Mahaveer Vani #52

The Atman trailing behind the body like a shadow is lack of samyam. When the current of the Atman that rushes towards the body is checked, comes to a standstill, turns back and dissolves into itself; when the Atman is no longer a slave but becomes the master—this state is called samyam.
It is necessary to understand this rightly, because Mahavira’s entire path of sadhana is the path of samyam. Samyam does not mean suppressing the body; for that which we suppress, suppresses us as well.
If you sit upon a person’s chest and press him down, it is true you are sitting on his chest, and it is true he is pinned beneath you—but you also cannot get up from there. For the moment you rise he will be free. So you must remain lying where he lies. To go on holding him down will mean that you also cannot move an inch beyond him.
Hence those who suppress the body do not become the masters of the body; they merely fall into the delusion of ownership. And wherever they keep the body pressed down, there their Atman also gets halted, gets stuck. That is why the so‑called monk is bound to the body just as the so‑called householder is bound.
The one tied to the house is called a householder. Your body is your house, in which consciousness is residing. Whether this ownership of the body is exercised for indulgence upon you or for yoga upon you—in both cases it is asamyam, lack of samyam.
Samyam means: such a clearing within me that my consciousness becomes clear; the body becomes clear; no bridge remains between the two, no relationship remains—neither of indulgence nor of yoga. Therefore Mahavira does not use the word “yoga.” In fact, you will be surprised to know that Mahavira does not give the word yoga the meaning of man’s union with the Supreme as Patanjali does.
Mahavira says, yoga means the world, man’s union with the body. Therefore Mahavira has called the ultimate state “ayogi”—where all relationship drops. Yoga means joining. As long as body and Atman are joined, there is yoga. The day the bridge between body and Atman breaks, the day their relationship falls apart, that day—ayoga!
Therefore Mahavira has called ayoga the supreme state, where no relationships remain, all joinings are broken.
Repression, suppression cannot be the path to this ayoga. The path to achieve this samyam is awakening, is knowing—Mahavira says: it is vivek—the precise and clear discernment that the body is separate and I am separate.
One who gains this discernment neither indulges the body nor suppresses the body. He does not establish any relationship with the body. If he eats, the body eats—he simply keeps looking within. If he falls ill, the body falls ill—he simply keeps looking within. In every condition he remains established in ayoga. He remains the witness within. Whether the body lives or dies, hungers or is filled, whether the body is comfortable or uncomfortable—everything happens to the body. Whatever happens in this world, happens with the body, not with me.
A distance, a space opens between me and the body—that distance is called samyam. The indulgent cannot create that distance, because he enjoys through the body. And whatever we use as a medium for enjoyment, to that we get joined. Nor can the so‑called yogi create that distance, because he fights through the body. And with whatever we fight, to that also we get bound.
One comes into relationship with a friend, and also with an enemy. Enmity is also a kind of relationship. As friendship is a relationship, so is enmity. So those who keep a friendly attitude toward the body, who indulge, are bound; those who keep a hostile attitude toward the body are equally bound. One is bound by love, the other by hate—but the bondage remains.
Mahavira calls it samyam when no bondage remains—neither of friendship nor of enmity. There is no savor in the body, and no disgust for the body. No raga toward the body, and no viraga either. The body is separate, I am separate—such a clear realization is called samyam.
We have been living in the body birth after birth, yet we do not know that we are living in the body. Our identity with the body has happened; we have become joined. It has come to appear: I am the body. The instrument and the consciousness have fused and become one!
Mahavira says: this very yoga is the world. To go beyond this yoga is liberation, freedom; it is the realization of the supreme bliss and the supreme truth. However long we may live in the body, nothing will happen thereby. Children are bound—that is natural to them—old people are also bound! The indulgent are bound—naturally bound—those whom we consider yogis are also bound!
Indulgence is one kind of asamyam; yoga is another kind of asamyam. The one who is truly restrained is he who has destroyed the very possibility of asamyam. The possibility is to be joined to the body. The possibility is to take the body and oneself as one. The deeper this oneness, the greater the asamyam. The less this oneness, the more the samyam. And the day this oneness breaks utterly and a clear discrimination arises—as the old tales say, the swan separates milk from water—on the day our vivek separates body and consciousness like the swan, that day the last rung of samyam is attained; the goal is attained.
Therefore the wise have called the Atman a hansa, a swan; they have called vivek, consciousness, a hansa; and the one in whom this state flowers, they have called a paramhansa. Paramhansa means one who within himself has separated milk and water like the swan.
Whether the swan does it or not, who knows—perhaps it is poetry! But man can. And even if milk and water cannot be separated—because both are substances of the same plane—body and consciousness can be separated, for they are already separate. Their dimensions differ. Their modes differ. Their very being is different. Their meeting is the miracle; their separation is simple. You have labored hard to make the two one; even then they have not become one—there is only the illusion of oneness. It is only a notion. Therefore Mahavira says, bondage is only of the mind, of feeling—projections. In truth there is no bondage.
Yet even when one grows old, after experiencing the pleasures and sorrows of life, the pull of bodily desire continues to drag him. Often it happens that in old age a man becomes even more filled with lust.
Therefore by age alone no one is ever freed; nor by age does anyone become wise; nor by age does anyone become experienced. However old one grows, life’s maturity does not come by age. And however much experience you gather of life, experience alone will not take you anywhere—indeed it may lead you deeper into the pit; because as our experiences accumulate, our habits become stronger.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin had a young son. He was twenty, but a little shy. He neither spoke much nor mixed much with people. And what is natural at his age—to run after girls—he did not do that either. He stayed shut with his books, doors closed.
But one evening he came down the stairs all dressed up, neatly groomed, and said to old Nasruddin, “Father, enough is enough! Now I will do what everyone does at my age. I am going to town in search of beautiful girls. And tonight I’ll drink hard so that my shyness and my stiffness break. Tonight is a night of adventure and daring. Whatever can happen, I will do. Whatever those of my age do, I will do. And mind you—don’t try and stop me!”
Nasruddin jumped up. He said, “Try and stop you? Hold on, my boy—I am coming with you. Stand firm in your resolve; there’s no question of stopping!”
