Mahaveer Vani #54

Mind is the only disease. There is no way to make the mind healthy; there is a way to make the mind zero. Disease can be dissolved; disease cannot be made healthy. Ordinarily people say their mind is disturbed, restless, troubled; then they ask: how to make the mind peaceful?
The mind never becomes peaceful. There is no way for the mind to be peaceful. Restlessness is the nature of mind. To understand rightly, restlessness itself is mind. One can be free of the mind. One can go beyond mind. One can drop the mind. But the mind cannot be made peaceful. The only meaning of the peace of mind is: the place where the mind no longer is.
This means: peace and mind never have any relationship. As long as mind is, there is no peace; and when peace is, there is no mind. To erase mind, to be free of mind, to go beyond mind is the foundational sutra of the whole path. So if we understand mind rightly, we can enter Mahavira’s final sutras.
What is mind?
If a disease is not rightly understood, if diagnosis does not happen, treatment cannot happen. Diagnosis is more than half the treatment. And the one who rushes into treatment without diagnosis may increase the disease; may invite new diseases.
Most people try to treat the mind without understanding it. Such people either suppress the mind or stupefy it.
We all know suppression. When anger arises, how to swallow it, how to gulp it down the throat—we all know. Because in life one cannot be angry on every occasion. When lust arises in the mind, how to keep swallowing it, suppressing it—we all know. Because there is no way to fulfill lust every moment.
So we all suppress the mind. But has anyone ever become free through suppression? These suppressed tendencies keep thrusting; they keep bruising within and keep looking for an opportunity. Whenever a weak moment comes, they will erupt. They keep accumulating.
And psychologists say that the person who suppresses anger too much will one day be filled with a terrible earthquake of anger. Those who get angry every day at small things, such people cannot commit great crimes. They cannot commit murder—because the amount of anger that needs to be accumulated for murder never gathers in them. That is why often those who flare up in small matters are not bad people. And the person who keeps suppressing, suppressing for years—within him a volcano accumulates. When it erupts, it won’t be a small incident; it will create a great calamity.
So those whom you ordinarily take to be calm can become the progenitors of dreadful unrest. Be a little careful of the anger of the one who gets angry only sometimes. The frequent-anger person’s anger means nothing—wind came and went.
Small children cannot commit great crimes. The reason is: they discharge the day by small, small angers. So a child will be angry for a moment, and a moment later absolutely calm—as if no storm ever came. You won’t believe this same child was in a terrible tantrum a little while ago. He is smiling, dancing, happy. From a child, the possibility of great crime is not there.
Those who keep their life naturally expressive may not be saints, but they cannot be great criminals either. There is no way for them to become great criminals.
Repression gives birth to great crime. You avoid crime, and great crime is born; because energy has a law—you cannot keep it stored up—it will boil, it will overflow. There is a limit to how long you can hold it; then it will go beyond control. If you have held it so much that it reaches the limit where the accumulated force will erupt—and if it erupts against you—you can go insane.
Psychologists say the madman is exactly the one who has suppressed too much. Suppression became so much that there remained no way to release it in awareness; so he lost awareness too. Now he is releasing it in unconsciousness. Those locked in madhouses are the ultimate result of repression.
Through repression you can become deranged, never liberated. If liberation is sought, suppression is no way. And what we suppress, we become more possessed by. Its grip on us grows stronger.
So no one ever reaches through suppression, yet many, without understanding mind, set about suppressing it. It looks simple, easy, immediately effective—but in the long run it is dreadful, dangerous.
Second: some people set about stupefying the mind. They feel, if the mind is stupefied, neither will it know, nor will its agitation and pain trouble them.
There are many ways of stupefaction. Drink alcohol—straightforward—by stupefying the chemical elements of the body, the brain, which is part of the body, also becomes stupefied. In stupor, then, no sorrow, pain, tension, worry, anguish—nothing is felt. But that which is stupefied does not vanish. When consciousness returns, all the illnesses stand up again.
All religions have opposed alcohol—not because alcohol carries some inherent evil. They have opposed it because the disease which religion wants to eradicate, alcohol only makes one forget. By forgetting, nothing is erased.
Alcohol itself is not evil. The evil is that the disease which could be dissolved, we are postponing by forgetfulness. It will go on deepening. And a time will come when we will be so weakened by unconsciousness that the disease will be stronger than us and there will be no way to dissolve it.
But if alcohol were the only stupefaction, it would still be all right—there are many fine wines! There are also religious wines in which one does not even notice one is forgetting oneself. A man sits and goes on chanting Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. You may not know that repeating one single word again and again produces chemical changes in the brain which bring stupor. The sound of one word, striking again and again, creates boredom, sadness, drowsiness—sleep happens.
So if a person sits from morning and for an hour chants Ram-Ram, or Omkar, or Namo-kar—repeating one word—the repetitiveness brings stupor. There is no essential difference between this stupor and that of alcohol. This is putting the brain to sleep through sound.
A mother does the same with a small child—she sings a lullaby: O little prince, go to sleep, go to sleep. In a little while the little prince sleeps. The mother thinks he slept because of her music—she is mistaken—the little prince is simply bored. The repeated: Little prince, sleep, little prince, sleep—so much boredom is created that the only way to escape it is to lose oneself in sleep.
