Mahaveer Vani #50

Three sutras that change life must be understood. First: if even one virtue takes root in a person, then all the other virtues begin to come of their own accord. If even one vice appears in a person, the rest of the vices start arriving. One virtue or one vice is enough to call into your life all its kindred. There is a familial kinship among virtues—and among vices.
Let one member arrive and the rest start coming. If someone wants to cultivate vice, it is not necessary to cultivate them all. One is enough; the rest will follow on their own. And the same is true of virtues. If one virtue finds foundation in life, if it sinks its roots, then all the other virtues come like a shadow. One who tries to cultivate many gets lost; one who cultivates one, attains all. The Upanishads have said it; Mahavira has also said it: when one is accomplished, all is accomplished. This is a fundamental law of life-transformation.
I have heard there was a trial against Mulla Nasruddin; and the judge asked him: Nasruddin, do you drink alcohol?
Nasruddin said: No, never.
Have you ever stolen?
Nasruddin said: No, never.
Have you been involved with another man’s wife? Committed adultery?
Nasruddin said: Not even by mistake. Never even thought of it.
Have you deceived anyone? Been dishonest?
Nasruddin kept denying. In the end the judge asked: So Nasruddin, is there not even a single vice in your life?
Nasruddin said: Sure, there is one—I just tell lies!
And with that, the entire catalogue of his virtues turned to dust.
One can drown them all; one can also rescue them all. Therefore one should not be anxious about the many. Each of us should find our own fundamental vice within.
Gurdjieff used to tell his disciples: Catch hold of the biggest weakness in your life, because that will become the ladder. Catch hold of the strongest weakness and set to dissolve it. Or cultivate that one virtue by which that weakness will disappear—your entire life will be transformed.
Consciously we do not know this sutra; unconsciously we know it very well. And we make one use of it that is suicidal. We do not fight our basic weakness; we keep fighting our petty weaknesses.
Changing those will not change anything. Until you begin to fight your foundational weakness, life will not change. You can change petty weaknesses; it makes no difference. A man can stop drinking; can stop smoking; can give up meat; can rise in Brahmamuhurta; can do prayer and worship; but if these have no organic link with his basic weaknesses, his life will not change at all.
How many people are there who do not drink. But refraining from drink has not brought them Moksha. If you too do not drink, you will not arrive at any better state than those who already don’t. How many refrain from meat-eating. But by giving up meat they have not realized the Atman. If you too quit, what will happen?
I am not saying do not quit. Nor am I saying keep drinking or keep eating meat. I am saying: seize the fundamental in life, that by which revolution happens. If the fundamental, the root, is not seized and you keep cutting the leaves, not the root—then by cutting one leaf four new leaves appear. If a man cuts a vice that is not fundamental, not rooted in the source, ten new vices are born. And you can keep fighting leaves your whole life—the time will be lost. In life it is necessary to search for the root.
And the second sutra must be kept in mind: each person’s weakness is different; each person’s vice is different; therefore imitating someone else is useless. Each person’s weakness is fundamentally unique—that is his very individuality. Therefore each person will have to cultivate some different virtue that cuts his basic weakness and transforms his life. Blind imitation is of no use. What is needed is a conscious analysis of life.
There is a man whose basic weakness is anger. If anger is the foundational weakness, he may keep giving donations, refrain from greed, even attain celibacy—no difference will be made. In fact, the amusing thing is that an angry man will easily attain celibacy. An angry man can drop greed. An angry man can lay down his life for anger—what is greed in comparison! He can destroy everything for anger; he can donate; he can take sannyas; he can become a sadhu; he can stand naked—he can renounce everything. But his renunciation will remain outward, until his anger disappears.
A greedy man can give up everything—except greed. And in giving up everything, greed will still remain. Through renunciation he will nurture a hope to earn in the future, in the next life, in Moksha, in heaven. Even in renouncing, greed will survive.
An egoistic person can give up everything. He will renounce precisely so that the ego grows dense, stronger. Tell an egoist to drop wealth—he can, if the ego increases. Tell him to drop position—he can, if the ego increases. He can kick a throne—if by kicking it his ego is enhanced. But if the ego is slightly hurt, there will be great difficulty.
I have heard, in Hollywood it happened: a famous film actress, within three hours of marriage, reached her lawyer and said: arrange a divorce. The lawyer said: Even in Hollywood’s history this has not happened! Three hours…! The guests at your wedding have not even reached home. The candles lit in the church for your joy are still burning. Why such hurry? What calamity in three hours?
The woman said: In the church he signed his name in bigger letters than mine!
The husband signed in letters bigger than mine. The trouble has begun. With this man it cannot work. Ego cannot tolerate even bigger letters. It can leave a throne. If the ego is gratified, it can leave everything. But if the ego is bruised, even a grain’s difference is impossible.
The seeker should first find out: what is his foundational weakness; what is his disease. Diagnosis is essential. If the disease is not correctly known, the right medicine will never be found. Diagnosis is half the therapy. If you grasp precisely what your weakness is, your pain, your vice—then around that vice all other vices are clustered. And until an arrangement is made to rise above that vice, the arrival of virtues will not begin. Meanwhile you can strive for lifetimes. That striving is like: someone has tuberculosis, but a cancer treatment is being given; or someone has cancer, and some other treatment is being given. Until the method and the medicine are linked to the disease, doing anything is dangerous; better to do nothing. Because the disease will remain, and wrong medicine makes a greater disease.
I see sadhus; I see seekers; they have no awareness of their disease. And they go on fighting, swallowing medicines, practicing sadhana. They do not know what has to be removed. Nor are they clear what has to be revealed. Hence after much effort, no result.
A third point must be understood: whatever basic disease is within you, that will be seen in others; it will not be seen in yourself. A disease can survive only so long as it is hidden. When it is exposed, it begins to die. Roots are active only while they remain buried in the earth; as soon as they come out of the ground, they begin to die.
