Mahaveer Vani #47

What is unknown, unexperienced, invisible — that which we have not yet known, whose taste has not yet touched us, of whose single ray we are not acquainted — how is the search for that to begin? How are we to seek it? Even to seek, a slight acquaintance is needed; to move in that direction, a faint glimpse of that direction is needed. And to place our whole life at stake upon that journey — that can happen only when the Unknown appears to us as more valuable than life itself. But there is no such immediate evidence; therefore shraddha becomes supremely precious.
Understand the meaning of shraddha.
Shraddha means: we know nothing of Paramatma; we know nothing of Moksha; we know nothing of whether there is an Atman within man that can transcend the body. But we can come to meet such a person whose very presence brings news of this Unknown; we can come into the company of such a one who is seeing Paramatma, who is free, whose consciousness has gone beyond the body, is going beyond. In such a person we may receive a glimpse. That glimpse will not be direct, not immediate. It will be indirect, through that person as a medium. Yet in religion there is no other way. The felt sense that arises in such nearness — its name is shraddha.
When people behold Mahavira, one thing becomes certain — if they truly behold, if they truly listen; if their eyes are closed, their ears sealed, if they have decided that they will not see anything beyond themselves — because the moment one sees something higher than oneself, pain begins, anguish begins, worry is born. The instant it appears that someone has gone beyond us, that where we are standing is not the final destination of life, restlessness begins; thirst is aroused, and one will have to walk; sitting still will no longer do. From the fear that perhaps a journey will be required, we refuse to look above ourselves. Even if one like Mahavira comes close, we try in every way to deny him.
But if someone, in simplicity and ease, beholds Mahavira, Buddha or Krishna, then one thing is confirmed: as we are, this is not our finalness; this is not our destiny. Our future is revealed in Mahavira.
The bliss in which Mahavira stands, the silence and peace that shower all around him, the glimpse of the otherworldly that shines through his eyes, the tone of the Void that rises from his words — that can be our future too; we too can one day stand in that space. The felt assurance of this — its name is shraddha.
Shraddha is not blindness. Nor is shraddha credulity toward anyone whatsoever. Shraddha is the state of a receptive, sensitive, client-like heart — that when a presence beyond us comes near, we are not closed toward it, we are open; we are ready to walk a few steps with it — because that one has trodden paths unknown to us; has known something we have not known; has seen something for which we are still blind; the willingness to walk two steps with such a one is called shraddha. And the initial journey begins only with him.
Life is complex; a great riddle. And the greatest complexity is that moving from where we are pains us. Even if we are in suffering, it pains us to abandon it. Because suffering is familiar, our own; and where we shall go after leaving it will be unfamiliar, unknown; there is fear there. It is fearful to take an unknown path, so we do not go upon the unknown. And if we keep wandering only upon known roads, then we are moving in a circle; we will only know again what we have already known — again and again — but no new sun will rise in life, no new birth will be possible. We will go on treading the beaten track.
Shraddha means: courage to descend into the unknown with someone. It will happen only with someone — because seeing that other, trust arises. And in that other’s very being are such signs as can instill trust. If Mahavira says there is such a bliss whose end never comes; that there is a state of bliss where not a single ripple of sorrow arises, then looking at Mahavira we too can sense it. Mahavira’s whole life is before us. There is not a single ripple of sorrow there; though there are all occasions for sorrow, to make Mahavira sorrowful is impossible. Every kind of attempt was made to sadden him; all attempts failed. Of one whom you cannot sadden, one thing is certain: he has found something that goes beyond all our sorrows. He has been established at some new center; a new kind of centering has happened within him that we cannot shake. We are shaken by the mere thought of a breeze, by a slight gust of wind. Mahavira is unshakable. However the storm may rage around him, however great the tempest, no storm can enter within him. Surely, a very profound center has been attained. But we do not see that center; we see only Mahavira.
And from seeing Mahavira one can infer that center. That inference becomes our shraddha. But for this shraddha we must be open toward Mahavira. If you go to Mahavira as a critic, you go carrying preconceived notions. Your notions belong to the world you know; Mahavira is a traveler of a new world — think of him as of another realm altogether. Your language, your experience, does not apply to him. Therefore whatever you think of him through your notions will be wrong. This wronging will not harm Mahavira. Remember, it will close you, and the sprouting of shraddha that could have been will not happen.
Shraddha is the most unique thing in this world — more unique than love — because love is kindled by the surge of passion; shraddha is kindled in the flow of non-passion. As a person’s passion becomes strong, deepening, love arises. Love is a natural phenomenon in which the body’s cells participate; it is biological. You need not do anything. The child grows, and love ripens around him. He will fall in love.
Shraddha is in one sense like love, and in another sense the very opposite. Shraddha is a supranatural happening, for no particle of the body supports it. If a scientist were to examine, he could formulate your love: which hormones produce it. But no scientist can formulate shraddha. Examine a devotee as much as you like; you will find no material element by which shraddha can be explained.
Shraddha is without reason — and yet, shraddha has happened. And it has happened such that people have staked their entire lives upon it. Those in whose lives shraddha happened found it more valuable than life; otherwise, who would destroy his life? Who would wager the whole of it? To wager life shows that within life something can occur that goes beyond life; for which there is no definition within life’s limits.
Shraddha is a supernatural flower in human life; a descent upon this earth from another realm. And when your heart is stirred by shraddha, you are no longer of the earth; you are freed from gravitation, from the pull of the ground. But what to do for that event? Understand one thing clearly: for that event nothing can be done positively, constructively; only negatively something can be done.
