Mahaveer Vani #5

Dharma is auspicious. Which dharma? Ahimsa, Sanyam, and Tapas.
Ahimsa is the soul of dharma. Yesterday I spoke a little to you about Ahimsa; it is necessary to understand it from a few more dimensions.
Why does violence arise at all? Why is violence linked with birth itself? Why is it spread over every layer of life? What we call life is, in fact, an expansion of violence. Why is this so?
First, and most fundamental: jiveshana—the lust to live. From the very craving to live, violence is born. And we are all eager to live. Even without a reason, we are eager to live. Even if nothing is yielded by life, still we want to live. Even if nothing is gained, we still want to drag life along. Even if all that comes to our hands is ashes, we still want to repeat life.
A very remarkable book has been written on the life of Vincent van Gogh—its title: Lust for Life. Jiveshana. If a book were to be written on the life of Mahavira, its title would have to be: No Lust for Life—no jiveshana. Within us there is a mad, deeply deranged insistence on living. Up to the last moment of dying, we still want to live. And the more deranged this urge to live is, the more we want to live at the cost of another’s life. If ever such an option arises that I could be saved by annihilating the whole world, I would agree. Let all be destroyed; if thereby I can be saved, I am ready for everyone’s destruction. From this derangement of jiveshana, all forms of violence are born. Even up to the final hour, man wants to hold life in a tight grip—without asking: for what? What will happen by living? What will be gained by living?
Mulla Nasruddin was sentenced to be hanged. When he was brought near the scaffold, he refused to climb the steps. The guards were surprised. They asked, what is the matter?
He said, these steps look very weak. If I fall, whose arms and legs will break—yours or mine! He had to climb the gallows; the steps looked weak. He said: I cannot climb these steps; bring new steps.
The guards said: Have you gone mad! What use is it to a man who is going to die?
Nasruddin said: Who can trust the next moment! Perhaps I might be saved—if so, I don’t want to be saved as a cripple. And one thing is certain: until I’m not actually dead, I’ll keep trying to live. New steps are needed.
New steps were put up; then he climbed. Still he climbed very carefully. When the noose was finally around his neck, the magistrate asked, Nasruddin, do you have any last words to say?
Nasruddin said: Yes, I have to say something. This is going to be a lesson to me. This hanging will prove to be a lesson for me.
The magistrate did not understand. He asked, what use will a lesson be now?
Nasruddin said: If I get life again, then for the very reason for which I’m being hanged now, that work I will do carefully. This is going to be a lesson to me. Even with the noose on the neck, man is thinking about the next life: if I get another life, this time I won’t commit the mistake for which I am caught and being hanged—no, not that I won’t commit it—I’ll commit it carefully. So, this is going to be a lesson to me.
Such is our mind. At any cost, one must live. Mahavira asks: why live at all? He raises a profound question. Perhaps those who asked: why does the world exist? who created the creation? where is moksha?—these questions are not so deep; they are superficial. Mahavira asks: why live at all? Why this lust for life? And out of this very question unfolds Mahavira’s entire contemplation and sadhana.
Mahavira says, this very talk of living is madness. This very craving to live is madness. And from this craving, life is not saved; only a race begins to destroy the lives of others. Even if it were saved, it would be fine—but it isn’t. However much you desire to live, death is standing there—and it arrives. How many have tried to live on this earth before us? Ultimately, death alone is what comes into our hands. So Mahavira says: such a madness for life that we are ready to destroy another, and in the end only death comes into our hands. Mahavira says: I drop such madness for life by which I become ready to destroy the lives of others and still cannot save my own. Only one who drops jiveshana can be non-violent. Because when there is no insistence in me that I must live, then I cannot be ready to destroy anyone. Therefore, if one is to enter the very life-breath of Mahavira’s Ahimsa, that breath is the renunciation of jiveshana. This does not mean Mahavira longs for death—this misunderstanding is possible.
In this century Freud has identified two urges within man: one, the lust to live—jiveshana; the other, the urge for death—mrityu-eshana. He calls one Eros, the wish for life, and the other Thanatos, the wish for death. He says that when the wish for life becomes sick, it turns into the wish for death. This is true. People do commit suicide. So, would Mahavira agree? Would he say to the one committing suicide: good, go ahead? If jiveshana is wrong, then the desire for death and the attempt to bring death should be right? Freud says: those whose jiveshana becomes pathological, they get filled with the death-urge. They set out to kill themselves. Man appears to commit suicide. But Freud’s understanding is not as deep as Mahavira’s. Mahavira says: the one who commits suicide is also afflicted with jiveshana.
This needs to be understood a little.
