Mahaveer Vani #51

That is why law never manages to prevent crime. The law always leaves a passage through which crime can slip. In fact, law only trains people to become skillful criminals. The unskillful get caught; the skillful keep traveling toward thrones. Law makes you clever, cunning, smart—but it does not make you non-criminal.

Augustine told the man: “So I’ll tell you just one thing, because a long list will not help. If you can love, then whatever you do will be right. And if you cannot love, then whatever you do will be wrong.”

Augustine is saying love is the only rule. The point is the same, because love is not an act; it is an inner state. One cannot know love by your actions, only by the way you are.

However many acts you perform, you cannot substitute for love. If love is lost, bring as many offerings as you like to your beloved, make all kinds of arrangements, build the finest house, plant gardens, gather all the comforts and conveniences—if love is lost, nothing can compensate. The biggest house, the grandest car, the most elaborate arrangements, a retinue of servants—none of it can fulfill. And if love is there, even if you are begging on the road, the event can still happen.

Love is inner. It is not about what you do; it is about the way you are. That is why love is nearest to religion. And if Jesus said, “Love is God,” it means just this: the way love is inner in our lives, when the innermost presence of the divine begins to dawn within us in the same way, we enter the realm of religion.

Take the sutra:
“Bhante!”
Someone asks Mahavira, a seeker inquires:
“Bhante! How should a sadhaka walk? How should he stand? How should he sit? How should he sleep? How should he eat? How should he speak—so that there is no bondage of sinful karma?”

The questioner is asking about actions: how to walk, sit, sleep, eat, speak. This is what Arjuna asks Krishna in the Gita: “What is the language of the man of steady wisdom? How does he speak? What is the conduct of one established in samadhi?” In the same way, some seeker, some inquirer, is asking Mahavira: “What should we do?” Emphasis—notice—is on doing: what should we do so that the bondage of sinful karma does not occur?

“Bondage of sinful karma” means: so that I am not bound, do not become a slave; so that I am not imprisoned; so that my inner freedom is not destroyed; so that within I can roam in the open sky; that nothing binds me, no event binds me; that I remain free, my inner liberation is not lost.

Understand this: the deepest longing of man is freedom; the deepest longing is liberation. Wherever you find that your freedom is obstructed, suffering begins.

That’s why whoever obstructs your freedom—even if they are friends—begins to feel like an enemy. Those you love, if they become obstacles in your life and bring dependence, love turns bitter, poisonous; it becomes poison. Then no juice flows in love; sorrow and pain are mixed with it.

There is nothing in the world that can give you happiness if it destroys your freedom. That is why sages have said that moksha is the supreme value. Understand what this means: to be free—totally free. Where nothing becomes an obstacle, where I can live completely in my own nature, with no compulsion.

Such a state of consciousness is man’s quest.

So that quest is not fulfilled by wealth, for wealth becomes a wall around you. It frees you less and binds you more.

Look at a rich man. He does not appear free from wealth; he seems bound by it. This does not mean that if you are poor you are free from wealth. The poor man cannot be free either. The one who does not have wealth is bound by the want of it.

So in the world there are not poor and rich; there are those who desire wealth and those who have obtained it—two types of “wealthy.” One to whom wealth has not yet come—he is a would-be wealthy; and one to whom wealth has come—he is wealthy. It is very hard to find a truly poor person. Poor would mean one who has no desire for wealth at all; who is not in the race for wealth. But such a poor man becomes an emperor. When wealth comes, it does not appear to liberate; it binds even more, binds tight.

I have heard: in Mulla Nasruddin’s village there was a rich man—like the rich, he was a great miser. You’d doubt whether he ever washed his clothes—washing wears them out quicker. If illness struck the house, he wouldn’t get treatment—because illnesses cure themselves and treatment is needless expense. He had invented all sorts of principles to save his money.

Then a magician, a showman, came to the village, and word spread that he was doing amazing tricks. His show was called “The Miracle.” Even the miser began to feel tempted. But he was in great pain, because his wife said, “If you go, I’ll go too,” and the son said, “If you go, I’m going.” So it was three rupees—one rupee a ticket each.

For those three rupees he was terribly troubled. But every day came news: a great miracle, an astonishing magic, never seen before. His curiosity kept increasing. At last, on the last day, when the showman was about to leave, he too arrived with his wife and child, and stood in the queue.

Seeing that the miser was about to spend three rupees, Nasruddin followed and stood behind him. When the miser reached the window, he began to bargain. The girl at the window said many times that bargaining was out of the question: “If you want to see, it will cost three rupees. And don’t delay; the first bell has rung.”

He kept putting his hand in his pocket and pulling it out. “Can’t it be done for one and a half?” he pleaded. “And anyway, there’s no one else—we three are the last; only one Mulla Nasruddin is behind us.”

