Even I cannot understand how I won. When that man gestured like this, I thought he was saying, ‘Jews, get out of Rome!’ I said, ‘No power in the world can move us from here—we will remain!’ He put one finger before my eyes and said, ‘Drop dead!’ I put three fingers and said, ‘You drop dead thrice!’ Then I saw—he’s bringing out his lunch—so I brought out mine. I am a poor man; I always carry my lunch. If you are taking out your food, I will take out mine. And that he did not ask the fourth question—good he didn’t.”

Outer symbols convey nothing; from them the inner surmise you make is only conjecture. Yet this is what we are doing. A man is going to the temple—we conclude he is religious. Going to the temple is an outer sign. Who knows for what reason he goes? Are there women gathered there—so he goes? Are the respectable of the village gathered there—so that they may see he too is respectable—so he goes? From the mere fact of going to a temple it cannot be told that he is religious.

A man is fasting, doing worship and prayer—this tells nothing of whether he is religious. These are outer symbols; we surmise. And a man sits silently, does not go to the temple—we think he is irreligious. But it is not necessary that one who goes to the temple be religious, and the one who sits in solitude be irreligious. Life is complex. It is difficult to say. But we look from the outside; thus hypocrisy spreads in the world. The clever among us arrange the outside, and the not-so-clever are entangled, ensnared.

Those criminals who get caught are all small criminals. The great criminals are not caught—the great criminals sit in power, in office, in prestige; it is difficult to catch them. They are clever enough; they arrange the outer.

It is said—and psychologists say—that temple priests never really trust that ‘God is’. It is their business—a professional secret. They can never have trust in God; indeed they cannot. How can the temple priest have any trust? He is salaried for worship, salaried for prayer—whoever has turned prayer—a private intimacy—into a business, he cannot have any experience of the Divine.

The temple’s priest knows that God and so on are nothing—but he continually proclaims through his conduct that God is, for his whole life, his whole business depends on God being. Hence when someone says there is no God, the priest’s anger is not because you speak untruth; his anger is because by speaking truth you are ruining his entire trade. Priests never have trust; they cannot. But a net of hypocrisy surrounds them, through which others keep getting the confidence that they have confidence.

This sutra of Mahavira cuts the very root of hypocrisy. Mahavira says:

“By shaving the head alone, no one becomes a shraman.”

Just as the word “brahmin” is precious, so for Mahavira the word “shraman” is significant. In India two streams of culture flow. One is the brahmin culture, the other the shraman culture. In the shraman culture come Buddha and Mahavira; all the rest of the thinkers belong to the brahmin culture. The fundamental difference must be understood.

The brahmin culture is the culture of surrender—of sarender. Its fundamental base is: until a person lays down his ego at the feet of the Divine, knowledge cannot be attained. Brahman will be attained when the ego is surrendered.

Hence surrender, shraddha, is the brahmin’s formula. The shraman culture is altogether different. The very word shraman derives from shram—effort. The insistence of the shraman culture is: the Divine will not be attained by surrender, but by shram—by effort, by sadhana. Not by prayers such as “I am helpless, O Redeemer of the fallen, save me”—but by changing life. One must work; inch by inch life must be transformed. No prayer will succeed—sadhana will succeed.

The ego has to be effaced. But the shraman stream says the ego cannot be effaced by surrender. For first—only that which is, can be surrendered; that which is not—how can it be surrendered? The shraman stream says: “Ego is not”—one must do the sadhana to know this truth. What surrender! Where will you drop what is not? If something existed, you could drop it.

And the shraman culture says: if you drop it at someone else’s feet, the ego may be removed from here—but it will exist where you drop it. Therefore the devotee’s ego departs from within and gets tied to God. Insult the devotee—he won’t be angry; insult his God—and he is ready to fight.

So the ego has shifted. Till yesterday it was, “I am great.” Now, “I am great” is dropped—but “my God, my Krishna, my Rama, my Jesus, my Mahavira is great.” The ego has moved to the other side—but subtilely it is still your ego. For there is no Rama there, no Krishna, no Mahavira to take the blows—you yourself hold both in your own hands. God is yours; the ego is yours—both are hidden within you.