Fathers are not very different from sons! Even old, man wanders where the young wander. The young man’s wandering is forgivable; the old man’s is entirely unforgivable.
But no one becomes free of lust just by growing old. No one can. Only those are freed of lust who move in vivek. The movement of years has no relation with freedom from desire. The body will grow old; desire never grows old—it clutches till the last breath. Desire grows old only when vivek awakens. Vivek is the death of desire!
Thus the old man becomes incapable of fulfilling desire, but desire keeps encircling his mind—it keeps circling. And in the lust of the young there is a certain beauty; the lust of the old becomes ugly and filthy. It must, because the body is now by itself abandoning its support. The body itself is separating from the Atman. But on account of desire the old man still clutches his body. Death draws near and the body will break from the Atman.
If life develops rightly, the moment of death can also become the moment of moksha. If not only the age increases and the body ripens—but awareness ripens too, vivek ripens too, inner understanding grows, and the witnessing becomes deeper; and the experiences of life do not remain mere experiences, but behind them the awakening of vivek is also being created—then a person can be free even before death.
And when someone knows before death that I am separate from the body, then he has no more death. Then he can die as if changing old clothes. Then he can die as if the outer rubbish were shedding off and the inner gold were being revealed. Then death becomes a friend, like fire, which will burn the refuse and save me.
But the one so full of desire in life that he gave no chance for vivek to awaken; who was ready every moment in every way to move blindly with the body—he will repent greatly at the time of dying; he will be greatly tormented. Because when death begins to snatch the body away, his agony will be endless. For he has known himself as the body.
There is no sorrow in death itself; the sorrow is in our ignorance. Because we are bound to the body. And when the body begins to dissolve, we scream, “I am dying!”
I never die! There is no way for me to die! But when that with which I have taken myself to be one breaks and dissolves, it seems—I am dying. Death is sorrow only for the un-discerning. For the discerning, death too is a joy.
These sutras of Mahavira are an exposition of “What is samyam.”
Let us try to understand each sutra one by one.
“One who knows neither Jiva, the principle of consciousness, nor Ajiva, the principle of inert matter—how can such a seeker, ignorant of the nature of Jiva and Ajiva, ever know samyam?”
“One who knows Jiva and also Ajiva—only that seeker, who knows both thoroughly, can know samyam.”
Man is a double existence. One is the circumference—where the body is, where matter is, the heap of clay; and one is the inner awareness, consciousness, light—which is not matter, which is the Divine. Man is the meeting of these two. And until it becomes clear where the body ends and where I begin; until it is realized that the body is separate and I am separate—till then, Mahavira says, samyam is impossible.
One who does not know Jiva and Ajiva separately; who has no realization whether within there is only matter or also consciousness; who has not lit the lamp within to see that I am two; who has not become clear that the circumference is not mine, that the circumference is given to me by the world, and that I am only a dweller within, a guest, and that this house is not eternal, that I have lived in many such houses, and many have come and gone.
Light is needed within. Only in that light can this difference, this distinction become clear. We are moving in darkness, where no outlines are visible. Darkness means: where differences are not seen.
If darkness falls in this room, what will it mean? Only this—that I will not be able to see who is who, what is what. Where the chair ends and where you begin. Where you end and where your neighbor begins.
Darkness means: where differences are lost and boundaries are not seen. Darkness breaks all boundaries and absorbs them into itself.
What is the meaning of light? Light means: where boundaries emerge again. The chair will be a chair, the sitter will be a sitter. The house will be the house, the guest will be the guest. The one staying in the house will be different, the walls different. Light reveals things—their limits, their traits, their differences. Darkness breaks all boundaries.
I have heard: Nasruddin was young; one night he was all decked out and polishing his lantern. His father asked, “Nasruddin, why are you cleaning the lantern? What plans?” He said, “I am going courting. I must finally seek a wife! So I am going in search of a wife.”
His father said, “We too went in search of a wife, but we never took a lantern! Why this lantern?”
Nasruddin said, “Look, that counts for it; look at your woman—my mother! If you look in the dark, you will find such. I am not going to make that mistake. I want to look properly, in the light!”
Within too we are searching in the dark. And if we do not see anything there…
Have you ever closed your eyes and looked within? Nothing is seen except darkness.
People come to me. They say, “You say: look within. But how to look within? We close our eyes and there is darkness. Nothing is seen. What to look at?”
There is light outside; within there is darkness. Outside everything is visible; within, nothing seems visible. And we have devised great means to brighten the outside. Once man lived in deep darkness, in caves. Then he discovered fire and the darkness of the caves disappeared. Then evolution went on. Now there is electricity and nights are no longer like nights—more luminous than days.
We have made a great search for light outside. There too it was dark. But we banished the night there. Within we do not search for any light—otherwise there too light is possible. Wherever there is darkness, there light can be. The meaning of darkness is precisely this: here light can be—there is a possibility.
All methods of sadhana are efforts to discover the inner fire. How to kindle light within. How to create a little radiance and a few rays inside so that things may become clear there too—what is what.
For now, when we close our eyes, nothing is seen. And if something appears, it is still from the outside—some friend’s image, some memory, some incident, a market, a shop. Even when we close our eyes, the eyes do not truly close; the mind remains open to the outside.
Even with closed eyes, outer pictures keep running—so we are not inside. And the habit has become so ingrained that we have forgotten that there can be a moment within when no outer picture runs; when no reflection of the outside is formed; when our connection with the outside drops and we are utterly within.
In the beginning, darkness will be experienced. Because outer light has made the eyes habituated to outer light.
And remember, there is no way to carry outer light inside. You cannot take a lamp within; nor can you take electricity. No outer light will work within, because the inner darkness has a different quality. The outer darkness is of one kind; it needs one kind of light to be dispelled. The inner darkness is of another kind—it needs another kind of light. The nature of that light will be different.
Therefore, first, outer light cannot be brought in. And second, because of outer light, the inner appears intensely dark to us—because we have become accustomed to light.
If you are walking on a dark road and suddenly a car passes with blinding headlights, after it passes, the road will seem darker than before! That intense light will have dazzled your eyes. Compared to that brightness, the darkness will appear terrifying.