The girl said, “Are you buying the tickets or shall I close the window?” At last he took out the three rupees—tears in his eyes—and paid. Nasruddin said, “Now I can go home; I have seen the miracle. There’s no need to go inside—the miracle I’ve already seen!”

Wealth grabs you; so does what we call love—it grabs and shackles you. Whatever we do in life tends to enslave us.

The inquirer asks Mahavira: what is that art—how to get up, sit down, walk, behave—so that no bondage binds us?

“Sinful karma” is the old name for bondage. It is an old language for saying, “So that our freedom is not destroyed and we reach the state of supreme freedom.” That is bliss. That is why Mahavira does not call Brahman the ultimate state—he calls moksha the ultimate. For where Brahman too is present, where there is still the other, a subtle bondage remains. Where nothing remains—only one’s own being, that final aloneness—how is that attained? But the questioner asks in the language of action; a seeker will ask in the language of action.

Mahavira said to him:
“Ayushman! Let the seeker walk with vivek; stand with vivek; sit with vivek; sleep with vivek; eat with vivek; speak with vivek—and sinful karma will not bind him.”

Here a revolutionary shift occurs. Mahavira’s emphasis is not on how to walk, sit, get up. He inserts one thing into all actions: vivek—walk with awareness, stand with awareness, sit with awareness.

It is not the posture that matters, but vivek. And “vivek” is Mahavira’s precious word. By vivek Mahavira means awareness, consciousness. But the Jain tradition misunderstood it. They took the literal meaning—discrimination. They thought: walk by discriminating, “this is wrong, don’t do it; this is right, do it.” That is how they defined vivek.

If you take this meaning, then the language of the ignorant questioner and of the enlightened master remain on the same plane. The inquirer was asking just this. So the pundits also felt this must be what Mahavira meant: “Walk with vivek”—that is, look carefully to avoid stepping on insects, on green grass. “Sleep with vivek”—make sure no woman is present in the room. “Eat with vivek”—that the food is pure, prepared with clean hands, with no impurity.

In one sense, the pundits’ meaning can seem right, because the seeker asked on that plane. But when the ignorant asks and the knower answers, the dimension changes; the ignorant speaks outwardly, the knower turns inward.

Understand: among all actions the emphasis is on vivek. Actions are secondary; awareness is primary. And vivek does not mean discrimination between right and wrong; it means awareness, non-stupor, heedfulness, wakefulness. If vivek meant outward discrimination—“let me not steal, let me donate”—then it remains external. But if vivek means inner awareness, there is no question of outward discrimination; let me be aware within. If I am aware within, stealing simply will not happen; there is no question of “not doing.” Giving will happen; there is no question of “doing.”

One awakened by vivek simply shares; sharing becomes his joy. One who lives in awareness cannot even think of snatching from the other, because the other has nothing to snatch, nor can anything really be taken from another—and there is no need to snatch, for whatever can be is present within oneself. The awakened one sees his own inexhaustible treasure.

A crucial insight appears: I am the owner only of what I can give; what I can give is my real wealth; whatever I hoard, I do not own—it owns me.

So remember: you are the owner only of what you can give. Giving alone tells you that you were the master. The miser is not the master of his wealth; wealth is the master of the miser. He who can give, can give joyfully! Note: the ordinary man can take joyfully, not give. Giving hurts; taking pleases. But if taking pleases and giving hurts, your life will be filled with pain.

When the inner revolution happens, when awareness arises, all rules change: giving replaces taking—it becomes the rule. Joy moves from taking to giving. So there is no question of stealing. No question of harming another. We harm others only because we are afraid the other may harm us.

Machiavelli said: before someone attacks you, attack him—preemptive strike is the easiest and only defense in this world. In the darkness where we live, better to strike first.

Before someone snatches from me, let me snatch; before someone hurts me, let me hurt him—that is how the arrangement runs in this darkness. As soon as one fills with awareness, the whole arrangement changes: before anyone can snatch from me, let me give—and be delighted in giving.

Jesus said: if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. And if someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, go with him two.

Christianity has not understood this saying. It came to Jesus from India—from the air of Buddhist universities. Behind it is not the question of charity but of awareness. The more aware a person is, the freer he is from grabbing and the simpler in giving.

Keep Mahavira in mind. Walking, standing, sitting, sleeping, eating, speaking—all are secondary. One condition underlies all: with awareness. If awareness is mastered, all is mastered.

I have heard: Nasruddin’s doctor told him, “Stop drinking. The intoxication is getting too much.” When the doctor took his pulse, his hand trembled so much that the doctor said, “It seems you’re drinking excessively! Your hand trembles that much!”