Understand this rightly.
Boredom arises; the child cannot run away from boredom. Where to go leaving the mother? She is holding him on the bed. There is no way to go. There is only one inner way: to sink into sleep and get rid of this nuisance.
The principle of the lullaby is exactly the principle of what we call mantra. To a small child the mother says: little prince, sleep. When the child is a little older, he himself chants Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram. His own mind gets bored. From boredom, a doze comes. He sinks into sleep. This doze can help a little, as sleep does—it will refresh; it will make one a bit fresh.
Today in the West there is loud publicity for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s Transcendental Meditation. It is nothing more than a lullaby. What is being done is simply this: a word is given, a mantra is given—go on repeating it. From this repetition drowsiness arises.
In the East it is not having much effect. In India none at all; in America a lot—why? Sleep has been lost in America; in India people are still sleeping!
In America, sleep has become the biggest question. Without tranquilizers it is difficult to sleep. Then slowly the body becomes accustomed to tranquilizers; then even with them sleep is difficult. Sleep is so filled with disturbance that experiments like Transcendental Meditation can help—sleep can come.
But sleep is not meditation; sleep is stupor. It can have good results—sleep is healthful, it will give health, a little comfort. After sleep some lightness is felt. And the truth is: the sleep by mantra is deeper than ordinary sleep. Because the sleep by mantra is hypnosis; it is induced sleep. The very meaning of hypnosis is sleep—sleep brought by effort; brought by method; brought by relaxing the threads of the mind.
Do you know why you feel sleepy at night? The reason is that the threads of the mind are taut, engaged in thought—so engaged that the blood goes on rushing. Because of this rush, sleep becomes difficult. Without a pillow you cannot sleep, because the blood keeps rushing toward the head. If you put a pillow, the blood does not rush toward the head; because it does not, sleep comes easily.
Hence, as people become more intellectual, the number of pillows increases. A primitive man can sleep without a pillow. Animals have no concern for pillows. A primitive cannot even conceive what a pillow is for. He sleeps in very deep sleep. In truth, because there are no thoughts, the flow of blood to the brain is naturally less. But in your mind so many thoughts are running, and as long as thoughts run, the blood keeps rushing—because without the rush of blood thoughts cannot run.
Through mantra, these thoughts stop. Mantra is the repetition of one word. By repeating one word the threads of the mind begin to relax. Relaxed, sleep comes. Any monotonous environment given to you is good for sleep... monotony is needed.
Psychologists say your bedroom should not be painted with many colors—many colors excite the mind. One color is enough—and that too monotonous, which gives boredom, melancholy, drowsiness. There should not be too many things in the room.
And everyone has a ritual for sleep. He repeats the same thing every day. Like small children—one child sleeps holding his doll; another puts his thumb in his mouth. That has become monotonous. He does the same every day. If you pull his thumb out of his mouth you will break his sleep. As soon as he puts his thumb in his mouth, the thumb becomes a mantra. The boredom has set in. The same old thumb, day after day... he falls asleep.
Do not think only small children do this. You too have your ritual. Everyone has. At bedtime you will do that same ritual, and then sleep will come—if you have done it.
That’s why one cannot sleep in a new room—the monotony is broken. In a new house sleep does not come. If a new person sleeps in the room, there is a slight hitch. If the same wife is sleeping, the same husband is sleeping, the same old snoring continues—boredom should arise, it is the formula of sleep. Even a little newness creates obstruction.
So some people make the mind drowsy by boring it. Such people can never reach the state Mahavira calls Siddhahood. These are two ways: the suppressor goes insane; the sleeper becomes sluggish. He may begin to look calm, but his calm is a dead calm—the calm of a corpse, the calm of a cremation ground. It is not a living calm where life flows within and yet there is no unrest.
It is necessary to avoid these two. And only the one can avoid them who understands the nature of mind.
What is the nature of mind?
Mind is the process of thought. Mind is not a machine. Mind is not a thing. Mind is a flow. If we understand rightly, it is not right to say mind—it is mentation, contemplation, the stream of thoughts, a river. These thoughts go on flowing. And as long as they flow, you cannot be at peace; every thought shakes you; every thought perturbs you.
To be tremulous is to be in the world, according to Mahavira; to become unshakable is to be outside the world. And we are engaged every moment in seeking a little trembling—we call it sensation.
Thrill... our whole effort is that life not become dull, so let something new happen. You buy a new dress and there is a little sparkle in life. You buy some new thing—and people have gone mad in buying; they buy without concern. Because every new thing gives a little thrill. It feels as if a little life has come—because a little boredom is broken. The mind’s whole effort is that you keep searching for newness each day.
You will be surprised to know that the sages of the East, in olden days, were concerned that society should not change much, that things not be too new, that events not be too novel—so there be as little cause as possible for the mind to be stirred. The static society of the East had behind it the hands of the sages. In the West today, the situation is exactly the opposite—everything must be new, every day new. By the second day the old is boring. Let everything keep becoming new.