Remember, primal man did not feel the inner as so dark as the modern man feels it. Outside there was little light. For primal man, the outside too was dark, or had very little light. He did not feel the inner as so dark. As civilization develops in the outer world, the inner darkness seems thicker. It is not becoming thicker; it seems so by comparison. Our experiences are relative.
So the one who seeks the inner light must do two things. First, he must accustom his eyes to inner darkness, give them time to adjust.
A thief can see better in the dark than you—he practices darkness. And when you enter a dark room from outside, it seems completely dark. Sit a little while, do nothing—there is nothing to do—simply sit and let the eyes adjust—soon the darkness will seem less; soon you will begin to see a little.
If you practice this daily—as a thief must—you will not feel so dark that you stumble. You will walk, rise, and work in a completely dark room without bumping into things. The eyes need a little training to see in the dark.
Remember, darkness seems as intense as our habit is weak. So those who wish to discover the inner light must consent for a few days to be with the inner darkness. Do not hurry, simply sit with eyes closed.
In Japan, Zen fakirs and Zen masters tell their disciples: do nothing—close the eyes and just sit. Do not recite a mantra, do not remember any God. Do not let the mind circle around any image or idol. For these are all outer lights. Simply close your eyes and sit. For six months or a year, the only sadhana for a Zen disciple is to sit for hours daily—doing nothing.
In the beginning there is a great urge to do, because without doing something you feel life is being wasted—although life is being wasted in doing. Whose life was ever wasted by not doing! Life is being wasted—whatever you do! But being occupied gives the feeling that something is happening; the illusion persists that something is being done. Sitting empty makes one restless.
Empty sitting is the first capacity of a seeker—that he sits without doing anything. The mind will say again and again: do something; why just sit! And the mind will explain that if you sit empty you will become the devil’s workshop.
Remember, those who sat empty have never done any devilry. The real mischief is by the very enterprising, whom we call karma‑yogis—the whole turmoil is theirs. They cannot sit empty; they must do something. Anything will do; they must do. There is no reason—no one to watch what is done; no purpose. Nowhere on this earth does any line remain of the doers.
But there is great disturbance. As long as they live, they create great turmoil. Politicians, social reformers, revolutionaries—their whole emphasis is on doing.
The Zen master says: do nothing; for a year gather the courage not to do, just sit. So the Zen seeker will sit six hours a day with eyes closed. He will not move or stir; for even then the mind may run out. At first there will be great restlessness, and the mind will apply all its force to make you do something. If not something real, then at least think. Daydream. Make plans, nourish desires—do something within.
But if you go on sitting and do not do anything, and if you can show the courage of non-doing, then in a few days you will find that the inner darkness is diminishing. Something begins to be seen within. Faint outlines begin to appear.
It may take six months or a year before, for the first time, hazy lines appear within. And as soon as these hazy lines appear, a sense of wonder arises, a joy arises: I am utterly different, this body is utterly different.
Remember, scriptures will not give you this knowing. Many people are reading scriptures that say the Atman is separate, the body is separate—“I am Atman; I am not the body.” They recite it every morning: “I am not the body, I am the Atman.”
Reciting means nothing. No light arises by repetition. Repetition only shows this much—that you have not yet known; you are parroting someone else’s borrowed words. And by repetition you may fall into the delusion that it begins to seem that body and Atman are separate. But this is not your inner experience of light. It has no value. It is worth two pennies. You have wasted life.
There is no need to believe anyone. This is to be known directly. But the eyes must be trained to the inner darkness. For lifetimes we have adjusted to outer light; breaking this needs patience and waiting.
So Mahavira says: One who does not know what consciousness is, who does not know what matter is; who does not recognize Jiva and Ajiva—how will such a seeker achieve samyam?
Yet how many people are trying to achieve samyam without any idea what Jiva is and what Ajiva is. When I say they have no idea, I do not mean they have not heard from the scriptures. The scriptures say Jiva and Ajiva are different. But scriptures do not create your knowledge. Scriptures only cover your ignorance—you remain ignorant; you hide behind scriptural words and the illusion arises that you know.
Ignorance is not as dangerous as superficial knowledge. As many as the scriptures drown, nothing else drowns as many. Many sit in a paper boat and launch into the ocean.
The scripture’s boat is a paper boat. Better to enter without a boat. Because if you have no boat to rely on, at least you will try to move your own hands and feet. And the one who enters without a boat will learn to swim. But the one who sits in a boat—and a paper boat—enters relying on the boat: “What need for me to do anything; the boat will carry me across.” He will drown!
Yet while no one would consent to sit in a paper boat, almost the whole earth has consented to sit in the boat of scriptures. Some in the boat of the Bible, some in the Gita, some in the Quran; some in the words of Mahavira, some in the words of Buddha.
But people have made their boats out of paper. Therefore they drown, and accidents are everywhere. And in the name of religion there is so much noise, yet no light of religion is visible anywhere in life. Religion has become a festival—something to celebrate once in a while; to create a commotion now and then: “We are spiritual people; we do not accept matter as all, we accept the Atman too.” But by accepting, nothing happens; knowing is necessary.
Therefore Mahavira says, one who does not yet know what the Atman is and what the body is—he will not be able to achieve samyam. But go ask the monks. Leave others, ask even the monks of Mahavira: “Have you experienced within where the body ends and the Atman begins? Where is the boundary? Where do the two meet? Where is the gap?” And if there is no experience, then what samyam are you practicing?—for Mahavira says: how will such a seeker achieve samyam!
Yet the monks are practicing samyam. There is no lack of regulation: what to eat, how much, when to sleep, when to rise, how many samayiks, how much meditation—everything is done; how much pratikraman—everything runs by rule, mechanically. No slips. The regimen is complete.
But their samyam is not samyam—it cannot be. Because the first condition of Mahavira is not being fulfilled.
Their effort is to know the Atman and body through samyam; whereas Mahavira says the reverse. He says: the one who comes to know what the body is and what the Atman is—only in his life can samyam flower.
We take things upside down. We take them so because we ourselves are standing upside down. We see everything inverted. Even when we hear Mahavira, we invert him. What is first we put last; what is last we put first. Then it suits us. If we keep Mahavira’s saying as it is, then we would have to change our life.
