Mahaveer Vani #6

A few things are useful to understand in this connection.

First: if Mahavira were passing by and a killing were taking place, what you and I see in a killing is not what Mahavira would see. What Mahavira sees is something we never see. First grasp this distinction.

Whenever we see someone being killed, we think someone is dying. Mahavira would not see that someone is being killed, because he knows the essence of life cannot be killed—it is deathless. Second: when we see someone being killed, we think the killer alone is responsible. Mahavira will see a difference here too: in a very deep sense, the one who is killed is also responsible, perhaps simply receiving the fruit of his own deed.

When we look, the killer appears responsible and the one killed always appears innocent; our pity and compassion flow to the one being killed. For Mahavira it need not be so, because his seeing is deeper. It may be that the killer is only completing a counter-action, because nothing is killed in this world without a cause. Whenever someone is killed, it is a link in the chain of the fruits of his own karma.

This does not mean that the killer is not responsible. But our seeing and Mahavira’s will differ. Our vision is very limited. Mahavira cannot see so narrowly; he sees the infinite chain of life. No act is complete in itself; it is linked to what is behind and to what is ahead.

Suppose someone had killed Hitler before 1930—he would have been proved a murderer. We could not see that the one being killed would go on to murder ten million. Mahavira can also see that. Then it is hard to decide whether the killer of Hitler would have been doing bad or good. If Hitler dies, millions could be saved. Yet even that does not mean the slayer of Hitler would be doing something good. The truth is, Mahavira knows there is no such choice on this earth as good versus bad; the choice is between the lesser evil and the greater evil. We usually split life into two halves—good and bad, darkness and light. Mahavira knows there is no such split. Whatever you do, at best it can be said you choose the least harmful option among harmful options. The man who kills Hitler is also doing something bad, but compared to what Hitler might do, how shall we call that man bad?

The first point I want to make is: Mahavira will not see as you see. Add to that this: Mahavira knows that all the time, twenty‑four hours a day, many forms of killing are happening. You notice it only sometimes. When you walk, you kill. When you breathe, you kill. When you eat, you kill. Even when your eyelid blinks, killing happens. We notice “murder” only when someone plunges a dagger into a chest.

Mahavira sees that the very arrangement of life stands upon violence. Killing is occurring moment to moment, all the time. A friend once told me that wherever Mahavira walked, people for miles around would be instantly cured of their illnesses. I felt like telling him he did not know the whole secret of disease. When you are ill, yes, you are ill—but many microbes are getting life inside you. If by Mahavira’s coming you are cured at once, those other beings will die at once. Mahavira will not get into such a tangle, remember. He does not consider you special. Every life has equal value. When you alone become ill, millions of lives thrive and become healthy within you. If you hope Mahavira will graciously cure you, such “grace” would be difficult, because your cure implies the destruction of millions. And you are not as valuable as you think. Those millions living in you also consider themselves just as valuable. They do not even know you are there; you are only their food.

So what we call “killing” is not so simple a matter for Mahavira; it is more complex. For Mahavira, the urge to live itself is violence, is killing. Whose urge is not the question. Whoever wants to live will kill. Nor is it that if one drops the life‑urge, killing will stop; as long as he lives, killing will go on through him. Yes, Mahavira says only this: the link has been severed—the link that was there because of the life‑urge.

Mahavira himself lived forty years after enlightenment. In those forty years, if he walked, some would die; if he stood up, some would die. Yet he lived with such restraint that he did the minimum possible. At night he slept on one side only, not turning to the other—because even turning would kill some lives. He breathed softly, so that the least loss of life would occur. But he had to breathe. You might say, then why not jump off a mountain and die? End himself! But if he ends himself, in one human body seventy million lives are thriving—in a healthy person; in an unhealthy one, even more. If Mahavira jumps and kills himself, those seventy million die with him. If he drinks poison, they die with him. When Mahavira looks at violence, the question is complex—not as easy as your eyes make it.

What is killing? Which act is killing? In Mahavira’s vision, the very attempt to live is killing, and living is killing. Killing is happening every moment. Each being wants to live; so when an attack comes, he feels killing is happening—only then. At other times, he does not call it killing. If you go to the jungle and hunt a lion, that is called sport; but if the lion hunts you, it is called murder. Then he is a wild animal and you are a very civilized animal.