I was reading American statistics: no one stays in one house for more than three years—this is the average. Everyone changes house within three years. A car is changed every year. The divorce rate has crossed fifty percent. Out of a hundred marriages, fifty end in divorce. Before this century ends, as many divorces will be there as marriages. These divorces and marriages are essentially searches for the new.
Mulla Nasruddin lived next door to a church. The priest sometimes gave him instruction. Watching his life, he sometimes counseled him. One day Nasruddin said, You are right. I have decided—today I will go and seek forgiveness from my wife, and now I will not so much as raise my eyes to look at another woman! Enough! You were right, but I did not listen. It was the run of the mind, lust—and it kept running. But now I am older. So today I will ask my wife to forgive me. I will confess everything—that I have been deceiving her.
Next morning the priest kept watching for Nasruddin to come out. Nasruddin strode past the church with great swagger, great freshness, marching briskly. He seemed very happy. The priest said: So, Nasruddin, it seems your wife has forgiven you!
Nasruddin said, No, she did not forgive me—but don’t talk about it now. Two or three days later...!
The priest said: But what happened? You look very pleased.
Nasruddin said: I told my wife that I am deceiving you. I have a relationship with another woman. She got very agitated and said, Tell me her name. Now, it was not appropriate to tell the name—there is that other woman’s honor at stake, her husband’s honor, her children’s—so I said, I cannot tell you the name. I am sorry; forgive me. My wife got angry. She said, Until you tell me the name I will not forgive you. Then she said, All right—if you won’t tell me, I will think for myself. You are not in love with the priest’s wife, are you? When I kept quiet she said, No, no—the priest’s sister! And when I still kept quiet she said, No, no—now it’s certain—you are with the priest’s daughter!
I remained silent.
The priest said: But why are you so pleased about that?
Nasruddin said: Nothing else got resolved—but she has given me three new contacts! And now, please, don’t interfere!
The mind got moving again. Now she has given him three new addresses. These three women had not even occurred to Nasruddin.
Many times you come close to restraint, and then some wave shakes you. You think, What is the rush to be restrained? One can wait a little. And often people do not manage restraint till their dying moment. Till the last moment life goes on shaking them.
Mahavira says: the one whom outer situations shake, agitate—agitation means, one who becomes eager to go out—that consciousness is in the world. Such a consciousness can never become Siddha.
Mahavira’s word is: Shaileshi avastha—still as the Himalayas. Where there is no tremor. Hindus made the home of Shiva on Kailash for this very reason. It is not that by searching on Kailash you will find Shiva. By now almost the whole Himalayas have been explored. And if something remains, the Chinese will not leave it—they are searching. And if Shiva were to be found, he would be found by you, not by the Chinese.
Shiva is not there; it is only a symbol—that the ultimate state of Shivahood is steady like Kailash. Hence Mahavira called it Shaileshi—mountain-like—still as the Himalayas. Where there is no vibration.
But if you ask scientists they will say the word is not correct, because the Himalayas are trembling. The truth is, no mountain on earth trembles more than the Himalayas. The Vindhyas, the Satpuras—these are settled. The Alps—these are settled, not trembling; the Himalayas are trembling—because they are young. Vindhya and Satpura are old.
Geologists say the Vindhyas are the oldest mountains in the world—the most ancient. Our stories also say that when Rishi Agastya went south, he told Vindhya, Remain bowed till I return, for I am an old man and climbing is difficult for me.
It bowed for him. But he never returned—he died in the south. Since then it is bowed. The story is sweet. It says: the old mountain, the neck has bowed, the back has bent.
Vindhya is the oldest mountain. In it no change is happening. It is not growing; it is decreasing. The Himalayas are growing daily. Their height increases daily. There is daily tremor; they are still young.
The younger the mind, the more it trembles. If the mind keeps trembling, then your old age is only of the body—but in mind you are filled with youthful desires. Mahavira’s intention was clear—he did not know the Himalayas are trembling. By that time it had not been revealed that the Himalayas are in motion and still rising.
Every day the Himalayas rise some inches from the earth. Still young—not adult yet. The flood has not stopped. But Mahavira’s intention is clear, because nothing else appears so still in the world as the Himalayas. At least from above they appear utterly still.
Everything changes; the Himalayas do not appear to change—symbolically. Such a state of mind where no change happens, no vibration happens, no increase, no decrease—everything stops; as when a lake becomes utterly rippleless; empty sky where not a patch of cloud drifts; not a breath of wind arrives—in such a state there is no mind, no mentation. In such a state only the Atman remains.
We can interpret it this way: as long as the Atman vibrates, that vibration is named mind. Mind is no thing; mind is merely the name of a vibrating soul. And when the Atman does not vibrate, and becomes still, healthy, abides in itself, becomes Shaileshi—then mind is no more. When mind is not, what remains is without any vibration.
To attain this state, it will be necessary to stop our insane search for the new. When the mind demands new stimuli, be alert. When the mind says, Seek the new, understand what it is asking: Give me new fuel so I can go on trembling.
Mind gets bored quickly with the old—it will get bored with the new too. Today’s new is tomorrow’s old. The person who keeps on feeding the mind with new without understanding that the mind is only trying to go on trembling, seeking new tremors—such a person will never attain Samadhi.