What is the difference?
Mahavira says: inner awakening first, then outer samyam.
What do we do?
We first practice outer samyam and think that inner awakening will come by itself. For us the outer is so paramount that even when we practice samyam we begin from the outside. Our eyes are obsessed with the outside; our desires have glued us to the outside. Even when we do sadhana we begin from the outside. But sadhana can begin only from within. That which begins from the outside will lead back to the world. But desires benumb man.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was staying in a hotel. He was returning to his room in the evening. From behind a door he heard the voices of a woman and a man—probably a honeymooning couple. He stood at the door listening. The husband was saying to his wife, “Such beauty as yours appears only once in centuries. I would like the greatest artist in the world to sculpt you or paint you, so that future generations might know that such beauty once existed.”
Nasruddin at once knocked at the door. The husband angrily asked, “Who is it?”
Nasruddin said, “The greatest painter of the world—Picasso!”
As soon as he said it, he realized: What am I saying! If the door opens I will be caught. He ran to his room. Then he pondered: how did this happen? I am not Picasso!
But talk of beauty. The mind to see the body. The arousal of desire. In that stupor of desire you can become anything.
So it slipped out of his mouth: “The greatest painter of the world! Open the door!”
“Open the door” is the urge. Let the door open, let the woman be seen—that is desire. In that desire it also slipped out of his mouth: “I am Picasso.” He had not planned it. He had never thought it. No scheme. In a moment of desire his identity changed.
Wherever we are encircled by desire, we become that which will satisfy our desire. Our desires determine our identity. If you became a man, it is because of desire; if you became a woman, because of desire. If you became human, because of desire. If you were insects, animals, birds, because of desire.
Wherever our desire becomes dense—Mahavira, Buddha and Krishna say—due to that density we assume that very form. We become what our desire becomes. Now even scientists say that the phenomenon of the human body…
Darwin had said that man develops like this because there is a struggle in nature and the fittest survive. The strongest remains. But the later work on evolution has changed the scene entirely. New evolutionists say there is no proof that the best survive. You can say: “Who survives we call best.” But there is no proof that the best survive.
And man’s evolution does not seem to be due to outer struggle but due to inner desire—not outer struggle. Eyes manifested on the body because man was filled with the desire to see. When the desire to see becomes intense, it pierces from within like an arrow and eyes are formed. Man is filled with the desire to hear; hence ears are formed. Man is filled with the desire to touch; the body is formed.
Whatever desire is intense within, matter organizes around the Atman accordingly. But this is an ancient discovery of Mahavira, Buddha and Krishna—that man is born of his desire; his identity, his form and name are determined by his inner craving.
Whatever you are is the fruit of your desire. If you go on fueling this desire, you will keep moving in the same circle; repetition will continue. But if you want to step out of this circle, you must loosen the inner tie that desire has with the body.
You have become joined so tightly that there is not even a little space between to see the difference: who am I? To see this difference a little loosening of the bonds is needed. But we are eager for bondage. In truth, until we find bondage we feel no rest. In bondage we feel much convenience. Until bonded, we remain uneasy; the moment bondage is created, we become occupied.
I have heard: a Muslim fakir was traveling by train. All seats were taken; many were standing. A pregnant woman arrived and stood right beside him, a bundle of ropes in her hand. The fakir, seeing her, closed his eyes. His neighbor said, “Are you asleep, or unwell?” The fakir said, “No, nothing like that. I hate to see a woman standing in a train! So I closed my eyes—if I don’t see, the thought won’t arise that a woman is standing and I am sitting.” The man said, “If you are so compassionate, why don’t you get up and give her your seat?” The fakir said, “My master has said: wherever there is a hint of bondage, be a little alert. And a woman with a bundle of ropes—how can I even speak to her, how can I even look at her?”
Many monks are doing precisely this. Wherever they see a possibility of bondage, they avert their gaze; they run away. But bondage is not outside, to run from or to close your eyes to. Bondage is in the inner desire to be bound. And to avoid a woman is easy, but I am bound to my own body; in that very bondage the whole world has gathered.
My bondage is nowhere outside my body. My world too is nowhere outside my body. The outer is only extension. The fundamental world is within. And it is from there that the break must happen.
This breaking—according to Mahavira—is the result of a discrimination, a vivek, an awakening. That awakening begins to arise by the capacity to stay within, the capacity to remain in darkness, to sink patiently into the inner dark, to wait.
Remember: consciousness has its own light. Wherever in this world we see things, our consciousness throws light there, casts radiance. This radiance is not only of the sun. The sun’s radiance is not enough. Our consciousness also illuminates everything we see. Rays also go outward from our eyes.
And this is not merely a metaphysical theory. Science now supports that whenever you see, the life-energy you throw on things lights them up. It even sets movement within them. By seeing, you join your radiance to matter.
If a person practices not-seeing—keeps the eyes closed for some time; does not listen—keeps the ears closed; does not touch—keeps the hands to himself—then the energy that was going out through the senses begins to gather within, to become dense. In that density a moment comes when a point of inner light is born.
This point of light is like when we collect the sun’s rays and fire is produced. As soon as the inner rays are gathered, inner fire ignites. But waiting is needed. No fixed time can be given—how long it will take depends on intensity.
Someone can attain this inner light in a single instant if he totally stops himself from moving outward. The method of this cessation is called “dhyana,” meditation. Mahavira called this method “Samayik.”
Samayik is a most precious word, even more precious than meditation. Because “meditation” carries a slight ambiguity. There is no word like “Samayik” in any language of the world. When we say “meditation,” it seems always like meditating on something.
If I tell people—“Meditate!” they ask, “On what?” So “meditation” feels extraverted. In English, to meditate means: on something. If you tell someone “meditate,” he asks, “On what—Om? Ram? Christ? Mary?—on what?”
Mahavira did not use the word “dhyana,” because it can mislead. Dhyana means: attention on something—again outside. Mahavira said: Samayik. Samayik is his own word. For Mahavira, “Samaya” is another name for the Atman. Samaya means: the Self; and Samayik means: to be in oneself.