The strange thing is, a lion will not kill you unless he is hungry; and you will hunt him only when you are not hungry, when your belly is full. No hungry man goes hunting. Those who have had more than enough to eat, who find no way to digest any more, they go hunting. The lion kills only when hungry, out of necessity.

I have heard a circus started a new act: a lamb and a lion kept together in one cage—friendship! People were delighted, amazed to see the lion and the lamb sitting with their necks entwined. Jains would be very happy; their paintings show a lion sitting with a cow. But one man was puzzled because this was difficult. He asked the manager, “The show is wonderful, but doesn’t it cause trouble?”

The manager said, “Not much trouble.”

“Still, with a lion and a lamb living together—doesn’t an uproar ever occur?”

The manager said, “Never an uproar. We only have to replace the lamb every day. No other difficulty; everything else runs fine. As long as the lion isn’t hungry, the friendship is fine. When he’s hungry, he eats. Next day we put in another lamb. The show goes on.”

Even the lion does not attack the lamb when he’s not hungry. No animal indulges in non‑essential violence—except man. But our violence does not look like violence to us; we dress it in new and noble names. And not just toward animals—our divisions run among humans too: the nearer someone is to us, the more their killing pains us. If a Pakistani dies, it is okay; if an Indian dies, it hurts. Among Indians, if a Hindu dies, a Muslim does not feel hurt. If a Muslim dies, a Jain does not feel hurt. If a Jain dies, a Hindu does not feel hurt.

We pull the circle of nearness tighter and tighter. If a Digambara dies, the Shvetambara does not mind; if a Shvetambara dies, the Digambara does not mind. Then down we go into further sub‑sects. If someone from your family dies, you feel pain; if from another’s family, you show sympathy—but you don’t feel it. Even there, if the question comes: you or your father? The father must die. Your brother or you? The brother must die. And even within yourself: your head or your leg? The leg must be cut off.

In Mulla Nasruddin’s town a soldier came, boasting in the coffee house of his bravery. “I have cut off so many heads, so many heads.”

Mulla listened a long while and said, “This is nothing. Once I too went to war; I cut off so many people’s legs!”

The warrior said, “Sir, it would have been better if you had cut off heads.”

Nasruddin said, “Someone had already cut off the heads. We came home after cutting many legs—didn’t even get a scratch. You look quite beaten up.” So there too you will do economy: if it is a question of your head or your leg, you will have the leg cut off—what else will you do?

“I am the center of the whole world. To save myself I can stake the whole world.” That is violence, that is killing. Mahavira sees so vast a perspective. In that perspective, will what you call killing appear to him as it appears to you? Certainly not. And it is obvious you cannot see as Mahavira sees. Therefore the question is very complex for him.

What do you call rape? On this earth, ninety‑nine out of a hundred occasions are rape. But what do you call rape? If a husband does it, you say it is not rape; but if the wife has no desire, even the husband’s act is rape. How many wives have desire—have husbands ever asked?

What does rape mean? Law declares, “This is not rape,” so it is not rape. Society sanctions, so it is not rape. What is rape? To do anything without the other’s willingness is rape. We all do a great many things without the other’s willingness. The truth is, the very attempt to override the other’s will carries the fun. That is why the man who has once raped a woman finds no joy in simple love. The ego’s gratification in struggle and force is not available in the simple.

If you are wrestling and your opponent lies down by himself and says, “Sit on my chest—I surrender,” the fun is gone. When you throw him down with great difficulty and sit on his chest, the taste is there. What is the taste? The taste of victory. That is why there is less taste in one’s own wife than in another man’s wife—because another’s wife can still be “won,” one’s own has been won—taken for granted. What is the relish? Planting the flag of victory—be it in sex, wealth, or position. The more difficult, the more scope for the ego to win; the ego emerges a victor.

If we ask Mahavira and understand deeply, then wherever the ego exerts, there is rape. It takes many forms. Yet we will always see it as: if a man on the road is raping a woman, then the rapist alone appears responsible. But we forget how much a woman can do to invite rape, because if men love to “win,” women enjoy bringing someone to that state. Kierkegaard wrote an extraordinary book, Diary of a Seducer. In it the seducer writes at the end of his life: “I was in a great illusion. I thought I was seducing women. At last I came to know they were more clever than I; they seduced me. Their technique was negative; that is why my illusion lasted. No woman ever proposes marriage; she gets the proposal made by the man. She arranges everything so that he proposes. She does not propose.” That is the difference between the male and the female mind.

