Mahaveer Vani #49

Ordinary life is a mechanical flow. As if we do not live life, life lives us. A push of passions, of desires, keeps us moving. It is not right to say that we walk; for in this walking there is no decision of our own, no resolve, no direction, no destination. As a straw is swept along in the current of water, so are we carried away in the current of life. Because of the ego we imagine that we are the masters of our lives. Anyone looking a little impartially will find life functioning like a machine.

We are born; there is hunger, there is thirst, sex arises, ambition arises—and then we keep walking, we keep running, and one day we fall and it is over. This whole running is in darkness, in a swoon. We are like that drunkard who is walking, but does not know where he is going; who does not even know where he has come from; and who does not even know why there is any need to walk. There is a stupor—and we keep going on.

And so the life of each person is like a circle. And the lives of all who live mechanically revolve almost the same way and end almost the same way. As in nature the seasons come and then return again—then the rains come, then winter, then summer, then again the rains—so in all our lives there is childhood, youth, old age; then childhood again, youth again, old age again. The same old wheel keeps turning like a cartwheel.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was suddenly flooded with memories of his student days. The reason—he was passing by the very university, the hostel where he had lived as a student. A strong urge seized him: let me go and see that room where I lived for years—what is it like now? Is it as it was, or has it all changed? He knocked at the door. Another student was living there. There was some stir within. The student opened the door—looking a little flustered.

Nasruddin said, Forgive me—without reason I was passing by, and it occurred to me to visit my hostel room once again after many years.

He went in, looked around and said, The same furniture—the same old chair, the same table. Then he went to the cupboard. He opened it and saw a half-naked young woman hiding there. Nasruddin said, The same old romance—still going on.

But as soon as he opened the cupboard, the student who lived in the room got frightened and stammered, Sir, she is my sister. Nasruddin said, The same old lie—still going on. Everything is the same.

In every person’s life almost the same is being repeated that is repeated in every other person’s life. But we are at an advantage—we know nothing of other lives.

How many people have been on this earth before us! Countless! Scientists say that where you are sitting, at least ten corpses have been buried there. The whole earth is filled with corpses. All the soil has been part of someone’s body. But we know nothing of their lives. So when you fall in love for the first time you think such love never happened on earth.

It has happened exactly so. Others have had exactly the same experience when they fell in love—that this has never happened before. When you succeed you perhaps think, such brilliance of success has never descended upon the earth. Or when you fail and are drowned in dejection, you think perhaps such a mountain of sorrow has never collapsed on anyone.

This is what has always been. Like the seasons, things keep revolving the same way in everyone’s life. But we know nothing of other people’s lives. Therefore to each one it appears that everything is happening anew.

Nothing at all is new. An ancient aphorism says, Under the sun there is nothing new. Yet to each it seems all is new.

This is a delusion. And unless this delusion breaks, we do not engage in the effort to be free. The urge for freedom arises only when it begins to seem that we are caught in a net, as if we have been tied to a cart’s wheel, and the cart keeps moving and we keep revolving with the wheel.

Therefore the sages of the East called this long journey of life avagamana—coming and going—called it samsara. Samsara means: the wheel—in which the same spokes return, and the cycle keeps revolving.

As long as you feel you are living something new, not even the idea of slipping out of this wheel will arise. The moment your realization deepens that nothing is new, the same is being repeated, boredom will arise. And that boredom becomes the first leaning toward the spiritual. Hence Buddha and Mahavira kept telling their disciples: remember your past lives. And they found meditative ways by which the memory of past lives becomes alert.

Mahavira calls it jati-smaran—remembrance of births. Search into your past lives. And when your memory awakens you will be very surprised: what you are doing today you have done a hundred thousand times. The same greed, the same sex, the same ambition, the same sorrow, the same happiness—you have done all this so many times that if even a little is recalled, the mind becomes disenchanted. The repetition has been so much that now there is no taste left anywhere.

But nature plays a game: after each birth the entire storehouse of the previous life’s memories is shut. With every new birth the door to the storage of old memories closes. Then everything seems new again. Once more we start from A-B-C.

A friend of mine is a doctor. In an accident he fell from a train; there was a rush and he was hanging on at the door. His hand slipped and he fell. The blow to the head was severe. From outside nothing seemed injured, but inside all memories were lost. He could not even remember his name. He could not recognize his mother or father. All knowledge, all his study of medical science—vanished. Again—from A-B-C he had to begin. In three years he reached a condition where he could talk properly, understand language, read a newspaper. When he fell he was thirty-five or thirty-six. Those thirty-five years were obliterated—where did they go!

All our knowing depends on memory. If that which is memory is lost, the whole past is lost. After three years, slowly the brain healed and old memories began to arise again.

Those who have made deep inquiries into life think that death is such a great shock, such a tremendous jolt, that a fall from a train cannot give such a blow. In that blow our connection to old memories breaks. Then birth too is a great shock. Both are highly traumatic jolts.

When a man dies the whole world of memories becomes disordered; all connections break; all wires are lost. Then when he is born, again there is a jolt. Because of these two shocks we become closed off from the past. And each time it appears that everything is happening anew.

So long as this feeling of the new does not break, the longing for freedom from life does not arise. Mahavira says: turn back and remember. And even if a little memory begins, taste for this life starts disappearing—this life which we now call life; and a new taste, a new music, a new direction begins to open—that Mahavira called moksha.

A sannyasin means one in whom boredom with this life has arisen.

Understand this a little rightly.