The shraman culture says: the ego must disappear; there is no way by surrender. Effacement means: work so much that it is seen by oneself that the ego is not. It dissolves—like a dewdrop in the morning sun. When the current of life is gathered, integrated, made whole, the mist of ego is not surrendered—it is dissolved. The shraman culture trusts the “self”; the brahmin culture trusts “Brahman.” The shraman culture is “individualistic”; the brahmin culture is “non-dualistic.” In the brahmin culture there is one Brahman; in the shraman culture there are as many Brahmans as there are consciousnesses—and every person is entitled to be Brahman. These are the two streams.

Mahavira says: “By shaving the head alone, no one becomes a shraman.”

People become Jain sadhus. Their heads are shaved, clothes are changed, the implements of a monk are given into their hands—lo! a monk! Till yesterday the man was not a monk; in one moment, by changing clothes, by shaving the head—he is a monk! Yesterday none would touch his feet—perhaps if he touched someone’s feet they would withdraw; now people place their heads at his feet! Therefore Mahavira says, “By shaving the head alone, no one becomes a shraman.”

Even if one fulfills the entire outer conduct, the inner shraman is not born. Yes—if the inner shraman is born, the outer conduct may follow. But there are great differences. The basic difference is: if someone attains the state of shraman within, then his outer conduct will certainly change—but for each person it will change differently.

Understand this a little.

Because each person’s way of life is unique, unmatched. Mahavira will stand naked. Buddha too attained the shraman—but he did not stand naked. Mahavira stood naked—that is his personal manner of expressing the happening. Buddha did not feel that as his way—it never even came to his mind. When a person attains the revolution of the within, he does not impose an outer arrangement; whatever begins to happen on the outside in the light of that consciousness—he lets it happen so. Thus the wise of the world do not appear to behave alike.

This is an amusing, and to-be-understood, fact: if knowledge is within, the behavior of two knowers will not be the same—but if conduct is imposed, the behavior of thousands of “knowers” will appear the same. But they are not knowers.

Line up five hundred Jain monks—if they are Terapanthis, all will stand with a cloth over the mouth, as soldiers on a parade. That soldiers stand alike—in one uniform—is understandable; their personhood must be erased; no soul should remain, otherwise in war they will not be efficient. They must become a machine; all function should become mechanical.

Line up five hundred soldiers—you will see five hundred “men,” but not persons. All faces will look alike: same clothes, same gun, same cap, same haircut—everyone looks the same. Personhood is lost; the crowd remains. Therefore in the military we remove names and give numbers—because a name still hints at personhood. If a man dies, on the board there is a notice: “Number Eleven has fallen.” From “Number Eleven has fallen” nothing is known—who? Was he a poet, a scientist, a saint or a sinner? Has he children, a wife—nothing is known. Number Eleven has no family, no children, no wife. What children can Number Eleven have? Number Eleven falls; people read the board—finished. In the place of Number Eleven another man becomes Number Eleven.

Remember: numbers can be replaced; persons cannot. If one person among you departs, there is no way in the world to put another in his place. His wife will say, “However lovely another man may be—he is not my husband.” His sons will say, “However good a man he may be—he is not my father.” His friends will say, “All is fine—but where is that friendship?” His mother will say, “All is fine—but my son, whom I bore…”

A person cannot be put in place—cannot be exchanged. Numbers can. Replace one Fiat car with another—no difference. Machines can be replaced. The military strives to erase the person and leave the machine. And that person is made to perform such drills that gradually obedience becomes mechanical—thought ends. Hence for years they make him do left-right-left-right. There is no need for all that turning—left, right, forward, back—yet they keep at it. A new recruit is puzzled, “What is the point of this for years?”—but it has its use. Gradually, on hearing “Left turn!” he need not think—he turns left. There is no need to think. The day the body turns left without thinking—that day this man has become a soldier; his soul is gone. Now, say “Fire!”—his hand will go to the trigger; the shot will be fired. Now he will not think, “Whom am I killing? Why am I killing? What is the meaning, the purpose?” No—he has become mechanical.