To bring the root out of the soil is to arrange its death. The diseases in you can function only so long as they remain buried in the womb of the unconscious; you have no knowledge of them. As soon as their roots come into your awareness, their death begins. Therefore some paths say: to eliminate the disease, nothing need be done—only be filled with total awareness towards the disease.
Krishnamurti’s whole sadhana is: towards the inner disease, total awareness—complete, direct seeing—that alone is enough. Buddha also said: perfect remembering of your disease is deliverance from it. Knowing is liberation. Because just as soon as the root comes out of the soil, it becomes visible. When the roots come out of your unconscious, they become visible. The moment seen, they begin to wither. As the roots wither, their leaves, branches, flowers—all begin to die.
Hence keep a third thing in mind: you cannot see your own disease in yourself; that is why it is. But whatever the disease is, somewhere it will be reflected. Others function as mirrors. You see your disease in others. The egoistic person sees everyone as egoistic. Everyone seems to walk with a swagger. And everyone’s swagger wounds him.
It is a strange thing: why do you respect a person who is humble, egoless? Have you ever thought? The whole society respects the humble. They say: a great man—he has no ego at all. But why do all people respect the egoless?
The fundamental reason for your respect towards the egoless is your ego. Because the egoless does not hurt you; and however you may hurt him, he does not retaliate. The egoistic person offends you. The only reason for the offense is that your inner ego is wounded.
This actress, who, on seeing her husband’s larger signature, became ready for divorce—surely she harbored the desire to sign larger than the husband. That desire was hurt. Otherwise it would not even be noticed. The idea that someone signed larger letters would never have arisen.
What is seen outside is hidden inside. When the people around you seem sinners—whatever their style of sin—the diagnosis of your disease is there. Every other person in this world is a mirror. If we look rightly into it, the path of our sadhana can become clear.
Reflect a little: what flaws do you see in others; why do you see them; what things become wounds within you—just a small prick and your inner sore trembles and aches. What are those things? Exactly those in which you secretly take delight—but that delight is unconscious.
For diagnosing life this third sutra is essential: whatever you see in others, leave others aside and start searching for it within yourself. Keep these three in mind; then we can enter Mahavira’s sutra.
Mahavira says:
'One who does not say of others: this man is immoral; one who does not utter harsh speech that disturbs the listener; who, knowing that all beings experience happiness and sorrow according to their own auspicious and inauspicious karma, does not aim at the blameworthy actions of others but is concerned with his own correction; who does not become puffed up by pride of intense austerity and renunciation—he alone is a bhikshu.'
There are many points here. First: one who does not say of others: this man is immoral. Not only does he not say it, he does not even form such a feeling within that the other is immoral. What difference does it make whether he utters it! He does not even experience it within: this person is immoral.
But go to sadhus. In the eyes of sadhus you find nothing but your condemnation. They delight more in condemning you than in anything else. A sadhu, just by seeing you, feels bliss because, in front of sinners, he appears virtuous— that you are sensualists, that you are planning for hell, that you are lustful, drowned in bodily craving, wandering in the world, ignorant. In the sadhu’s eyes there is the tone of condemnation. And perhaps you go to him for this very reason; perhaps you respect him because you find your condemnation there.
It is a strange phenomenon: in this world everyone is attracted to his opposite. As woman is attracted to man; man is attracted to woman—this attraction extends across all dimensions of life. You are attracted to your opposite. The indulgent is attracted to the renunciate. The sinner is attracted to the virtuous. The sinner goes to the virtuous, but if the virtuous does not give him the sense that you are a sinner, the fun of going is gone. There is an itch which he likes to scratch.
So when you go to the sadhu and he condemns you—even if outwardly you feel bad—inside you feel good. This feeling good inside is a disease—yours and the sadhu’s. You will not like to go to the sadhu who harbors no condemnation towards you. Because you will feel no reverence toward him. You can feel reverence only for one from whom flows your disrespect; one who seems higher than you.
Therefore it often happens that people do not recognize the true sadhus; they recognize only those who are not sadhus. There is a whole business arrangement to the sadhu’s trade: the more he condemns you, the closer you will go to him.
Listen to the sermons of sadhus. The more they abuse and decry you, the more you smile and say: absolutely true! In truth, you never consider yourself in a state where there is any evil you have not done. When someone condemns you, you too feel he speaks truth—you may not accept it publicly. The inconveniences and difficulties of life are there—you cannot fulfill what he asks; but you agree with his condemnation.
In truth, you are so full of self-condemnation that whoever condemns you, you approve of him. But in defining the sadhu, Mahavira first says: the one who neither says, nor believes, nor thinks, nor feels that the other is immoral—who drops the very notion of evil in the other—that person is a sadhu.
But such a sadhu will not appeal to you. One who does not prove you a culprit will not seem true to you. If a sadhu accepts you in equality—neither high nor low; places his hand on your shoulder; speaks as a friend—you will stop going to him.
You are in search of someone who will condemn you—because you are absorbed in condemning yourself. But Mahavira says: this is the first mark of a sadhu. If this is the mark, then ninety-nine out of a hundred sadhus will not qualify. They are part of your illness. They do what you want.
There is a long queue in the world of those who go on hurting themselves; wherever they get hurt, they derive a certain enjoyment. The sadhu, in one way, gives you pain—because he says you are condemned, a sinner. The blazing flames of hell—those who developed these images, these notions—Mahavira cannot call them sadhus. If one must not even consider the other immoral, how then to imagine throwing the other into hell!