If in this life one experiences happiness, he will remain worldly; and if one experiences sorrow, he will still remain worldly. When boredom arises with both happiness and sorrow—when both equally become insipid—then one becomes a sannyasin.

Many people renounce the world because of life’s sorrow. Their sannyas is not real; because the perception of sorrow is but the indication that the desire for happiness is still alive. We receive sorrow because we desire happiness. The one who leaves the world because of sorrow is leaving it for happiness. And one who leaves for happiness is not leaving at all—because the longing for happiness is the world.

Most people leave the world in sorrow—perhaps ninety-nine out of a hundred sannyasins do. Their sannyas cannot become authentic.

Remember this word ‘boredom.’ The person who finds the world so futile that its pleasures bore him and its pains bore him—both become equal, both become tasteless—that man’s journey takes a new turn.

In this context it’s also necessary to remember: man is the only creature in the world who can be bored. No other animal can be bored. No buffalo, no horse, no lion has ever been seen in a state of boredom. The buffalo chews its same fodder daily, ruminates daily, yet never feels bored. Boredom is purely a human phenomenon—an important phenomenon, a very spiritual phenomenon.

No animal gets bored. You cannot see boredom in the eyes of an animal. Animals are as they are—content; wherever they are—content. Not an iota of going farther, of rising higher. They complete their circle and finish. They never become aware of their mechanicalness. And they never become conscious that life is futile.

Man alone can be bored. And note: the greater the intelligence, the greater the boredom. Among humans, those less developed show little boredom. Boredom will come with the growth of intelligence. The more thoughtful the person, the sooner and the deeper he will be bored with life.

Bertrand Russell has said that when I look at tribals, seeing their happiness I feel jealous. But Russell does not consider why the tribals are so happy. The fundamental reason for their happiness is that they are very close to animals. Boredom has not yet arisen. They do not yet have the capacity to stand apart from life and see its staleness, its repetition. They are still living drowned in nature.

Russell knows boredom. If Russell had been born in the East, or had some sense of the Eastern vision of life, then this boredom could have become for him the beginning of spiritual life. But unfortunately he was in the West. In Russell’s life an event like that of Mahavira and Buddha could have happened—he had that much intelligence. But the whole Western climate, the Western net of logic, produces boredom, yet does not develop the art of going beyond boredom; it only develops devices to forget boredom.

Therefore the West goes on inventing means of entertainment. Entertainment is a sign that man is bored. Distract him somehow. Films, music, drama, dance, alcohol, feasts, festivals—distract him somehow. Let his boredom not be exposed.

So the West keeps seeking entertainment. It is in the same state as India was in Mahavira’s time—equally prosperous, equally at a golden peak. But the East, in the state of boredom, sought spirituality; the West, in the state of boredom, seeks entertainment. The situation is the same.

If you seek entertainment, you fall back down from boredom. Entertainment means: you have found something new to taste and so forget for a while that life is a repetition. That’s why you cannot watch the same movie again; thrice is very difficult; the fourth time it will feel like punishment; the fifth time you will revolt. Why? You watch life repeating every day—why can’t you watch a film twice?

Because the very purpose of a film is to give you the taste of the new, so that for a little while you forget that life is an old nonsense. Entertainment is meant to break the boredom of life. If entertainment too creates boredom, if it repeats, a difficulty arises.

Hence fashions change every day. And the more a society becomes conscious, the quicker fashions change. The more primitive, the nearer to nature, the nearer to animals, the slower fashions change. But as a society grows alert, conscious, fashions change daily. Every year the car model changes—so boredom does not arise.

In the West, along with changing objects, the tendency to change persons has deepened. That too is the result of boredom. Every year even the wife should be changed—new models become available. To live with the old model goes on only out of old habits.

I have heard, a film actress got her seventeenth divorce. And when she married the eighteenth time, after the marriage she discovered that this man had once before been her husband.

Life is short; eighteen marriages—and to keep track of all is difficult; life is running so fast. So change the person, change the food, change the clothes, change the film—change everything so that boredom is not noticed. But change as much as you will, boredom is hidden inside life—because life is repetition. Change the film as much as you like, the story remains the same. There is no difference in the story.

No film can go beyond the Ramayana; it cannot. The same triangle—Ram, Ravana, Sita. The same triangle. We change a few details of the story, but the triangle remains; two lovers and a beloved. To take a film beyond the Ramayana seems impossible. The tale is the same—the names change, a few details change, but the fundamental remains the same.

What can you do! When life itself is old, how long can a story remain new, which is born out of life?

Here lies the difference between West and East. Both reached the state of boredom. When the East reached boredom, it pondered: how to go beyond boredom? How to be free of this life? From that was born sannyas. From that were born bhikshus who raised themselves above life.

In the West too boredom has arrived. How to forget this boredom? So in the West means of entertainment are being created. And the whole effort is only this: with alcohol, LSD, marijuana, how somehow to forget oneself and pass life. That is why today Western governments, thoughtful moralists, priests and pundits are trying that the new generations avoid hypnotic, stupefying chemicals—LSD, marijuana. Their effort cannot succeed. It is impossible, unless in the West the Eastern sannyas is established. For life is giving sorrow; not only sorrow—life is giving boredom. Either forget that boredom, or go beyond it.

The keys to going beyond boredom—Mahavira, in this context of who is a bhikshu, is giving.

Let us understand his aphorism.