For the soldier to be wiped clean is appropriate; for the monk it is utterly wrong. Yet line up five hundred Terapanthi monks—or Sthanakvasi monks, or Digambara monks—and all are walking in a single groove like men of a line. It seems there is no inner consciousness to find a path. The scripture has given a path and they walk measuring it—there is no personal awareness to become conduct. The conduct is borrowed from scripture; it is imposed. From this an unseemly event happens—the soul is lost, even in the monk. Formal arrangement remains; the soul is lost.

Mahavira says: this will indeed happen, if one gives greater value to the outer than to the inner, and tries first to change the outer, thinking, “Later I shall change the inner.”

By shaving the head no one becomes a shraman. Though it may happen that one who has become a shraman shaves his head—that can also happen; it is not necessary. And remember: if someone does not shave, do not think he has not become a shraman. But it can happen that someone, having become a shraman, shaves his head.

Hair has its beauty, its attraction. Hair is very sexual—it can entice. Thus we fear shaving the head. If someone shaves your head, you will not want to leave the house—“What will people say?” We only shave a man’s head when he dies—then we clean it bare. Now there is neither the difficulty of being seen, nor any fear, nor need to attract anyone.

Hair carries a sexual allure. Hence a man may shave his head; women almost never agree to shave theirs. And a shaven-headed woman looks quite like a man; she does not look like a woman. Much of a woman’s beauty is hidden in her hair.

So Mahavira says: having become a shraman, one may shave the head—because he has no purpose left in attracting another. Now it is a matter of convenience. And for a shraman hair can be troublesome. Mahavira says: if hair is to be kept, one must be dependent—someone must cut it. Unnecessary dependence increases. Or carry implements—razor, knife—to keep it clean. If not cleaned, filth accumulates. If hair is allowed to grow, its hygiene must be cared for; otherwise lice collect, and other dirt. All this is painful. So Mahavira says: one who has become a shraman may well shave his head. Shaving is secondary—for he no longer has the eagerness that anyone should find his body beautiful. It will benefit his health, aid cleanliness; he will not have to maintain needless arrangements.

Mahavira says: the seeker should live so that he has to arrange as little as possible—carry nothing unnecessary. Hair is unnecessary. But the converse is not true—that you shave, and you are a shraman. There are other reasons behind shaving for those who enter Mahavira’s path and the inner sadhana.

Perhaps it is not in your mind—hair is not without purpose; it does something. Perhaps you know: in man’s past, a million years ago, hair covered the whole body because the entire body needed protection. As man’s arrangements of protection changed and the body no longer needed such defense, hair began to recede. Now hair remain only where protection is still needed. Certain inner glands need guarding.

A part of Mahavira’s sadhana is to raise the inner heat—the energy, the fire—from the sex center to the sahasrar. Hair will hinder the dissipation of that heat; they will hold it in the brain. That heat should vanish into the sky; otherwise the brain becomes heavy and diseased. Therefore at the sahasrar there should be no hair, so that the energy can flow straight into the ether.

Remember, energy is being generated in the body. There are two ways to discharge it. One is through sex—then it goes out into the world from the lowest center, into nature. The other is from the highest center.

These are the two poles—and as electricity discharges only from its poles, so too life-energy discharges from these two ends. One who becomes capable of releasing his life-energy into the sky from the sahasrar—Mahavira calls him a shraman. He has gone as far from lust as is possible; his energy has taken a new direction, a new dimension. This is a qualitative difference—hence a shraman will wish to shave his hair.

You may be surprised: Jain monks, Buddhist bhikshus have shaved heads. Hindu rishis and munis grew their hair; they did not shave. Shankaracharya did have Hindu renunciates shave—because Shankaracharya borrowed the greater part of his method from the Buddhists. But if you look at the rishis of the Vedas and Upanishads, they all grew their beards and hair fully. Their process of sadhana is entirely different; in that process hair become helpful.