What can you do to love? Can you, by effort, love? If you are told to love this person and love is not arising within you, can you produce love? Can the experience of love be created by trying?
Even the experience of love is not created by effort. You can only do this much: do not put obstacles. Allow the person to come near; allow yourself to go near; let intimacy deepen. You can do nothing else. If it happens, it happens — if it does not, it does not; it is not in your hands.
Shraddha is even harder. For love, the body gives a thrust, a tide, a blow; the body itself is demanding. Shraddha is not the body’s demand; shraddha is the demand of the soul. And as love is of the body, shraddha is of the Atman. And when we cannot even produce love, to produce shraddha is far more difficult.
So what are you to do?
Let go of yourself. A let-go, a relaxation is needed. Where shraddha can be born, near such a one your heart must be at rest. Keep your door open. You cannot drag the sun inside the house; but if the sun is outside and the door is closed, the sun will not break down the door and enter. You can keep the door open. If the sun is outside, its rays will enter. There is no way to bind the rays and bring them in; but you can at least not prevent their entering — that is enough. Therefore I say: the birth of shraddha is negative.
You have been near Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna and Christ. On this earth, nothing is new. Who knows how many Tirthankaras and Avatars have passed by you! But you did not give shraddha a chance. Upon you, as water runs off an upturned pot, so have run off all the possibilities of shraddha. Surely, you have consoled yourselves: when Mahavira is near you, you tell yourselves that there is no such man as deserves shraddha.
Remember, shraddha has nothing to do with Mahavira; shraddha concerns you. It is your private happening. If it happens, the flavor of Mahavira will enter you; Mahavira’s melody will settle in you; Mahavira’s wine will pour into you — that intoxication, that ecstasy. But you explain to yourselves: there is no man worthy of shraddha; it is not right to remain open.
You will never find a man ‘worthy of shraddha’; for he is found only by the one who is open.
Beware: a man walking the road with eyes closed says, ‘The sun has not yet risen; when it rises, then I will open my eyes; when there is light, then I will open my eyes.’ But one who has not opened his eyes — how will he even know when there is light?
Passing close to Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, you think, ‘Where is the sun yet?’ You find many reasons concerning Mahavira why shraddha is not needed. You search for all sorts of arguments for irreverence. And irreverence cannot be stopped by arguments.
I have heard: One morning Mulla Nasruddin stepped out of his house and saw that his old friend Pandit Ramcharandas was passing by. Nasruddin ran to him, grabbed his shoulders and said, ‘Panditji, this is too much! I heard you had died! Three days now I have wept; three nights I have not slept; the news came that you were dead.’
Ramcharandas said, ‘Forget it! I am here before you, alive; it must have been a rumor.’
Nasruddin said, ‘Impossible! Because the man who told me — I have more faith in him than in you. He is more reliable than you are.’
Even if a living man stands before you — if there is no shraddha, his life will not be seen.
If there is shraddha, life sprouts even in the untrue. If there is no shraddha, even truth becomes lifeless. And shraddha is your event; it concerns no one else. Shraddha has no relationship with the one revered; it relates to the devotee. The event happens within you. If you are a man of shraddha, you will find Mahavira in every age; and if you lack shraddha, even if many Mahaviras pass by in a row, you will have no relationship with them.
Therefore keep a fundamental thing in mind: do not prepare for irreverence — no benefit will come of it. Prepare for shraddha — no harm will come of it. Through irreverence the greatest is lost; through shraddha the door to the greatest opens. But we are very careful lest shraddha happen.
A friend once came to hear me. Then he wrote me a letter: ‘I will not come to listen again, because I am afraid that shraddha may arise through your words; if shraddha arises, my whole life will be thrown into disorder. I am frightened; therefore I will not come again until I am fully prepared to change my life.’
When will this preparation be? How will it be? And why postpone it to tomorrow?
There is fear. There is fear of shraddha — just as there is fear of love. Man is afraid to love. Because the moment he loves, the other becomes greatly valuable. And falling in love, the other becomes so valuable that one’s own value seems to decline. People are afraid of love; they are intimidated. Love is dangerous. So many never truly love; they only pretend to. These clever people invented the institution of marriage: without falling in love, a sexual relationship can be established — that is the meaning of marriage. Because love is dangerous, frightening. The other becomes powerful, and we are entangled. In marriage there is no fear, for the event of love does not happen. Without love, two people begin to live together and use each other’s bodies.
Marriage is the invention of crafty people. Therefore those who rely on marriage call those who fall in love ‘mad’. In their arithmetic they are right: they do not know the mathematics, the logic of love. They are mistaken. You will enter into trouble through love; but one who avoids trouble does not remain alive. The more he avoids, the more dead he becomes. A dead man has no trouble at all. If you wish to be one hundred percent free of trouble — then die; do not remain alive. Even in breathing there is the danger of infection, the fear of disease. In getting up and sitting down there is danger.
Living is very dangerous. And the more one wants to live, the greater dangers he must enter. Love is a great danger — you touch the peaks, but the fear of the abyss arises as well. He who walks only on the flat plain — marriage is a flat plain — never falls. He never touches any summit like Everest; he never falls either. But one who tries to climb Everest takes danger into his hands. Remember, where danger is so great — like the abyss beneath Everest — in that very challenge life rises to its full peak. A life without adventure, without daring, is not a life. Such a man is not yet born; he is still in the womb of his mother, not yet delivered.