He who keeps no swoon, no intoxication even in his instruments of discipline; who is not greedy; who begs alms from unknown families; who keeps away from faults that obstruct the path of restraint; who does not get into household trades of buying, selling, accumulating; who is in every way unattached—he is the bhikshu.

Man’s attachment does not arise because of objects; man’s attachment arises from his own tendency to become unconscious. Attachment is a way of becoming intoxicated. Whenever you become very attached to something, that thing begins to intoxicate you. You have experienced this.

If you are in love with a woman, your gait changes—you walk as if intoxicated. Anyone can see and say: now you are in love. Your feet do not fall in the right place. Your eyes do not seem to see rightly. Your ears do not seem to hear rightly. If the woman you love is in a crowd of a thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine will not be seen—only she will be seen. If she rises, the whole assembly rises; now no one is there. And you begin to live as if without this woman it is impossible to live—or without this man it is impossible to live.

There is a drunkenness. That drunkenness helps you forget life. This intoxication is not only in relationships; it can be with things. The man who loves wealth is also intoxicated. As his treasury accumulates, his gait becomes peculiar; his chest swells; he is no longer on the earth—he begins to fly in the sky. The man intoxicated with politics, with position—watch him as he nears positions of power; his condition is exactly that of a drunkard.

The truth is: the alcoholic is the weakest of the intoxicated. In fact, alcohol is sought by one who cannot find stronger intoxications. There are greater intoxications in life. Hence it may be that the leader is advising people not to drink—and he does not know that he himself does not drink only because he enjoys the privilege of being a leader; and in being a leader there is such pleasure, such unconsciousness, that it serves the work of alcohol.

As life is, man will search for some intoxication. That intoxication can be anything. Hence in this country we have even called learning a vice—it too can be an intoxication. It too can be a way to forget oneself. That in which self-remembrance is lost—that is intoxication. And that which increases self-remembrance—that is going beyond intoxication.

For thousands of years on earth people have been preaching: leave intoxication. Intoxication does not drop; it goes on increasing. There has never been an age when people were not intoxicated. They found different excuses for intoxication; but from the Vedas till today man has been intoxicated. Sometimes he drank somaras. Aldous Huxley, a Western investigative thinker, says that soma is like LSD. And scientists are researching; they say the descriptions of soma in the Rigveda match LSD closely. And before this century ends we will refine LSD so much that it will be exactly the soma by drinking which rishis and munis talked with gods; by drinking which they danced in supreme ecstasy.

The hippies are doing the same.

Aldous Huxley said that after the twentieth century, when scientific invention will deepen and LSD will be refined, then in the twenty-first century the refined form of LSD will be named Soma—because of somaras. So its name will be Soma.

Man has always been in search of intoxication; in search of ways to swoon. Why does man want to swoon? Think on this. There are reasons. When a man looks at himself as he is, he feels great restlessness. As he is—if he remains awake—a great sadness, boredom arises. If you begin to have a full vision of yourself as you are, you will become very restless, frightened. Perhaps you will wish to commit suicide. You will say, What is there in this? What am I doing? What meaning is there to my being—what purpose?

Hence everyone escapes from himself. To escape from oneself is what I call intoxication. Whether you go to a friend to gossip and forget yourself, or go to a temple to listen to a religious discourse and forget yourself there, or sit in a hotel and intoxicate yourself—whatever you do—wherever you are trying to forget yourself, that effort is preventing you from becoming religious.

So Mahavira says: a bhikshu is one who does not keep swoon even in the instruments by which he is moving toward liberation. The means that lead to moksha—he is not intoxicated even by them; he does not become unconscious even in them; he does not get lost in them.

But look at monks. If a monk rises at five in the morning, Brahmamuhurta, and does his prayer—one day if he cannot rise at five, he becomes restless, disturbed. Then rising at Brahmamuhurta has become an unconscious habit. If one day he cannot pray, he becomes uneasy. In this uneasiness there is no fundamental difference from the uneasiness of the drinker—if one day he does not get alcohol he becomes uneasy.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was saying to her friends, It is my misfortune that I married this drunkard. But the friends said, You’ve been married two years and never complained? She said, For two years he came home drunk every night, so I never knew; last night he came home sober—then I found out the man is a drunkard, because the whole night he was restless and disturbed.

Whatever you relate with in such a way that without it you become restless—understand that you have entered into an alcoholic relationship. Without which you find yourself in difficulty—whether it be meditation, prayer, worship—know that you have gathered a religious kind of alcohol around you.

Mahavira says: a bhikshu is one who is not swooned even in his means and instruments by whose support he is moving toward the supreme.

This is a deep point. There is a gross form too. For after all, even a bhikshu will wear a few clothes, will keep an alms bowl, a little necessary equipment for sustaining life. Even there swoon can catch hold. In those two garments, taste can catch hold. If they are lost, there will be sorrow—he will feel robbed. He takes great care of them, protects them lest they be stolen.

A Japanese emperor used to go out at night, in disguise, to see the state of his capital. He was astonished: everything else was fine, but whenever he went he found one beggar awake under a tree. His curiosity grew. One day he asked: Why do you stay awake all night? The beggar said, If I sleep, someone may steal my things. I sit under a tree; there is no security. I sleep in the day—then there is traffic, people; at night I have to stay awake.

The emperor saw the heap of rags around him, two or three broken alms bowls—and for guarding them he was awake all night.

The beggar worries lest there be theft. The monk worries lest his few things be lost. His household has become small, shrunk—but it has not vanished. The spread of his greed has lessened—but it has not died.