In Jain sadhana the energy is to be discharged—lost into the infinite Brahman, for that energy belongs to the body, not to the soul. In Hindu sadhana—especially in Patanjali’s—energy is not to be discharged; it is to be collected at the sahasrar. The paths are different. That energy is to be gathered up to a certain limit—and when it has been amassed to that limit, only then surrendered to the Divine.

For this hair are helpful; they prevent dissipation. The shaving of Hindu renunciates began after Shankaracharya and gained momentum—but that idea came from the Buddhist tradition. Whatever the seekers chose, reasons stand behind it. And if those reasons are not in mind, and people follow blindly as the blind do, no benefit ensues; sometimes harm may come.

Mahavira and Buddha are not in favor of headstand—shirshasana—and they gave no value to yogasanas. Patanjali—the very foundation of Hindu Yoga—is much in favor of shirshasana. For one who practices headstand, hair are essential—otherwise there is danger, harm. When you stand in shirshasana the whole current of life flows to the head. If there is no means to hold it, after the asana you will find yourself utterly drained and weak. It must be held back. Hence the Hindu muni grew matted locks; as big as he could—never cutting them. He made a turban of them, and he stood on head upon that turban. That turban worked as a buffer between head and earth; otherwise the earth would jerk the energy out, and that sudden pulling can be dangerous—damaging the body in many ways. Many a time it brings great complications. Shankaracharya made renunciates shave—but did not forbid them to do headstand.

Nothing is without cause. When the wise have chosen even a small rule, there are reasons of their own behind it. Mahavira is working on another process; hence he says: it may be that having become a shraman one shaves his head—but by shaving the head no one becomes a shraman. And it is good he said this—for scientists say that after four thousand years, children will be born already bald. Then Jain monks would be in great trouble.

You know that hair are decreasing on the head. As man’s intelligence develops, hair decrease on the head. Men go bald more; women less—because they have not used intelligence to that extent. It is proof that their process of intellect has not been worked—it doesn’t gather so much energy in the head that hair fall. Hence women cannot become bald; men do. And the greater the talent is used, the sooner baldness comes.

Scientists say: in four thousand years man will be using intelligence so much that children will be born bald. There will be no fear of going bald. Good that Mahavira said, “By shaving the head no one becomes a shraman”—otherwise after four thousand years all would be born shramans.

“And by chanting Om alone no one becomes a brahmin.”

From being a brahmin, the chanting of Om arises. When a person has surrendered himself in every way to the Infinite Power—has laid his mind in every way at “His” feet—his thought, his contemplation, his reflection—when he has placed all at “His” feet, whether those feet be true or false is not the point—he has laid them down; he has become unburdened. Then within him a supreme sound begins to resound; that sound is called Omkar. The natural revolving of Om begins within him—he does not have to do it.

But we ever walk reversely. We sit and chant “Om.” Our chanting of Om is futile—for we will chant it with the mind, and mind is the obstacle. Our chanting will be merely a repetition of a thought; and thoughts are the obstruction.

Hence Mahavira says: by chanting Omkar no one becomes a brahmin—though if someone has become a brahmin, the chanting of Omkar manifests of itself; within him the sound of Om resounds; from every pore Omkar vibrates.

Omkar is not a sound produced by man; it is the natural sonic order of existence. If all became void in the universe, the resonance of Omkar would remain. That resonance is the fundamental tone of this cosmos. It is not to be produced.

Therefore Hindus have called Omkar “anahat”—the unstruck.

There are two kinds of sound. “Ahat nada”—if I clap, that is a struck sound, born of two things colliding. From their clash, their blow, it is produced. Omkar is “anahat nada”—sound unstruck. It is not produced by the collision of two things. When all inner conflict ceases, what remains; when the quarrel of mind falls silent within, struggle ends, all thoughts vanish, all becomes empty—within that emptiness the sound that is experienced is not made by the person; it is the very nature of the cosmos.