In such a state we go on wandering in the other. Only the other can provide stimulation. Stimulation always comes from outside. There is no way for peace to come from outside. Peace is born within; stimulation always comes from without. Unrest comes from outside; peace flows from within. And as long as we are engaged outside...
Mulla Nasruddin was conscripted during the war. In training, his captain once asked, Nasruddin, when you clean your gun, what is the very first thing you do? What is the first thing before cleaning a gun?
Nasruddin said: First thing—I look at the number—just to be sure that this is my own, I am not cleaning somebody else’s.
What Nasruddin says is priceless. In life, we go on cleaning other people’s guns; our own gun remains dirty. Because we are busy cleaning others’, there is no leisure to attend to ourselves.
Whoever delights in stimulation spends life cleaning others’ guns—fixing others, improving others, beautifying others, making friends, drawing others near, consuming others—the whole life is spent on the other. And others are endless! There is no end to the other.
Sartre said an astonishing thing: “The Other is the hell.” The statement is partly right. We create our hell through the other. Look at your own hell. Each person lives in his own hell. Smiles are on the surface—deceptive, painted—but inside there is hell. Everyone is living in his own hell. But you cannot create your hell alone; you need others. Without others, hell cannot be created.
Think a little—can you create hell alone? Without others, hell is impossible. But if this is true, why are we so mad after others?
Because we also hope that without the other, heaven too cannot be created. In the attempt to make heaven through the other, we create hell.
The dream of heaven gives birth to hell. On the gate of every hell is written: Heaven. Wherever you see “heaven” written, be cautious before entering, because the builders of hell are very skillful. They do not write hell on their doors—no one would enter then. On the doors of hell it always says “Heaven”—that is only on the door. Inside, as you go in, hell begins to reveal itself.
The one who hopes for heaven from the other will have his hell created by the other. Sartre says truly, “The Other is the hell.” But he never indicated why the other is hell.
It is not because of the other. It is one’s longing for heaven from the other that gives birth to hell. So, looking deeply, it is my desire—that I may create heaven through the other—which becomes the cause of hell. And the person entangled in the other will always be trembling.
Have you noticed that all your vibrations are in relation to the other—of anger, of love, of hate, of attachment, of greed—always in relation to the other? Imagine for a moment that you are left alone on this earth—will any vibration remain? If the whole world suddenly disappears and you are alone, then no vibration will remain—because vibration requires relation with the other; a bridge of desire must be formed between the other and me; then vibration happens.
When one sinks deep within with eyes closed, forgetting the outer—he becomes as if alone on the earth; as if no one else exists. They may exist—but as if they do not; I am alone. In this aloneness, Shaileshi arises. In this aloneness, this utterly inner solitude, all vibrations stop and the experience of the unshakable dawns.
Let us take Mahavira’s sutra.
“When the seeker attains the all-pervasive Kevalajnana and Kevaladarshan, then, becoming Jina and Kevali, he knows loka and aloka.”
“When the Kevalajnani, the Jina, knows the whole of loka-aloka, then the activities of mind, speech, and body come to a halt, and the Shaileshi (immovable, unshakable) state is attained.”
In the previous sutra Mahavira said: when the inner light arises; when the life-energy turns wholly inward...
This turning inward itself is called pratikraman. Consciousness has two modes: one, aggression—moving toward the other; the other, pratikraman—returning toward oneself.
Pratikraman is not some ritual you do sitting down. Pratikraman is the returning of consciousness, of energy, toward oneself. It is a very profound event.
People come and say: Today we are coming from doing pratikraman. Does anyone come from doing pratikraman? Pratikraman means not to come out, but to begin to come in. Pratikraman is energy returning inward. You may have seen—many esoteric, secret societies have chosen the symbol of a serpent holding its own tail. The serpent holding its tail is pratikraman. When consciousness grasps itself by itself, and a circle is formed, that is pratikraman.
As long as my attention is on the other, aggression continues. And as long as aggression continues, I am wasting myself, losing myself—being destroyed. Because the energy that goes out is going to waste. Until energy is joined within—until inner intercourse happens—until I unite with myself within—bliss will not be attained.
The little bit of pleasure that comes by meeting the other is only relief. It is the weakening of force. Whenever the force grows heavy and, through the other, is discharged outward, you feel light.
Sometimes you may have noticed—when fever subsides, a great lightness comes, as if you could fly. But that lightness is due to weakness, not to strength. Because strength is not within, you feel utterly light. After fever there is such lightness—as if all is quiet. The expenditure of energy through the other is that fever-lightness—where an excitement arose and subsided.
In America, Masters and Johnson did scientific studies on sex. Their first finding is: at the moment of sexual intercourse both partners, man and woman, enter a feverish state. Both bodies become heated; temperature rises; breath runs hard; every hair of the body is restless. In a few moments both burn in heat. And when both have their release, there is relief from this fever. They return.
It is relief from fever—pleasure is not possible in it. Our relationships with the other can at most be relief. Relationship with oneself is bliss.