Bertrand Russell wrote a unique book: 'Why I am not a Christian?' His arguments… they are right; and one argument is truly important—Mahavira would agree. He says: in the Bible certain sayings are put into Jesus’ mouth that make it seem Jesus takes relish in hurling people into hell—that you will be tormented; you will be pierced; worms will pass through your body; you will be thrown into fire; fried in boiling oil; you will be thirsty, fire will be pouring, water will be near, yet you will not be given to drink.
Russell says: if these sayings are indeed by Jesus, then Jesus loses the very quality of a sadhu. For a sadhu to imagine giving such torture to the other—this very imagination shows he takes relish in the other’s suffering; it is violence. To call the other evil is violence; to think the other evil is violence. Certainly, Jesus did not say these words—they were added later. Because the compilation of the Bible began one hundred and fifty years after Jesus’ death. Those who compiled had such notions.
I am speaking here; so many are sitting here; if you are asked outside what I said—not one hundred fifty years later, now—there will be as many statements as there are listeners. It will be difficult to decide what I said. Because you do not hear what I am saying; you hear what you want to hear. You select; you magnify what suits you; you drop some, you keep some.
Eight disciples of Jesus gave eight gospels. All are different; in truth they are their own statements. What was written one hundred and fifty years later belongs to those people who wrote then. These were people who wanted: being Christian brings heaven, and whoever is not Christian goes to hell. Russell’s logic is correct. If Jesus himself spoke those words, he loses the whole quality. Those who conceived hell have revealed that deep within their minds violence is hidden. Yet the sadhu relishes it—but understand the cause of that relish too.
You are enjoying woman, wealth, palace. The sadhu left woman, left wealth, left palace—he is hungry, thirsty, naked, walking on the road. You enjoy all comforts; he bears all pains. The arithmetic is clear. If he does not arrange a future suffering for you somewhere ahead, it will be difficult for him to bear his own suffering. He will balance the arithmetic: future comfort for himself; future pain for you. And he will make it firm that the pleasures you enjoy are momentary; and the pleasures he will enjoy in heaven, in Moksha, are eternal. Your pleasures are momentary; your pain in hell will be eternal.
It is a strange thing: how can eternal suffering be the price for momentary pleasure? Russell raises that argument. Christianity holds that hell is eternal; it never ends. Once there, you are there. No exit. Eternal hell!
Now it is an odd thing: for momentary pleasure, eternal hell! It does not sit together. Russell says: if a truly just arrangement is made for my sins—even adding the sins I have only thought of—the harshest court cannot give me more than four, four and a half years of punishment. Eternal…! Surely the givers have a hand in it—an endless hell, with no end!
Understand the reverse side too: those who give up momentary pleasures will gain eternal bliss. How can the eternal be obtained by dropping the momentary? Arithmetic should be somewhat clear. Those who enjoy momentary pleasures get eternal hell; those who give up momentary pleasures get eternal heaven—someone’s hand is in that accounting.
In this world one gets only what one renounces. In the end all values become equal. If only momentary pleasures are renounced, Mahavira says, a heaven may be gained—but that heaven too will be momentary. If Moksha is desired, it will not be obtained by renouncing the momentary; it will be obtained by knowing the eternal Atman. It has no relationship with renunciation or enjoyment; it relates to Self-knowing. By knowing the eternal hidden within me, my link with the eternal is joined. Through the momentary body, whichever relations I weave will also be momentary.
The foundational mark of a sadhu is that he does not see evil in the other. Why? Because this can happen only when the evil has fallen from within oneself. We see in the other only what is within us—magnified; made large. Around us are roaming mirrors. The whole world is a mirror in which we echo and appear again and again. The day one becomes empty within of vices, one’s image stops appearing in those mirrors.
But you are of the sort that, if your ugly face appears in a mirror, you think there must be some fault in the mirror. How can my face be ugly! You are ready to break the mirror, not to change your face. This is what we are doing. Every relationship around us reflects.
When you find you have got a bad wife, it does not occur to you that this is the result of being a bad husband—this was bound to be. You can change the wife, change the mirror, but every wife will prove bad. It is fortunate, in countries where changing wives is not easy, that the sad realization does not happen that every wife will prove bad. Hope remains that this was a mistake; the rest of the women could have been good wives. But where divorce is easy, life becomes very dismal. Each time a man finds the same kind of wife he found before—because the chooser has not changed. So that which is chosen will not change.
Whatever you do, by changing mirrors you will not change. Every mirror will reflect you. You are so full of darkness that no mirror can send you light. When any sorrow comes to you from all sides, remember: the belief that people are bad and therefore sorrow comes—this is the common man’s belief. The belief that I am bad and therefore I receive sorrow—this is the sadhu’s understanding. This revolution turns the ordinary into a sadhu. Changing others is the ordinary effort. Changing oneself is the resolve of the sadhu. And the idea of changing oneself will arise only when in every situation I can see myself and seek myself.
'One who does not call others immoral; who does not speak harsh words that disturb the listener…'
Remember: whenever you speak harshly, you want to disturb someone—consciously or unconsciously; deliberately or unawares. You want to disturb. A strange thing: if you speak harsh words and the other is not disturbed, you will be disturbed. If you abuse someone and he keeps smiling, the abuse returns. He did not receive it. That abuse will pierce your own chest like an arrow. If you wish to disturb and no one is disturbed, you will fall into great restlessness and trouble. And if someone is disturbed, you say: the fault is the disturbed one’s; I did not say anything; or even if my words were sharp, they were true.
Even truth we speak only when it can injure. We speak truth when we can use it as a knife—to cut, to wound. Our truths are worse than untruths. The sadhu’s constant effort will be: whatever he says, whatever he does—why is he saying or doing it? What is the root within? Why do I want to disturb someone? Why is there the tendency to disturb?
Until you can disturb someone, you do not feel your ownership. Whom you can disturb, you become his owner.
Psychologists say: had Hitler received love in childhood, perhaps Hitler would not have been born. He received no love; he learned only one art of ownership over others—violence, hatred, destroying the other.