Thus Mahavira says: “By chanting Om no one becomes a brahmin.”

“By living in a lonely forest no one becomes a muni.”

You can go live in solitude—but you may not be solitary. For the crowd fills your skull; it will go with you. Take a shopkeeper into the forest—he will sit and think of his shop, talk to customers, buy and sell, strike bargains—what else will he do!

Mulla Nasruddin sold cloth. In the middle of the night he got up and suddenly tore his sheet. His wife said, “Nasruddin, what are you doing?” He said, “At least don’t interfere in the shop.” A customer had come to buy cloth in his dream; he was tearing it to measure. Even in dreams the customer! Even in dreams the shop! In dreams only that will go on which went on in the day.

Where will you run away from yourself? You can go to solitude, to the jungle, but you may not be alone. Aloneness is another art. He who knows the art of being alone is alone even in the crowd. For him, even in the crowd there is solitude. You cannot bring Mahavira into the marketplace. This does not mean you cannot take his body to the market—you certainly can. But Mahavira cannot be brought into the marketplace. He will pass through the market as if passing through solitude. For there is no crowd within him.

The art of being alone in the crowd. And we know only one art—the art of being in a crowd even when alone. Even when seated alone, something goes on within.

By living in a lonely forest no one becomes a muni—though when someone becomes a muni, solitude becomes available to him.

“Nor by putting on clothing of kusha does anyone become a tapasvi.”

By giving oneself pain no one becomes a tapasvi—though when someone becomes a tapasvi, the capacity to endure pain arrives.

Understand the difference. These two are fundamentally different.

One man inflicts pain upon himself—lies on a bed of thorns; lights a fire and sits near it to scorch himself; keeps a burning dhuni and sweats; stands out in the snow, shivering. This man is arranging for pain—organizing it. Somewhere in his mind is a disease—he enjoys torturing himself; he is pleased to persecute himself. This man is sick.

There is no difference between this man and you. You arrange for pleasure—he arranges for pain. He has gone to your opposite—but he is like you. He will not leave arranging. You wanted to obtain pleasure; he wants to obtain pain. It may be he tried for pleasure and could not get it; now, calling the grapes sour, he is trying for pain. His ego was defeated—he could not gather pleasure; now at least his ego can win this much—that he can gather pain.

This man lives from ego—and is ill. Many there are who enjoy giving themselves pain—and they gather around themselves people who will give them pain. Then they weep and cry that “this person is giving me pain.” But you do not know—you yourself gathered that person; you want that he give you pain. And if he leaves, you will feel emptiness and soon fill the place with another. Someone is needed to give you pain.

Mahavira says: by merely giving oneself pain one does not become a tapasvi. But if one becomes a tapasvi, the capacity to endure pain comes. That is utterly another matter. To lie down upon thorns is one thing; to pass as a witness through the thorns that life brings is another. Thorns will come—sorrows will come. A tapasvi is one who desires neither pleasure nor pain; whatever comes, he passes through it without worry. Whatever be, under all conditions he remains unagitated. He does not bind his taste to pleasure or to pain.

Sorrows will come because there is a chain of many births, deep impressions of karma. We cannot become altogether new in a day. Our yesterday follows us. Yesterday you abused someone; today he will come to abuse you. Sorrow will come.

So, the tapasvi does not want anyone to come and abuse—that is not his desire. But if someone does abuse, he will bear it in witnessing. Mahavira calls this parishaha—the art of bearing suffering in witnessing; to endure silently whatever happens without any reaction—no notion that it is bad, that it should not have happened, that why did this happen, why did God make me see this, which sin of mine it is—no reaction at all. “It was an old account—settled now; the relationship ended; a link that was joined has snapped.”

If suffering comes, to bear it—that is tapas. To seek suffering is pathology. But you will see: whenever you are keen on sadhana you begin to search for suffering. People come to me; if I say to them, “The method is simple,” they say, “It is so simple—what will happen from it? Unless some ordeal is told, it doesn’t appeal.” They want hardship.