Have you ever seen anyone commit suicide in such a way that his jiveshana has been destroyed? No. I want a certain woman and if I do not get her I am ready to commit suicide. If I were to get her, I would not be ready to commit suicide. I want to live with great prestige, honor and respect—if I lose my respect, my status falls, I become ready to kill myself. If that status returns, that honor is restored, then from the very edge of death I can come back. One loses wealth or one loses position and is ready to die. What does this mean?
Mahavira says: this is not the death-urge; this is only such a strong insistence on life that I say: I will live only in this way. If this way is not available, I will die. Understand precisely. I say: I will live only with this woman. The craving to live is so insistent that without this woman I will not live. I will live only with this wealth, this house, this position. If there is no position and wealth, I will not live. The craving to live has seized a particular insistence; that insistence is so deep that it can go even against itself. It can go so far as to be ready to die—but deep down it is the craving for life.
Therefore Mahavira stands alone in this world in saying: I will even grant you permission to die, if in you there is absolutely no jiveshana. The only thinker on the whole earth, the only religious seer, who has said: I will permit you even to die, if in you the craving for life is utterly absent. But the one in whom there is no craving for life—why would he desire to die? Behind the desire to die, too, there is the craving for life. Diseases do not change by opposite symptoms.
A hundred years ago, in allopathy there was a disease-name—dropsy; in a hundred years it disappeared. The name vanished from medical books, though the patients remain; they did not vanish. The disease disappeared because it was found that it was not a single disease; it was symptomatic. They called dropsy the condition in which the body’s fluids collect in one organ—say, both legs fill up, or the abdomen fills with fluid. The body dries up and the belly swells. For a hundred years it was assumed: one symptom—one disease. Later it was found: there are many causes for fluid accumulation, hence different diseases. It could be due to heart failure; it could be due to kidney failure. When it is due to the kidney, it is one disease; when it is due to the heart, it is another. Hence the name dropsy ended; now there are many distinct diseases. Symptoms can be the same while the diseases are different. By symptoms alone you cannot go very deep.
Mahavira gave the permission for Santhara. Mahavira said: if in a person the craving for life has become zero, then I say he can enter death. But he said: let him drop food, let him drop water. Even after leaving food and water, one does not die for ninety days—a normally healthy man can live at least ninety days. And the one whose craving for life is gone is extraordinarily healthy, for all our illnesses are born of the lust to live. So for ninety days he cannot die. Mahavira said: let him drop food and water; let him lie down or sit quietly. All suicides are done in a moment’s frenzy. If that moment passes, suicide cannot happen.
There is a surge of madness; in that surge a man jumps into the river, sets himself on fire—perhaps in the burning he repents, but by then it is beyond his hands. He drinks poison, and when it spreads and the agony starts, he repents—but by then it is beyond his hands. Psychologists say: if we can stop the suicidal person for just a moment, he won’t be able to do it, because the intensity of madness thins out.
Mahavira says: I give you the order to die mindfully. Leave food and water for ninety days. If even a trace of jiveshana remains, he will run away; he will return. Only if jiveshana is entirely absent will he be able to remain for ninety days. Ninety days is a long time. For the mind to stay in one state for ninety days is not easy—it cannot stay even for ninety moments. In the morning one thinks to die; by evening one thinks to kill the other. The mind for ninety days! So psychologists who follow Freud will say: somewhere in Mahavira there is a suicidal element. But I say to you: there is not. In truth, in the one in whom there is no jiveshana, there is no desire for death either. The desire for death is the other side of jiveshana—it is not the opposite, it is part of the same. Hence Mahavira made no attempt at death. When the urge for life is not there, the urge for death is not there. Mahavira says: if we throw away one side, the other goes with it. The meaning of Santhara in Mahavira is not suicide; it is such a vanishing of jiveshana that one doesn’t even know when one dissolves into the void. No wish to die—because wherever there is wish, it is a wish for life.
Understand well: desire is always a desire for life—always. There is no desire for death. Even in the desire for death, the desire for life is hidden—the insistence of some form of life is hidden. Hence Mahavira is not a suicidal man. No one who is that realized can be suicidal.
But it is true that around Mahavira many suicidal people gathered, many were attracted. And those suicidals erected a tradition behind Mahavira with which he had nothing to do. Such people did come who felt: fine, where else would one find such convenience for dying, such support for dying, such facility for dying? Thus there came those whose mind was sick, who wanted to die. Not because of the renunciation of the lust for life did they come close to Mahavira; rather because of their desire to die they came close. The symptoms were the same, but within they were different. And those who came with a wish to die became quite prominent in Mahavira’s tradition. Naturally, one who is ready to die has no inconvenience in becoming a leader. What inconvenience can there be? He can stand at the front in any line. And one who is ready to torture himself seems to be a great renunciate.