“Meditation” is not as valuable a word. But even those who follow Mahavira, when they do Samayik, they are doing “meditation,” not Samayik; they recite the Namokar mantra—this is meditation, not Samayik. They chant the name of Lord Mahavira—this is meditation, not Samayik.
Mahavira says: that inner state when only you remain—you alone; where there is no word, no sound, no form. Where nothing of the outside is; where nothing alien is; where nothing other is. Where there is only your being, sheer being—just being—that state is called Samayik.
This is the delightful point: it means Samayik cannot be done. You can be in Samayik, but you cannot do Samayik—because the moment you do, you are outside. Doing takes you out.
So Samayik is not an act. Samayik is a state—the state of sinking into oneself; of being closed into oneself; of breaking from every side, becoming separate.
For this there is no need to go to a forest. Where you are, there you can learn the art. But practice a little. Close your eyes for an hour or two daily and live in the inner darkness. In a few days, without doing anything else, simply by developing the capacity to remain in the inner dark, you will suddenly find that, in between, just like a nod of sleep, you slip within; you drown into yourself for a moment.
And even that momentary drowning into oneself is so blissful that you can renounce pleasures of endless lives for it. A small inner nod; to drown within for a little while; to be cut off from the world for a moment; to be separate from the body and drown into oneself—if that dip begins to happen even once, then you do not have to renounce the world; the world begins to appear like rubbish.
We renounce only that which we still value. No one renounces rubbish. You do not go outside your house every day announcing that you are renouncing your garbage. Yes, when you renounce gold, you want it to be reported—because gold is not rubbish for you.
But the moment you discover the inner gold, all the outer gold becomes garbage. And if even for a moment that remembrance binds, that memory awakens, that Samayik happens—after that there is no need to search the scriptures; you know for yourself that the body and I are separate.
A single ray of this realization that I am other than the body, that I am consciousness and the body is matter—Mahavira says—then samyam is utterly easy. Then to break samyam becomes difficult. Now to practice samyam is difficult; then to break samyam is difficult. Now to refrain from the wrong is difficult; then to do the wrong will be even more difficult.
“One who knows Jiva and also Ajiva, only that seeker, knowing both thoroughly, can know samyam.”
Samyam has two meanings. One, its outer meaning: that the wrong does not happen. And the second, its inner meaning: that I am in my own being. Samyam means: the final balance, the ultimate state of equilibrium, where the two pans of the scale align into a straight line and the pointer does not tremble at all. Samyam is the last poise, where no vibration remains.
In asamyam there is vibration. Hence the unrestrained mind always trembles—now this side, now that; now it wants this, now that. The unrestrained mind only desires; it never becomes still. Desire has no end; desire goes on shaking. That shaking plunges one into misery; because shaking is a kind of fever.
A healthy consciousness will not tremble—it will be unshaken. The mind’s demands go on and on and the mind keeps quivering. Gusts of desire keep shaking—even to the roots. Expectations go on increasing. And whatever is obtained, peace is not obtained—because the moment something is obtained, desire moves ahead.
One day Mulla Nasruddin was sitting sad. Some friends came. They asked, “Nasruddin, you look very sad; what is the matter?” Nasruddin said, “Nothing very special, but two weeks ago my uncle died—such a wonderful man! May Allah grant peace to his soul! Before dying he left five thousand rupees to me in his will. Then a week ago my maternal uncle died—also a good man! Before his time God took him. Before dying he left fifteen thousand rupees to me… and this week nothing! The week is passing and nothing has happened—so I am sad!”
Desire exploits even another’s death. Desire lives only for itself. Even if the whole world dies, desire lives for itself. It is a kind of madness.
And it has no end. However much you get, you will always be sad—because you can always desire more than can be had. Your desire has no boundary. The world has boundaries; desire has none. You can always think of more—therefore you will be miserable.
Samyam means a mind that does not demand; that has no demand; that abides in itself; that does not wander, “Let me have this, let me have that”; that has no demand; no lust. But in whom will this be?
Mahavira says: in the one who knows the body and oneself to be separate. Why? How will desire drop by knowing the separation? Because all desires are of the body; the Atman has no desire. And the day you see that you were being harassed by the body’s desires and were losing that which is your own treasure—where supreme bliss is, where supreme light is, where the spring of nectar is—you were losing it by following the petty body, falling into its desires—desire will drop.
This does not mean that you will murder the body; kill it. But now you will give the body only that much which is necessary for it to function. This is the difference between need and desire.
Need does not bind; desire binds. Need means: the body is a mechanism, it requires things—just as a car requires petrol and oil. Whatever the mechanism needs is to be supplied. Neither less nor more. Exactly what is needed is to be given.
Where desire drops, need remains. Need carries no anguish. Need is just necessity. And even that—Mahavira says—remains only until the momentum of past karma is spent. And the moment the entire momentum of past karma is exhausted and the past karmas all shed—the relationship with the body will fall. Then there will be no need to feed it. Then dropping the body will be effortless. The instrument has no more use. We have left it.
The realization that the body and I are separate is enough for our desires to become lifeless. “I am the body”—this is the life of desire; its center.
“When he comes to know the countless movements of living beings, then he knows merit and sin, bondage and liberation.”
And as soon as someone recognizes the inner dividing line, he also knows what is merit and what is sin—what is bondage, what is liberation.
Why? As soon as it becomes clear that I am separate and the body separate, then to follow the body is sin and to follow oneself is merit; then by following the body, bondage is born; by following oneself, moksha is born.
For the more we obey the body, the more it commands. The more we submit, the more it suppresses. The more we follow, the more assured it becomes that you always come along. The more we sink into ourselves, the more the body slowly realizes that my ownership is being dissolved; I am no longer the master. Gradually it begins to follow you. And the day the body follows you, and the inner Lord, the inner master, appears—Mahavira calls that state “liberated.”
There is a bound mind that goes on moving without thinking what it is demanding. Sit sometime and consider where your mind takes you, what it makes you do. There is no sin you leave undone—so the psychologists say. It is difficult to find a person who, in his mind, has not committed all the sins humanity has committed through history.
In the mind you commit all sins: murder, adultery, theft—there is nothing you do not do, as far as the mind is concerned. You cannot do it with the body because there are many outer obstacles. If you had full freedom, you would do them all.