Nasruddin said, “I hardly manage to drink. Most of it spills on the floor.” The doctor said, “Enough! Stop now. You’re approaching a dangerous fall. It’s the alcohol that’s causing the intoxication.”

Nasruddin said, “I’m a bit of a scientific man. It’s not certain what causes the intoxication, because I drink alcohol mixed with soda. Who knows—maybe it’s the soda.”

The doctor said, “Have you gone mad, Nasruddin?”

Nasruddin said, “Give me a few days; I have a scientific mind. I’ll experiment.”

So one day he drank brandy with soda, the second day whiskey with soda, the third day another liquor with soda. For seven days he saw that in every case intoxication occurred—and only one common element was present: soda.

So he told the doctor, “You are mistaken. Whoever told you intoxication comes from alcohol is ignorant. I have tested every liquor mixed with soda. It’s the soda that causes intoxication. Now I’ll drop soda—drink only alcohol.”

Mahavira, out of experience, saw that the stupor behind every act is sin. Whatever you do is less important; the stupor, the unconsciousness behind it, is the trouble. The cause of stupor can be anything.

I was reading the life of the great film director Cecil B. DeMille. He created amazing pictures. At the time of his death he wanted to film one more scene—the creation of the world: how God makes the world in six days. It would cost millions of dollars. He bought a valley in Spain, made an enormous scientific set, a ten-minute extravaganza—how light is created, then the birth of the earth, then plants, then the descent of life—how in six days God completes nature.

It was so costly that it had to be done in one take. If the filming failed, doing it again would cost ten times more; it was a huge risk.

So DeMille placed four camera crews on surrounding hills, warning everyone: “In any case capture it. This must happen in a single try.”

As the engineered light burst forth, DeMille himself began to weep, so wondrous was the scene; he trembled, was ecstatic. When it ended after ten minutes, the first thing he did was call the first cameraman: “How did it go?” The cameraman said, “Forgive me, I’m ashamed to say it—I forgot to shoot. The scene was so amazing I started watching it, not filming it.”

True to his temper, DeMille swore a few curses. “I knew this would happen; that’s why I made four arrangements.” He called the second. “Everything was fine, but we forgot to load the film. When the scene ended and I looked into the camera, I realized we were pressing the shutter for nothing—there was no film.”

His heart began to pound. He called the third, fearing the worst. “I feel like dying,” the third said. “Everything was ready—film loaded, camera set—but I forgot to remove the cap from the lens. The scene was like that, DeMille! What could I do?”

He dreaded calling the fourth. But when he did, there was hope. “Hello, C.B.,” the fourth said; his voice sounded confident. “Any problems?” “None at all. Everything’s perfect.” “Film loaded?” “Absolutely.” “Lens cap off?” “Completely.”

“Thank God!” said DeMille. The fourth replied, “Relax, C.B. Just give a signal—when you’re ready, we’re ready.” It turned out that the confidence in his voice came from the fact that he was drunk. They didn’t even know the scene had already happened!

Mahavira says the root of all mistake, all sin in life, is stupor—unconsciousness. The cause can be anything: excitement makes you unconscious; anger makes you unconscious; lust makes you unconscious; greed binds you; ego grabs you—all make you unconscious.

Note this one thing: whenever any evil seizes you, an unavoidable inner condition is present—you must be unconscious. In anger you do what you could never imagine doing; later you repent, cry, wonder, “How did I do that?” Because at that moment you were not aware.

In greed a person can do anything. In ego a person can do anything. Filled with lust, a person can do anything. A frenzy takes over. Mahavira’s diagnosis: whenever you do wrong, what you do is not important; behind it one unavoidable thing is present—you were not aware.

So there is no question of changing actions; the question is to regain inner awareness, to drop stupor. Whether walking, sitting, sleeping, eating—do it with awareness.

You walk—your walking is unconscious. You don’t even know you are walking. The body does it; it’s automatic, mechanical.

Let alone walking. A man rides a bicycle; he may not be aware he is riding. You drive your car; when do you turn, when do you reach home, when do you pull into your garage—you don’t need to think, you don’t need to be aware. Habit does it. If an accident looms, awareness flashes for a split second; otherwise all runs mechanically.

You may have noticed: when an accident almost happens, a jerk hits the navel, the whole mechanism shakes, thinking stops—for a second awareness comes; otherwise all goes on in sleep.

Our life goes on in sleep. We are walking as if asleep. We don’t know what we are doing. We just go on mechanically. We eat at the set time, sleep at the set time, make love at the set time, bathe at the set time. Everything is fixed; no need for thinking or awareness.

Mahavira calls this a sleeping state—a kind of hypnotic trance, a drunkenness. And he says this is the root cause of sin. Because we are un-aware in our doing, we are bound. We love and get bound. We practice religion and get bound. We go to the temple and are enslaved; we don’t go and are enslaved.