When you destroy someone, you feel you are the owner.
Remember, there are two ways to experience ownership. Either you create something. A painter creates a painting. Having created it, he rejoices—he has made something; by creating, he becomes a participant in God— in some sense, God. God may have made this whole world; he too has created a small world. A sculptor carves a statue; a musician discovers a song, sets a rhythm; a dancer gives birth to a dance. They rejoice; they are blissful—they have created. And they become the owners of what they create.
The creator, the srashta of a thing, is its owner. This is one way to be an owner. The other way: destroy something—break it, erase it—you also become the owner. If not Brahma, you become Shiva—but still you become a sharer in God. You can erase.
And remember, creating is difficult; destroying is easy. To give birth to a life is very difficult. To destroy a life—what does it take! Hitler erased millions. The more people were erased, the more he felt he was something. A sense of being God would have arisen in him. If he could have the power to erase the whole world, which he strove for, he would feel there is no God besides me—I can erase.
Religion and irreligion divide here. Irreligion is the effort to become owner by destroying; religion is the effort to become owner by creating. Both are ownership. But creation is love; destruction is violence. You do not erase only with a sword; a small word can also kill a person’s life-breath. A glance, a gesture, your way of walking—can break someone, can destroy him.
Mahavira says: the sadhu does not even speak harsh words—not even so much that anyone be slightly disturbed. And whenever anyone is disturbed, he experiences: through me something has arisen that created agitation. And he tries in every way to dissolve the agitation he has caused. Around such a man flowers begin to bloom. The energy of destruction begins to become creation.
About Buddha it is said: wherever he passed, trees flowered out of season. It is a story, but a telling one. A person like Buddha, whose entire energy has turned from destruction to creation—this is the symbol. If even out of season flowers came, nothing is impossible. It means: wherever this person goes, something will blossom instead of withering. The very manner of his being is such that things will dance, smile, be joyous, be delighted.
Mahavira calls this ahimsa. You may not eat meat, you may strain water before drinking, you may not eat at night—you may avoid violence in food in every way; but then violence will enter through other doors. You may begin speaking harshly; bitterly. Listen to the words of many sadhus: they seem extremely harsh. Their harshness we take as a sign of their detachment; their bitterness we take as a sign of their truth. This is wrong. From such reasons we have coined a proverb: truth is bitter. This is wrong. Because what becomes bitter is untrue because of its bitterness.
Nothing can be sweeter than truth. But only he has the right to speak truth in whom sweetness has been born; otherwise the truth he speaks is poison. You are filled with poison—whatever comes out of you will be poisoned. Even if truth comes out of you, it cannot escape you; it will become a poison-tipped arrow and wherever it goes, it will harm.
Nietzsche has said in jest: even untruth, if uttered with perfect sweetness, is more beneficial than that truth which is bitter. This is understandable. My own sense is: if untruth comes out of complete sweetness, it becomes truth; and if truth comes out of bitterness, it becomes untruth. Inner sweetness is the touchstone of truth and untruth. There is no other touchstone. Inner sweetness belongs to the one who has become empty of all capacity for destruction. From his soul, honey begins to flow. Whatever issues from him is truth; whatever issues from him is love.
Mahavira says:
'Who does not speak harsh words that disturb the listener; who, knowing that all beings experience happiness and sorrow according to their own auspicious and inauspicious karma, does not aim at the blameworthy actions of others but worries about his own correction…'
Each person—understand this sutra well. Because this is one of Mahavira’s foundational stones: whatever anyone experiences, whatever he does, is a part of his own internal chain of karma. If you abuse, that abuse pertains to your past; it does not pertain to the one you abuse. He is only an occasion. If you love, that too is the chain of your past experiences; it has no essential link to the one you love. He is only an occasion. Each person lives from within; outside are only occasions.
The stream of life comes from within; outside is only opportunity. But we think the reverse. We think: what is within—everything is from outside. A man abuses you—reflect a little. If your mood is bad, the abuse seems very abusive. If your mood is good, it seems a small abuse. If you are truly blissful, absorbed in meditation, the abuse will not even feel like abuse. If you are seated in hell, filled with pain, that abuse becomes the foundation to change your whole life—you will descend into violence and murder.
What is in the abuse! The abuse is only a bucket lowered into the well of you. If the well is dry, the bucket comes up empty. In the same way the abuse goes into you. If you are empty, it returns empty. If you are filled with sweetness, the bucket of abuse returns filled with sweetness. If you are filled with the fire of hell, then flames boil up in that bucket and come out. What the bucket brings up is not the bucket’s—it is yours.
Mahavira says: each one is living in his own world that is within him. Do not value the occasion outside; pay attention within. If someone is enjoying pleasure and someone is suffering; if someone is doing sin and someone is doing virtue—do not get disturbed. They all are moving according to their own karma.
Another point is to be reflected upon. Because in this century it has become a subject of debate—due to Christianity. Christianity has emphasized greatly: serve the other who is suffering; remove his suffering; lessen his suffering; increase another’s joy. The very notion of service is religion.
Under the influence of Christianity—Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Keshav Chandra, Vivekananda, Gandhi—these were all strongly influenced— in a deep sense, Christians. They all said: service is religion. They all said: if someone is suffering, try to remove his suffering. Mahavira says: if someone is suffering, he is suffering because of himself. You cannot remove his suffering. No method of yours can be effective.
This does not mean: do not attempt to remove suffering. It is a subtle point. Mahavira says: you cannot remove another’s suffering—this does not mean do not try. If you are trying to remove another’s suffering, your own suffering can be removed by that trying. The attempt that you are making to make another happy—it may not make the other happy; but the feeling that another be happy will take you towards happiness. The feeling that no other should suffer will liberate you from your own sufferings. It has no relation to the other; it is related to you. But a great mistake has occurred.