The feminine mind works very subtly. You see a man walking; if he bumps into a woman, we instantly feel the fault is his. And the woman has left home fully arranged so that if no one bumps into her, she will return home disappointed. Even if bumped, she may shout; but the shouting need not be anger. Ninety‑nine times out of a hundred it is because without shouting no one will know she was bumped. It is possible she herself does not know this deeply. For the way women dress and step out is a full invitation to be bumped. In that invitation their hand is there. Our ways of thinking are always biased. We think one person is responsible; it never occurs to us that responsibility in this world is not so simple; it is tangled. The other may also be responsible—more deeply, more skillfully, more subtly. Mahavira will see the whole; and in that total seeing, his vision and ours will differ. His vision will be total.

The second question: Will Mahavira do something or not? Understand first that he will see differently. Will he do anything? I say to you: Mahavira will not “do”; what has to happen will be allowed to happen. Understand the difference. You pass a road and see a killing; you stand and think, “What should I do? Should I or not? Is the man strong or weak? If I act, what will be the consequences? Is he a minister’s relative? Might I get trapped?” You will think twenty‑five things and then act. With Mahavira, something will happen; he will not think. The time for thinking is past; the day thinking dropped, he became Mahavira. Thought no longer runs. Thought is always partial; vision is total. Thought is always partisan; seeing, insight, is whole. Mahavira will see a situation in vision; then what happens, happens. He will not even look back and ask, “What did I do?”—because he did not do. Hence Mahavira says: a total act does not bind as karma. A total act brings no bondage. Something may happen through him or not, but we cannot predict it; we cannot say what he will do. Even Mahavira cannot say beforehand what he will do. In that situation, in that moment, what will happen through him—no prediction is possible.

Predictions can be made about us; understand this. The less understanding one has, the more predictable he is. Machines are fully predictable. Animals are a bit harder, but still you can say with ninety percent certainty what a cow will do at dusk. With a machine we know exactly. As life and consciousness evolve, unpredictability increases. We can say what an ordinary man will do tomorrow morning. About a Mahavira or a Buddha, we cannot. What will happen through them is mysterious—because in their total vision, what is seen cannot be followed by thinking “what to do.” The seeing happens, and here the act happens. They are like mirrors. What happens out there is reflected in the mirror; but the responsibility is not on Mahavira.

If Mahavira prevented a killing or stopped a rape, he would not tell anyone, “I stopped a rape.” He would say, “I saw that a rape was happening, and I saw that this body intervened. And I was a witness.” Deep down Mahavira remains a witness—to the violation and to its being prevented. Only then is he beyond karma. An act done out of thought, desire, intention, purpose, brings fruit. After enlightenment, whatever happens through Mahavira is purposeless, goalless, fruitless, thoughtless—an act arising from emptiness. When an act arises from emptiness, it is beyond prediction. I cannot say what Mahavira will do. Had you asked Mahavira, he too could not have said. He would say, “You will see what happens, and I will also see what happens. I have dropped doing.” That is why the actions of a Mahavira, Lao Tzu, Buddha, or Krishna are the most difficult riddle in the world.

Why do we ask what he would do? Because if we knew for sure what Mahavira would do, we could do the same. Remember: without becoming a Mahavira, you cannot do the same—even if it looks the same, it won’t be the same. This is the mischief that has gone on for twenty‑five hundred years. People watched Mahavira in particular situations and have been imitating. Imitation bears no fruit for the soul. For Mahavira it was a spontaneous act; for imitators it is a practiced habit. For Mahavira the act was born of vision; for them it is a cultivated routine. If one day Mahavira fasted, for him the fast meant something else. Perhaps he was so absorbed that he forgot the body. But the one who fasts today in his name remembers the body when he eats, and when he fasts he remembers the body all day long. Better that he ate—he would be closer to Mahavira in not remembering the body! By not eating, he remembers the body for twenty‑four hours. Mahavira’s fast bore fruit because there was no memory of the body—who would know hunger then, who would go seeking food?

No one can make a replica of a Mahavira. All traditions do this—and this destroys. We see what Mahavira did and cling to it. Then all religious quarrels arise. Krishna did one thing, Buddha another, Christ another; contexts differ. A follower of Mahavira says, “Krishna is wrong, Mahavira never did this.” A follower of Buddha says, “Mahavira is wrong, Buddha did not do this.” They measure knowledge by acts; here is the mistake. Acts arise from knowing, and knowing is far greater than acts—like waves arise in the ocean, but we do not measure the ocean by the waves. If the Indian Ocean has waves of one kind and the Pacific of another because winds differ, do not think the Indian Ocean is the ocean and the Pacific is not.