Remember, because of this Mahavira’s vision has had great difficulty reaching today’s world. For Mahavira’s outlook appears masochistic—self-tormenting. But seeing Mahavira’s body one does not feel that this man ever tormented himself. Seeing Mahavira’s radiance one does not feel he punished himself. Seeing the lotus bloomed in Mahavira, one does not feel he violated his own roots. I say: not even an iota of self-torture is in Mahavira. But a tradition of self-torturers gathered behind him—that is true. Those who could torment themselves, or were eager to, and many are eager—remember this.
There are two kinds of violence in this world—those eager to torment others, and those eager to torment themselves. In tormenting oneself some people get just as much pleasure as in tormenting others. In fact, in tormenting another you never have as much authority, convenience, and freedom as you have in tormenting yourself. No one protests. If you lay another on thorns, he can take you to court; if you lay yourself on thorns, no case can be filed—only honor can be awarded! If you starve another to death you may get into trouble; if you starve yourself, processions may be taken out in your honor.
But remember, the relish in tormenting is one and the same. And Mahavira says: one who torments himself is also tormenting the other—because he divides himself into two. He begins to torment the body, which in truth is “other.” This body that surrounds me is as much “other” to me as your body that stands a little farther away. There is no difference. This body is near me—that is why, I am not it. Your body is a bit distant—so it becomes “you.” If I prick your body with thorns, people will say: this man is wicked. If I prick my own body, people will say: this man is a great renunciate.
But in both cases the body is “other.” My body is as much “other” as your body. The only difference is that when I torment my body, no law, no morality will obstruct me. So the clever ones take the pleasure of torment by torturing their own body. But the juice of torment is one: that whom we can torment, we feel we are master over. Whom we can press by the throat, we feel we are his lord. Masochists gathered behind Mahavira. They poisoned his whole tradition.
There was a reason—Mahavira’s reason was different, but their reason got appealed to. The reason was this: Mahavira said, as long as I am mad for life, I will not be able to see in my blindness that I have become eager to destroy the life of others as well. And to be mad for life is futile because it is impossible. Life cannot be saved. With birth, death enters. What is impossible—madness alone pursues it. Death will be—decided the day life happened. Hence Mahavira says: the very insistence on life becomes violence. Understand this. As this is understood, jiveshana begins to become empty; and when jiveshana starts emptying, there does not arise a desire for death—there arises an acceptance of death. There is a difference.
The wish for death arises when jiveshana is wounded; acceptance of death arises when jiveshana becomes attenuated, becomes calm. Mahavira accepts death. To accept death is Ahimsa. To reject death is violence. And when I reject my death, I accept the death of the other. And when I accept my death, I accept everyone’s life. This is a simple arithmetic. When I insist on my life, I am ready to deny the life of others. When I accept my death completely—alright, it is destiny—then I am not eager to injure anyone’s life. Not even the life of the one who injures mine. Because by injuring my life, at most what can he do? Death—which is going to happen anyway. He can only become the instrument, not the cause. Mahavira says: even if someone murders you, he is only the instrument, not the cause. The cause is death, which is hidden within life itself. Therefore there is no need even to be angry with him. At most, gratitude can be given: for what was bound to happen, he became a collaborator. What was bound to happen. Once it enters our awareness that what is bound to happen is bound to happen, we do not get angry with anyone.
So Mahavira says: acceptance of death. And the great wonder—acceptance of death, not because death is important. Acceptance of death because death is utterly unimportant. When even life is unimportant, how can death be important? When life itself is valueless, what value can death have! Remember, the value that death has in your mind is exactly the value you give to life—it is a reflected value. If you say: I must live at any cost, then you will also say: I must not die at any cost. They go together. If you say: whatever happens, I will live—then you also say: whatever happens, I will not die. The more value you give to life, the more value gets established in death; and the more value gets established in death, the more you get into trouble. Mahavira says: if life has no value, death’s value also disappears. And in whose heart neither life has value nor death—will he come to kill you? Will he relish tormenting you? Will he be eager to finish you? Everything depends on how much value we give to anything.
I have heard: on a dark night Mulla Nasruddin was passing by a village. Four thieves attacked him. He fought with all his might—so fiercely that had they not been four, one or two might have been killed. In a little while, they forgot attacking and began defending themselves. Still they were four; after hours of struggle they managed somehow to overpower the Mulla. When they searched his pocket, they found only one coin. They were amazed: Mulla, if there had been even a few more pennies in your pocket, none of us would have been spared alive. For one coin you fought like this! We have never seen a man like you. You are a miracle!