Whatever we do, stupor gives birth to bondage. Stupor is the mother of slavery. Therefore Mahavira says: walk with awareness, stand with awareness, sit with awareness, sleep with awareness, eat with awareness, speak with awareness—and sinful karma does not bind.

Let awareness be threaded through every act. Let every act be a bead on the mala, and within let the string of awareness run. Whether anyone sees it or not, you keep awareness inside.

How to do this? It is easy for us if someone tells us to change an action: “Leave your shop, sit in a temple.” That we can understand—simple, because the one who grasps doesn’t change; the grasping remains.

You leave the house, you grasp the temple; the fist stays clenched. You drop wealth, you grasp renunciation. You drop the householder’s robe, you grasp the monk’s robe. The grasping continues; the stupor remains.

Outer things change; labels change; names change; inside remains the same. So it’s very easy when someone says, “Don’t be violent. Don’t eat meat. Don’t drink water at night.” Easy to drop. But if someone says, “Be aware twenty-four hours”—that is hard. To live even one second in awareness is tremendously difficult. Try to walk for five minutes on the road with awareness—you will find you cannot walk one second; you cannot raise two steps before the mind wanders. You begin again to walk mechanically.

The task is to break this inner mechanicalness, so that nothing happens without your knowing. Even a blink should not be without your awareness.

It will be difficult. It is a tapascharya. Only after great effort, after years and lifetimes of effort, does the capacity come, that integration and crystallization, where one becomes aware.

Gurdjieff, an important saint in the West in this century, a few days before dying drove a car at a hundred and fifty miles an hour and deliberately crashed it. The crash was terrible; he did it knowingly. He rammed into a rock, a tree. Around a hundred and fifty fractures—every bone shattered. Nothing left intact. Yet he remained fully conscious, didn’t lose awareness. When his friends asked, “What have you done? Why drive at such speed on such a narrow road? No purpose, no hurry,” he said, “I did it knowingly. Before dying I wanted to see whether, if my body is crushed, I still would not lose awareness. Now I am at ease. Death can do nothing to me; my awareness will remain. What more can death do? The whole body is broken, yet not for a moment did awareness slip.”

His disciple Ouspensky, at the time of his own death, took his friends in a car journey, not stopping anywhere. Night fell, still he drove. His friends said, “What are you doing? Three days now, neither stopping nor sleeping.” Ouspensky said, “I want to die awake. In sleep I don’t know whether at the moment of death I can keep awareness. So I will die while driving; I’ll keep driving. I want to die awake, so I know for certain that when death comes, my awareness does not falter.”

This is what Mahavira calls vivek. His vivek is not a moral notion; it is a profound yogic process. You do things without knowing. You sit on a chair and your leg is shaking. Can you say why? If I tell you your leg is shaking needlessly—because you’re not walking, you’re sitting—then the leg will stop, because awareness has come. But you cannot say why it was shaking.

Mahavira would say: if even a leg is to shake while sitting, shake it knowingly; be aware, for there is a reason—there is inner restlessness flowing out through the leg. You are sitting and keep changing posture—restlessness is shifting. There is a fever of restlessness within; no ease.

Know this restlessness and dissolve it—but consciously. Don’t let it run unconsciously, for that would mean you are not the master of yourself, nor can you be master of your actions. He who is not master of such small acts—can he be trusted not to steal, not to be angry, not to kill? Don’t trust him.

Do you ever think you will murder? Never. Those who murdered had never thought beforehand that they would. Psychologists say the ones who keep thinking of murder don’t commit it; often those murder who had never thought of it. In a fevered moment, in a fit, it happens—they press someone’s throat, and only afterward do they realize: “What have I done! What happened!”

You too can do it, because those who did were good people like you. Before doing it they could not have imagined it either. But it happened to them. It can happen to you.

The entire cause is present—you are unconscious. You are walking; you have never stolen, but if bundles of a million rupees lie there, the thief sleeping within will awaken. He will give you a thousand arguments, find a thousand rationalizations—to put your intelligence to sleep so that awareness doesn’t arise. You will steal. You say, “I can’t.” That’s only because the note was five rupees, not five million. Each person has his price. A poor man steals five rupees; a rich man steals five lakhs; a richer one steals fifty million. The one who steals fifty million won’t steal five—don’t imagine he’s honest. The one who steals five won’t steal five paise—don’t imagine he’s honest.

Stealing will not end until stupor ends. Your “price” can vary. Small people commit many small thefts; big people a few big ones—finish a lifetime’s thieving in one go.