We know only what Mahavira did in Mahavira’s situations, what Buddha did in Buddha’s. Then tradition becomes rigid; we sit clutching at it. We search the scriptures to see what Mahavira did in such a situation, so we can do the same. But the situation is not the same; and even if it were, one thing is certain—you are not Mahavira. He never looked back to see what someone else did so that he could imitate. What happened through him… To be precise, what happens through Mahavira is not a “deed,” not an act, but a happening. It happens. It is not rule‑bound; it is a free event from a rule‑free consciousness. That is why there is no bondage of karma in it. Much will certainly happen through Mahavira. What will happen cannot be said. It is not “doing,” it is happening. Therefore I cannot answer what Mahavira would do.

Life changes every moment. It is not a still photograph; it is like a moving film—dynamic. Everything is changing all the time. The whole world is changing. Each time there is a new situation; each time Mahavira will appear in a new way.

If Mahavira came today, Jains would have more difficulty than anyone else, because they would test him against a life of twenty‑five hundred years ago. One thing is certain: he cannot act “the same,” because nothing is the same today. Everything has changed. When he does something else—and he will—those who have become rigid will be in trouble: “This cannot be. The true one was only the one long ago.” Jains alone would not accept Mahavira. Perhaps some new people might.

Acts are like ash, like fallen dry leaves; you cannot measure the tree by them. The living tree sprouts fresh shoots every moment; that is its life. Dry leaves are not its life; they only show they have become useless and fallen away. All your acts are dry leaves; they fall. Inside, life is ever new and green. We collect dry leaves and think we have known the tree. What have dry leaves to do with the tree! The tree belongs to the flowing stream of life, ever sprouting new leaves. What form the new leaves will take cannot be said; the tree does not sit and plan. Leaves come out. How the sun is, how the winds blow, how the rains fall, how the stars are—everything matters. From the total, everything emerges. People like Mahavira live in the cosmic, in the total. Nothing can be said in advance about what they will do. It may even be that he scolds the one being assaulted—you cannot say otherwise; mistakes are easy.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing a village. He saw a big, strong man beating a small man, sitting on his chest. Mulla was enraged, rushed, and pounced on the strong man. With great difficulty—they were well matched—he managed to throw him down, and together they thrashed him well. As soon as the little man was freed, he ran away. The big man had been saying for a long time, “Listen to me!” but Mulla was so angry—how to listen? When the small fellow fled, Mulla asked, “What were you saying?”

He said, “He picked my pocket and ran. He was cutting my pocket; that’s why we were fighting. And you thrashed me and let him go!”

Mulla said, “That’s very bad. But why didn’t you say so earlier?”

The man said, “I kept saying, but you wouldn’t listen! You just started beating.”

Life is complex. The one being beaten is not necessarily unworthy of being beaten. The one beating is not necessarily in the wrong. Mulla said, “I’ll find that man.” He did. But a man who could pick a big man’s pocket and run—he found Mulla first and quickly handed him the stolen purse: “You keep it; the real owner is you—because I was getting beaten.”

Life is complex. People like Mahavira see it in its full complexity; and since the complexity changes with each event, what will happen through them cannot be said. It is a dynamic flow.

Now, understand something about restraint—samyam.

Mahavira calls it the second most important sutra of dharma. Ahimsa is the soul; samyam is like the breath; tapas (austerity) like the body. He begins: “Ahimsa, samyam, tapas.” He places tapas last, samyam in the middle, ahimsa first. We, looking from outside, always see tapas first; samyam we see later; ahimsa we hardly see at all.

Mahavira moves from within outward; we move from without inward. That is why we worship the ascetic more than the nonviolent—because tapas is visible, of the body; ahimsa is deep within, invisible. Samyam we only infer. Seeing an ascetic, we think, “He must be restrained; otherwise, how could he undertake austerity?” Seeing a sensualist, we think, “He is unrestrained.” Not necessary. An ascetic can be unrestrained, and one who looks like a sensualist can be restrained. Our “restraint” is inference: like seeing water on the road and assuming it rained. But the municipal tanker could have sprinkled it. Old logic books said, “Wherever you see water on the ground, assume it has rained”—they had no municipal tankers then.