Mulla said: there is a reason. It’s not a question of money. I don’t want to expose my personal financial position to quite strangers. There is no other reason. I would stake my life; the issue is of exposing my financial state—and you are strangers. It’s not the question of the amount; it’s the value given to money. Whether it is one coin or a million is not the question. If money has value, then the one has value and the million has value; and if a million has value, then the one has it too.
I have heard: Mulla went to a foreign land. He got into an elevator. A single beautiful woman was with him. He said to her: what do you say—will the deal settle for a hundred rupees? Straight!
The woman was startled. She said: alright.
Mulla said: what about five rupees?
The woman said: what do you take me for… what do you think I am?
Mulla said: That we have decided. Now the question is of the value—the price. I decided what you are when I offered a hundred; now we are fixing the price. If a woman can be bought for a hundred, the question is no longer why not for five. That has been settled—what you are. Now no need to discuss it. Now let me consider my pocket—how much do I have?
This is how it is in our life. Whether the value is a million or a single coin is not the question. If wealth has value, then the coin has value and the million has value. If there is no value, then neither the coin nor the million has value. And if a single coin has the value you impute, then its loss brings you just as much pain—and that pain too becomes valuable. If life itself is valueless, what value can death have! And if life itself is valueless, then what value remains in all its extensions! For one to whom life is valueless, will wealth have any value? For wealth’s value is in the protection of life. For one to whom life is valueless, will a palace have any value? Because a palace’s value is in securing life. For one to whom life has no value, will position have any value? Because the whole value of position is for life.
When life’s value becomes zero, the value of all its extensions becomes zero. The whole maya drops. And when life has no value, what value will death have! Death’s only value was what we reflected from life. The more we felt we must save life, the more the question arose of saving ourselves from death. When there is no more talk of saving life, then whether death comes or not becomes the same. The day my life has no value left, my death becomes null. And Mahavira says: on that very day the doors of nectar open—the doors of the great life, the supreme life that has no end.
Therefore Mahavira says: Ahimsa is the very life-breath of dharma. Through it alone the door of the deathless opens. Through it alone we come to know that which has no end, no beginning, on which no disease ever comes and on which no sorrow or pain ever descends.
Where there is no affliction, where death never happens, where there is no possibility for a ray of darkness to enter—where there is only light. Thus Mahavira cannot be called a worshiper of death; and none is a greater seeker of the deathless than he. But in seeking the deathless he found that jiveshana is the greatest obstacle.
Why so? Because in the fever of jiveshana you are deprived of the search for real life. In the wish to live and the effort to live, you never come to know—what is life.
Mulla is running toward a village. He has to give a discourse. A man asks him on the way—Mulla is going to speak in a mosque about religion, about God. The man asks: Mulla, what is your opinion about God?
Mulla says: I have no time to think now; I am going to deliver a lecture. Don’t involve me in rambling.
In the worry to speak, people often forget to think. In the arrangements for running, people often forget the goal. In the anxiety to earn, people forget—for what! In the effort to live, it never occurs—why! We think: first let me try, later I will look for the why. The very thought of why we are being saved disappears. We get so involved in saving, that saving itself becomes the end unto itself.
A man keeps accumulating money. Perhaps at first he thought—even why. Then accumulating money itself becomes the goal. Then he cannot remember why. He dies accumulating—and cannot say why he was accumulating. He can only say: now the accumulation itself began to be enjoyable. Living itself began to be enjoyable! Why to live—what is life—that all is missed.
Mahavira says: jiveshana deprives us of the real search for life. Jiveshana becomes only an arrangement to avoid dying—not to know the deathless, only to avoid death. We are all engaged in defense, twenty-four hours. Somehow, don’t let me die—that is all. Ready to do anything not to die. But what will you do by living? We say: first let me defend against death; later I’ll think. The effort to avoid death becomes the avoidance of the deathless. The effort to save life becomes an obstacle to knowing life’s essential, supreme form. So Mahavira is not a worshiper of death. He stops the race of jiveshana so that we can know that supreme life which needs no saving, which is already saved; which none can destroy, because there is no way to destroy it. Knowing that life, one becomes fearless. And one who becomes fearless does not frighten others.
Violence frightens the other. You save yourself by instilling fear in others; you keep the other at a distance. Between you and the other you hang many kinds of swords. If anyone even slightly crosses your boundary, your sword enters his chest. Even if he has not crossed, if you suspect he has, still the sword goes in. Individuals live like this; societies live like this; nations live like this. Hence the whole world lives in violence, in fear. Mahavira says: only the non-violent can attain fearlessness. And one who has not known fearlessness—how will he know the deathless? One who knows fear knows only death.