On one side a sect arose among Jains, Terapanth, which says: do not even try to remove another’s suffering, because Mahavira says each one is undergoing his own karma. So Terapanth developed very absurd doctrines—most absurd in the history of religion. If someone is dying of hunger, do not interfere. He is reaping his karma. If someone is diseased, rotting with leprosy, do not get into service. What can you do! He is reaping the fruits of his own karma.
It is perfectly true—he is reaping his karma. What can you do! It is possible you become an obstruction in the fruition of his karma, and he may not reap it properly; then what he would have finished today, he will have to finish tomorrow when you step aside. So go quietly on your path; do not interfere.
Thus, in the name of ahimsa, Terapanth produced a very violent attitude. The logic seems correct: if each person is reaping his own karma, who are you; what can you do; why get into useless doing? Save strength and effort for your own sadhana; do not turn towards others.
Hence in Terapanth there is no provision for service. The one who serves is ignorant—even sinful; for interfering in the other, obstructing the other, is a kind of sin.
This sprang from Mahavira’s logic. On the other side Christianity says: serve the other; try to make others happy. You can make them happy. That too is wrong. No one has ever made anyone happy. Often it happens that in trying to make someone happy, you make him more miserable. No one can take away another’s suffering, because suffering arises from inner causes. There is no outer remedy.
Note also the danger hidden in the Christian notion. If I come to believe that through my actions I can make someone happy or miserable, then the corollary is: others, through their actions, can make me happy or miserable. Then the whole thing becomes chaotic. If others can make me suffer even in liberation, what will I do? And in Moksha there will also be some people who want to serve! What shall I do then?
Mahavira’s logic is pure. He says: the other can do nothing—this is the basis of your freedom. Only then can the Atman be free, if the other is absolutely powerless to do anything. Otherwise there is no way for the Atman to be free. Hence Mahavira removed even God from his conception and said: if God exists, there is no way to be free.
People think: without God, how will there be liberation! Mahavira says: if God exists, there is no way to liberation. Because he can meddle. He is all-powerful. He made you; he can destroy you. He can enslave you; he can free you. If by his prayer and worship you become free, then freedom has no meaning. The Moksha that is obtained through prayer is not Moksha—cannot be. Because what another gives is not my freedom. And if another can give, another can take back.
Therefore Mahavira says: as long as the notion of God remains, there is no way to Moksha. So he put God aside entirely and declared each person to be the inner sovereign: whatever you are doing, whatever you are experiencing, whatever you are gaining or not gaining—you alone are the cause.
The person is the root cause of his life; all else are occasions. But this does not mean what Terapanth concluded. Those who developed Terapanth did not understand Mahavira rightly.
The feeling to serve the other will not take the other to happiness; but your effort will take you to happiness. Making another suffer will not make the other suffer—necessarily—but the desire to make another suffer manufactures suffering for yourself.
Krishna in the Gita says: the Atman does not die. He tells Arjuna: slay without worry, for no Atman dies. Therefore the question of ahimsa-himsa does not arise. Mahavira too says: the Atman does not die; no one can kill. Yet Mahavira raises the great question of himsa and ahimsa.
Understand it here. Mahavira says: when you commit violence, you do not kill the other, but by the violent intention you create suffering for yourself. You form the notion of killing; you are afflicted by that notion. The other’s dying does not create sin—because the other cannot die. But you intended sin; you filled yourself with the idea of sin; you wanted to harm the other, to take his life. You cannot. It is not in your hands. It is the law of existence. But you made every effort. From that effort, that thought, that feeling, that evil craving, you will create suffering for yourself. Violence will bring suffering—not death for the other, but suffering for you. Ahimsa will not save the other—because the other is already saved by his inner life. No one can save him. But the intention to save will blossom flowers of joy in your own life.
Mahavira says: whatever you do, is happening to you; it goes on happening to you. Therefore do not consider how others are—good or bad. If they are good, it is due to themselves; if they are bad, it is due to themselves. It is their private matter. Others have nothing to do with it. Whether they go to hell or heaven is their concern; there is no reason for others to worry.
The one who leaves concern for others and is concerned with his own correction…
We are all great reformers. You will not easily find reformers like us. We keep trying to reform the entire world—except ourselves. As for ourselves, we think: we are already reformed. The whole world seems spoiled—so reform it. Those who try to reform others create more mischief in the world than anyone else. They are the real troublemakers. They do not let anyone live in peace. They will change everyone. Their relish is not really in creating a good world; their relish is in the process of changing. Because as they change, they break, they destroy, they make new— the other becomes a toy, and they become owners.
Those very eager to change others are violent. The one eager to change himself is a sadhu. And the great wonder is: the one who changes himself finds many around him beginning to change; and the one who wants to change others finds no one changing. Go to the ashrams of sadhus where fierce efforts to change are underway; you will not see anyone changing.
Gandhi-ji would impose celibacy with great force in his ashram. Daily uproars arose. Celibacy never bore fruit. Even his private secretary, Pyarelal, got entangled—celibacy was difficult and Gandhi’s pressure was heavy.
As forcefully as possible, impose celibacy. But it did not happen. And whatever Gandhi wanted to impose on his disciples, they went exactly opposite. The last thirty years of history show: whatever he wanted, the opposite happened—simplicity desired, indulgence arose; he wanted a life like the poor renunciate, it did not happen. As for celibacy, there is no question.
Where is the mistake?
One cannot change another. When we try hard to change, we create resistance in the other’s ego.
Psychologists say: good children can be born in the world if parents lessen their effort to make them good. They try so hard that they spoil the children. Hence it is difficult to find the good son of a good father—sometimes the good son of a bad father appears.