Mahavira calls this relationship with oneself pratikraman—when consciousness returns to itself. As soon as it returns, the karmic dirt falls away. Because we had accumulated karmas only for the other—for relating with the other.
Understand a little.
We speak; we learn language. But we learn language for the other. Language has no use for oneself. Language is social; it is a device to join with the other. If you were alone in the world, language would drop; there would be no need of it—because language was only for joining with the other.
You sit in a car to go somewhere. If there were nowhere to go, you would get out of the car. And if all going were to end, if there were no question of going, no destination, you would forget the car.
You wear clothes so that your nakedness not be seen by the other. But if there were no one in the world, if you were in a dense forest where there is no one—you would wander naked. No concern with clothes would remain.
When you leave the house, you look in the mirror—so that the other not see dirt on your face, not see ugliness, not see you as vulgar. But if you were alone in the forest—the mirror would lie there and break; you would stop looking.
Whatever we do in life is because of the other, for the other. Mahavira says: whatever karmas we have accumulated through lives, they were for relating with the other. Our whole setup is of instruments. Our whole body, our whole mind is equipment for relation with the other. When consciousness relates with itself, this entire apparatus drops. There is no need of it. Our connection with it breaks.
With the breaking of this connection, the all-pervasive Kevalajnana arises. Then a knowing is born that spreads everywhere; it has no boundary; it is limitless. Then circles of light move outward from within and encompass infinite realms. Whatever expanse there is, it is encompassed. Mahavira says—not only loka but aloka is also known.
I told you earlier—modern physicists have come close to the conception of an anti-universe, of aloka. And it has become necessary because one fundamental law of existence has been understood: here nothing happens without polarity. The mode of being here is through opposites. Everything here exists with its opposite—dark with light, birth with death. So the universe alone, loka alone, cannot be; aloka will be too. Something opposite will be.
Mahavira says a very unique thing. And he had no scientific instruments to know this. Surely, it appeared to him in the expansion of his own knowing. The scientist has instruments; Mahavira had none—no laboratory except himself. He himself was the laboratory—no more than that. He had no method other than closing his eyes and looking within. Through this method it appeared to him that aloka is, the anti-universe is.
There the laws will be exactly opposite. It is the reverse of this. And it must be so, that this loka can be. For without polarity, nothing can exist. If there were no women, men would be lost; if no men, women would be lost.
An ancient Arabian tale says: once people became completely sluggish and lazy; such a time came that all were indolent. No one wanted to do anything; no one did anything. A sage was asked—what to do? He said: Do one thing. Lock all men on one island and all women on another. That’s all—everything will be set right.
They said: You are mad—what will this do? Men on one island, women on another—how will laziness end?
He said: Don’t worry—they will both begin building boats to reach the other island. Sloth will break. Indolence will disappear. Initiative will arise; labor will begin. Man cannot remain alone; woman cannot remain alone. They will want to come near. The upheaval will begin. You create anarchy—separate the two.
Polarity is the basis of life here on earth. So Mahavira says: aloka and loka—these two are the inevitabilities of existence. To the one in whom inner silence happens, the mind ends; where mind ends, there is silence. The one who becomes a muni within will have both loka and aloka illumined; both will be seen. The fundamental ground of life will be seen—that polarity, duality, dialectics, struggle—is the very fabric of life.
And this life cannot be rid of polarity. One may go beyond polarity within, but outside, polarity cannot be erased; it will take new forms, create new conflicts, raise new upheavals—because without upheaval life cannot exist. Struggle is inevitable there.
“When the seeker attains the all-pervasive Kevalajnana and Kevaladarshan, then, becoming Jina and Kevali...”
Jina means: one who has conquered oneself. To conquer oneself means: one who no longer depends on the other in any sense. Where dependence on the other ends totally, Mahavira says, the person is a Jina. Only he has the right to call himself Jina who is dependent on none for any reason; who is sufficient unto himself; whose being is enough; whose consciousness does not go searching for anyone; who, even if no one is found, feels no hurt; who, remaining with himself, is so delighted that there is no diminishment in his joy.
The one who is blissful with himself, Mahavira calls him Jina. And Kevali he calls the one to whom this knowing has happened; who has no hindrance, no obstruction upon him; who goes on expanding; who is infinite light; who has experienced the infinite inner light. Mahavira chose a very unique word: keval—alone, only, all-one—where only knowing remains.
The Upanishads say: the knowledge of the world is a confluence of three. There the knower is, the known object is, and between them is the relationship—knowledge. There are three.
You must have gone to Prayag—there the Kumbha is held; the fair gathers at the Triveni. But the Triveni is a great joke! There are two rivers there—of the third they say, it once was. It never was. The third is invisible. Saraswati is invisible; Yamuna and Ganga are manifest. This Triveni is a symbol of the inner confluence.
In this world, whatever event of knowledge happens—whatever pilgrimage of knowing is formed—is formed by the three: the object, the known; the knower, the subject; and the third stream that arises invisibly between them—knowledge. That knowledge is Saraswati.
Hence Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge. And that river never existed physically. It cannot be. There is no reason for it to be. Its nature is invisibility. Matter is visible; the seer is visible; the seen is visible; the seeing is not visible. The knower and the known are visible.