What we usually mean by restraint is not Mahavira’s meaning. Commonly, we think restraint means suppression, opposition, control. If a man represses himself, holds back his tendencies, binds himself, we say he is restrained. Our definition is negative. It has no positive flavor. He eats less—we say restrained. He sleeps less—restrained. He does not marry—restrained. He wears few clothes—restrained. He makes limits—restrained. The more he forbids, the more he limits, the more he controls and binds himself, the more restrained he is.

But Mahavira will not define life by negations, because life does not move by negation; it moves by the positive. All the energy of life moves by affirmation. So Mahavira’s definition of restraint is positive, creative, strong, alive—not as dead as ours.

That is why those who adopt our definition do not become radiant; they become withered. If restraint is what Mahavira means, life’s glory should increase, intelligence should become luminous. But have you ever checked the IQ of those we call ascetics? Their intelligence declines. We do not care; we only care how many chapatis they eat, how few clothes they wear. The mindless can be worshipped if he wears a loincloth, eats two flatbreads, or eats once a day.

A sadhu once told me, “What you say feels right; I want to drop this traditional sainthood. But I will be in trouble. Today a millionaire touches my feet; tomorrow that same man will not even offer me a watchman’s job.” Think: the one whose feet you touch—if he came asking to wash your dishes, you would ask, “Have you a certificate? Where did you work? How educated? Do you steal?” But to touch feet needs no certificate; only your stupidity needs to decide, “He is restrained.” As if there is virtue in simply holding back. No—life’s virtues are expansive. They are of growth, of attainment—not of negation. For Mahavira, restraint means something else.

For us, restraint means a man fighting himself. For Mahavira, restraint means a man at home with himself. For us, restraint is someone managing his impulses. For Mahavira, restraint is one who has become master of his impulses. One needs to manage what one does not own. Fighting is needed only when you are weaker than your tendencies. If you are stronger, there is no need to fight; tendencies drop by themselves. Restraint means: so self‑possessed, so full of the self, that tendencies cannot even stand before you, cannot even call to you—your gesture is enough. Not that he suppresses anger with force; to suppress with force proves you are weaker. And whatever you suppress with force will keep breaking out. Mahavira says: restraint means self‑power—so much self‑power that anger cannot gather strength to arise.

I once saw a college incident. The principal was a powerful man, long in office, nearing retirement but not retiring—private college. The committee feared him; the professors feared him. Ten or so professors gathered strength, chose the seniormost—a very weak man—and said, “You should be principal; this man should go.” I told them, “You will get into trouble; you are all weak, and the man you push forward is the weakest.” They said, “We are organized; in organization is strength.” They seized the college and sat their man in the principal’s chair. At eleven, as always, the principal arrived. The man in the chair stood, bowed, and said, “Please, sit.” He instantly vacated it. The principal had not called the police. They had alerted the police. I asked him, “Why didn’t you call?” He said, “For these people, call the police? Let them do what they want.”

When strength is within, you need not fight tendencies; they bow their heads before the self‑possessed; they raise their heads only before a weak soul. Hence the common definition—that restraint is like a charioteer holding tight reins—belongs to repression and is wrong.

For Mahavira, restraint means: one established in his own energy. Established in one’s power, tendencies become impotent. Mahavira does not gain brahmacharya by conquering lust; such is the energy of brahmacharya that lust cannot raise its head. He does not become nonviolent by fighting violence; being nonviolent, violence cannot arise. He does not practice forgiveness by fighting anger; such is the power of forgiveness that anger finds no chance. Restraint means: becoming acquainted with your own strength.

Why the name “samyam”? The word is deeply meaningful. In English it is usually translated as “control,” which is wrong. The only correct English word would be “tranquility.” Samyam means so quiet that you do not get disturbed. It means unwavering, unshaken, still—what Krishna in the Gita calls sthitaprajna. It is a standing‑in‑oneself.

Seen from another side: if samyam means this, then asamyam is wavering, trembling—mind swinging from one extreme to the other. If it moves into sex, it goes to the extreme; then it gets bored and sick, because no desire can satisfy forever. Desires bring only failure and sadness. The mind at one extreme then runs to the opposite extreme. He who used to overeat suddenly fasts.