The son of a drunkard may become a sadhu; it can be. That the son of a sadhu not become a drunkard is difficult—very difficult. Even Mahatma Gandhi’s son, Haridas, went exactly opposite. He was a valuable man; and because of being valuable, he went opposite. The rest were clay. Clay idols—mold them as you like; they do not resist. But life resists; it fights—because the sign of life is resistance.
Haridas resisted. He became Muslim; he began to drink. He called himself Abdullah Gandhi. He moved opposite to Gandhi. The cause lies in Gandhi’s effort. Gandhi’s whole effort—he would say: Hindu and Muslim are one. So Haridas became Muslim. And when he saw Gandhi felt hurt, he said: Why be hurt? If Hindu and Muslim are one, why be hurt? And he began to drink. Gandhi was hurt— a father will be; and the father had a great desire to make him good. The intention was good; but there was no understanding of the science.
So Haridas said: if each person is independent, then what I do or do not do is my affair. Why should anyone else be concerned? And why such attachment to me—your son? That too is possessiveness. That my son not become bad—there is ego in it. That my son be good—there is ego in it.
Haridas was fighting a good father. All Haridases fight. Good fathers are dangerous—because they try so hard to do good that resistance is provoked.
Mahavira says: the sadhu does not fall into the concern of changing others. This does not mean he has no goodwill. But Mahavira knows the arithmetic of life: goodwill can be effective only when it is non-aggressive. When I want to change another, I am aggressive; I am violent. After all, the other is other; he has his own private stream of life. If something seems right to me, let me become that. If by my being, the other is stirred and inspired, good; if not, it is beyond me. Who am I to take the responsibility of making anyone right? It can only be the ego of a good man—to make the other like me. Why? I have my Atman; he has his Atman. Both have their supreme sovereignty. Mahavira says: the one who is concerned with changing himself; who, even when he sees blameworthy acts in others and feels it is wholly wrong, does not fall into condemnation—that one is a sadhu.
The sadhu has only one way—non-aggressive living. His life’s flame should be such that if someone is to be influenced, he will be; and if any moths are there, they will come to the flame. If the flame runs after moths to catch them— even if moths come once, they will not come again. Such a flame is not trustworthy that chases moths. A flame means: it is, and moths will come.
Like a flame—non-aggressive, without insistence—living, changing himself, transforming himself, such a person is a sadhu.
'One who does not become inflated with pride over severe austerities and renunciation—he alone is a bhikshu.'
This condition must be remembered, because pride seeks to puff itself up by every means; it seeks many devices. I am a renunciate; I am not an indulger. I am meditative; I have attained Samadhi—these are snares spread by the ego within. Outer wealth is left; now inner wealth appears. Outer treasures are dropped; now inner treasures are gathered.
Go to seekers; they are all concerned about who has awakened to which chakra, whose kundalini is awakened—has it reached the sahasrar or not. They all keep accounts. They ask for certificates from each other: how far have I reached; have I attained siddhi or not. To what end?
To nurture ego is unholiness—no matter the cause. Allowing the feeling to form: I am something, special, above others—that feeling is the disease. It is very subtle; not easy to see; and it keeps growing. As people begin to give respect, it gets confirmed: it must be true, otherwise why would people respect? People place their heads at your feet—surely something has happened. Not necessary. There are many who need to place their heads; they cannot be at ease without bowing. There are people who relish bowing. Without bowing they have no joy. Do not worry that they bow for you. Know this: they have some relish in bowing; some exercise perhaps. They are bowing for themselves. It is their private matter; nothing to do with me.
But delusion arises. Because people are full of a thousand illnesses; they exalt sadhus. Once the ego starts forming, there is no limit; it keeps growing. As the confidence grows—people bow, people respect—surely I am something— difficulties begin.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was traveling with a stranger in a train. To start a conversation he asked: May I see your hand? The man became curious.
Everyone is eager to show his hand. It is hard to find one who is not curious about the future. Only one who has no desires is not curious about the future. If there is desire, there will be curiosity about the future. Therefore palmistry is an easy way to make friends.
Mulla looked carefully at the hand and at the man’s face and said: It seems you are a bachelor—you are celibate.
The man was amazed. He said: Amazing! It is true I am still celibate. How did you know?
Nasruddin’s courage grew. He said: Know? I know the nature of man. And not only this, I can see even further—your father was also a bachelor!
A little courage, and the trouble begins. And around you are people ready to boost your courage. Beware of them. Mahavira says so. He says: sadhu, beware of others; they are afflicted with their illnesses.
Some want to bow. Many suffer from inferiority complex—those who have a sense of smallness; who cannot stand straight; who are afraid to stand straight. They have devised a defense measure—bow. If you bow, the other does not attack. As soon as one bows, the other loses the fun of attacking.
Some live permanently bowed. Their bowing is their disease. Sadhus and renunciates find them everywhere. They bow instantly. Others carry guilt complex, feel themselves criminals. Not without reason—there are many crimes in life. Man is filled with crimes.
The guilty man always wants to bow. Bowing is a kind of confession, a sort of acceptance: I am guilty, I am sinful. But the other takes it as glory. He thinks: the one who bows is saying you are above, therefore I bow.
This man bows before a tree; this man bows before a stone; this man bows before a river. Do not trust it. He has no purpose with you. He is looking for an excuse to bow. He wants to honor someone because he cannot honor himself; a hunger for reverence remains. He wants to respect someone because he is not respected towards himself.
Let not the sadhu become inflated through his renunciation, his sadhana, his tapas; let him not nourish ego; let him remain humble. Humble means: remain a nobody. Whatever happens around him, let him never place himself in superiority over anyone.
'One who does not take pride in caste, in form, in gain, in learning (scholarship); who abandons all forms of pride and remains absorbed only in Dharma, in meditation—only he is a bhikshu.'