If I say, “First stand through the whole night in the cold; then fast through the day; then do some squats and exercises, some asanas; then sit for meditation”—that will appeal. Then they will say, “Yes, something can happen—because it looks like doing.”

To inflict pain upon oneself gives a sense of victory—“I am becoming master.” The world is filled, in the name of religions, with self-torture—because people want to torture themselves. They find any excuse, then torture themselves. This giving of pain is not the sign of a healthy mind. And Mahavira says: the tapasvi has nothing to do with it.

“By equanimity man becomes a shraman.”

Through inner evenness, inner balance, inner rightness, one becomes a shraman.

“By brahmacharya he becomes a brahmin.”

And whose conduct becomes like Brahman…

Brahmacharya does not mean merely conservation of semen—that is its most petty meaning. The precise meaning of brahmacharya is: a way of life like Brahman—conduct like the Divine. If God Himself were to stand upon the earth, how would He walk, how would He sit and rise, how would He speak, how would He behave? One whose conduct becomes like “His” is a brahmin.

And one who becomes so balanced within that nothing can shake him, cannot topple him—no storm can make the flame of his consciousness tremble even a little; who becomes steadfast within—he is a shraman. One who attains conduct like Brahman—he is a brahmin.

“By knowledge one becomes a muni; and by tapas one becomes a tapasvi.”

By knowledge one becomes a muni; by tapas one becomes a tapasvi! By knowledge—not that which is obtained from scripture. That anyone can obtain. From that one becomes a pundit, a scholar; a net of words spreads—and such pundits continue trying to make others also pundits. They are themselves astray and lead others astray.

There is also a certain pleasure in leading others astray. When a man himself is lost and misleads two or four others, he feels his own lostness less—“We are not alone in going astray.” And if many begin to wander following his word, perhaps he forgets that he is astray; for he is the leader of so many—how can he be astray? Seeing the followers behind, the leader gains the confidence that he is on the right path—otherwise why would so many follow?

Because of gurus—pundits in whom empty, borrowed knowledge has gathered—you may have found a path, yet you do not.

Mulla Nasruddin’s rupee fell. He was searching for it on the road. After half an hour, sweating from the search, his wife—who was helping—asked, “Nasruddin, found it?” Nasruddin said, “I could have found it, had you not helped so much.” He feared the woman might find it! “I could have found it if you had not helped so much.”

Many gurus are helping you so much to search that what could have been found is not being found. Borrowed knowledge naturally flaunts itself—only then can it look like knowledge.

Mahavira says: from such knowledge no one becomes a muni. The knowledge that can come from outside will fill your mind. But the knowledge that is born within, that comes through one’s own experience—only that will make you silent. Knowledge from outside will make you talkative; the mind will begin to run more restlessly. The knowledge that arises from within—will make you silent; the mind will not need to run. Understand this a little. A knower’s mind does not run. There is no need. The ignorant man’s mind runs—and the more ignorant, the more he must run it, because that much more is needed.

A man with eyes will not grope his way out of this hall. What need is there to grope? He has eyes. He will not even think, “Where is the door?” What need to think? The door is visible—he will go out of it. If you ask him later, “Do you know where the door is?” he will say, “I did not take notice—what direction it is in, I have no idea. It was—I came out; I did not even think.” But if a blind man wishes to go out, the first question before him will be, “Where is the door?” Then the blind will probe with a stick; then he will ask someone, “Where is the door?” If you ask a blind man, the way he will systematically answer where the door is—no man with eyes can answer so.

It is amusing: if you meet the blind afterwards, he will give you a full account of where the door is—after how many chairs he reached it, how many places he probed, how many windows came in between, whether it is to the left or right—he will answer more precisely than the one with eyes. Why? Because the blind had to think; the one with eyes simply went out.