I am sitting here, looking at you. I am; you are; and between us a Saraswati flows, which is not visible—of knowing, knowledge, awareness, vision. By these three together the entire knowledge of the world is formed.
Mahavira says: when the knower is erased, and the known too, and only Saraswati remains; that which is invisible alone remains—when the visible two are lost. For the visible is matter; the invisible is consciousness.
Now this is delightful: when you go to Prayag, Ganga and Yamuna are visible; Saraswati is not. Within, there is a Prayag where only Saraswati is visible—Ganga and Yamuna are lost. Where Ganga and Yamuna are lost and only Saraswati remains, that state is called keval.
What is visible there is not seen; and what is invisible here is the only thing seen. The visible of this world there becomes invisible; and the invisible of that world here becomes visible. That world is exactly the opposite of this. What is invisible here becomes visible there.
Between matter and the knower of matter, between the two shores, flows a third invisible stream—knowledge. Mahavira says: that is your real nature—the invisible. And until you know it, you remain ignorant. Kevalajnana alone is knowledge; truly, all else is groping of ignorance. The ignorant man gropes; he searches; constructs; creates theories.
Jnani means: where the two are gone; polarity is gone; and the invisible stream has become manifest. The name of that invisible stream is keval.
“When the Kevalajnani, the Jina, has known loka and aloka, the whole universe, then the activities of mind, speech, and body stop; the Shaileshi (immovable, unshakable) state is attained.”
Resting in that third, all restlessness disappears. Then there is no vibration. Then nothing can shake you, because nothing can attract you. Nothing can unseat you, because nothing can agitate you. No invitation remains effective; no summons can call you outward.
Then there is nothing in the world that is a magnet. You have become steady upon your own magnet. You are at your own center—centering has happened. You are standing in your place. You have come to that place... The potter’s wheel turns, but in the middle there is a peg that does not turn.
And the wonder is: because the peg does not turn, the wheel can turn. If the peg too started to turn, the wheel would fall. The peg remains still.
As long as we are linked with mind, we are linked with the wheel; and when we step back from mind, becoming quiet and silent and empty, we are established on the peg. The man on the peg—centered, established in himself—Mahavira says, is Shaileshi. He has become the Himalaya of consciousness. No vibration is in him now. Now nothing can make him suffer—because now he has no expectation of happiness from anyone. Such a person attains bliss; or, if you like, call it Brahman.
Mahavira says: such a person has become Paramatma. Paramatma means: to attain this Shaileshi state.
“When, by cessation of the conjunctions of mind, speech, and body, the Atman attains the Shaileshi state—utterly free of pulsation—then, exhausting all karma, becoming absolutely stainless, it attains Siddhi.”
For Mahavira, Siddha is the final word. Siddha means: one who has reached. One who has arrived. One who has found the goal. Whose journey has ended. Who has nowhere to go. Nothing left to get. Nothing left to know. All that could happen in this life has happened. The seed has become a flower. Beyond this there is no journey. Consciousness has actualized all its potentials. Whatever could be has been. No seed remains in consciousness—all seeds have manifested.
Mahavira calls this fully manifested state the state of Paramatma. Hence for Mahavira there is not one God; as many consciousnesses as there are—countless—so many Paramatmas—innumerable. Some are enclosed in seed; some are struggling, breaking the seed; some have sprouted and are moving toward flowers; and some have bloomed and reached the ultimate state.
All are Paramatmas—some in seed, some in sprout; some in tree, some in flower. But in their nature there is no difference; in their essence there is no difference. An infinity of Paramatmas—this is Mahavira’s vision. Each person is Paramatma; divinity resides in each.
Siddhi means: to attain divinity; to become God. Siddhi means: from where no desire remains; from where there is no going beyond; the final point of life.
This is what we are seeking. But the place where we are seeking it is perhaps not the place where it can be found. We seek this—in wealth, in position, in prestige, in scriptures. But it cannot be found there; it must be sought within. Wherever we are seeking, we are seeking wrongly. And therefore, when we do not find it, we do not consider that our seeking was wrong—we think our fate was wrong; that some obstacle came.
We seek happiness in one person, do not find it—then we think this person is wrong, so happiness is not found; let us seek in someone else. We seek in wealth, do not find—then in position; in position, do not find—then in scripture.
But one direction remains always untouched—we never think to seek in ourselves. Always somewhere, in someone else! Until it occurs to us that wherever we seek, the search will be wrong—until we seek in ourselves. And that is why we see so many faults in others. The total reason that we see faults in others is this: wherever we fail, there we find faults to console our mind.
Mulla Nasruddin had grown old. He went to an office for a job. A watchman’s post was vacant. The employer said, All right—but let me tell you what kind of man we need. You are fine—we can give you the job—but understand: we need a man who doubts twenty-four hours a day—a watchman. Whoever comes in, he should never see with trust or faith—doubt for twenty-four hours. And be engaged twenty-four hours in finding people’s faults, errors. And be ready to fight twenty-four hours. A wicked nature; a harsh voice. A frightening face—and if someone gives the least provocation, let the devil appear in him—we need such a man. Fine—will you manage?