Consider: if you had absolute freedom, power, no one to obstruct and no one to punish, which sin is there you would not do? You would do them all.
Hence office corrupts. When power comes, the tendency to do those uncommitted sins arrives.
Lord Acton said: “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” He spoke well that power makes man immoral, and utterly immoral. But the truth is not in Acton’s words. The truth is not that power corrupts. The corrupt are already there; power only gives them the opportunity.
So you see, the critic of the politician in office condemns him: he is indulging, looting money, taking bribes, keeping women, adulterous—doing everything.
From the critic you fall into the illusion that he would not do such things. He has no power. When he comes to power he will do exactly what those before him did.
It is a curious thing: whoever sits on the throne becomes like his enemies—seat anyone! Why does this happen?
Because in every man beneath the throne the same unconscious desires reside. There is no opportunity; no money; no power; no means to do what he wants—so he convinces his mind that what he cannot do is not worth doing.
Remember, he convinces himself: the grapes are sour. Whatever is out of reach is not worth talking about. But let power come to him, and all that slept, all that was suppressed, will surface. As soon as power comes to hand, everything becomes active. Just as a seed lies in the earth and with no water it stays a seed, but a drop of water and the sprout bursts forth. The sprout was hidden, ready—waiting for the right chance; water appears and it manifests.
Power, position, money corrupt people—not because money can corrupt. People are ready to be corrupted; they were only waiting for money. Circumstance arrives and they go bad. And I say this happens without exception. Why? Is there no one whose suppressed desire does not exist and whom position would not corrupt?
There are such people—but they never strive to sit in power, because there is no push within to go there. The push comes from inner desire. Such a man does not try to be seated. And where even the striving ones do not arrive, how would the non-striver arrive?
There is no way. The one whom power would not spoil cannot reach power; he has no reason to reach there. The one who can be spoiled strives to reach; and the stronger the suppressed urges, the more violently he strives. Pressed-down energies become power.
Mahavira says: If you are away from the chance—this is not called samyam. If woman is not near—you are a celibate. If money is not near—you live simply. You cannot kill because you are afraid. For only he can kill who is ready to be beaten.
Remember: one who is not ready to be beaten cannot kill. The capacity to strike arises only in one who is utterly ready to be struck. You are not ready to be struck; hence you cannot strike—so you think yourself nonviolent.
Man finds rationalization for all his tendencies. The coward calls himself nonviolent. For cowardice hurts—to call oneself a coward. The coward says, “I do not want to be violent.”
Therefore a great surprise: Mahavira himself was a kshatriya, and the other twenty‑three Tirthankaras of the Jains were also kshatriyas—twenty‑four Tirthankaras, all from warrior clans. And their followers are all merchants, baniyas. A great surprise! There seems no correspondence. If the twenty‑four Tirthankaras are kshatriya, and all their followers are shopkeepers—surely there is something significant.
In truth, the talk of ahimsa suited the cowards—rationalization. It appealed: remain a coward and also be nonviolent. No one can call you a coward. The doctrine of ahimsa as a cover for cowardice—what could be more beautiful! Those who were frightened took shelter under ahimsa. It became a shield for them.
But ahimsa can blossom only in one who is not a coward. Because ahimsa is the ultimate bravery. Violence is not great bravery. The readiness to kill another only declares that I fear being killed. It is a part of fear. Lest someone kill me, out of fear I kill first.
The violent is a frightened person. His bravery is incomplete. He is afraid someone may kill him. From this fear his violence arises. Your sword in your hand proclaims you are afraid within. That fear can become violence.
But if someone is utterly fearless, then alone does the thought of killing another disappear. When I am so fearless that even if someone kills me he cannot kill me—within I am deathless—then there is no question of killing another.
Ahimsa is the ultimate valor. But in the world’s irony, that ultimate valor has become the shield of primary cowardice. This is happening every day. With every principle this is happening. You cannot lie because you fear getting caught—so you speak truth, but that truth is lifeless. There is no soul behind it. It is the coward’s truth.
Such self‑imposed samyam does not take us to moksha; it does not even lift us above the world; it binds us inside the world—in a capsule. We become encased in our own capsule of samyam. We cannot even enjoy the world—for even enjoyment may sometimes become a path to samyam. Because in enjoying again and again, man gets bored. What is repeated becomes wearisome.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife was very upset one day because Nasruddin threw his plate down at mealtime. She said, “What are you doing?”
Nasruddin said, “You will kill me—okra curry every day!”
His wife said, “What are you saying? On Monday you said the curry was wonderful. On Tuesday also you praised it. Wednesday you liked it; Thursday you liked it; Friday you liked it—and today is Saturday; and suddenly you say you will be killed!”
What is liked on Monday will be less liked on Tuesday; still less on Wednesday. Experience too creates boredom. By Friday the plate; by Saturday you may throw it. The delicious meal begins to taste like poison.
But the wife’s argument is logical: if you liked it six days, how can you suddenly change your mind on the seventh? You are not consistent. What was liked for six days should be even more liked on the seventh.
No, the mind grows weary. Therefore husband and wife grow weary of each other. The continuous experience of one becomes wearisome.
Psychologists say that as long as husband and wife exist in the world, adultery will be hard to erase. As long as marriage exists, adultery will be hard to erase. They may be right, because marriage bores. From boredom one runs here and there; from that adultery arises.
Now this is difficult—psychologists say prostitutes are an inevitable part of the institution of marriage. As long as marriage exists, so will prostitutes. And if you want to abolish prostitution, then remember, marriage will disappear. If marriage disappears, boredom disappears; if boredom disappears, there is no question. But attached to marriage is the prostitute.
Life is strange and complex. So the one who refrains from indulgence and does not attain self‑knowledge is closing even the last possibility of samyam. One possibility is that he falls into suffering, descends into hell and indulges—and by indulgence becomes so weary that weariness itself begins to pull him out—that too is blocked. The other way is to kindle the inner light and see the separateness of body and Atman—so that because of that separateness the body’s desire falls. Or, live so utterly in the body that you become bored—then the world of samyam begins from boredom.