Every human being carries all of humanity within. Every sin ever committed on this earth—you too can commit. The reverse is also true: every virtue that ever blossomed—you too can. Genghis Khan sits within you—and so does Mahavira. Both are present. Which one acts depends on which becomes active.

If stupor increases, you gravitate toward Genghis Khan; if awareness rises, you move toward Mahavira. In the moment of total awareness, what happened to Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ happens in you. In the moment of total unconsciousness, what happened to Hitler, Napoleon, Alexander, Genghis Khan, Tamerlane happens in you.

Both poles exist within you; the steps between are the steps of awareness or stupor. Go down and you grow more unconscious; go up and you fill with awareness. Filling with awareness, you rise. This is Mahavira’s foundational insight.

“He who sees all beings as himself, who sees friend and stranger alike, who has stopped all asravas (inflows, cravings), who has tamed his restless senses—him sinful karma does not bind.”

As awareness grows, you begin to see in every being the same flame that shines within you. As unconsciousness grows, you cannot even glimpse your own soul, let alone another’s. If I don’t know it within me, how can I know it within another? What I know within, that alone I can recognize without.

The first step of knowing happens within; then its rays fall on others. If I don’t even know that there is a soul within me—so unconscious that what is inside is invisible, the eyes fogged, drugged, filled with smoke—how will I see the other?

I have heard: it is raining hard. Nasruddin is driving with his wife. The rain is so heavy and he hasn’t turned on the wipers. His wife says, “Turn on the wipers; we can’t see.” Nasruddin says, “No point—I forgot my glasses at home; I can’t see the wipers. Whether they run or not, what difference does it make to me?” And he drives faster. A policeman stops him: “Are you mad? Racing like this! It’s all fog, and your wipers aren’t running.” Nasruddin says, “I want to reach home before the accident happens; that’s why I’m driving fast.”

This is how we are in stupor. And whatever you do, you do for safety. He is driving fast to reach home before the accident.

If such dense stupor is within that nothing is visible—not even your own being—how can the other be visible? Without knowing yourself, how can you know another?

Self-knowledge is the basis and source of all knowledge.

So Mahavira says:
“He who sees all beings as himself…”
This comes only after awareness.

“He who sees friend and stranger alike…”
As awareness begins, it becomes clear: no one is truly “my own” and no one is “other.” Those bonds arose in stupor: someone was “mine” because he fed my stupor, fulfilled my interest, served my exploitation; someone was “other” because he obstructed. One was friend because cooperative; one enemy because a hinderer.

As awareness grows, it becomes clear: no one can be a helper or a hindrance; no one can give me happiness or sorrow. So friend and foe become alike.

“Who has stopped all asravas…”
As awareness grows, the intake of sin ceases. Now we are eager for it; the moment news of some sin arrives, we are attracted. Our whole consciousness seems ready for sin. We relish it.

We look at the newspaper—murder here, robbery there, someone’s wife ran away—and we get stuck; without reading we cannot move on. A film in which everything is wholesome—no one will go. The unwholesome draws us. A story that only talks of saints—there would be nothing of story left.

Oscar Wilde said: good men have no character. He is right—meaning, nothing eventful forms around them; stories form around the bad. The good man is characterless, in the sense of empty. Nothing happens around him—no murder, no theft, no cheating. He is empty, as if he were not.

Mahavira says: as awareness grows, our intense attraction to sin—this asrava, this pull—starts falling. Our interest in sin wanes. Even if you don’t commit sin, when someone else does, you have relish. That relish is sin by proxy. Through another you enjoy sin.

Watching a film you identify with a character; that character lives your life for you. In him you express what you wanted to but couldn’t. It is vicarious living—a catharsis. Psychologists say if you watch a film full of blood and murder, your own urges to kill get some relief; you commit crime for three hours and go home light.

They even say such films reduce murder, not increase it—there’s some truth, for they give you a chance to murder without risk. A few rupees, three hours, and you’re back home.

Have you noticed—if a pornographic scene comes, you become sexually aroused. It should be studied. With brain monitors you’d see: when a nude woman appears, arousal spikes. It is a kind of proxy intercourse.

Nasruddin sits in a cinema, quite drunk. The first show ends; he doesn’t leave. The attendants say, “Show’s over.” He says, “Bring me a ticket here for the next show.” The second show ends; “Bring me a third ticket…” The manager rushes in: “Are you in your senses, Nasruddin?” Nasruddin says, “There’s a reason.” “What reason?” “There’s a scene where some women are about to jump into the lake after taking off their clothes. They’ve removed everything; only the last garment is left—just then a train passes and blocks the view. You hear splashes, but by then the train has ruined everything. They’re standing in the water; the train goes. I’m not leaving. Someday the train will be late! If it’s late by even a second…”

Man is eager for sin. Mahavira calls this eagerness asrava. As awareness grows, asravas wane.