Thus the foundation of Mahavira’s Ahimsa is freedom from jiveshana. And freedom from jiveshana is also freedom from the death-urge. Along with this, what happens on all sides we have mistaken as valuable. Mahavira does not step on an ant—not because he is keen to save the ant. He does not step on an ant—or a snake, or a scorpion—because he is no longer eager to save himself. He is not eager at all. Now there is no conflict with anyone, because all the conflict was about saving oneself. Now he is ready—life or life, death or death, light or light, darkness or darkness—he is ready. Now whatever comes, he is ready. His acceptance is total.
Therefore I say: what Buddha called Tathata—suchness—Mahavira calls Ahimsa. What Lao Tzu called total acceptability—I accept all—Mahavira calls that Ahimsa. One for whom all is acceptable—how can he be violent? There is no prohibitory reason for not being violent; there is a positive reason—because all is accepted. Therefore, there is no reason to negate anything, no reason to prepare to annihilate anyone. Yes, if someone comes to annihilate him, Mahavira is ready even for that. Even in this readiness, note: there is no effort on Mahavira’s part—no careful inner posture of: alright, hit me. Even that carefulness would be a movement of life. Mahavira will not even be carefully ready; he will remain standing as if he is not—absent.
One more aspect must be considered. The more intensely we want to save ourselves, the more intense becomes our defense of things. Jiveshana becomes the spread of “mine.” This is mine—that father is mine, that mother is mine, this brother mine, this wife mine, this house mine, this wealth mine—we weave a net of “mine” around us. We weave it so that only within that guard our “I” can be saved. If none is mine, I become utterly alone, very frightened. If someone is mine, there is support, safety, security. Therefore, the more things you gather, the more stiffly you walk; it seems no one can harm you now. If even one thing slips from your hand, in a deep sense you experience death. If your car breaks, not only the car breaks—something in you also breaks. When a wife dies, it is not only the wife who dies; something deep in the husband also dies. A space becomes empty. The real pain is not from the wife’s death; it is from the shrinking of the spread of “mine.” One more place has broken, one front is unsecured; danger can now come from there.
A friend of mine—his wife died. He hung her photographs all over the house, on every door. He meets no one; he only looks at the pictures. One of his friends told me: I have never seen such love—wonderful love! I said: it is not love. The man is now afraid. Any other woman can enter his life now; by putting up these pictures he is keeping a guard.
He said: what are you saying?
I said: let me go; I know him.
When I asked that friend: speak the truth, think and speak—are you not frightened of other women now?
He said: how did you know? This is my fear—that I may prove unfaithful to my wife. So I have surrounded myself with her memory. I am even afraid to meet any woman.
The human mind is very complex. And now the rumor that has spread around—that he has so much love for his wife that two years after her death he keeps her alive in his house—that rumor too will support his security; that prestige will restrain him.
But I told his friend: this security won’t last long. When the real wife does not remain, how long can the pictures remain?
I have now received an invitation card—he is getting married. It can’t last long. A man so afraid cannot last long. A man so insecure cannot last long.
The spread of “mine” over objects and persons—Mahavira calls that too violence. Mahavira calls parigraha—possessiveness—violence. Mahavira has no quarrel with objects; nor does he care whether you have them or not. He does care how much attachment you have to them—how much you are holding them, how much you have made that object your very soul.
This Mulla Nasruddin is a delightful fellow. Many strange events happen in his life. He is staying in a hotel. He has loaded everything into the taxi; then he remembers he forgot his umbrella in the room. He climbs the stairs back—four-story hotel. When he reaches, he finds the room has already been given to a newlywed couple. The door is closed; something is going on inside. He cannot go without his umbrella, and he cannot go without hearing what is going on. He puts his ear to the keyhole.
The young man is saying to his wife: your beautiful hair—clouds hugging the sky—whose are they, baby, whose hair?
Baby says: yours, whose else?
“These eyes of yours, darting like fish,” asks the man, “whose are they, baby?”
She says: yours, whose else?
Mulla becomes restless. He says: wait, brother! Baby, I don’t know who is inside, but when the turn of the umbrella comes, remember—it is mine.
His restlessness is natural; the turn of the umbrella will come!
All through life, the worry is: what is mine—lest someone else become the owner of what is mine. The big question isn’t whose the object will become; objects belong to no one. Mahavira says: objects belong to no one. They never know to whom they belong. You fight, you die, you are finished; the objects remain where they were. That very piece of land that you call yours—how many have called it theirs. Have you counted how many claimants there have been? The land does not know; claimants come and go; the land remains. The claims are imaginary.