And note: the smaller the spread of greed, the more intoxicating it becomes—because the intensity increases. This needs understanding. Sun rays are falling—no fire arises. But if you gather the rays with a lens on a paper, the rays concentrate, fire arises. The rays were falling, but scattered; when concentrated, the paper blazes.

Note: the householder’s rays of desire are scattered. The monk does not keep much around him on which to spread his desire; very little remains, so the desire becomes very intense, highly concentrated. Often it happens that a spread-out householder is not as much a householder as the shrunken monk becomes—entangled. In a small place desire gathers and begins to produce fire. That is why the human mind, unconsciously, as if by instinct, knows the truth.

If you love one woman, she will not tolerate that you love another. This is natural, effortless. Even a slight leaning toward another woman will pain her. If your wife shows a little more interest in another man, you will suffer.

There is a reason: when desire spreads, its intensity lessens—the fire that desire can produce no longer happens.

Hence lovers fear that desire may not spread to many. Let the rays of desire concentrate on one person. Lovers monopolize each other, possess each other, want to stop each other completely—so that not even a little desire goes elsewhere and the intensity and stroke of desire can kindle fire.

Therefore such fear haunts lovers; so much jealousy, so much burning, so much turmoil remains.

Behind all this there is no great morality—no religion, no society. Behind it is man’s simple experience: if desire is scattered, it becomes lukewarm; it carries no fire. If desire spreads to many, deep relationships cannot be formed—only meetings at the surface.

The monk shrinks his desire from all sides—leaves home, wife, wealth—but then his desire concentrates upon what remains around him.

It is a strange thing that you won’t find fathers who are as attached to their sons as you will find gurus attached to their disciples. The guru worries more that the disciple may not go elsewhere, may not make someone else his guru, may not wander—more than a father worries.

This can only be if the guru’s own desire still remains—if he has not yet fully known sannyas. He is not a guru in the true sense. He grips the disciple badly, binds him from all sides, becomes possessive.

This will not only be with persons—it will be with things too. The few things that remain with the monk—on them he will project his whole world. That is his world. You would not guard a thing worth a hundred thousand rupees with as much care as a monk guards a two-penny thing.

Mahavira says: if such swoon exists, the bhikshu is not yet a bhikshu.

Who is not greedy, not rapacious, not covetous…

Greed is a very subtle tendency. It has nothing to do with money, house, land. It pertains to a deep inner urge: more, and more—in any field.

If you have a hundred thousand rupees, greed will say—more. If you have been given seventy years of life, greed will say—more. If in meditation you are getting a little peace, greed will say—more. If a little glimpse of moksha begins, greed will say—more.

The formula of greed is: more. What is, is not enough. So it does not matter whether you have left home and shop. The ‘more’ remains the same.

People come to me; they are meditating. They find peace. In the beginning when they taste peace, they are very happy. After some days they come and say, All right, this peace is fine—what next? Now take us further. When will bliss come? They do not know that when the thought of ‘more’ drops, then bliss will come. That is the obstruction. The thought of ‘more’ itself gives sorrow; that is the barrier. And you attach ‘more’ everywhere. Whatever happens, it is attached. That tendency joins anywhere and restlessness begins.

Even if you attain God, instantly the thought that will arise will be: Fine—this is fine; now more. Reflect on your own mind—if God is attained—there will not be contentment!

The mind is such that its nature is to be discontent. Greed is the basic tendency of the mind. Where greed disappears, the mind disappears. Where there is no greed, there is no way to construct mind. The mind says: wherever we are, it is not enough; more is possible.

And because that ‘more’ does not happen, pain comes. And the joy of what is, is lost.

Understand this a little.

You are creating your sorrow because of this tendency. Mahavira calls it the vulture-tendency—gridh-vritti. The bhikshu is un-greedy. Whatever is, he says: This is so much, far beyond my capacity—it has been given to me. He is always filled with a sense of being graced. There will be gratitude in him.

So long as you are filled with greed, there can be no grace in you. Even if you get anything, there will be complaint. Your life is a long complaint. There can never be an “Ah!” of wonder and gratitude—because you always know, more could have been given; more could have been given—which was not.

Bhikshu means, sannyasin means: one who, whatever comes, always feels—what could not have come to me has come; what I had no worthiness for, has been given; that which I was not entitled to, has showered upon me. He is always grateful. Gratitude becomes his nature. Whatever comes gives him such supreme contentment that the doors of bliss cannot remain closed for long, that moksha cannot remain far.

And note: the sannyasin does not enter moksha; moksha enters the sannyasin. Moksha is not some geographical place to go to. If it were such a place, in so long a time some of you would surely have found a bribe and a back door. Man is quite skillful.

But it is good that moksha is not a geographical place, otherwise the cunning and the devilish would have captured it; the innocent, the simple would have remained outside. The worthy would have stayed outside; the unworthy would have been enthroned within. But politicians cannot enter moksha; the cunning cannot enter; the dishonest cannot enter. The reason is: moksha is not a place to enter. Moksha is a state that enters you. When you are ready, it descends. Truly it is not even a state coming from outside—it is present within. The moment the tendency of ‘more’ drops, its experience begins.

The man entangled in ‘more’ cannot see that which is within. The contented, the grateful does not run; his mind does not go elsewhere. He becomes fulfilled with that which is within.

The human mind is not satisfied by anything. Think for a while: what thing could be given to you so that you would be satisfied?