Love leads into danger. Shraddha leads into supreme danger. For love is trust in an ordinary person; shraddha is trust in an extraordinary being. The lover will not take us beyond this world; his roaming remains within it — the Revered will begin to take us beyond. He will lift us toward those untouched heights that only rarely, once in centuries, does anyone touch.
Passion prepares one to risk the danger of love. Shraddha gives courage for the Infinite, the boundless, the unknown — not only unknown but unknowable. In shraddha there is only one fear: the fear of losing oneself. In shraddha, the ego will be lost. For shraddha means: you are laying your ego aside somewhere, and telling someone, ‘From today you are my eyes; through you I will see. You are my ears; through you I will hear. You are my heart; through you I will beat. Now I am secondary, like a shadow; you have become my soul.’
Shraddha means: having experienced the happening of light in someone, to join oneself to that light; to become his shadow. But a man filled with lusts, filled with endless desires, is afraid to drop his ego. For when the ego drops, all desires also fall — and we want to go on feeding the ego, until the impossible is reached.
I have heard: One day Mulla Nasruddin drank too much, and in the tavern he was in a fighting mood. He stood up, looked around and said, ‘If there is any son of his mother here in this tavern, step outside — I will flatten him in a moment!’ No one paid attention. Everyone was absorbed in his own intoxication. His courage grew: ‘Forget the tavern! In this whole village, if there is any son of his mother, go and inform him!’ Still no one paid attention. His voice rose: ‘On this whole country, if anyone has drunk his mother’s milk, let him appear!’ Still no one came. He said, ‘On this entire earth — is there any man?’ A fellow who had been listening for long was puzzled at how this man kept expanding. He slid his glass away, came over and gave Nasruddin a few punches. Nasruddin fell to the ground. The fellow sat on his chest. Nasruddin pondered, and said to him, ‘It looks like I went a little beyond my limits — I reckon I have gone beyond my limit. Brother, get off — I’ll claim only up to the country; step down — I withdraw the claim on the earth!’
Your ego too keeps expanding until you reach the point where you get stuck. But returning is also very difficult. You cannot move forward; retreating hurts, wounds — you remain stuck. Even if you begin to see that you have gone beyond your bounds, you are not like Nasruddin — you cannot return so easily. To retract a claim becomes very difficult.
We are all living with claims. Ego becomes the obstacle because we have made so many declarations. Every man thinks within that there is no one upon earth before whom I should bow. Whether you know it or not, this is the mind’s assumption. And your mind thinks: how can anyone be greater than me! With such an ego, how will shraddha be available? Shraddha means the felt possibility that someone can be greater than I. And this possibility does not make you small; it opens the door for your own greatness.
Shraddha towards Mahavira will become the possibility of your becoming a Mahavira. With shraddha only in yourself, you will remain what you are. If a seed trusts only itself and ignores the trees around it, then how will the sprout burst forth? The sprout bursts out of the surge, the upsurge of the unknown.
Then surrender — shraddha — is a kind of rest. Your mind is so noisy — where is rest? Therefore those who come to shraddha manifest a peace worth seeing; they cannot be disturbed again. Indeed, they have handed over the very cause of disturbance into someone else’s hands. Coming to the feet of another, they have said, ‘I now lay down the whole burden; now you take care.’
This will not be forever, but in the initial phase it is very valuable. Gradually the disciple becomes free of the guru. If the disciple cannot be free of the guru, the guru was not a sadguru. The whole endeavor of the guru is that the disciple be free as soon as possible; that he set out upon his own journey where shraddha is no longer needed, because the light of truth begins to come of itself. One begins to see with one’s own eyes — for however much one sees through another’s eyes, it will be hazy. One begins to walk on one’s own feet — for no one can ride on another’s shoulders to reach Moksha. For the lame and the crippled there is no place there.
But at the beginning, someone’s support becomes precious — as from the nearness of one lamp, the flame is caught by another; then the second lamp goes on its own way. Even if the first lamp is extinguished, it does not hinder the second. Even if the first lamp is lost, the second continues its journey.
Shraddha is primary — the first spark, the first strike — where the first fire is born, there it is useful. Ultimately it has no utility, but in the beginning it has great value. When the mind is deeply ridden with passion, we cannot rest. And until the mind rests, we cannot gather ourselves together. Understand this a little.
We remain fragmented, cut into pieces. A little shraddha in Mahavira, a little irreverence also; a little trust in the one who opposes him; a little trust in oneself. Thus we are in fragments. But shraddha can be only whole, not in fragments. If you are divided into many fragments, your condition is like a man with many acquaintances but no friend.
Between acquaintance and friendship there is a great difference. Acquaintance is superficial. Friendship is a deep relationship, an inner intensity — a union where one person enters into another.
You may be acquainted with many, that is not friendship. And you may be divided into many parts — a little shraddha in Mahavira, a little in Buddha, a little in Krishna — but friendship with none. In this century a danger has arisen in this way. Some over-clever people began to proclaim that Mahavira says the same, Krishna says the same, Buddha says the same. This is utterly wrong. That their ultimate meaning is one — yes, the goal is one; their paths are very different. But what have we to do with the ultimate? You are not there yet. Where you are, there Mahavira and Buddha are utterly different — like East and West. Where you are, Krishna and Christ are utterly different. If you attempt a khichdi of them — what some call ‘synthesis of religions’ — it is a khichdi, not synthesis. And if in a khichdi there are some nutrients left — in this khichdi of religions no nutrients remain; you cannot make a khichdi of all paths. You must walk a single path. And when you walk one path, it is proper that all other paths drop from your mind so that your whole energy flows in one current.