You yourself claim; you yourself fight the other claimants. Cases are filed, heads get broken, murders happen. The land remains where it is. The land does not know; or if it knows, it knows in another way: the land might be saying, this man is mine. The man who is saying, this land is mine—if the land knows anything, it would say: this man is mine. Who knows—perhaps lands run cases among themselves: this man is mine—how did you say he is yours? If anything knows, it knows its ownership. Remember, we all know our ownership—and we are so eager for ownership that if we cannot own the living, we own them by killing them.
Most of our violence is because of this. When a husband becomes the owner of a woman—makes her wife—ninety percent of the woman dies. Without killing, ownership is difficult—because the other also wants to be owner. If she remains alive, she will try to be owner too.
Keep in mind, in the future the possibility of ownership over women and men will lessen. If equality is given to women, the wife cannot be saved. Wifehood remained only so long as woman had no rights. Only by completely killing her could wifehood be saved. Only by total negation could husbandhood exist. Now if she becomes equal, there is no way to be a husband. At most there will remain the possibility of being a friend—because if both are equal, how can ownership be maintained? But equality too is difficult to maintain. It is to be feared that woman will not remain equal. Soon men will have to start movements claiming: we are equal to women. This won’t last long. Because woman remained unequal too long; equality is only the first step. The second step, to go above it, has begun. Soon you will see men take out processions claiming: men are equal to women. Who says we are lower?
Equality cannot last long—because where ownership and violence are deep, someone will have to be unequal, lower. Workers will fight and push capitalists down; tomorrow someone else will sit on top. It makes no difference. Mahavira says: as long as there is the craving for ownership—as long as jiveshana is so mad that it is not content without being owner—there can be no equality in the world.
Therefore Mahavira is not interested in equality; he is interested in Ahimsa. He says: only if Ahimsa spreads is equality possible. Only if the relish of ownership breaks will ownership end; otherwise, owners will only change. Changing owners changes nothing; the disease remains, the disturbance remains. The real operative form of violence in our life is ownership.
When Mahavira left the palace, we think—he left the palace, wealth, family. Mahavira left only violence. If you go deeper—you will see he left only violence. All this was the spread of violence. Those guards standing at the doors, the stone walls, the wealth and the vaults—these were arrangements of violence. This division into mine and thine—an arrangement of violence. The day Mahavira stood nude under the open sky, he said: now I leave violence; therefore I leave all security; therefore I leave all instruments of attack. Now I will roam unarmed, weaponless, empty, under the open sky. I have no security, no attack—how can I have any ownership? The non-violent cannot have ownership. If someone claims ownership even over his loincloth—that this is mine—it makes no difference whether the palace is mine or the loincloth is mine; that ownership is violence. For this loincloth too, necks can be cut. And ownership becomes very subtle—a man leaves wealth but says: religion, that is mine.
A friend of mine went to a Jain monk two days back. He must have told him what I say about Mahavira. The monk said: he must be talking of some other Mahavira; that Mahavira is theirs—not ours. That Mahavira of whom he speaks is not our Mahavira.
Ownership is very subtle—up to Mahavira. We will not give up violence even there—this is my religion, my scripture, my doctrine. Where there is “mine,” there is violence. One who drops the “mine” in every way—not only over wealth but over religion, over Mahavira and Krishna and Buddha—one who says: nothing is mine. Remember, the day one can say: nothing is mine—on that very day one comes to know: who am I? Before that he does not know. Before that he remains entangled in the spread of “mine,” on the circumference; he knows nothing of the center of “I.”
Understand it thus: Ahimsa is the formula for knowing the Atman. When all feelings of “mine” fall, then only I remain—then nothing else remains. Bare I, alone I. Only then can I know what I am, who I am, whence I am, for what I am. Then all doors of mystery open.
Mahavira did not call Ahimsa the supreme dharma without reason. He called it supreme because with that key all the doors to the mystery of life can open. From a third angle also, understand Ahimsa—then our sense of Ahimsa will be clear and complete.
Mahavira has said: all violence is insistence—agraha. This is a very subtle point. Insistence is violence; non-insistence is Ahimsa. For this reason the stream of thought that Mahavira gave birth to is called Anekant—the expansion of Ahimsa into the realm of thought. The perspective of Anekant no one else has given to the world—because no one else has understood Ahimsa with such depth. Anekant was born from Mahavira. The reason: Mahavira applied the vision of Ahimsa in various realms. In the realm of objects it became non-possessiveness, aparigraha. In the realm of living, it became acceptance of death. And when applied to the realm of thought—which is our very subtle hoarding—hoarding of wealth is gross, thieves can take it; hoarding of thought is subtle, thieves cannot steal it—at least not yet. Before the century ends, thieves will be able to steal your thoughts. Your brain will be readable without your knowing; parts of your brain can be removed without your knowing; electrodes can be placed within your brain; you can be made to think thoughts that you are not thinking, while you will feel you are thinking them.