Note: the cult of fasting arises in overfed societies. If Jains are attracted to fasting, it is not because they understand Mahavira; it is because they have been overfed. The poor man celebrates his holy day by eating well; the rich celebrate by fasting. The richer the religion, the more fasting on festivals. Today America has the largest fasting cult in the world—because they have eaten too much. This does not mean they understand Mahavira; they are just shifting to the other extreme. Paryushan comes: eight or ten days you eat less and spend ten days planning feasts afterward; then you break like mad and fall ill; next year the same.

In truth, when a glutton fasts, he attains nothing except the rediscovery of taste. After eight or ten days, taste returns to the tongue. Mahavira says: fasting should bring freedom from taste; here taste thickens. During the fast the mind thinks of nothing but flavors and menus. The hunger that had died is revived. After ten days he pounces on food. The mind goes to extremes. Asamyam is swinging from one extreme to the other. Samyam means entering the middle—no extremes.

If we think overeating is asamyam, I say to you: undereating is also asamyam, the other extreme. Right diet is samyam—and it is hardest. Overeating is easy; eating nothing is easy; right diet is difficult because the mind will not stop at the middle. In Mahavira’s vocabulary, the most important word is samyak—right, balanced, in the middle, never at extremes. Where everything becomes even, where there is no tension of extremity, where all becomes tranquil—that is samyak. There you are not pulled this way or that; you stand in between. That resonance of evenness in all directions is samyam. We never reach it because we practice negation; in negation we move to the opposite extreme.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was contesting an election. Touring his constituency, he reached the main town. A friend said, “So-and-so speaks ill of you.” Mulla poured out every abuse he knew.

“That man,” he said, “is a child of the devil! Elect me once; I will send him to hell.”

The friend said, “I had only heard you can swear well; that’s why I said it. He is your great admirer.”

Mulla said, “I knew from the start he is a god! Elect me once; I will have him worshipped in temples. He is a god.”

The man said, “Mulla, you change so quickly!”

Mulla said, “Who doesn’t? The mind is like that. The one who seems a goddess of beauty today may look the very embodiment of ugliness tomorrow.”

The mind moves instantly from one extreme to the other. Today you put someone on a pedestal; tomorrow you cast him into the valley. The mind cannot stop in the middle, because mind means tension. In the middle there is no tension. Tension requires extremes. Hence the mind lives at extremes. In restraint, the mind ends. So when you say, “He has a very restrained mind,” you are wrong. The restrained has no mind. That is why Zen says restraint is available only when no‑mind is available. Kabir says: restraint is found in the a‑mani state—no‑mind. If we say mind itself is asamyam, we will not exaggerate. Mind means tension—so you must live at extremes. Then the mind stays taut. We all feel as alive as our mind is taut. If there is no tension, we fear we will die or be lost. Those who go deep in meditation come and say, “Now we feel afraid, as if we might die.” No one dies in meditation, but fear arises because as meditation deepens, mind empties. Having assumed ourselves to be the mind, it feels like death. “If I drop the past, will I not end? If there is no movement, will I not vanish?”

Dr. Green in America has made a biofeedback device—costly, but one day it should be in every temple and church. You sit on a chair; before you is a screen on which two light bars rise and fall like a thermometer. Electrodes are attached to each side of your skull. When your mind is at extremes, one bar shoots up, the other drops to zero. When you think lustful thoughts, one bar rises high, the other falls. Green shows nude pictures, plays music to arouse sexuality; one bar goes sky‑high, the other to zero. Then the pictures are removed; he shows pictures of Buddha, Mahavira, Christ; the music changes; a sutra of celibacy is given; the bar reverses: the first falls, the other rises—until the first hits zero and the second is full. He says, “This is the mind’s state.”

Then he does a third experiment: “Think nothing—neither of celibacy nor of sex. Just watch the screen and intend only this: let my mind be quiet, and let both bars become equal.” You watch; one bar comes down, the other goes up. This is biofeedback; seeing it happen gives you courage. That is why I say: meditation rooms should have such devices; you don’t know whether anything is happening. When you see it happening, courage grows; the bars come closer; within fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, both bars become equal. And when they become equal, the person says, “Aah! Such peace I have never known.” Green had to coin a new term for this—he calls it the “aha experience.” When both bars are equal, an “aha!” arises.

Once this is tasted, the idea of samyam is possible. Samyam means the mind in which no pole is firing—the aha experience. Only an ah‑bhava remains, a quiet mood. That is restraint—and it is profoundly positive.