But a mind fragmented among many cannot generate shraddha. One who says, ‘My shraddha is for all,’ understand: his shraddha is for none. In truth, if you wish to avoid a relationship of shraddha with any, then it is convenient to have shraddha for all. Read the Koran in the morning, a little Gita as well, and then sing a song: ‘Allah-Ishwar, both are your names; give wisdom to all, O God!’
No. The Gita and the Koran move on very different roads. The Gita demands complete shraddha; the Koran too demands complete shraddha; Mahavira demands complete shraddha.
Shraddha does not mean you become blind. It means you stand with Mahavira wholly — standing half has no meaning. But we are half in everything. Never have we loved anyone such that all the love of the whole earth shrank and flowed in a single stream; never have we befriended in such a way that the light and energy of our entire life joined in depth with a single person.
This does not mean that all others will become enemies. Life is very paradoxical. If you join so deeply with one as you can, you will become friendly toward the whole world. But friendship will be with one. That one will be the door of friendliness toward all. If you love one person so totally that it is forgotten that this love can ever be divided, you will be filled with love toward the whole world. Through this person the Ganga of love will flow and spread everywhere, but it always issues from Gangotri. At the Gangotri the door is narrow — it must be so. If shraddha arises toward one, then gradually its light will fall everywhere, but the stream flows through one.
We are so fragmented; therefore we do not find any rest. I have heard psychologists say that many cannot even sleep at night, and the cause is only this: the mind is so divided; sleep comes to one, not to a crowd. If you are one, you will sleep; if there is a crowd in the head, how will you sleep?
One part wishes to go to the cinema; one wants to read a book; one to meditate; one to sleep; one says, ‘Why waste the night sleeping? Life will be spoiled. If a man lives sixty years, twenty are lost in sleep — enjoy! Life is slipping away. Let’s go to a club, a dance-house.’
Twenty-five fragments — hence you cannot sleep. For sleep too, a little unanimity is needed. Love has become even more difficult; because if for sleep you need unity, for the intoxication of love you need even deeper unity. Shraddha is almost lost; for it demands great wholeness.
Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychiatrist: ‘I can’t sleep; give me some remedy.’ After thinking, the doctor said, ‘You will have to learn a little art of relaxation. Tonight take a bath, lie down at ease, and then speak a little to your body and give it suggestions. Begin with the toes: say, “Toes, now go to sleep.” Then feel it. Then say, “Feet, go to sleep,” then “Legs, go to sleep.” Rising thus, come to the head. Finally say to the eyes, “Now eyes, go to sleep.” By the time you reach the eyes, you will have fallen asleep.’
Nasruddin ran home. For days he had not slept. He awaited night, bathed, prepared his bed, lay down and began as told: ‘Now toes, go to sleep; now feet, go to sleep; now my legs, go to sleep; my hips…’ In this way he came upwards. He was just about to say, ‘My head, go to sleep,’ when his wife emerged from the bath. Seeing her, he smacked his body with both hands and shouted, ‘Everybody awake immediately! Everybody awake!’
Lust will not let you sleep — how will it allow surrender? When lust does not even allow rest, how will it allow shraddha? For shraddha is the ultimate rest where the mind desires nothing, and says, ‘Now there is nothing to desire — now just being: just being. I only want to be. I have no want.’ Then the connection with Mahavira happens.
Now let us enter the sutra:
‘He who, as a child of the Jina, with shraddha in Bhagavan Mahavira’s utterances, regards the six kinds of living beings as his very own Atman; who fully observes the five Mahavratas — ahimsa and so on; who lives by samvara, the blocking of the five asravas — he alone is the bhikshu.’
Take note of the word ‘bhikshu’, for in the world only India has placed the bhikshu above even the emperor. Nowhere else on earth did such a thing happen — it is a supramundane event. On earth there has been no one above the emperor — only India established the bhikshu above the emperor. Because the emperor is the peak of indulgence; the bhikshu is the peak of renunciation. The emperor gathers things madly; gathers everything. The bhikshu alone has saved only himself — nothing else. The emperor is lost in things; the bhikshu is freeing himself from things, so that he may enter within. The emperor’s journey is outward; the bhikshu’s journey is inward.
The word ‘bhikshu’ is supremely venerable. A bhikshu is one who has nothing left to call his own except his very being. One who is no longer owner of anything; who has no possessiveness, no parigraha. One who says, ‘Nothing is mine — only I am.’ Who has not a single grain to call his own. All belongs to the world; and who has seen clearly a line of distinction: only my ‘I’ can be mine — no wealth can be mine. For when I was not, there were the riches, the palaces, the lands, the jewels; and when I will not be, they will still be. In vain I establish my possession in between, and am troubled. Jewels are not troubled — I alone am troubled.
When you die, your house will not weep — wonder of wonders! But if your house burns, you will weep. Who is the owner? If your diamond is lost, the diamond will not be concerned for you; it will not think, ‘Where is he lost?’ Many like you have come and been lost. But you will be thrown into trouble; and you thought you were the owner. The owner is the one who gets into trouble.
No — the things we think we own have become our owners. Ownership is our delusion, untrue. Therefore this land called the bhikshu the flower of life’s highest height — where one realizes that there is no way to possess; that objects cannot belong to anyone. There is only one event that can be mine: my Atman.
But we are strange people: we claim everything, except that one which can rightly be claimed. Truly understood, the meaning is that we cannot be owners of many things; rather we become beggars toward many things. In truth we are beggars, but cherish the idea of being owners.