In America, Dr. Green and others have done experiments by placing electrodes in the skulls of animals. After placing the electrodes, by wireless their inner neural circuitry can be controlled. A bull charges at Dr. Green; he stands in front with a red umbrella, a small transistor in his hand to control the bull’s brain. The bull rushes madly—seems he will kill. Hundreds stand in a ring. The bull comes right up to him—and the doctor presses a button. The bull goes cool, turns back.
This can be done with man, too. The scientific work is complete. Who knows, tyrannical governments may place them in every child’s skull—then no more disturbances. Press a button, the whole nation shouts slogans. This will surely be used in the military: press a button and millions die without fear, jump into fire without hesitation—and they will feel they are doing it. Though this is already being done in old ways—by stuffing the brain with stories from childhood—still those are bullock-cart methods. Now with electrodes it will be easier, more precise. Thought-hoarding has been safe so far.
Mahavira says: to call even the hoarding of thought “mine” is violence. Because whenever I call any thought “mine,” I slip away from truth. And whenever I say: this is my thought, therefore it is right—we all say this, whether openly or not. When we say: this alone is the truth, we are not saying: what I am saying is true; we are saying: the one who is saying is true. I am true—so my thought will be true. All the disputes in the world are not about truth; they are about the “I.” When you get into a dispute and someone says this is right and you say it is not, look within a little—you will see soon the question is no longer about the idea; it is about whether I am right or you are right. Mahavira says: this is very subtle violence. Therefore he gave birth to Anekant.
And if someone came to Mahavira and said the exact opposite of Mahavira, he would say: this too could be right. Astonishing—he stands alone on earth in this sense. He would even say to an opponent: this too could be right—precisely to him who says the opposite. Mahavira says: there cannot be any thing which has no portion of truth; otherwise it could not be. It is. Even a dream is true as a dream—it happens. What happens in the dream may not be true, but that the dream happens—that much is true. The untrue cannot have existence. So when a man says there is no Atman, there must be some truth even in this “no.”
Therefore Mahavira did not oppose anyone—anyone. This does not mean he did not know what truth is. Mahavira knew truth. But his consciousness was so non-insistent that in his truth he could include the opposite truth as well. He would say: truth is such a vast phenomenon it can include even its opposite. Truth is vast; only untruths are small. Untruths are small, bounded; truth is so immense it includes even its opposite. This is why Mahavira’s vision could not reach very far—people want definite statements, dogmas. People want to avoid thinking. Everyone wants borrowed certainty. Let some Tirthankara declare: what I say is truth—then those who want to avoid thinking will say: good, we found the truth; now our anguish is over.
Mahavira gives no such fixedness to anyone. Whoever sits near him—if he came confused in the morning, by evening he will be more confused. The more troubled he came, the more troubled he will return; because through the day he will hear Mahavira saying such things, assenting to such people, that all his definite foundations will totter; the blueprint of his whole house will collapse. And Mahavira says: if you are to reach truth, all your insistences of thought must fall. You commit violence when you say: this alone is truth—then you claim even truth as your possession; you shrink truth and bind it to yourself; you possess truth. Therefore Mahavira says: what the other says may also be true. Don’t be in haste to say the other is wrong.
Mulla Nasruddin was called by the emperor. People had reported: a strange man—before you even speak, he starts to refute.
The emperor said: this is unfair; the other should get a chance. He called Mulla and said: I hear you don’t listen to the other and, without knowing what he thinks, you begin to say he is wrong.
Mulla said: what you have heard is right.
The emperor said: what about my ideas? He hadn’t yet stated any.
Mulla said: absolutely wrong.
The emperor said: but you haven’t heard them.
Mulla said: that’s not the question—they are yours, so they are wrong. Only mine are right. It’s irrelevant what you think. You think—that is enough for it to be wrong. I think—that is enough for it to be right.
We are all like this. You may not be bold enough to call someone wrong without hearing him—but even after hearing, when you say he is wrong, you already knew he was wrong. You too do not say it after hearing—remember, you already knew. Only patience, decorum, politeness restrain you: at least hear him—though he is wrong anyway.
Mulla is more honest than you. He says: why waste time in hearing? We already know you are wrong—because all are wrong, only I am right.