“Who has restrained his restless senses…”
Understand this word “restraint.” In Mahavira’s time it did not mean what it does today. Today “repression” is what we mean, and Freud made that meaning clear. For Mahavira, dam meant calming, becoming quiet; daman meant so quiet that there is no movement. Not repression, but quietus. As awareness grows, the chanchalata, the restlessness of senses, subsides. Their turbulence is due to our stupor. When wind blows, leaves tremble; stop the wind and the leaves rest. You cannot stop the wind by holding leaves one by one. Even if you could, the wind would still blow. Stopping the leaves would be madness; stop the wind and the leaves stop.

Your senses are restless because within the wind of stupor blows. Only in awareness is there stillness. When the inner wind ceases, the senses settle. One does not transcend stupor by stilling senses; rather, transcend stupor and the senses still.

“Who has restrained restless senses…”
He for whom the senses have grown quiet—the bondage of sinful karma does not arise.

“First knowledge, then compassion—padhamam nãnam tao dayã.”
This sutra is astonishing. The Jains have not understood it, or have completely misread it. Nothing is more revolutionary: first knowledge, then compassion.

Mahavira says: nonviolence cannot come first—first is self-knowledge. Without the dawn of inner knowing, your conduct cannot be compassionate or nonviolent, because where knowledge has not arisen, violence is inevitable—it is a symptom.

Understand it well. A man has a fever. The heat of the body is a symptom, not the disease. A fool might bathe him in cold water to reduce the heat and imagine he has cured the disease. Fever is not the illness—it is just the sign. The illness is within: alien germs have invaded and the body’s own cells are fighting them; the fight generates heat; the body is a Kurukshetra. That heat is merely a message: do something, quickly. Cool the body from outside and you may not cure the fever—you may kill the patient.

Fighting symptoms is ignorance. You are violent because of inner stupor. Violence is a symptom, not the disease. You are a thief, licentious, sinful—these are symptoms. No need to fight them. Whoever fights them goes astray. He has not understood the first rule of the science of healing. They only announce that the soul is asleep. Awaken the soul and these will change.

No one becomes self-knowing by becoming nonviolent; one becomes nonviolent by becoming self-knowing. First knowledge, then compassion. But the Jains missed this and try “first compassion, then knowledge.” First practice nonviolence, vows, outer discipline—then the inner. They say, first outside, then inside. Mahavira says, first inside, then outside.

To get stuck outside is the greatest danger for a seeker, for one can remain stuck for lifetimes—and never be free.

Stop violence from the outside, stop the fever—the fever will start to come out from another side, more dangerously. The first outlet was natural; the second will be perverted.

Suppress lust from the outside—it will ooze out from another place; that second channel will be diseased. The first was at least natural; the second unnatural.

No one attains celibacy by fighting sex; when self-awareness arises, celibacy follows like a shadow.

Conduct is a shadow. Don’t try to pull the shadow—you cannot. Wherever you are, the shadow appears. If you abide in the soul, the shadow will be of the soul; if you abide in the body, the shadow will be bodily. Then whatever you do outwardly won’t matter. The essential work is inner knowing.

Mahavira says: that comes from vivek. As inner awareness awakens, inner realization grows. That is knowledge.

First knowledge, then compassion. In this sequence—this sequence is precious—the renunciate completes his journey of restraint. First knowledge, then compassion. But man is clever; he keeps extracting what suits him.

This sutra is hard to distort—yet I went to a Jain temple. A muni deeply wished to meet me. He could not come because the net of householders around him would not allow it.

It’s a great irony: the monk goes to be free from one household and gets entangled in twenty-five households.

The muni himself sent word: “I can’t come; the shravakas obstruct. They say, ‘What need is there for you to go?’” I said, “I will come, because no one can obstruct me. I put obstacles in the way of shravakas; no one can block me.” I went. I told him, “You are mistaken that shravakas obstruct you. You fear them for a reason: why not tell them simply, ‘I don’t know; I want to go and ask’?” You keep convincing shravakas that you have attained knowledge—when you haven’t. That is why you want to meet me.

He said, “Don’t speak loudly; they are sitting nearby, listening at the door.” “It is not they who bind you—it is your deluded ego that you ‘know.’” Behind him hung a board: “Padhamam nãnam tao dayã.” I asked, “Why is this board here?” His interpretation: “First comes scriptural knowledge—read and know from the scriptures—and then practice nonviolence.”

But Mahavira is speaking of vivek—awareness—not scripture. And Mahavira cannot be advocating scripture, for no one was more anti-scripture. He opposed Vedic authority because Hinduism had become scriptural—the Veda the supreme. Mahavira is Avedic; he says the Veda is not supreme. If a man says the Veda is not supreme, how can he make scripture supreme? And has scripture ever given knowledge?