Nasruddin said: Forgive me—I’m sorry. This job is not for me, but I will send my wife around! Exactly as you describe—such a personality is hers!
To see within is very difficult. The employer says—you are exactly suitable. But Nasruddin says, This job is not for me... my wife...!
Faults always appear in the other—because we want this and that from the other and do not get it. It is not because the other is at fault. It has nothing to do with the other. Whoever wants love will get anger. In the very desire for love we are creating anger in the other. This is difficult; complex.
Our desire is the cause of the trouble. What we ask for—its opposite is given to us. Look at your life. Whatever you asked for—the opposite you have received. But you think the opposite came because the others were wrong.
In Nasruddin’s village the telephone came for the first time. He was an old, renowned man; everyone knew him—obvious—say, notorious. The telephone company thought: let the inauguration be done by Nasruddin. His wife had gone to a village thirty miles away—so a first conversation with her.
Nasruddin agreed with difficulty. He said: Somehow she has gone—and you are arranging a meeting with her! And we were feeling some peace—and now another nuisance, the telephone, has come to the village! It means now there will be no escape from the wife—even if she goes out!
Still, people did not relent—he agreed. It was the rainy season. He took the phone in his hand, trembling, nervous—as all husbands become when phoning their wives; the hand begins to tremble. And this was the first telephone—he had never used one. His hand shook. At that very moment lightning cracked loudly, and it struck the tree in front. The phone fell from his hand; he fell with a thud. Somehow he gathered himself up and said, That’s all right! That’s my old woman!
He said: It is absolutely certain—she is the one—it’s my wife! The crack of thunder and his own fall—he thought he was talking to his wife. He said: I had said already—don’t bring this further nuisance, the telephone, here!
So in the other we always find—we all do. Nasruddin is extreme; you are a little behind—no difference. But the obstruction of our life is precisely this: all our suffering is being given to us by someone—some circumstance, some person, some event—always from outside.
Mahavira says: nothing comes from outside. We ask from outside, and the opposite is given to us. It is a direct answer to our demand. Siddhahood is that state where our demands upon the outside have dropped and we are fulfilled within. As we are within, so we are in perfect tathata—total acceptability, complete contentment.
You cannot shake a Siddha. Tell him there is a diamond mine next to the house—he will not move. Tell him Indra has come to invite him to heaven—your austerities are enough—he will not move. You cannot attract him by anything. You have nothing to give that can set him trembling. All the world is ash. In this world, nothing remains of value. The whole world has become valueless.
Remember: we give value. Everything is valueless. Value is what we give. How much value we give—depends on us. To what we give value—depends on us.
All value is projected by man. And values are given by desire. For the Siddha the world is valueless.
And remember, as long as the world has value, you remain valueless within. When the world’s value disappears, inner value is established.
In the Siddha’s soul there is value—and the whole world is valueless. Therefore Shankara says: the Atman alone is real; the world is maya. Maya means only this: we had put the value there—and we have taken it back. What we project, we withdraw. We first project value; then we are moved by value. A great game!
Mahavira says: the Siddha is one who is out of this game.
“When the Atman, having exhausted all karma—becoming altogether stainless—attains Siddhi, then, poised at the brow of loka, at the foremost edge above, it remains a Siddha for all time.”
Mahavira says: loka and aloka are the polarity. As I said—Yamuna and Ganga are two visibles; Saraswati is invisible. Loka and aloka—matter and anti-matter, in the language of science—are two opposites. Between these two—the Siddha-consciousness becomes still at the brow of loka and at the front of aloka. Between matter and non-matter, between loka and aloka—the consciousness becomes still.
This state has no end. It is infinity. It is timelessness. It is the eternal. From this moment there is no other moment. This moment is infinite.
From this, great thoughts arose; discussions went on for thousands of years. In the West they ask: whenever anything begins it must end. If Siddhahood begins, when will it end?
Mahavira says: it has no end; it only begins. This is delightful. Understand Mahavira. He says: the world has an end, no beginning; Siddhahood has a beginning, no end. Together they form a circle.
Mahavira says: the world has no beginning—it is from the beginningless. Hence Mahavira does not accept a creator; nor that creation once happened. He says the world is beginningless. The world is beginningless. Siddhahood has a beginning. The beginning of Siddhahood means the end of the world. As soon as one becomes Siddha, for him the world ends—it becomes zero.
So Mahavira says: the world has no beginning—it has an end; Siddhahood has a beginning—it has no end. Together they complete the circle.
Draw a great line. Divide it into two halves. On the front end of the first half place Siddhahood—without an end, with a beginning. Siddhahood begins one day, but never ends. This is half. The other half is the world—without a beginning, with an end. Join the two and a circle is formed.
Mahavira says: these two events are two halves of one expanse. The Siddha has reached the place where there is no transformation—not falling, not rising; neither forward nor backward.
Many philosophers have asked: if it has no end—such a long, endless state—will we not get bored? Will dread not arise? Will one not want to run away?