This is the world’s quarrel. The emperor was amused and said: stay in our court.
The day Mulla began receiving salary, the emperor was astonished—whatever he said, Mulla said: absolutely right, precisely right, only right. Sitting at dinner, some curry was prepared.
The emperor said: Mulla, the curry is delicious.
Mulla said: it is nectar—it must be delicious. He praised the curry immensely. With so much praise, the emperor got it made the next day. But the next day it did not taste as good.
The third day the cook, thinking it an ambrosia, prepared it again. The emperor struck the plate and said: what insolence—every day the same curry!
Mulla said: poison. The emperor said: but three days ago you called it nectar. Mulla said: I am your servant, not the curry’s. Do you pay me or does the curry?
The emperor said: but earlier, before you came to me, you used to say only you were right.
Mulla said: I was then unsold; you paid me nothing. The day you stop paying, remember, only I will be right again. For now I say so only because of the salary.
This is our mind—our ego. Mahavira says: the other, too, can be right. Even your opponent holds a portion of truth. Do not insist—be non-insistent. Hence Mahavira made no insistence on any doctrine. He spoke as fluidly as no one else ever did. Therefore, before every statement Mahavira would say “syat”—perhaps. Even before you told him your idea, if you asked: is there Atman? Mahavira would say: syat—perhaps. He would say: it may be—lest someone opposite be hurt. If you asked: is there moksha? he would say: syat. Not that he did not know; he knew moksha is.
But he also knew that a non-violent assertion is possible only with “syat.” And he knew saying “syat” makes you more ready to understand. If he said firmly: yes, moksha is, the very rigidity in his voice would create a counter-rigidity in you; your inner stiffness would echo: who says—there isn’t. The quarrel of egos begins. All disputes are of “I.” Mahavira gave non-insistent statements—every statement filled with non-insistence. Hence it was difficult to make a sect. If one went to Goshalak, Mahavira’s rival, Goshalak would say: Mahavira is wrong, I am right. If the same man came to Mahavira, he would say: Goshalak may be right. If you were there, whom would you follow—Goshalak or Mahavira? You would go behind Goshalak—at least he is definite, clear; he knows. This Mahavira says: Goshalak may be right—he himself is not certain. Why tie our boat to him and sink! Who knows where he is going—perhaps, perhaps not!
Therefore, only an extremely intelligent kind of person could come to Mahavira—those who are non-insistent about truth, who could see Mahavira’s courage. But as time passes, those who come later do not come through understanding; they come by birth; they become insistent; and their insistence is dangerous.
A very renowned Jain scholar came to meet me. He has written a book on Syadvada, on Anekant. I was speaking with him. I said: the meaning of Syadvada is—perhaps right, perhaps not.
He said: yes.
A little later, when he had forgotten, I asked: but is Syadvada absolutely right—absolutely? He said: absolutely right. The man who wrote a book on Syadvada says: Syadvada is absolutely right; there can be no mistake in it; it is the word of the Omniscient. A follower of Mahavira says: it is the word of the Omniscient—there can be no mistake; it is absolutely, perfectly, unconditionally correct.
And Mahavira kept saying his whole life: the full truth cannot be expressed. The moment we speak, it becomes partial—speaking, it becomes partial; stating, it becomes partial. No statement can be complete—language has limits, logic has limits, the speaker is limited, the listener is limited. It is not necessary that what I speak, you will hear; it is not necessary that what I know I can speak; it is not necessary that what I speak is what I am attempting to say. Limits immediately arise, because statements enter the stream of time—and truth is outside time.
Just as a straight stick appears bent in water, when we take it out it is straight. Mahavira says: just in this way, the moment we put truth into language, it begins to bend; take it out of language into pure emptiness and it is complete; the moment we state it… Therefore, Mahavira says: no statement should be given without “syat”—say: perhaps this is right.
This is not uncertainty; it is only non-insistence. It is not that Mahavira does not know; he knows so well, so clearly, that he also knows statements become hazy. The ultimate experiment of Mahavira’s Ahimsa is non-insistent thought. Thought is not mine—only then it is non-insistent. The moment you say “my” with a thought, insistence enters. Neither wealth is mine, nor friends are mine, nor family is mine, nor thoughts are mine, nor this body is mine, nor this life which we call “mine”—none of this is mine. When distance arises from all these “mines,” when they fall, only I remain—alone. The process by which the “I alone” remains is Ahimsa. Ahimsa is the life-breath; Sanyam is the bridge; and Tapas is the conduct.
Tomorrow we shall speak on Sanyam.
So much for today.
But let no one leave yet. The sannyasins will chant in remembrance of Mahavira—join in…!