So I asked him, “You have read the scriptures—has knowledge happened? If yes, your interpretation is right; if not, it is wrong.”

Mahavira plainly says: first knowledge, then compassion. First inner awareness—heedfulness, wakefulness, mindfulness—then outward conduct follows of itself. What you see as wrong drops away; what you see as right begins to happen.

And if you know what is right and wrong and still do the wrong and not the right, then your “knowledge” is scriptural, not knowing. Scriptural knowledge can be more dangerous than ignorance because it carries the delusion “I know” without knowing.

That’s why the pundit strays even more than the sinner. Sinners have sometimes been heard to attain liberation; the pundit never. Although the pundit keeps doing arithmetic; each formula he uses to solve the previous problem creates worse problems, and then he needs ten more tricks.

Nasruddin is traveling by train with his wife. The train is rushing at seventy miles an hour. In a field near a cliff is a huge flock of sheep. His wife says, “How many sheep.” Nasruddin says, “Exactly one thousand seven hundred eighty-four.” “What are you saying? You counted so quickly? Exactly 1,784?” “Counting directly is impossible,” says Nasruddin. “I did it indirectly.” “What method?” “Even a schoolboy knows the trick: first count the legs, then divide by four.”

The pundits’ mathematics are like this. The thing they use to “solve” the first confusion leads to more confusion; then they add more arguments. It is a web of rationalizations. But the basic error remains: no character arises without awareness. If you try to engineer character without awareness, it will be hollow and hypocritical—and such character may lead to hell, not to liberation. It will bring suffering even here because it is false, forced.

People come to me: “All our lives we never stole, never cheated—yet how is it that thieves and cheaters are wealthy and enjoying—on seats of power, prestige—while we, honest, suffer?” I tell them, “You are not truly honest. If you were, you would see more bliss in honesty than any palace could offer. Your honesty is a facade. You too are dishonest, but weak. The dishonest man is at least courageous; he does it. You keep brooding. You are cowards, not virtuous. You lack the courage even to be dishonest, yet you want the fruits of dishonesty. You want palaces without cheating. You ask too much. The dishonest fellow at least took a risk; he put something on the line; he could have gone to jail. He took a gamble.”

Risk is a sign of courage. You are merely weak, and you call your weakness honesty. You cannot be dishonest—that doesn’t make you honest; it only means you lack courage. If you were truly honest, you would feel compassion for the man rotting in palaces: “See, by dishonesty he got the result—he is rotting on the throne.” You would feel pity and rejoice in your own integrity.

Curiously, the dishonest never envy the honest; but the “honest” always envy the dishonest. This shows the so-called honest are false; their honesty is outer armor, not inner light. The dishonest at least are straightforward, not complicated.

A truly good man—his goodness is such a bliss in itself that why would he envy? He may feel compassion. But look at your “good men”—they are full of envy. They think their goodness has made them fail.

No one has ever failed because of goodness, and no one has ever succeeded because of badness. Success comes from authenticity—even if authentic in badness; it comes from commitment—even if committed to the wrong.

Truth is weak if commitment is lacking. But have you ever seen a hypocrite of vice—someone outwardly dishonest, a thief, liar, but inwardly pure? No. There are no hypocrites in adharma; hypocrisy exists only in “dharma”: inside—dishonesty, theft, mischief; outside—goodness, painted on the clothes while within is filth. Because of this hypocrisy, this split between inner and outer, the so-called good fail.

Success comes to the integrated. Even evil succeeds if integrated. When goodness integrates, nothing can rival its success; even if the whole world opposes, it will triumph. But we are committed in our vices.

Nasruddin is trying to sell a dog. A beautiful, magnificent, strong-looking dog. A man comes to buy. “Three hundred rupees,” says Nasruddin. “That’s too much.” “First, look at the dog,” says Nasruddin. “This dog is also ‘too much’! Look at his bearing, his beauty.” The man says, “Fine, but beauty and bearing get you only so far. Is this dog faithful?” Nasruddin says, “Don’t even talk about his faithfulness! I’ve sold him seven times; he comes back within twelve hours. Don’t worry about his loyalty—his faithfulness to his master is unshakable!”

Where we live, if there is suffering and we imagine we are virtuous and religious, there is a mistake. A religious person cannot have misery—it is impossible. Goodness has no connection with sorrow. And if sorrow is present, know that your “happiness” is false, a deception. Hence Mahavira says—first knowledge, then compassion.

“In this sequence the renunciate class is established in its journey of restraint.”
This is the sequence: first knowledge, then compassion. First the lamp within must be lit; then there will be light in conduct.