I have heard: when Mulla Nasruddin died and reached heaven, he said to Saint Peter, I have had one longing all my life. I want to meet one person who is in heaven. I want to ask a question.

Saint Peter said, We will arrange the meeting—if the person you want is in heaven. Nasruddin said, Absolutely certain; just make the arrangement. I want to meet Mary, mother of Jesus.

Peter was a little surprised—what could be the purpose? He too became curious. He said, May I be present at your meeting? What do you want to ask Mary?

Just one question has always stuck in my mind.

Nasruddin was taken to Mary. A splendid presence—rays of light falling all around—the aura—an ocean of bliss. Nasruddin was deeply impressed. He said, I want to ask only one thing. One question has always arisen in me—my boys turned out good-for-nothing. I have been unhappy because of them. My wife is unhappy because of our sons. And I have not seen such parents on earth who are not unhappy. I want to ask you: you were given a son like Jesus—whom thousands consider the very image of God—God himself—so when you were on earth and Jesus was born, and when he became so influential that thousands considered him God, how did you feel? At least you must have been fulfilled?

Mary said, To be frank, Nasruddin, I and my husband—we both were hoping that he should become a good carpenter. And we were both very sad when he left the trade and took to useless talk. But, Nasruddin, don’t tell this to anybody—they won’t believe it. Since you are asking, I tell you the truth.

For Jesus’ father was a carpenter, and a carpenter would hope his son becomes a good carpenter—fame spreading far and wide for his goods, his furniture, his creations. Mary is speaking a very true thing. And only a mother like Mary could say such a true thing.

Such is the human mind. What are its desires? Even if God is attained there will be no contentment—something will remain unfulfilled. Something will keep pricking; some complaint will remain present.

If you are full of complaints, the reason is not that your life contains something to complain about. The reason is that the mind you have can only be full of complaint.

We spend our whole lives trying to erase these complaints. Mahavira says: A sannyasin is one who breaks the very root of complaint within—the root is greed, covetousness—the feeling of ‘more’.

Who takes alms from unknown households…

Mahavira lays great emphasis that the bhikshu beg from unknown families. Because with known families relationships begin to be fixed. And as soon as relationships begin to form, the bhikshu’s expectations may become active. Unknowingly, unconsciously he may begin to hope what he will receive. Unknown families—so that the future always remains unknown. As soon as the future becomes known, the mind becomes active. Let the future remain utterly unknown. Not even an estimate whether at the door where I stand for alms, alms will be given or not. If given, will it be dry bread or some sweets? Will I receive abuse, insult, or the order to move away…

There is a Buddhist story: a monk went to a Brahmin’s door to beg. The Brahmin was angry with Buddha. He had instructed his household that whatever else happens, not a single grain be given to a Buddhist monk. The Brahmin was away; the wife was home. Seeing the monk, her heart felt like giving. He stood with alms bowl—so silent, so still, so pure—flower-like. But she remembered her husband—he is a pundit, and pundits are terrible; he would explode when he returned. For him it was a matter of principle—if you give to a Buddhist monk, you are axing your own religion. Scriptures are valuable there; living truths have no value. Still she thought: to let this monk go just like that will not be good. She came out and said, Forgive me—alms cannot be given here.

The monk went away. To her surprise the next day the monk was again at the door. She became a little worried—yesterday too I refused. Again she refused.

The tale is unique—perhaps it never happened, perhaps it did. They say, for eleven years that monk kept coming to that door for alms; and each day when the wife said, Forgive me—alms cannot be given, he went away. In eleven years even the pundit became disturbed. The wife would repeatedly say, What a wondrous man! It seems he will not go away without receiving alms. Eleven years is long. One day the pundit stopped him on the road and said, Listen—what hope brings you here when we have told you thousands of times?

The monk said, I am obliged—anugrihit. For who even says so lovingly to a beggar, Please go, you will not get alms! Is even that little not enough? For a beggar, that someone should come to the door and say, Forgive me, alms cannot be given—is that not enough? What is my worthiness! I am obliged! And the opportunity for sadhana I have received at your door I have received at no other. So do not be angry—let me come. Whether you give or not is not the question.

Mahavira says: from unknown doors—at known places you will get alms; alms is not valuable. For the bhikshu, for the sannyasin, it is not food that is valuable, but the attitude toward food.

So at unknown doors, where there is no expectation, where there is a possibility of refusal, he asks for alms.

Let there be no spread of expectations in life—and the world begins to disperse. We create expectations we do not even know we have. If you meet me on the road, and I greet you daily with folded hands—one day if I do not greet, you will be hurt: why did this man not greet me? —what meaning?

We even make expectations of a greeting—who should greet. If someone smiles daily at seeing you, and one day he does not smile, you become uneasy. Then people have to smile falsely. You see they smile—they spread their lips without reason. But—why create needless trouble?—you smile, he smiles. Two false smiles behind which the persons have nothing to do with each other.

Expectations make life false.

Mahavira says: neither be false, nor give another the chance to be false—for that too is sin. If you take alms from one place for two or three days, and on the fifth day you go again, those in the house will think, The monk expects. If we do not give, he will be hurt; if we do not give, our prestige will be hurt; if we do not give, we will not feel good. So perhaps they will have to give though they did not wish to. Go therefore to unknown doors where no relation of expectation exists.

Who stays away from faults that obstruct the path of restraint…

There are many obstacles on the path of restraint—there must be. He who stays away from them. The purpose of staying away is only this: why get entangled needlessly?