But the one we call “restrained” avoids both. He does not attain self‑knowledge, nor does he pass through the hell of indulgence so that leaving hell might begin to seem meaningful. He is stuck. He has built around himself a prison of his own cowardice, his fear. He is imprisoned in it.
Consider such a man farthest from moksha. The indulgent is not so far. This so‑called yogi—there is no one farther from moksha. The indulgent is a little closer. Because today or tomorrow, life’s experience itself will again and again hurt him into seeing that this life is not meaningful. But for the so‑called restrained one, the savor of what is wrong will continue—created by his restraint. For whatever you repress, that gains relish.
Most sins in man are due to the teachings of restraint and morality. Those very things from which man is forbidden acquire relish. Put on a film: “Only for adults”—then those with not even the faintest line of a mustache will buy a two‑anna mustache and stand in the queue. Then magazines appear—“Only for Men.” Only women read such magazines; men do not. “Only for Women”—men will read it; women do not care. They know what is in a woman.
Where there is prohibition, relish arises. If you want to create relish for anything, forbid it. You will be surprised—this is life’s irony…and unless this is understood, there is great difficulty. Your so‑called saints and preachers are responsible for much that is wrong in your life. Because they go on forbidding, and go on creating relish. And when you forbid something intensely, doubt arises that there must indeed be something in it.
The father warns his son, “Don’t smoke.” The son had not even thought of it. In truth, if sons are left to themselves, it would take a thousand years for them to discover cigarettes. For to draw smoke in and out is so foolish—who would want to do it! And why! It makes no sense!
But advisers are everywhere: “Smoking is prohibited; don’t smoke!” The father also says, “What can I do, I got into a bad habit; but you don’t smoke!” The son feels the relish has begun—there must be something in it.
Whatever is forbidden must have something. Otherwise who would forbid it! And why would all these priests and pundits be against it if there were nothing! Why would saints, leaving their soul’s concern, keep telling people: don’t smoke, don’t do this… Surely there must be some delight in smoking, that so many are crazy about it. And even after so much admonition, no one stops. Not one person is changed after all this preaching!
The child also begins to see: so many people are drawing smoke in and out. Cigarettes and beedis worth billions are being smoked. And for thousands of years saints have been warning, and no one listens. Surely there is not as much relish in saints as in smoking.
The first time the child smokes there is no pleasure at all. He may even vomit, cough, tears will come to the eyes—because it is absurd. But he sees: there is no joy without a little suffering—without penance. Some practice is needed; discipline is needed. Without practice nothing happens! And since so many have achieved this state—the moksha of smoking—I too will keep trying.
Then he becomes habituated. Man can become habituated even to hell! Even to suffering! And when habituated, a curious thing happens; smoking is a conditioning. And the whole world sees relish in it. Those who smoke see relish; those who don’t, see relish. The atmosphere persuades him there must be relish—if I don’t feel it, the fault is mine. A little practice! So he practices. When practice is established, there is no relish; but if he does not smoke, he suffers.
This is the base of wrong: if you do it, there is no joy; if you don’t, there is suffering. If you don’t, a habit, a craving, a restlessness nags that something was to be done and is not done. To escape this suffering, one keeps smoking.
Most of our sins are born out of the very discussion against sin around us. And until this discussion stops, there is no way to remove those sins.
Only yesterday I saw in the newspaper: in Delhi the monks and sannyasins held a conference against obscene posters.
What business do monks have with obscene posters? Why are they disturbed?
If someone is looking at an obscene poster, that is his personal freedom. If he finds delight, he has the right to it. You find no delight—you became a monk; you have left everything. But still—why are you disturbed?
Surely these monks too must be looking at obscene posters. What pain are they experiencing? And why do they leave their moksha, their Samayik, their meditation and hold such conferences? Why such agitation?
It is curious that no one holds conferences saying “Obscene posters should be allowed,” and yet they flourish. The others have held conferences for thousands of years; no one stops. Monks and sannyasins increase the relish of obscene posters; they do not decrease it. They are responsible.
Obscene posters will disappear the day we say: this is a person’s private matter—if he wants to look at nude pictures, let him. Nude pictures need not be sold under the counter, nor hidden. Nude pictures should be brought into the open—so people can look and get bored: how long can one go on looking?
I have heard: a surgeon went to an art exhibition to buy a painting. He loved paintings. The exhibition had works of great painters—he saw them all, but none appealed. The guide said, “Then come to the underground section. If these do not appeal, there is a hidden section of nude women—you will certainly like those.”
He said, “Forget it! I am a surgeon. I have seen so many nude women that now I am afraid when I have to look at one again. Not only has my relish for nudes vanished—my entire romance, my attraction to woman, the intense surge of sex has weakened.”
By covering with clothes we increase the attraction to the body. The day the world is nude, no nude poster will be needed. Nude posters are a trick. Cover here with clothes, and then to uncover and show becomes juicy. Until man understands this internal tangle and tumult, a prison called samyam will be created in life in the name of samyam.
Either pass through the experience of indulgence so that you become bored; or awaken the inner vivek so that the body’s hold drops. Avoiding both, the monk engages in a third thing.
These monks who hold conferences that obscene posters should not be allowed—they are surely uneasy. Their uneasiness is: you are all enjoying! And these poor fellows are greatly troubled. Their trouble has no end.
Had they truly attained samyam, had they come to know that the Atman and the body are separate, they would have said: “Fine—these are nude pictures of the body; the body is not the Atman—what is there to worry?”
But this “knower” too, if a woman touches him, steps aside. He keeps saying body and Atman are separate! And if a woman’s body, indeed body is far off—even her garment brushes him, romance is triggered. He steps aside.
The monk who does not allow women to touch his feet—women become very curious about him: surely he is a marvelous man! A woman is curious about the very man who is not curious about women—then she feels: he must be extraordinary!
So if a monk does not allow a woman to touch his feet or come near, the woman also thinks: a complete saint! But even such a saint does not realize that a woman’s Atman is not female, a man’s Atman is not male—male and female are only in the body. And what is there in the body?
What is the difference between man and woman? If you ask the biologist, he says: when the child is born, the body carries both sets of organs—male and female. After about three weeks the difference begins. And even that difference is amusing. It is like a headstand. The male organs protrude outward; the same organs in the woman turn inward—like turning the pocket of a coat inside out. That’s all!