He whom Mahavira calls a bhikshu — he alone is the owner. But since we all call ourselves owners, Mahavira would not call him ‘owner’ — it would create confusion. For we all already think of ourselves as owners; to hit us exactly, Mahavira and Buddha both called that supreme event ‘bhikshu’. Buddha calls himself a ‘bhikshu’ — who has his own ownership; and we call ourselves ‘owners’ while we are slaves of things.
In a world where slaves think themselves owners, it is proper that the true owner call himself a bhikshu; otherwise language will be thrown into chaos.
Therefore the Hindu word ‘Swami’ was not preferred by the Jains and the Buddhists. The word itself is exact: swami means owner — one who is truly master of himself. Hindus called their sannyasin ‘Swami’ — perfectly right. But Buddha and Mahavira chose the opposite word: ‘bhikshu’. Their satire is deep: here all think themselves ‘swami’; if you too call yourself swami, language will be confounded. Where all the mad think themselves healthy, there a healthy man should call himself mad.
Who is a bhikshu? In truth, he who has become the master. But the mastery of truth can be only over oneself — not over anything else. As long as one tries to own the other, he wastes his life. Energy is squandered — it will lead nowhere. He only empties himself, exhausts himself, destroys himself — a suicide — for what cannot be, will not be. Alexander and Napoleon pass down the roads trying to be owners, and die poor and wretched.
Mahavira’s experiment is exactly opposite: drop the effort to be owner outwardly. Within there is a world, a kingdom — an expanse, a sky. Be its master. Claim that mastery. But such a claim will be made only by one who begins with shraddha in a master — shraddha in an emperor: in a Mahavira, or Buddha, or Krishna, or Christ, or Mohammed — someone in whom he has seen mastery. In whom he has glimpsed that this man is not a slave of anything. It begins with shraddha in him.
Thus, he who, as a child of the Jina, with shraddha in Mahavira’s words, regards within all beings the same Atman as in himself; who moves in, and observes, the five Mahavratas — ahimsa, aparigraha, achourya, akam, apramad; who restrains the leakage of energy; who keeps watch over the asravas and practices samvara; who does not allow life to wander outward into the desert; who does not let life’s energy be wasted, who lets it become creative within, who continually restrains his Atman from flowing into the futile — he is the bhikshu.
We are eager for the futile. Just get a bit of news and we run. We give such value to the futile. Perhaps we never think to discriminate between the meaningful and the meaningless; to properly discern between essence and non-essence; to exercise right discrimination between the wrong and the right.
Shankara has said: he who recognizes essence and non-essence rightly — he is the sannyasin. For one who recognizes essence begins to refrain from the non-essential, begins to restrain himself. And recognizing essence, unknowingly he begins to move toward essence.
Going toward the wrong becomes impossible; to be stopped from going toward the right becomes impossible. But there must be the sense of right and wrong. We hardly have any such sense. Mahavira says: that sense too will arise only when we have shraddha in one in whose life right and wrong have become clear.
The Sufi fakir Bayazid went to his master and said, ‘Give me some instruction.’ The master said, ‘Just stay with me and watch me; observe my getting up, sitting, eating, drinking, sleeping — observe me. From observing, vivek — discrimination — will arise in you.’ Bayazid said, ‘This seems very difficult. If you had told me directly what to do, I would have done it; told me what not to do, I would not have done it.’
We all want pre-chewed food — someone to chew and put it into our mouths. We do not want even the trouble of chewing. But remember: such predigested food produces indigestion; it cannot rightly enter your life. The master said rightly: ‘Sit and watch; sit with me and see what happens.’
Bayazid sat. The very first day an incident happened. A man came and started abusing; he used very indecent words for the master. Many times Bayazid felt like standing up and attacking the man. But the master had said, ‘You are not to do anything. You are to watch me. Please do not start doing anything in between; you are not here to do — only to watch.’
So he was in great difficulty. His heart was itching to look at the man who was abusing. But he had been told to look at the master.
The mind wants to look at the wrong; there seems little relish in the right. The master is sitting silent — nothing to look at, it seems. He is quiet. Bayazid is very restless. His heart wants to look there. But he convinces himself: I will watch only the master — what is there to learn from this man? It is non-essential. And the master also has said: watch me.
The master sits — silent, smiling. The man abuses and leaves. Bayazid asks, ‘He abused so much, and you sat smiling?’ The master said, ‘You were not here in the morning. Tomorrow morning you will know. A devotee of mine comes early every day and praises me so much that he sends the scale’s pan to the ground — this man has balanced it out. He has brought me into balance. This fellow is amazing. He comes sometimes.’
The next morning the man came who began weaving garlands of praise. Bayazid’s mind again longed to listen to him, but he was careful to watch the master. When the man left, the master said, ‘Did you see? The world is a balance. There is praise and there is abuse. Do not be inflated by praise, do not be pained by abuse — they cancel each other out and total to zero. You remain in your place; do not be disturbed. There is nothing to be gained from the one who abuses, nor from the one who praises; they are settling accounts with each other. You are other — just keep watching me, and from that watching the essential will begin to be known to you. Walk upon that essence and save yourself from the non-essential. For the mind is drawn toward the non-essential; it cannot live without trash — trash is its food. Restrain yourself from going toward trash — that restraint is samvara; and moving toward essence is sadhana.’