Wherever you live there are thousands of kinds of people around. If a sannyasin comes to your village, you will create a thousand obstacles without knowing. You will go and pour village gossip into his ears, start praising and condemning others. You will divide that man into parties and factions.

A true seeker on the path of restraint will remain so far from all this as if none of it is happening around him. He will speak only when it is supportive to his sadhana; otherwise he will remain silent. He will not agree or disagree about anything unless it supports his sadhana in some way. He will not want to hear or tell useless things. He will not want to create anything that may cause trouble sooner or later.

Troubles begin from very small things.

You have heard a very ancient tale. A monk lives alone in the forest. He goes to beg, brings food. Sometimes he keeps his bread, his food for a little while in the hut. When food remains for a little while, rats begin to appear—from the neighborhood, from the forest, from the fields. A devotee suggested: Keep a cat. The cat will eat the rats.

It appealed to the monk. If he had read Mahavira’s aphorism, it would not have appealed. Because by keeping, trouble is bound to begin. Behind a cat the whole world can come; for the tendency to keep is the symptom of the householder. But keeping a cat seemed innocent—no worldly trouble. No one has heard of someone’s moksha being hindered by a cat. There is no history that a cat corrupted a monk.

There was no reason. The scriptures say nowhere: don’t keep a cat. How much can scriptures arrange! The world is vast; scriptures are small. Principles can be given, but details—nothing much can be said.

The monk kept a cat. But a problem began—he now had to bring milk for the cat. A devotee, ever ready to advise, said: Why be so troubled? We will donate a cow; keep a cow.

The monk said: A cow is holy mother anyway. There is no harm in that. Holding onto the cow’s tail one crosses the river of death—Vaitarani. There is no obstruction. The cat may have some relation with the devil; the cow is directly connected with the divine.

He kept a cow. Keeping a cow, trouble began—grass was needed. Now daily he must buy grass or beg for it. Another devotee—devotees are always ready to advise, and they mean well—said: Why all this hassle? Do a little farming around. Then the cow’s need is met, yours is met, the cat’s is met.

Now the world became big. The poor fellow started farming. It was necessary—how could the cow die? Milk was needed. He had to take the cow to graze; he had to sow on time, harvest on time. It began to feel too much. There was no time for prayer, worship, meditation.

A supreme devotee said: Marry. A wife will be there, a companion to help. She will look after everything, and you do your meditation. You have no time at all to meditate now.

The monk also saw the point: such a fuss had spread—who would manage it?

If you have set up a home, the wife cannot remain far too long; she will come. Without her, the home cannot be set up. An obstacle.

He married. But has anyone got more time to meditate after marriage? The little that remained, saved from the cow and the cat, was gone.

When this monk was dying, his disciples asked for his last message. Dying, he said: Never keep a cat. The cat is the world!

Mahavira says: On the path of restraint there is great need to be alert to what can become an obstacle—maybe it is not visible today. Things when they begin are very subtle. Slowly they take on a gross form. Someone gives you alms and you say Thank you. In that thanks no world is entering—but it can. The world can enter through that thank you.

Hence Mahavira says: do not even give thanks. If someone gives alms, neither feel pleasure nor pain—silently move away as if nothing happened.

He even prohibits saying thanks, because even that creates relationship. And the one you thanked—an inner tie begins. And if the world can come via a cat, it can come via thanks.

Therefore Mahavira says: remain alert. Do not do even a subtle act behind which a gross net may be woven. And behind anything the gross can be woven. Therefore the path of restraint is a path of extreme awareness and caution.

Who does not get into the household trades of buying, selling and accumulating.

Household-ship is not the question; there are certain trades around which householding is built. Household does not mean the physical house where you live, the wife, the children. Householding means you are connected to the world of economics in certain ways.

A friend of mine had a passion for building houses. Then he became a sannyasin. When he was not a sannyasin he would build houses—arrange houses for his friends. He would stand with an umbrella in the sun, and he would be very happy whenever he contrived something new—new designs, new styles. Then he renounced. Ten years later I was passing near the village where he lived as a sannyasin.

I said to those driving me: it will add ten miles, but I want to see what he is doing. He must be standing with an umbrella.

They said, You too are crazy! Ten years back…and he is a sannyasin now. It’s been ten years—why would he be standing with an umbrella? I said, He will be. Let us go see.

A wonder—he was standing there! He was building an ashram. Umbrella overhead in the sun—building an ashram. He said, Let this ashram be completed, then peace. I said, This peace is never going to be. You renounced to be free of this fuss. But the fuss is not outside; it is inside. He said, That was a household matter—this is an ashram.

Even Shankaracharyas stand in courts because the ashram has a case. What is the difference? You stand for a case about your house; the Shankaracharya stands for his ashram—because there is a case.

Mahavira says: in household trades—give and take, buying, selling—such tendencies—let the bhikshu not be related even a little. Otherwise he will not even know when the whole world has entered through a small hole.

Who remains unattached in every way—he is the bhikshu.

Unattachment is a fundamental element; and very difficult. Because we always want company. The longing for company is deep—someone to be with. To be alone feels very bad. No one wants to be alone. Whenever you are left alone, you feel uneasy—What to do, what not to do? Nothing comes to mind. Being alone is a great trouble.

A great musician, Leopold Godowsky, suffered from insomnia. The trouble of those who suffer insomnia is not lack of sleep—it is being left alone at night. The whole world has slept; the wife is snoring; the children sleep happily—and you are awake. Totally alone. The whole world is gone. Traffic has died down; noise has calmed; nothing moves; even animals sleep; trees are silent—you are left alone. As if earth ended in a third world war—corpses everywhere—and you alone are awake.