'One who, being a great muni, gives the teaching of the True Dharma; who, established in Dharma himself, keeps others established in Dharma; who, coming out of the household contrivance, forever gives up the kushil linga (blameworthy attire); who does not engage in jokes and mockery with anyone—only he is a bhikshu.'
Here are some precious and subtle points. One filled with ego will not be able to meditate. His thought will perpetually circle around ego—thrones, positions, prestige. His mind will be occupied counting the steps of ego. Only the one can enter meditation who has broken the ladder of ego; who has no journey left towards ego; whose path of ego is closed, who has said: I will not go that way.
To go into ego is to go outward. Because the ego’s fulfillment others can give.
Remember: if you are alone in a forest, you cannot satisfy the ego. The ego needs the other. Therefore ego is bondage—because it cannot be without the other. Ego is slavery—because one has to depend on the other—on the other’s eyes, gestures, opinions. Therefore the sadhu—so-called—is anxious: what will you think of any little thing in him; may you not detect some fault; may you not think this or that.
A Terapanthi sadhu came to me for meditation. I told him: your breathing will have to be deep; remove that mouth-band and meditate. He said: I can remove it, but please do not tell anyone. He happily removed it. He had no personal difficulty removing it. If there were, I would understand—if he said: impossible, because my personal experience is that it helps me. But he said: there is no help—only one worry: no one should know.
Worrying that no one should know is the worry of the non-sadhu. The sadhu has no business with others. Others will condemn him. Others will not honor. Others will not bow their heads. Why make them bow at all? The sadhu has no concern with what others will say. Public opinion is the concern of the non-sadhu. A politician is rightly concerned—his whole life depends on others; his very soul hangs on their vote. But the sadhu has no business with others. Yet we see that those we call sadhus are also concerned with others. They too are part of politics; they have nothing to do with religion.
Mahavira says: the one who drops pride, ego, the dependency on others’ opinions—only he can lean towards meditation. Ego takes you outward, to the other; meditation takes you inward, to yourself. The sadhu is the one absorbed in meditation. The non-sadhu is the one absorbed in pride. Meditation and pride are opposite dimensions.
'Who gives the teaching of the Aryapada, the True Dharma…'
What does Mahavira call the True Dharma? He calls True Dharma that which is self-experienced. Otherwise it is pedantry; it is borrowed, stale.
Truth cannot be stale. Truth cannot be borrowed. If borrowed, it is not truth. You can memorize the Gita, but if you preach the Gita by memorization, it will not be True Dharma—until you have become Krishna. Until the Gita begins to flow spontaneously from you, only then is it True Dharma. Where there is the true master, only there can be True Dharma.
So the mark of a sadhu is: he does not explain the borrowed; he does not expound the stale; not the much-trodden; not the trash. That trash may once have been precious, when it first took birth. But our conditions are such…
I have heard: every winter Mulla Nasruddin wears the same coat. People have seen this for fifty years. The coat has become so filthy, it reeks. Patches all over. A ruin in the name of a coat. At last a friend said: Nasruddin, we saw your father too. What a stately man he was! What clothes he wore! He had clothes brought from far and wide! And you keep wearing this coat?
Ah, said Nasruddin: Lo, this is the very coat my father wore!
When Mahavira speaks something, it is alive. When a Jain pandit repeats it, it is dead—the same coat, perhaps.
Mahavira says: the sadhu gives the teaching of the True Dharma. True Dharma means: what has been known, lived; what has become alive; what is truth for oneself. What is not truth for me—how can it be truth for you? What is stale for me will be even staler for you. One more hand has passed. People do not like to wear someone else’s shoes! Who would wear borrowed shoes? Yet people wear other people’s souls. They fear even shoes, but have no difficulty wearing others’ souls.
The sadhu will not wear borrowed things. He will search. And certainly, when someone discovers the line of Dharma within, it will be the same as Mahavira’s, Buddha’s, Krishna’s. There will be no difference. But the discovery must be one’s own.
We are like small children. Their arithmetic books have answers at the back— quickly they turn and see. The answer comes into their hand, but the method does not; what is the value of the answer! And the child writes out the method to fit the answer. But it is always wrong; it will be. The method must be discovered; the answer comes on its own.
True Dharma means: known by method, by one’s own sadhana; teaching only that which one has known.
Remember, unrighteousness in the world would diminish if those who have not known would stop preaching. Because of them there is great trouble. The world’s irreligion does not arise from irreligious people, but from dead religious people. Those who have no light of life; who are filled with inner darkness, and whose talk floats with words of light; in whose inside is death while they speak of nectar—from them irreligion spreads—not from the irreligious, but from the falsely religious.
Who, being established in Dharma himself, establishes others in Dharma—this is the condition. 'Who, leaving the contrivance of household life, forever gives up the kushil linga…' This kushil linga is to be understood. Mahavira says: whatever attire you wear is not without reason; there is an inner motive; your lust works through it.
A prostitute walks on the street—her clothes are inviting. She has gone to sell her body—she does not cover the body with clothes; she reveals it. The clothes do not hide; they display; they highlight the body. If a prostitute walks thus— understandable. But a woman who says: I am for my husband alone, apart from my husband there is no one in my mind—if she too walks like a prostitute, exposing the body on the street, it seems odd.
Because a prostitute stands in the bazaar; she must invite customers. Why is this housewife standing like a prostitute in the bazaar? Unknowingly, unconsciously, she too is a prostitute. Her relationship with her husband is outer; on the surface; conscious—not in the unconscious. In the unconscious she is still interested in other men. If others are attracted to her, she feels good. Her gait becomes faster. If no one is attracted, she slows. The invitation of others is hidden within her.
Mahavira says: whatever we wear, the way we sit and rise—our lust is working in all of it. He calls such attire kushil linga—attire that does not give rise to shila, to decorum.