Thus Mahavira says: he alone is a bhikshu who, through shraddha, lives as Mahavira lives. For Mahavira life is spontaneous, as he sees the one Atman in all; you do not. So by observing his life closely, holding it lovingly within, recognizing the essential — to flow likewise in life — this will be the initial effort. At first you will have to exert yourself. Slowly, slowly you will begin to see for yourself. Then Mahavira’s eyes will no longer be needed. Then the bhikshu will set out on his own journey.
Mahavira had a congregation of ten thousand bhikshus. As a bhikshu ripened, Mahavira would tell him, ‘Now go, share what you have found. There is no need to remain with me. Now my support is unnecessary.’
Just so: when a small child is made to walk, the mother holds his hand. It is not a lifelong arrangement that the mother must hold his hand forever. Some mothers never let go — they are dangerous; they destroy the child. Some fathers always want to hold the boy’s hand, to go on leading him — they are not fathers, they are enemies.
But on the first day when the child stands, the mother or father takes his hand — fully knowing that the child will soon walk by himself. He has the capacity; only the child lacks self-trust. He is afraid; he has never walked; he has no experience. This fear is to be removed so that he may not go on crawling.
Shraddha will not bring the strength to the legs; only because the father holds the hand, the boy will stand strongly — thinking, ‘It’s okay; if I fall, father will save me.’ And once his legs move, very quickly he realizes that it is not the father’s hand that moves him; it is his legs. Then he himself will want to withdraw his hand, for the joy of standing on one’s own feet is altogether different.
But a sadguru wants only this: as soon as possible, the hand be freed. The false guru clutches the hand strongly; not to help him walk, but to keep him dependent.
Therefore to become a parent is easy; to truly attain motherhood and fatherhood is difficult — animals also become parents. But when to let go as the child walks; when to push him onto his own feet; when to free him of dependence — the art of knowing this is motherhood, fatherhood.
The true father is he who frees the child as soon as possible; places him where he can walk himself. But we too enjoy someone’s dependence, for it makes us feel we are something. Parents suffer when the child is free. The mother is pained when the child begins to walk on his own.
She does not know — it is not clear to her. At first she rejoices that the child walks on his feet; but she does not see that this is the primary event. In many dimensions the child will walk on his feet. Yesterday he would sit in the mother’s lap, hiding; soon he will feel embarrassed and will not want to sit in her lap. He slept with the mother at night; soon he will ask for a separate bed: he does not want to sleep with the mother — the pain begins. In this world, for him no woman was valuable other than the mother; suddenly another woman becomes more valuable than the mother. The mother gets troublesome.
The quarrels of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law — behind them is this difficulty of the mother. Her only lover, the son, has been snatched by another woman. The daughter-in-law seems a constant enemy. However much she may persuade herself, she feels the son has been taken away.
This mother is not truly a mother; she does not know the art of motherhood. She should rejoice that the son is fully free now — fully out of the womb. Another woman has become important. The son has become a unit, an individual. With his mother’s apron still in his hand, he is not a unit.
Until the disciple becomes a guru, the guru has no rest; for until he does, dharma cannot spread around him; his own family cannot be formed. Therefore the guru will desire that the disciple soon be free of shraddha. But only those can be free of shraddha who have known shraddha. Do not think: why enter into the entanglement of shraddha first, to be free later? If freedom is the goal, why shraddha at all? Then you will never be free of shraddha.
This is happening. Those who listen to J. Krishnamurti create such a misunderstanding. What Krishnamurti says is absolutely right: it is the guru’s work to free the person from shraddha. But one side is missed. And the listeners are often the wrong ones — those for whom shraddha has completely dried up, who are impotent in terms of shraddha; who have no possibility; who cannot surrender. Hearing him, they rejoice: there is a way for us too; no need to make anyone a guru; walk on your own feet.
These are the little children still in their cradles, whom someone persuades, ‘Do not hold your father’s hand — holding hands creates dependence.’ These children will remain in their swings lifelong; they will crawl on their knees. For someone who can stand on his feet, there is needed someone quite grown, who can give confidence; seeing whom, they trust — and feel, ‘All right — if this man stands, and this strong man stands…’ For a son, no one is stronger than the father.
There is an anecdote in Mulla Nasruddin’s life. His son was growing. One day he said to him, ‘Climb this ladder.’ The boy climbed; he always obeyed his father. Nasruddin removed the ladder, and said to the boy, ‘Now jump.’ The boy said, ‘Jump? I will break my limbs!’ Nasruddin said, ‘I am here — your father. I will catch you; jump. Don’t be afraid.’ Many times the boy gathered courage, then stopped: ‘But the distance is too much. If I miss, my bones will shatter.’ Nasruddin said, ‘When I am here, why do you fear?’ The boy, trusting his father, jumped. The father stepped aside. The boy fell; both feet bled. The boy said, ‘What do you mean?’ Nasruddin said, ‘Now do not trust even your father. Do not trust anyone — not even your father. I set you free. Now walk by your own intelligence. Enough!’
One day the guru also will say, ‘Jump! Now do not trust anyone.’ But that possibility arises only when trust has been born. Shraddha is needed so that ultimately one can be free of shraddha. Those who cannot trust will never attain freedom from trust. This will appear paradoxical: those who never had shraddha have nothing to be free from. One who had shraddha in Mahavira can become free, because freedom is hidden within shraddha itself.
‘He who has right vision; who is not deluded; who is a firm devotee of knowledge, tapas and restraint; who restrains mind, speech and body from the path of sin; who by tapas destroys previously done sinful karmas — he alone is the bhikshu.’