There is no real difference. The very skin that hangs outside becomes the male organ; the same skin, turning inside, becomes the female organ. The difference is only this: the coat pocket inside or outside!
Yet even those who claim to experience that body and Atman are separate, find tremendous relish in so little a difference. That relish reveals their disease. They have forcibly restrained themselves; no knowing has arisen.
Force cannot liberate; only understanding, awareness, can liberate.
Mahavira says: When someone knows this inner distinction, then merit, sin, bondage and moksha are all known. And when merit, sin, bondage and moksha are known, then the futility of the pleasures of gods and men becomes clear. Dispassion arises naturally.
This needs to be understood a little.
The man who forcibly makes himself “restrained” through repression—within everything is dark; only outwardly he arranges his restraints—his desire… even if he somehow holds it within regarding this world, it gets attached to the other world. He begins to hanker after heaven.
You know the tales—that whenever a rishi or muni nears completion in his austerities, Indra’s throne begins to shake.
It is amusing: why would Indra’s throne tremble because an ascetic rises in tapas? What connection is there? And what relish could a rishi have in Indra’s throne? And what is Indra doing there—other than singing, dancing, drinking—there is nothing else!
Heaven means: a place where all the pains of this world have been cut off, and all the pleasures of this world have been set at their peak. Women there remain sixteen forever; they do not age beyond that.
Here too they try hard. It is compulsion—however much you try, the body will age. But there, the attempt succeeds. In heaven, all the apsaras are stopped at sixteen—no further age.
Bodies are golden and transparent. Not only transparent clothes “see‑through”—that you can see through the garments—but bodies too are “see‑through,” transparent; everything is visible. There are wish‑fulfilling trees—kalpavrikshas—under which the rishis and munis who reached by austerity sit. Whatever desire you conceive is fulfilled instantly. Here in the world time is needed. You desire; you labor, you rush about; by the time you reach, you are half dead. The very capacity to enjoy is spent in the effort to achieve. But there in heaven, under the kalpavriksha, the arising of desire and its fulfillment are simultaneous.
Who has desired this heaven? Who has created it? Whose dreams took this form? The restrained? Then it means: give up women here so you can have better women there. Why chase mean wealth—seek the kalpavriksha.
Who then is the indulger?
Two kinds of indulgers: the foolish, who chase the trivial; and the clever, who chase the eternal—the smarter ones; more cunning.
Mahavira does not call this samyam. He says: if you repress here, you will be filled with the desire to enjoy there. And this desire can be so absurd you cannot even imagine. In one religion, not only are there houris and women, there are also beautiful boy‑pages—ghilman—in paradise. Because when that religion arose, in that land homosexuality was prevalent. Men loved men. So when that religion arose, it had to arrange in its heaven that there were not only beautiful houris but also beautiful boys.
How can Mahavira call such minds “restrained”? This is not samyam. This is repression here and an effort to obtain there. It is the perverted form of suppressed desire. Therefore Mahavira says: the seeker of heaven is not truly religious. The seeker of moksha is the religious man.
Understand: Mahavira takes heaven and hell to be your own projections. There is not much difference between them. Hell is where you want to send others; heaven is where you want to go. No other difference.
Mahavira says: moksha is where you are—right now, this very moment. It is your nature. It is not a place; it is a state of inner awakening. Therefore we call that state Buddhahood.
Where awakening is total, there is Buddhahood.
“One who knows merit, sin, bondage and moksha—then he knows the futility of the pleasures of gods and men.”
The gods too are wandering in vain. Indra too is not beyond the senses. This is why we named him “Indra”—he is the apex of the senses. The ultimate height of sensory enjoyment is Indra.
And it is amusing: he too attained that state by great austerities. Therefore whenever someone else begins similar austerity, Indra becomes afraid. What does he do then? He sends Urvashi or some apsara: “Go, shake this holy man a little; unsteady him a little—my throne is shaking; disturb him so my throne is steady. This man appears a competitor.”
And it is amusing that apsaras succeed in unsteadying the sages. They can unsteady only those who have not attained samyam through inner awakening; who stand in inner darkness and have imposed restraint from the outside.
You can save yourself from women by imposition; you cannot save yourself from apsaras—because apsaras do not stand outside, they stand in the mind. Apsaras are forms of imagination. Therefore the very monks who repress a particular thing begin to see it in dreams.
Curiously, in those societies—like the Jews—where even the monk is given a chance to marry, there is not a single instance in the life of a Jewish saint that when he approached enlightenment, apsaras harassed him. There is no reason why they should. Apsaras have harassed enough before; now none can harass.
So the Jewish religion holds a very scientific view—that its priest should be married; its saint should be married; otherwise he will never go beyond women. And then at the very end, women will haunt him.
In those religions that made avoidance of women the first step of samyam, in those very religions women torment. Surely there is a reason.
The reason is clear: what is repressed outside surges within. That which we leave outwardly grips us inwardly in imagination and dream. It begins to haunt there. Apsaras do not come from outside. Their anklets are heard only by the rishis. The cowherds grazing their cows nearby do not hear them; they do not see the apsaras—only the rishis are troubled.
The repressed mind becomes perverted into dreams. Those who impose fasting without inner knowing—them food begins to torment. All their dreams fill with dinner. Try fasting one day—you will see. Fast by day; by night the emperors—who are no more—will invite you to royal feasts! Fifty‑six varieties of dishes will be prepared for you.
These fifty‑six delicacies were not seen anywhere; only ascetics fasting saw them. They exist nowhere. Their colors and fragrances are otherworldly. They do not belong to this earth.
The repressed mind becomes distorted. In Mahavira’s sadhana there is no repression anywhere—there is insistence on awakening, on vivek, on awareness.
But this has not happened. In his tradition, what has happened is repression. And no other religious tradition has repressed as much as those who followed him. No one is as repressed as the Jain monk.
Repression is easy; awakening is difficult. We do what is easy; we postpone what is difficult. But until the difficult happens, all the rest is futile. It takes no one towards moksha; it leads towards new births and bondage.
Sing kirtan for five minutes, and then go…!