“Well, what can an ignorant man do? How will he even know what is wholesome and what is sinful?” If the inner lamp is extinguished, how will he know light from darkness—what should be done, what not—where to go, where not? He cannot have any sense of direction. Therefore awareness is the first condition.

“By hearing alone one knows the path of welfare; by hearing alone one knows the path of sin. Both paths are known by hearing. The duty of the intelligent seeker is first to hear, and then to practice that which seems wholesome to him.”

Understand this well. In Mahavira’s tradition, this has great value—so much so that he called his lay disciple “shravaka”—a listener.

Shravaka means a right listener. We all hear, so Mahavira seems to be exaggerating: what is “right listening”? If your ears are fine, you hear right. If your ears are impaired, you don’t—right? Mahavira says: right listening is when you drop thinking while listening; you only listen. All your energy and consciousness are in listening. While listening, you neither take sides nor oppose; you neither say “right” nor “wrong,” neither argue nor struggle within, neither compare with scriptures nor with your past. While listening, you become like a void.

This doesn’t mean that after listening you become blind. Mahavira says: first listen totally, then think. Let the event of listening happen first. Ordinarily you think while listening—and your thinking distorts your listening. What you carry away are your additions; what was said rarely remains. Your mind intrudes.

If the mind, your past junk, your memories attack while listening, what you hear becomes impure. On such impurity, no spiritual practice can stand. So Mahavira says: both sin and virtue are first known by hearing.

In the initial stage, standing in darkness, we will hear those who have reached the light. The first voice that reaches us in this darkness is theirs. By relying on that voice, we can also find our way out. But first listen—listen rightly.

Even with a radio we tune carefully. If two or three stations are bleeding together, you know you aren’t hearing right. With the radio we are careful; within ourselves we are not. Inside many stations speak at once. I am speaking—and within you many voices are speaking: things you have read, heard; the religion you belong to; the guru you follow; and you yourself are speaking constantly. You are not one—you are a crowd, a marketplace inside, a stock exchange. Nothing can be heard clearly.

Mahavira says: shravan—pure listening. When the mind is empty, just listening, not thinking, assimilating wholly what is said, so that you are completely cleansed inside; then think; then use your intelligence fully. Mahavira is not advocating blind faith. Do not think he says, “Accept what I say.” He says: listen. Don’t be in a hurry to accept; don’t be in a hurry to reject. First listen so that you can judge. Then think.

“By hearing one knows the path of welfare; by hearing one knows the path of sin. Both are known by hearing. The intelligent seeker’s duty is first to hear, and then to practice what seems wholesome.”

Ultimately, before practice, before entering sadhana, decide—but only after pure listening has happened. That is why Mahavira said there are four tirthas—fords—to cross to liberation: shravaka, shravika, sadhvi, sadhu—four fords.

It is a wonderful point: Mahavira said that if one listens rightly, even then one can reach moksha. Right listening itself is a great inner happening. Krishnamurti insists on this: right listening. But before him are people taking notes! How will they listen? They are afraid to miss a point to write down; a living man is speaking and they are writing.

I see a gentleman here too who keeps taking notes—he’s a writer, compiling books. He has no interest in listening, nor in understanding; he wants to collect material to write later. The living moment of listening is lost; you do something else when it is time to listen; and when you cannot listen later, then you will think—all will be distorted.

Mahavira says: if one truly listens—be a shravaka—one can go straight to liberation. If you truly catch the direction of the voice of one who has risen into the light…

Remember the difference: what is said is not as valuable as the direction from which the voice comes. You stand in darkness; a voice arrives. What it says is secondary; from which direction it comes—if you catch that, in a little while you will step out of the dark.

The words of Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna are not understood through meanings but through the sense of direction. From where does Mahavira speak? From what great void does the voice arise? If you catch that direction, you begin to walk the path of that great void. Then think, practice, decide—what is wholesome, what unwholesome.

The foolish decide in haste. The wise wait; they let it be assimilated; let it soak into blood and bone, so that the direction is felt. And direction is the real thing.

Mahavira himself is not the value; the direction from which his voice arises is. If you begin to sense that direction, you will see it is the same from which Christ’s voice comes, Krishna’s, Mohammed’s. If you cling to words, they differ—Mohammed speaks Arabic, Mahavira Prakrit, Krishna Sanskrit, Jesus Hebrew. The sounds differ greatly.

Pundits get entangled in the sounds; a shravaka fills with the sense of direction and moves. If you listen rightly, a radar awakens in you; it begins to catch the direction.

Mahavira is not the value; from where this voice comes—who speaks within Mahavira, what great void, what great truth—you begin to move step by step in that direction. Soon you will find yourself outside the darkness, surrounded by the great light.

Pause for five minutes, sing a kirtan, then go…