‘He who has right vision’ — this word is dearly loved by Mahavira; and it is valuable — right vision. Samyak-drashti: one who has learned the art of seeing correctly; whose eyes are free of all veils and notions; whose eyes have become naked and pure; who, when he sees, does not impose his projections — his name is samyak-drishti.
Whenever we see, our impositions occur. We mix ourselves into what we see. Our seeing is not pure. When you fall in love with a woman, she appears beautiful to you. Ask the psychologist — he will say something else. You say, ‘She is beautiful, therefore I fell in love.’ The psychologist says, ‘You fell in love; therefore she appears beautiful to you.’ For she does not appear beautiful to anyone else. If she were objectively beautiful, the whole world would have fallen in love with her long ago — you would not have had a chance. For so long she waited; no one fell in love. She waited for you! The reason is: to him who falls in love, she appears beautiful.
Beauty is a projection of love. You project your love upon some face, some body. And do not think it will remain beautiful always. It may be that tomorrow she becomes ugly — she will remain what she is today; but if your love has withdrawn, she will become ugly.
We project everything. Where you see saintliness — that too is your projection. It is amusing: the Muslim saint standing before a Jain will not seem a saint to him. The Jain’s saint does not seem a saint to a Hindu; the Hindu’s saint is not a saint to a Buddhist; the Buddhist bhikshu is not a saint to the Jains. Surely, saintliness is not there; it is in our notion which we project.
Look: the Buddhist saint may eat meat — with the condition that it be of an animal dead of itself. The logic looks sound: Buddha said, the violence is in killing. If someone kills a cow and eats, he is violent; but if the cow has died by itself, what violence is in eating its flesh? Clear enough. But when the Buddhist bhikshu eats meat, the Jain muni cannot even imagine that this man is a saint — what could be more un-saintly than eating meat? The Buddhist says, ‘The cow has died — if you do not eat the meat, you waste so much food. It could serve someone. To waste food is himsa.’
It is difficult. It depends on our notion — what we hold. Go to Gandhi’s ashram: tea is prohibited. Only Rajagopalachari had an exemption — because he was the in-law; a concession had to be maintained. He alone drank tea. Tea is sin.
But the Buddhist bhikshus the world over drink tea — before meditation they drink tea, then meditate. They say, tea brings alertness, and alertness helps meditation. There is some sense in it; tea does freshen the body a bit; it contains nicotine; that runs in the blood and quickens it; a person feels fresh.
The Buddhist first rises and drinks tea, then enters meditation — he says, ‘Meditating in sluggishness is not good; with freshness it is right.’ Thus tea is part of religion. In Japan every house of means has a special tea-room. And the tea-room has the same prestige as a temple — for that which awakens is a temple.
In a Japanese house of rank, morning or evening tea-time is prayer-time. And the way they drink tea is indeed prayerful. No one speaks there — speech would disturb. All enter in silence. The housewife wears special loose garments, ascetic-like, kept only for that room. Then she begins to prepare the tea. Making tea is a complete ritual, like worship. She does each thing with such order, and all sit observing. The samovar begins; the kettle boils; the faint sound of tea begins. All sit silently listening to the sound. This too becomes part of meditation. When tea is offered, it is to be received with a sacred feeling — it is worship. Sipping, one must be mindful that alertness increases; after tea, enter meditation.
Now — who is a saint, who is not? Seeing a Muslim fakir, we cannot accept he is a saint; a Muslim cannot accept our sannyasin as saint.
Mohammed had nine marriages — nine! We cannot permit even one to Mahavira. It seems Mahavira married — there are mentions of his daughter and son-in-law. One sect, the Digambaras, reject it — it offends them that Mahavira would marry. But the mention of a daughter and a son-in-law suggests he did; why would anyone falsely invent a marriage? Yet for those who rigidly hold the ideal of brahmacharya, they project their notion upon Mahavira and will not let him marry.
Mohammed has nine marriages — a Digambara Jain cannot imagine there is anything in Mohammed; he will think: we are better — at least we have only one. But ask a Muslim who loves and trusts Mohammed; he will find Mohammed’s saintliness in this too.
Difficult! In Mohammed’s time in Arabia, women were four times the men — men went to war and died; women kept increasing. The whole land was drowned in adultery. Where one man, four women — think the condition. Mohammed laid down in the Koran: each man may marry four women — to rescue the land from adultery. And any widow, any poor woman who requested Mohammed — he married her; thus nine marriages. And these very women Mohammed led toward prayer and meditation.
How many women you have is not the question — where you are taking them is. You may take your woman with you to hell; she too cooperates — two wheels of the same cart moving to hell. Mohammed took those nine women to the heights that could be reached. His first marriage: his age twenty-four; the woman’s age forty. Ask a young man of twenty-four to marry a woman of forty — will he? And forty then is not forty now; then forty was the end, for average life was eighteen or twenty. A young man marrying a forty-year-old woman — that was saintliness. Clearly this was not a common sexual relation. And that first wife proved it: she was the first to become a Muslim. The day the first inspiration descended upon Mohammed, he trembled — simple, unlettered; he had never imagined he could be chosen as a vehicle of God’s voice. He came home, crawled under a blanket. His wife asked what had happened; he said, ‘Don’t ask; do not speak to me for three days; I am terribly shaken.’ After three days he gathered courage: ‘Do not tell anyone. Something has happened within. I am no longer what I was. A voice not of this world has descended into me — I do not know whose; but powerful, and it has shattered and changed me.’ Seeing his eyes, Khadija’s shraddha arose. She said, ‘Initiate me; make me your first disciple.’ She became the first Muslim. This love, this marriage, was not at the sexual level; it was at the level of guru-disciple — a relationship of shraddha.