When two extremes stand together, they cancel each other, and you are free. If greed and renunciation are equal, you are neither greedy nor a renunciate. Greed brings restlessness, and so does renunciation—because renunciation is greed standing on its head. As long as sex holds the mind, you are restless; as long as celibacy attracts you, you are also restless—because celibacy is sex inverted. Real brahmacharya is attained the day even “brahmacharya” is not known. Real renunciation is attained the day even “renunciation” is not known—because how could you know it? If there is no greed, how would you know renunciation? If you know “I am a renunciate,” somewhere greed is still standing behind—it provides the contrast. You need black ink for white paper; you need white chalk for a blackboard—otherwise, how will anything be seen? If you feel, “I am a celibate,” sporting a tuft and tilak, loudly proclaiming with clanking wooden sandals—beware: trouble is hiding behind. Seeing your tuft, people should become cautious: a dangerous fellow is coming. The one claiming celibacy is only sex in another form.

Mahavira calls that moment restraint—when neither sex nor celibacy remains; neither greed nor renunciation remains; no extreme seizes you. You are steady in the middle, in silence, in peace; both poles become equal; their forces cancel to zero. Restraint is zero. Therefore restraint is the bridge; through restraint alone one attains the ultimate.

That is why I called restraint the breath. For other reasons too: you may not know, but you are unrestrained even in breathing. Either you over‑breathe or you under‑breathe. Men suffer from over‑breathing; women from under‑breathing. The aggressive over‑breathe; the defensive under‑breathe. Very few of us have ever breathed in a truly restrained way—and if even breath, which you don’t have to take consciously and has no profit and loss, is not restrained, how will other things be? Our breath moves with tension. In sexuality your breath speeds up; you take double or triple the breaths per unit time; you sweat, the body tires. Now if someone tries to practice celibacy, he will breathe less—the exact opposite. The celibate is a miser in all matters—not only about seminal energy. Being a miser in everything, he becomes a miser with breath too. Biologically understood, the effort at celibacy is a kind of constipation; he holds everything in, lets nothing out. He will slow the breath; this holding becomes his personality. These are extremes.

The simplicity of breath is available when you do not even know that you are breathing. Those who go deep in meditation come and say, “Perhaps the breath stops—we cannot tell!” The breath does not stop; it becomes so calm, so balanced—the outgoing and incoming so equal—that the two pans of the scale stand level. You cannot tell, because to know there must be some noticeable movement. This movement comes to rest—not that it ceases, but both sides balance. The more restrained a person is, the more restrained his breath; and the more restrained the breath, the more ease for restraint within.

Hence Mahavira experimented greatly with breath: balance in breath, and balance in all dimensions—right diet, right exercise, right sleep—everything right. He does not say, “Sleep less” or “Sleep more.” He says, “Sleep just the right amount.” Not “eat less” or “eat more,” but “eat the right amount”—so that after eating, you feel neither hunger nor fullness. If after eating you still feel hungry, you ate too little; if you feel the weight of food, you ate too much. Eat so that after eating you feel neither hunger nor belly. But we manage neither; either we feel hunger or we feel our belly. Before eating we feel hunger; after eating we feel food—and the feeling continues.

Mahavira says: to feel is illness. You feel only that organ which is ill; the healthy is not felt. If your head aches, you feel the head; if a thorn pricks, you feel the foot. Right diet means: no sense of hunger, no sense of eating; right sleep: no sense of sleeping, no sense of wakefulness; neither strain nor rest. But we do one of the two—overwork or over‑rest.

Why this over‑doing? Because in over‑doing we feel “I am.” We want to keep feeling “I am.” This is the ego. Without it, we cannot live in restraint. The more unrestrained someone is, the more noticeable he is. Emile Zola wrote in his memoirs: if everyone were good, it would be very hard to write stories—no plots. The life of a good man has no story; the life of a bad man is a story. If a good man is truly good, he becomes a blank page. There is very little known about Jesus’ life; Christians are troubled that so little is known. Jesus was born—we know. Seen at age five in a temple—we know. At thirty—seen. At thirty‑three—crucified. That is all. Thirty years are blank. A Christian monk once asked me to speak on Christ, especially on those thirty missing years. I said, “A little can be said, but the truth is: nothing is known because nothing happened—no event. Had people not crucified him—even that is not an event in Jesus’ life, it is an event in the lives of those who crucified him. What can Jesus do? If they had not crucified him, there would be no story at all. People did not accept him—so they crucified him. They nailed him down; otherwise Jesus would have come and gone like a blank page.” Many have come and gone like that.

