Mahaveer Vani #7

At sunset, as a flower closes its petals—samyam is not that. Rather, at sunrise, as a bud opens its petals—samyam is that. Samyam is not the sickly state of a mind shriveled by the fear of death. Samyam is the condition of consciousness blossoming, dancing in the rain of nectar. Samyam is not a shrinking done out of fear. Samyam is not a habit imposed by some temptation. Samyam is the expansion and spread of the mind in fearlessness. And samyam is the music born on the inner veena upon the attainment of bliss. Samyam is not negation, it is affirmation. It is not negative, it is positive. But tradition moves by assuming negation—because negation is easy and affirmation is very arduous. Dying is very easy; living is very difficult. We feel, no, living is very easy, dying is very difficult. But what we call living is only dying—and nothing else.

There is nothing easier than to shrivel up. There is nothing more difficult than to blossom. For blossoming requires the awakening of inner energy. For shrinking, no awakening, no new power is needed. Even if the old energy slips away, shrinking happens. When a new energy arises, there is expansion. Mahavira is a personality blossomed like a flower. But behind Mahavira, the tradition that forms becomes a chain of streams of shriveled people. And then, looking at these later followers in later ages, we pass judgment about Mahavira as well. Naturally, we infer about the one whom followers follow by looking at the followers.

But often there is a mistake—and the mistake happens because the follower grasps the outer, and from the outer only negations come to mind. Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna live from within, and when one lives from within, only affirmation is. If someone attains supreme bliss, then in his life, that which we used to call pleasures until yesterday will drop. Not because he is leaving them, but because what has now come must be given room. Pebbles and stones were in the hand—they will fall away, for when diamonds have come into life, there is no facility, no strength, no reason to carry pebbles and stones. But those diamonds come in the inner sky. We will not see them. The stones that fall from the hands—we will see. Naturally we think that dropping stones is samyam. This is an almost inevitable fallacy that gathers around all awakened beings. It is natural, but very dangerous—because then everything we think turns out wrong. It seems as if Mahavira is leaving something; that, we say, is samyam. We do not see that Mahavira is attaining something; that is samyam. And remember, to leave without having attained is impossible. Or one who leaves without having will be pathological—ill, unhealthy, shriveling and dying. To leave without having is impossible. When I say that renunciation has a very different meaning, and a very different form and dimension of samyam is revealed, I mean: people like Mahavira attain something, and that attainment is so vast that in comparison what was in their hands until yesterday becomes futile and valueless. And remember, valuelessness is relative, comparative. Until the higher has been attained, whatever is in your hand is the higher. You may say a thousand times that it is not higher, but your heart will go on saying: this is the higher—because you have not known the higher. Only when the higher is born does the inferior become inferior. And the wonder is that the inferior need not be dropped, and the superior need not be grasped. The superior is automatically grasped, and the inferior automatically drops. As long as the inferior has to be dropped, know that there is no trace of the superior. And as long as the superior has to be grasped, know that the superior has not yet been found. The very nature of the superior is that it grasps you; the very nature of the inferior is that it drops away.

But the inferior does not drop from us, and the superior does not come within our grasp. So we make tremendous efforts to drop the inferior—and we call that samyam. And we grope in the dark to catch the superior—yet it cannot be caught that way. Therefore, it is necessary to understand clearly the affirmative dimension of samyam. Otherwise samyam does not make a person religious; it only restrains him from being irreligious. And what is restrained from appearing outside as irreligion spreads within as poison.

Prohibitive samyam does not produce flowers; it only restrains thorns from appearing. But the thorns that are prevented from emerging into the outer sky hide within the soul. Therefore, the person we call restrained does not appear joyous—he appears tormented. He seems to be pressed beneath some rock, to be carrying a mountain. There is no dancer’s lightness in his feet; there are prison chains around them. He does not look childlike, simple, ready to fly. He has become heavy and burdened.

The one we call restrained becomes incapable of laughter; streams of tears gather around him. And a samyami who cannot laugh with a full heart is not yet a samyami. One whose life does not become a smile is not yet a samyami. The path of negation is: wherever the mind goes, do not let it go. Wherever the mind is drawn, do not let it be drawn; pull it to the opposite. Negation is an inner conflict—in which energy is spent, not attained. In every conflict, energy is consumed. Wherever the mind is drawn, pull it back. Who will pull, and whom will he pull? You are the one who is drawn, you are the one who pulls; you are the attracted, you are the one who goes against. You become divided within—broken into fragments. What the psychiatrists call schizophrenia happens within you. You become fragmented—double, triple; many persons arise within you. You begin to fight yourself. There will never be victory in this. And Mahavira’s whole path is the path of victory. One who fights himself will never win.