As inner knowing is born, the need for mind decreases—because mind is a substitute. It is not inner knowing; therefore we must use mind. When inner knowledge begins, the use of mind ceases. Where mind ceases—there is the birth of the muni.

By tapas a man becomes a tapasvi—but remember the tapas I have described. One who kindles the inner fire—who refines the gold of consciousness in it; who then tests this refined consciousness on the touchstone of life’s struggle—Mahavira calls him a tapasvi.

“Man becomes a brahmin by karma; by karma a kshatriya; by karma a vaishya; and a shudra too by his own actions. There is no varna by birth. As one acts, so one becomes.”

High or low are states of consciousness—not of the body.

“Thus the one who is endowed with such pure qualities—the dvijottama (the best among the twice-born)—truly he alone is capable of ferrying himself and others across.”

Keep three things in mind.

First—where you were born, in what house, in what lineage—is utterly secondary. Do not give it great value; it can be costly. If, born in a brahmin house, you think, “I have become a brahmin,” then the very possibility of becoming a brahmin is closed.

Mahavira opens the door. He says: with birth you are not finished; with birth, you have only begun. With death the chapter will close. But one who says, “By birth I am a brahmin,” has closed the chapter; now there is nothing left to do—he has attained the last thing. Mahavira says: birth is the beginning of possibilities—do not end them; do not close them. Everyone’s possibilities are open. The door is open. The journey is necessary—and upon the journey it will depend what you are.

Someone asked Bernard Shaw, when he was about eighty, “Can you say some truth about yourself now?” Bernard Shaw said, “Not until I die are the possibilities closed. The day I die, the chapter will close; that day some judgment can be made. Till then, none.”

Life is an openness. In India the possibility of personhood was closed. A shudra was a shudra—there was no way he could become anything else. His life would be spent in sweeping, cleaning excreta, making shoes and leather. The lives of millions were completely closed. There was no way to move an inch from there—no facility to stir. Society was static, blocked—like the water of a pond frozen. There was no river current. Mahavira broke the pond’s ice and made a current—“Even a shudra can become a brahmin.” And he said to the brahmin too, “Do not be complacent; being a brahmin is also an attainment. If you do nothing, you will become a shudra; you will remain a shudra.”

He broke the brahmin’s faith so that he too might open and flow; he broke the shudra’s bond so that he too might open and flow. But the Jains could not follow Mahavira.

Among Jains there are no varnas—the Jain community has no Jain shudra, Jain brahmin, Jain kshatriya, Jain vaishya—but Jains consider themselves vaishyas; and when a household needs a puja, or a wedding, they invite a brahmin; and when the toilet must be cleaned, they look for a shudra.

Even Jains could not accept Mahavira. For Jains there should be no shudra at all. What a calamity of history that when a movement began some years ago in India—that shudras, the harijans, be allowed into temples—Jains should have opened their temples first! For Mahavira has said: no one is a shudra by birth. But Jains closed their temples first. They said, “We are not Hindus—so there is no question of entry into our temples. A shudra is a Hindu—let him fight with Hindus to enter their temples. A Jain temple is a Jain’s.”

But they never prevented brahmins from going into Jain temples. Had they also stopped brahmins, the logic would be understandable. But brahmins always went; shudras they stopped—“A shudra cannot enter the Jain temple, for Jain Dharma is a different Dharma.” And Mahavira says: no one is a shudra by birth, no one is a brahmin by birth, no one is anything by birth. The Jain temple should have been entirely open—but shudras are far away—even a Digambara temple is not open to a Shvetambara Jain; a Shvetambara temple is not open to a Digambara. And Shvetambar and Digambar are both Jains—neither shudra nor brahmin; yet they keep breaking one another’s heads, fighting in courts… astonishing!

Man is so dull that however much Mahavira shakes him, he does not budge; his stone slab settles again where it was; he is found where he was. Tirthankaras come always and find man where the previous Tirthankara left him—there he sits again. Nothing changes. For change, doctrine is not enough, words are not enough. For change, self-interest must also be dropped; hidden vested interests may be harmed—and will be. For change, oneself must change.