If we search Mahavira’s life purely, what do we know? That someone hammered nails into his ears—this is known. But this is not an event in Mahavira’s life; it is an event in the life of the nail‑hammerer. That someone laid his head at Mahavira’s feet—again, not Mahavira’s event; the event is in the one who placed his head. That someone shouted “Tirthankara!”—again, the shouter’s event. If we looked for Mahavira’s life in pure form, it would be a blank sheet. The good man’s life has no story; the bad man’s does. So if you want to write a novel or film script, you must choose the bad man. Without him it is very difficult. We cannot imagine the Ramayana without Ravana. Without Ram, perhaps; anyone—A, B, C, D—might do. But Ravana is indispensable; without him the story’s life is gone. People think Ram is the hero; I do not. Ravana is. The bad man is always the hero. So avoid becoming a “hero”; to be a hero, you must be bad.

In the restrained person’s life, events depart; and when events depart, the very capacity to say “I am” disappears. But we want to say “I am.” Hence we must live in tension, in extremes: sometimes overeating to show “I am,” sometimes fasting to show “I am”; sometimes in a brothel to show “I am,” sometimes in a temple to show “I am.” Even in the temple, if no one is watching, we do not feel like going. We do what will be seen and acknowledged. Psychologists say: if we could build a society where a good man gets as much “name” as a bad man does now, no one would be bad. The bad man is bad in search of ego. Newspapers never report on someone who meditates; they report the man who stabs a chest. They do not report that a woman remained faithful to her husband all her life; they report the one who ran away.

Mulla Nasruddin was made a magistrate by his village elders in his old age. On the first day no case came to court. By noon the clerk grew restless, swatting flies.

Mulla said, “Don’t be restless; have faith in human nature. By evening something will happen. Some murder, some woman will run away, some mischief will occur. Have faith in human nature. Man will not remain without doing something.”

All newspapers run on the strength of that faith—otherwise none could run. Tomorrow events will happen; there will be no space in the paper. Someone will run away; someone will murder; someone will steal; some minister will do something; somewhere war, somewhere revolt. Have faith in human nature—otherwise newspapers will be in trouble. In heaven there are no newspapers; in hell there are all. In heaven nothing happens—no events. What will you report?

In a good man’s life there are no events, but we want to be—and without the heap of events, we cannot be. If you want events, you must live in tension, at extremes: be angry, be forgiving; indulge, renounce; make enemies, make friends. The restrained does not do anything within the duality; he slips out. He says, “Neither friendship nor enmity.” Mahavira makes no friendships because friendship is an extreme; no enmities because enmity is an extreme. But we think the opposite: “To abolish enmity, make friends with all.” You are mistaken. Friendship is one extreme; it creates enmity on the other side. As you make friends here, you will have to balance by making enemies there.

There was a Sufi, Hasan, sitting in his hut. Disciples were around. A stranger Sufi entered, fell at Hasan’s feet, and said, “You are God, an avatar, the very form of knowledge,” praising him greatly. Hasan sat quietly. When the man finished and left, another Sufi, Bayazid—of equal stature—began to abuse Hasan. All were shocked: Bayazid abusing Hasan! They felt hurt, but Bayazid too was precious; no one spoke. Hasan listened. When Bayazid left, a disciple asked, “We don’t understand such rude behavior.” Hasan said, “Nothing—just balancing. One man came and called me God, praised me so much. Someone had to balance. Now everything is back where it was before these two came. Let us begin our work.”

In life, as you make friendship here, enmity arises there. As you love one, you begin to hate another. When you choose one pole of a duality, strength flows into the other, whether you intend it or not. That is the law of life. Therefore Mahavira does not make friends. When he says, “I have friendliness toward all,” it does not mean friendship; it means I have neither enmity nor friendship—the remainder is friendliness. No relationship remains—only a relationship‑less state; no side remains—only a neutralness.

When he says, “I love all,” do not fall into the illusion that it is the same as our love. Our love cannot be without hatred, without jealousy. The biggest difficulty in understanding people like Mahavira is that they must use the same words we do—there is no other language—but their meanings differ.

The positive meaning of restraint is: to become so settled in oneself that no movement toward any extreme occurs in the mind.

That is enough for today.

We will talk again tomorrow.
Do not leave yet. Sit a little. Join the humming the sannyasins are doing…