But we cannot think so; we impose our notion. We carry our own image of saintliness and impose it. When someone fits, we call him ‘saint’; if not, ‘non-saint’.
Mahavira calls samyak-drishti that one who does not load others with his notions; who sees others as they are — impartial; who sees each thing as it is. Who does not try to harmonize according to himself; who does not insert himself into things.
You will be amazed: your life will change if you become samyak-drishti. If someone places the Kohinoor diamond in your hand, you will see only what is — not read the history. You will not even understand how many have died for this stone; you will say, ‘It is just a stone.’ Give the Kohinoor to a child — he will play awhile and discard it, forget it; he has no projection to put upon it. But if it comes into your hand, you will go mad; you will not rest; you will not sleep; you will be possessed. Who creates this madness? Not the Kohinoor — you are putting a notion upon it; the Kohinoor is a stone. If stones laugh, they must laugh at men who are so mad after stones!
We impose our notions upon everything; we see things as we want to see, not as they are. To see things as they are in themselves — that is right vision. And one who begins to see things as they are — he begins to be free, for then nothing can bind him. Whose vision is free — there is no way to bind his soul.
‘He who has right vision and is un-deluded…’
Delusion is a kind of stupor in which we walk sleeping — as if there is no awareness; no sense of what we are doing; no sense of what is happening — yet we keep doing. Take a day’s leave from life, sit for a day, twenty-four hours, and reflect: what are you doing? What is happening? Where are you? You are spending all your strength — to reach where? Is there any destination? Will anything be achieved? Has anyone ever extracted any essence? But so entangled are we in the race that there is no leisure.
Mulla Nasruddin worked forty-five years in a job. When he retired, he said to his wife: ‘The tea is much too hot; I do not at all like such hot tea.’ She said, ‘You go too far, Nasruddin! For forty-five years you have drunk hotter tea than this — you never said so!’ He said, ‘Where was the leisure? Now I am retired; now I tell you I never wanted such hot tea even for a day.’
At the end of life you will find: what you wanted to do, you did not; what you did not want to do, you did. There was not even leisure to think. If you were told that tomorrow morning your life ends, your whole evaluation will change. At once you will think of some things you always wanted to do and postponed; and some things you always did — you will want to stop them now — they have no essence.
The truth is: the next moment is not reliable. You may end in the next moment — tomorrow is far. But there is delusion — a stupor. The crowd is jostling; all are going, and with them we go. If you were alone on the path, perhaps you would be startled. But such a crowd rushes that surely it must be going somewhere; so many feet and hands, everywhere people pressing, all running; such competition — surely they are arriving. We trust this crowd, its words, its desires, so much that they fill us with the same desires.
In the office where Nasruddin worked, one day when he came in he saw a telegram on his table. He rushed; it said, ‘Your mother has expired. Come quickly.’ He ran to the station. At the station a clerk from the office met him: ‘Forgive me; I searched much for you; I couldn’t find you. My mother has died; a wire came; I left it on your table.’ Nasruddin said, ‘Oh! That’s what I was thinking — my mother died ten years ago; why did this telegram come today? But the telegram created such a situation that I said, whatever it is, I must go.’
If someone shouts here, ‘Fire!’ your heart will pound, your legs will prepare to run. Even if someone later says, ‘No fire,’ you may sit down, yet your heart will keep pounding; breath will run fast; sweat will continue. In a dream you panic; waking, you remain panicked awhile.
Around you the crowd is panicked; people are running like the blind — you too are running. Mahavira calls this ‘mudhata’ — delusion. A sannyasin is one who comes out of this delusion — that is the bhikshu: amudh — one who wakes; who does not live by the crowd’s push but thinks and lives in awareness; sees and lives; decides and walks — not just drift along.
Better to do nothing than to do something blind, deluded. It is good to stop for a while; do nothing — leave it empty; reconsider life; look back at your history: what are you doing, where going? Even if you succeed, where will you arrive? What will be gained?
Unless one prepares to break this chain of delusion, sannyas does not descend. The possibility of being a bhikshu descends by breaking delusion and becoming amudh, filled with awareness. One who becomes aware commits no new sins; all sins are done in delusion. One who becomes aware makes no plans for future sins, for all such plans are in delusion. One whose awareness is aflame — that very fire begins to burn even his past sins. But a deluded man commits sins now, plans for future sins, and also laments the past.
Nasruddin, dying, made a statement worth remembering. The priest asked, ‘Nasruddin, if you had life again, would you commit the sins you have done?’ Nasruddin said, ‘Certainly — but I would start a little earlier. This time I delayed too much.’ The priest did not understand: ‘Pray to God; repent! What madness are you speaking?’ Nasruddin said, ‘I too am repenting — but not for the sins I did; rather for those I could not manage — life slipped away.’
Delusion wants to sin even in the past — which has gone, where nothing can be done. The aware man drops planning for future sins; from present sins his hand drops; the past sins fall into the fire of awareness, and burn away. Their consequences are lived through. If I abused someone, I will be abused; I will suffer it. That pain, that thorn will pierce; I will listen as a witness and understand: an account is settled; now nothing remains between us. I am free of that debt.
The past slowly burns in the fire of awareness. And the day neither the past grips with sin, nor the future with desire, nor the present with deluded sin — that day, wherever one is — that is sannyas; that is the form of the bhikshu.
Let us pause for five minutes, chant, and then go…!