Clothes should be such that they do not arouse lust in oneself or in others. Sitting and rising should be such that they do not emphasize the body but express the soul. But a mind filled with lust does not even know—things go on unconsciously.
Freud analyzed a lot. He says: our cars, long cars, are phallic—they are symbols of the generative organ. When someone rides fast in a long car that resembles the generative organ, he experiences the same thrill as a man with a woman in intercourse.
It is an odd thing: impotent people like to drive very fast. From Freud’s lifetime of experience, since the impotent lacks his own organ of pleasure, he starts living with a symbolic organ. In the West, cars become more important than one’s wife. A man does not care as much for his wife as for his car. If the wife is lost, another can be found easily; the car has become a more intimate relationship. Relationships with animals arise, with things arise. Lust runs through everything we do.
Mulla Nasruddin went to his psychiatrist, distressed. The doctor asked: what is your problem? Nasruddin said: forgive me, you will not feel offended? You will not condemn me greatly? I have fallen in love with a horse. The doctor said: there is nothing to be so anxious about. Many people have affection for animals. I myself love my dog very much. Nasruddin said: You did not understand. I love my horse very romantically, just like one would love a woman.
The doctor became a little worried. Still he maintained professional composure and asked: this horse—is it male or female?
Nasruddin said: Female, of course! What do you think, am I a fool?
To love a horse did not seem foolish to him; to love a male horse did.
Deep unconscious lust divides the whole world into two—male and female; the whole world. Those things which attract you—if you are a man there is something feminine in them; if you are a woman, something masculine—then you are attracted. Men and women’s preferences carry the opposite— in everything. Therefore a man does not prefer a jeep as much as a delicate, well-contoured car. The jeep seems masculine; the well-contoured car with rounded parts seems feminine.
Mahavira says: every act of ours is influenced by our lusts. Only the sadhu is one who abandons all forms of kushil linga. In every manner of his conduct—clothes, sitting, rising, food, likes and dislikes—he separates out the element of lust and installs the element of shila.
'Who does not make fun of anyone…'
This needs to be understood. Freud worked much on this. His finding: we make fun of someone only when we want to harm him indirectly. Our joking, too, is part of our violence. What you cannot say directly you say as a joke. In a joke it will be forgiven—you can say: only joking, nothing serious. If you say it directly, it may be unforgivable; there may be trouble.
Our joking is not without cause; its mental reasons are behind it. Someone asked me yesterday: in Europe jokes about Jews are the most prevalent—like in India, jokes about Sardars. Why is it so? I said: there is a reason. Jews have many capacities. They evoke jealousy. That jealousy is avenged by joking. Compete with a Jew in wealth—you will not win. Compete in cleverness—you will lose.
In the last hundred years, Jews have won the most Nobel prizes. The three greatest minds of this century—Einstein, Freud, and Marx—are all Jews. Jews evoke jealousy. There is no direct way to take revenge; revenge is taken by jokes. Through jokes about Jews, nothing is learned about Jews; we learn about those who tell them. Many have many kinds of hurt with Sardars. He seems more powerful, more masculine. A way to win is not visible. About a Gujarati—who will joke? There is no reason. Reasons are needed.
Jokes are our revenge. We take them against those towards whom some pain is creeping inside. If that pain has no direct remedy, we manufacture satire.
But the sadhu, Mahavira says, does not engage in anyone’s joking. What is the point? He has no competition with anyone; no rivalry. Hence there is no question of taking hidden revenge. This is a deep insight of Mahavira, one no scripture before Freud caught so clearly.
No other scripture in the world made it a rule that a sadhu not engage in others’ joking. Only Mahavira said so.
Surely Mahavira had a deep realization: when one satirizes another, hidden violence lies behind. Watch yourself: when you begin to joke about someone, what do you want inside? You want to show him down. Finding no straight way, you take the indirect.
A sadhu can joke about himself; he can satirize himself. Mahavira would certainly have called Bernard Shaw a sadhu. One day, after his play ended—astonishing play— everyone clapped and cheered except one. That man stood and said: Shaw, your play stinks! For a moment there was silence. People were startled: now what?
Shaw said: I completely agree with you; but what can we two do against this great majority!
A man can laugh at himself only if he is that assured about himself. The effort to laugh at the other, to pull him down through satire, is the mark of a petty mind.
'In this way, the bhikshu who keeps himself always on the path of welfare leaves forever the dwelling in this impure and transient body, cuts completely the fetters of birth and death, and attains the non-returning state (Moksha).'
He attains the point of no return—from where there is no falling back. Such a way of living gradually separates one from the body. It becomes clear: I am not the body. He begins to identify with consciousness. Gradually the lamp’s casing falls away and only the remembrance of the flame remains. When complete unity with the flame is attained, there is no need to take up a body again. The free flame— freed from the body—is called liberation.
Mahavira says: such flames remain absorbed in eternal bliss at the ultimate boundary of the Lok—at the final limit. Mahavira divides existence in two: Lok and Alok. Lok is what we know, what science can study. Alok is that into which there is no entry.
Even here Mahavira is astonishing. Just recently scientists have discovered: opposite to this universe there must be an anti-universe. Because nothing exists without its opposite. Our universe—the suns, moons, stars— alongside it there must be a realm with the opposite process, adjacent to it; but we cannot enter it, because all our means of entry belong to the Lok alone.
Twenty-five centuries ago Mahavira said two things: one, there is the Lok, which we know; and there is the Alok, which we can never know. Its existence is necessary because the world does not exist without duality. The liberated soul, freed from the body, abides at the boundary between Lok and Alok. Freed from the Lok, between matter and the void, the bodiless consciousness remains forever absorbed in bliss.
This stream of eternal joy becomes available to those who remain engaged in freeing themselves from the petty, transient body. One engaged thus is a sadhu; one who attains the completion of this effort is a siddha.
Let us pause for five minutes, sing, and then disperse…