In his memoirs Godowsky writes: his son lived with him. In the night, when it became too much—and the son was a frightful sleeper, snoring loudly, sleeping so deep that even an earthquake would not wake him—then Godowsky would go to him two or three times, shake him and say, Why son, you also could not sleep tonight?

He is sleeping, snoring—and the father shakes him: Why son, you also could not sleep tonight? First he wakes him up. His son writes: I was astonished—what is this? The whole matter was only this—man seeks company. If the other also has no sleep, we are companions.

At least we are two—together.

The tendency that most possesses us is to seek company. To be alone seems very difficult—why? For several reasons.

One: when there is company, we can lay the entire responsibility for our misery on the other. When there is no company, all misery is created by our own hands. This is hard to endure.

Two: when there is company, we can forget ourselves. It functions like intoxication. When there is no company, there is nowhere to forget ourselves.

Three: when there is company, we can create false images of ourselves. We can act before the other; we can deceive the other and by deceiving the other, deceive ourselves.

When there is no company, no mirror—whom to deceive? Man’s nakedness, his animality, whatever is within—good and bad—stands exposed. There is no way to escape it. It brings suffering; one feels hell. The solitary man feels he is in hell.

Mahavira says: non-association is the mark of the bhikshu; the search for company is the mark of the worldly. Joy in aloneness; and the more moments of aloneness are available, the more the joy. And if association is necessary, then only as much as is unavoidable—otherwise bid it farewell. Only as long as absolutely necessary is company fine; most of the time let it be aloneness. And slowly such non-association grows within that even when someone is present, the sannyasin experiences himself as alone. He does not let the other enter within. Even when he stands in a crowd, the crowd cannot enter him; he remains outside the crowd.

The sadhana of becoming so unattached is what will make the person a self-knower. The more unattached one becomes, the more selfhood grows; and the more one is lost in the crowd, the more selfless—in the bad sense—one becomes. You are all eager to be lost in the crowd. In losing the self, all responsibility disappears.

Note: the great sins of the world are not done in private aloneness. For them a crowd is needed. A crowd of Hindus burns a mosque, or a crowd of Muslims burns a temple. Among these Muslims, if each were asked separately: Will you alone take the responsibility to burn this temple? The Muslim will refuse. If the Hindu is asked: Will you alone burn this mosque? He will say no. But in the crowd it becomes easy—because in a crowd I am not responsible. When the crowd is committing murder, you too add your hands. In adding those two hands, your personal responsibility is absent.

Note also: the crowd brings you to the lowest level. As water makes a level, your consciousness also levels itself. When you stand in a crowd of a thousand, the lowest common level of those thousand minds becomes your level. Instantly you become small.

In a crowd sin is easy; alone it is very difficult—because alone you cannot shift responsibility to another. Mahavira says: until a person begins to be free of the crowd, he will not be self-possessed. As one learns to be alone, evil begins to drop away. And the day one becomes fully capable of being alone, Mahavira says, that non-association ripens into kevalya.

The monk who is unallured, who is not greedy for tastes, who takes alms from unknown households, who does not worry about life, who drops attachment to powers, receptions, worship and prestige, who is established in himself and desireless—he alone is a bhikshu.

Who does not worry about life…

Who lives, but does not manufacture worry.

We live little; we worry much. If it happens like this, what will happen? If it had not happened like that, how good it would have been. We manufacture worries about the past and about the future. Worries catch us so much that there is no space left to live—to walk, to be.

Look into your mind. Yesterday you said something to someone—you think, I should not have said it. What is the point? What is said is said—there is no way now not to have said it. But you keep thinking—I should not have said it; and you worry. For tomorrow, what to say—you worry.

And note: whatever you decide to say, you will not say tomorrow, because life changes from moment to moment—and whatever you decide becomes stale and old. Life is a new, ever-changing flow—she wants a new response. If you go with decided answers, they create trouble.

I have heard: in Nasruddin’s village the emperor was coming. Nasruddin was a prestigious man there; the villagers said, You welcome him. But, Nasruddin, be careful—do not say something out of place; he is an emperor, he may be offended.

Nasruddin said, Better you tell me what to say, so there is no possibility of mistake. The courtiers arranged everything: they told the emperor to ask only two questions of this man, and he will give only two answers—not create more fuss. Ask him: How old are you? He will tell his age—seventy. Then ask: Since when are you interested in religion? Since when are you a Mulla? He has been interested for twenty years; he will say, for twenty years. Just fix such formalities.

Nasruddin was instructed. But all got messed up. Nasruddin fixed it firmly in his head that the first answer is seventy, the second answer is twenty. The emperor made a mistake—he asked the second question first: Nasruddin, since when are you interested in religion? Since when are you a Mulla? Nasruddin said, For seventy years! And he asked: And when were you born? How old are you? Nasruddin said, Twenty years!

The emperor said, Nasruddin, are you mad? Nasruddin said, I am giving the right answers—mad is he who is asking the wrong questions.

Life changes every day. Your worry of today will not be of use tomorrow. And if you sit too rigidly, you will find tomorrow that all your answers are wrong—because the questions are new. Mahavira says: the bhikshu is one who does not worry. What has passed, he knows has passed. What has not come, he knows has not yet come. He lives in what is before him.