Mahavira says: when we think endless, we mean very long—but with an end somewhere. When I say endless, I mean: where the question of length is not there at all—the question is of eternity. Then the primary moment is the final moment. Nothing seems to pass; time does not seem to elapse—because time is a part of the world.
The Siddha-state is beyond time. There is no time there. So it will never seem that it has been too long since one became a Siddha. Never. Because there is no question of duration. Time is not there. Your clock stops. A clock cannot run there.
Someone asked Jesus: what will be special in your kingdom of heaven? Jesus said: There shall be time no longer.
Time is part of the world—because time is a part of change. If rightly understood, change happens—that is why we know time. If no change happened, there would be no sense of time. The more rapid the change, the more you feel time.
Therefore in the West people are more time-conscious—because change is rapid. In the East people are not so harassed by time. Go to the forest, to the tribals—they have nothing to do with time. There is no question of time. As if there is no time. Everything is still.
When change is intense, you sense time. When change is slow, time is slow. When there is no change, time disappears.
If rightly understood, time means change. The sense that arises amidst change is time. Otherwise, we would have no sense of time. If you were in a state where nothing changes—suppose you sit in this room, and nothing changes; all things are still—you will have no sense of time. You sense time because things are changing. Between one change and another—the empty interval—that is where we sense time.
Time is the sense of change.
So Mahavira says: in Siddhahood there is no change—therefore time is not. There you will have no sense of time. The moment one becomes Siddha, time drops; the world drops.
In fact, with the fall of desire, change ends. As far as desire is, there is change. Where there is no desire—only Atman—there is no change. There is eternity.
This Siddha-state is the search of every being. It is the quest of every breath. Life longs for a place beyond which nothing remains to be attained. No matter how much wealth you get, that place is not reached—more remains to be got. No matter how high a position—more remains. No matter how learned—no difference—more scriptures remain!
In this world there is nothing which, upon attaining, you can say: beyond this, nothing remains. Beyond always remains. Therefore, in worldly attainments there can be no Siddhahood. Only in the inner journey is there a place where nothing remains to be got.
One who has found oneself—nothing remains to be got. One who has not found oneself—always something remains. Until he finds himself, no matter how much he wanders, no matter how much he travels—the journey has no end. The journey ceases by finding oneself. Only by being in oneself does the journey end. The one who is wholly established in himself is the Siddha.
Mahavira has given these sutras for Siddha-yoga. For a moment, you too can taste the nectar of being Siddha. Even for a moment—if the taste is had—your search will begin. Even for a moment—if your mind does not race—one glimpse comes of Siddhahood. For one moment you get a taste of what it must be to be a Siddha! Even that joy is immeasurable. If for a moment a lightning flashes within, you have begun—you will move.
Whoever seeks that place beyond which there is no place—and whoever seeks that wealth which cannot be snatched, which cannot be destroyed, which cannot be lost; whoever seeks that rank without which you will always feel poor and mean—no matter what you get, your poverty will remain, no matter how covered in imperial robes—without which poverty disappears and one is truly an emperor...!
Swami Ram called himself an emperor. When he went to America people were troubled. He always called himself “Ram, the Emperor.” He wrote a book: The Six Orders from Emperor Ram. The President of America came to meet him and was uneasy. He said: Everything is fine, but you are utterly a fakir—why do you call yourself emperor?
Ram said: I call myself emperor because nothing remains for me to get. The one who has something left to get is a beggar—he will still ask. The one for whom nothing remains to be got is an emperor. I call myself emperor because in this world there is nothing now that can attract my desire. Now I am the master! I have nothing—but I am! This is my ownership; this is my Jinahood.
Mahavira says: every person is seeking Jinahood, Siddhahood. As every river seeks the ocean, so every consciousness, every Atman seeks Siddhahood. The directions may be confused, the paths full of mistakes—but the search is the same. In wealth we seek it; in position we seek it; in the world we seek it; in love we seek it. We seek one thing, but where we seek it, it is not found—hence we suffer; hence we are miserable.
The day right direction is sensed, the day we turn within, and even a little whisper of Siddhahood begins to sound in the ears; even a little note of that unending music; a little fragrance begins to come; a little light begins to touch—thereafter, this world has no value.
A little touch—and you are drawn as if by magic. Once a person turns inward, he is pulled. Then the center itself pulls. But for that turning, moments of meditation are needed. For a little while, close yourself to the world and leave yourself open toward the within—so that the inner magnet may have a chance to pull you. For a little while, be available to the within—open and ready.
In twenty-four hours, take out one hour. In that one hour, do nothing—sit with eyes closed, and be in agreement with your inner darkness. Slowly, slowly light will begin to come. Slowly pratikraman will begin; consciousness will begin to turn inward. Finding no way without, it will become imperative to turn within. And if even one ray meets you, one glimpse of Siddhahood—then no one can stop you. However much the world stands around and calls—it is valueless. All has become dream. As one whose sleep has broken cannot be called back by the sweetest dream, so too, when a beam of Siddhahood has descended into one’s drowsiness, the world becomes futile. It cannot call him back.
The name of such consciousness is sannyas. Sannyas is the beginning; Siddhahood is the end.
Pause for five minutes—let us sing kirtan...!