To say “A shudra is not a shudra by birth”—this is not mere talk. If a shudra is not a shudra by birth, and your daughter falls in love with a shudra, and you are a Jain—you should not refuse. You should only see whether the shudra has character, conduct, life. And if a Jain wants to marry her, yet has no conduct, is a drunkard, a gambler—then you should stop it, for he is a shudra.

But then there will be difficulties—and we want to avoid difficulties. We seek only convenience—to die in peace, without trouble.

Mulla Nasruddin was to be hanged on the gallows. He and his companion were about to be hung—both had committed murder. At the last moment, the executioner, as per rule, asked both, “Would you like a cigarette or any other wish?”

Nasruddin’s companion said, “Executioner! Keep your cigarette.”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t create a scene! Don’t create a scene at the last moment.” He is going to die—to be hung—yet he fears a scene. “Don’t create a scene. Now what is going to happen by creating a scene?” And Nasruddin says, “Now be quiet; at the last moment don’t create a scene.”

Our whole life we try to avoid “scenes.” Avoiding them, our entire life becomes untrue. For wherever we compromise to avoid trouble, there we accept untruth for the sake of convenience.

Who is a shudra, who a brahmin? If we accept Mahavira, we must think every time. The man who sweeps your house may be a brahmin, and the man who performs your puja may be a shudra. This is a great bother—to think day after day, who is shudra, who brahmin? Whose feet to touch and whom not to let enter the house? From such constant thinking would come great difficulty. Hence we have labeled: this man was born in a shudra’s house—he is a shudra; that man was born in a brahmin’s house—he is a brahmin. Convenient—like labels on boxes in a shop, “Chilies here, salt there.”

Man is not a box—to paste a label on it: “Chilies here, salt here.” There is no way to keep something fixed in him. Man is a flow. But to agree with Mahavira demands that we endure the inconvenience, the danger, and the struggle of a constant flow.

Dvija is he, says Mahavira, who is endowed with pure qualities—who has slowly begun to manifest the capacity of the Divine in his consciousness; who has become transparent; who has dropped all inner impurity; through whom the inner light has begun to shine out.

The word dvija is to be understood. Dvija means “twice-born.” One birth is from the mother’s womb—that is not the real birth. From that, all are born shudras. The second birth is that which a person gives to his own soul by his own effort. By that effort, when you yourself become your own father and mother and give birth to a new soul—you are dvija.

Dvija means: one who has attained the second birth in this very life; who has found a new birth. From such a person it can be hoped that he will liberate himself and others. But his own liberation is first—for one whose own lamp is unlit cannot light the lamps of others. One whose own lamp is lit—he can light others’ flames. Those whose own lamps are extinguished—not only can they not light another’s lamp; the fear is they may blow out someone’s burning lamp too.

Following the blind, the blind fall into ditches; those who follow behind them also fall. The search for a guru is the search for one with eyes—one in whom the second birth has happened in this very life; who is not only a body, but in whom something beyond the body has begun to happen; who can say, “I am not only what my mother and father gave birth to—I am something more.”

Buddha returned after twelve years. The whole town surrounded him—such radiance had never been seen; such music never experienced near a person. But Buddha’s father saw nothing. He was angry. He stood at the palace gate and said to Gautam Siddhartha, “Siddhartha, I still have the heart of a father; I can forgive you even now. Come back.”

Buddha said humbly, “Perhaps you cannot see that I have returned utterly changed. The son who left is not the one who returns. I have come utterly new; not a trace remains of the one who went. This one who has come is entirely new—please look closely.”

The father grew angry—as fathers do. He said, “I gave you birth, and I cannot recognize you? My blood, flesh and bone are within you—and I will have to recognize you? I am your father; I gave you birth; you are my blood—I know you well. What need is there to look?”

Buddha said, “You are right. What you are seeing—of that you are the father. But I have brought something else now, which is not born of you. I have returned as dvija; a new birth has happened.”