Note: one who lives in what is before him does not make mistakes. Mistakes happen because we are not present here where we have to live. We are either behind or ahead. We are unconscious here. One who is neither behind nor ahead—who is free of worry—he is here. Present with his whole consciousness—he does not err.

Worries do not erase errors; because of worries errors happen. Often a student goes into an examination hall and all gets mixed up. Outside he knew everything. Sitting in the hall everything goes topsy-turvy. As soon as he comes out, everything becomes all right again. It is strange—the exam hall is miraculous. Outside, the right answers come again. They were coming before too. For three hours all was tangled—why?

For three hours he became so worried that because of worry he could not connect with what was before him. Three hours earlier there was no such worry. Three hours later it is gone again.

Worry distorts our life. We cannot relate directly. Problems are not solved—they go on getting entangled.

Mahavira says: the bhikshu is he who does not worry—who does not worry about life. As life comes, whatever spontaneous thing occurs, he lets it occur. He does not repent about the past, nor does he plan for the future.

He who has dropped the past; he who has renounced the future; who stands in pure present—he is the bhikshu.

Who drops infatuation with powers, receptions, worship and prestige…

One tends to catch hold, because as soon as one enters the world of sadhana many events begin to happen. If even a little craving for riddhi, siddhi, miracles remains, life turns into that of a showman. Instead of moving toward moksha, one begins moving toward being a juggler.

Many things happen—because deeply veiled layers exist in life; mysterious realms are hidden. Great energies are within you. As soon as you enter within, those energies begin to activate.

In Ramakrishna’s ashram there was a simple man, Kalu. He was so simple, so receptive—his mind was open like a clear sky. When Vivekananda began meditation, one day meditation happened for the first time. Immediately he felt such power: whatever I wish, I can influence anybody’s mind. Kalu was innocent, simple. He occurred to Vivekananda: anything can be made to happen through Kalu. Others are clever, will resist—Kalu is simple. Kalu was worshipping; in his room he had placed all sorts of gods and goddesses—hundreds; and he worshipped all. It took him six to eight hours to place flowers and ring a bell for all. He was worshipping—the bell was sounding.

Vivekananda said: Kalu, tie up all the gods and goddesses in a bundle and throw them in the Ganges. Kalu tied a bundle and set out toward the Ganges. Ramakrishna was returning from his bath—he said, Stop, where are you going? Kalu said, Such a feeling has come.

This is not your feeling. Go back.

He went and knocked at Vivekananda’s door: What are you doing? If you keep doing this, I will take the key of your meditation into my hands.

For as soon as inner energies awaken, a great confidence arises. And in that confidence one can do all those things which…now, in this country, many miracle-mongers are seen doing. Mahavira would call none of them sannyasins. In truth they are misusing sannyas. One produces amulets from thin air; from another’s hand ash falls; someone distributes watches; sweets appear in hands.

All this is possible—there is no difficulty in its happening; but at a great price. Sannyas is lost, only showmanship remains.

Hence Mahavira says: a bhikshu is he who is protected from riddhi-siddhi; who drops the infatuation with receptions, worship, prestige. Because great receptions can be obtained by petty means.

The crowds around us are filled with petty desires. What great longing is it—that ash should fall from someone’s hand and you are charmed? You go to a sadhu. He closes his hand—you saw it was empty—he opens it and gives you an amulet. That’s it: you received moksha; and the sadhu too received moksha.

No one is impressed by knowledge; no one is impressed by life. People are impressed by petty miracles. People are petty; their petty desires match with petty performances.

In fact, when you see an amulet appear from a man’s hand out of nothing, you feel: one who can produce an amulet from nothing can also fulfill my desires wandering in nothingness. I have no son—perhaps a son can be produced. If an amulet can appear from the void, why not a son! I am a failure—why not success, when an amulet can come out of nothing?

Your wandering desires are in the void—no way is seen to fulfill them. When you see someone producing something from nothing, then you gain confidence. Then you fall at his feet.

No one seems ready to bow to religion. Therefore Mahavira’s bhikshus were never permitted to do any kind of miracle. Buddha’s bhikshus were never permitted either. Perhaps the reason why the bhikshus of Buddha and Mahavira could not have a larger effect on this country is precisely this—because they were forbidden to be showmen. And the prohibition is precious.

If only Hindu sannyasins too had such a clear prohibition; if only the Hindu mind could clearly understand that the one who displays miracles is one who in some way wants worship, prestige—who is exploiting your petty desires—then those whom we now call mahatmas we would no longer be able to call mahatmas. And those whom we do not even recognize now, who are truly mahatmas, we would begin to recognize.

Who is sthit-atma—established in himself…

Who is steady in every situation—whom nothing can shake.

Who is desireless…

Who has no competition, no craving, no ambition; who does not wish to defeat anyone, nor to be defeated by anyone; who does not want to reach anywhere; who has no goal in the language of this world; who is no one’s competitor—he is the bhikshu.

In truth, competition is the fever of ego. So long as ego is, competition will be. Those we call sadhus and mahatmas are also great competitors. Among themselves competitions go on: whose prestige increases, whose declines; who receives more honor, who less—efforts keep going on.

Mahavira says: the bhikshu is he who has no competition; who is prepared to be a nobody; and if he becomes ‘no one’ completely, there will not be the slightest worry; and if he becomes ‘everything,’ no pride will arise. One who, on a throne, remains as he would on a cross—who can be equal on cross and throne—such desireless, competition-less, equanimous one is a sannyasin. He alone is the bhikshu.

Let us do five minutes of kirtan, then disperse…!