This sutra looks upside down—because we feel, without fighting how can there be victory? One who fights himself will never win, because fighting oneself is like making one’s own two hands fight. Neither the left can win, nor the right—because behind both it is my strength, my power. Even if I decide to let the left win, still the left does not win—because behind both it is me. And when disintegration sets in the personality, it begins to lead a man toward madness. It seems as if his enemy stands within him—and he is the same. He has divided himself in half. It is like fighting one’s own shadow. No—Mahavira knows so deeply that he cannot advise toward a schizophrenic, fragmented personality. He will advise toward an integral personality—integrated, gathered, one. The meaning of samyam is: joined, gathered, integrated.

It is a great wonder: if you speak untruth, you can never be integrated. If you lie, a part within will always whisper, you should not have said it—you lied. One cannot be in total consent with a lie. If you steal, you can never be whole; a part within will stand opposite to theft. But if you speak truth, you can be whole. Mahavira has called only those acts virtuous which can make us whole. And he has called those acts sinful which make us fragmented. There is only one sin—that a man breaks into pieces; and only one virtue—that a man becomes joined, gathered, to be one whole.

So Mahavira cannot tell you to fight. He certainly tells you to win, but he does not tell you to fight. The way to victory is different. The way to victory is not that I start fighting with my senses; the way to victory is that I engage myself in the search of my trans-sensory nature. The way to victory is that I set out in search of the other treasures hidden within me. As those treasures are revealed, that which was important until yesterday becomes unimportant. What used to pull until yesterday no longer pulls. Until yesterday the mind moved outward; now it comes inward.

There is a man... let us understand with a small example. A man is obsessed with food, agitated, full of taste. What should he do for samyam? We only see the restraint of taste. Today he should not take this taste, tomorrow that taste, the day after another. Leave this food, leave that food. But by leaving foods, will taste be renounced? The likelihood is that by renouncing food, taste will first increase. If he remains obstinate, taste will become repressed—not freed. And a repressed taste fills the personality with repression.

One who becomes frightened even of eating—will he attain fearlessness? One who becomes frightened even of eating—will he attain fearlessness? No—Mahavira does not call this samyam. Though the person Mahavira calls restrained is free of the madness for taste. Mahavira discovers an inner rasa—there is another taste which does not come from food. There is another rasa which comes by turning within. All our senses outside are connecting links—bridges that join. The sense of taste joins us to food; the eye to the seen; the ear to sound. If you want to understand Mahavira’s inner process, he says: the very sense that joins outside can also join to the inner world. There is a world of sounds outside—the ear connects to it. There is a wondrous world of sounds within—the ear can connect to that as well. The tongue joins to the outer rasa. Outside there is a world of taste—very poor; because we do not know the inner rasa, it seems imperial. The tongue can join to the inner rasa as well.

We have heard, you also must have heard—but symbols sometimes lead to madness—sadhakas, yogis, turn their tongue back. That is only symbolic. Some fools cut the frenum under the tongue and try to turn it back. It is only symbolic; only a sign. The sadhaka turns his tongue inward means: the taste that used to be connected to outer substances he now connects to the inner soul. The sadhaka turns his eyes upward—it only means: what he earlier saw outside, now he begins to see within. And once the inner taste is savored, all outer tastes become tasteless. You do not have to do it—by doing they never vanish; by doing their taste increases. Or if you remain obstinate they become repressed, rasa itself dies. But the senses continue to lie facing outward. Turning the senses inward is the process of samyam.

How to turn them? Do a small experiment sometime and it will begin to dawn. You are sitting at home—begin to listen to the outer sounds... begin to listen! Listen very alertly to what the ear is hearing. Become aware of all things. Cars are passing on the road, horns are blowing, an airplane crosses the sky, people are talking, children playing, people passing by, a procession is moving—so many sounds; become fully awake to them. And when you are fully awake to all sounds, just once also consider: is there a sound that is not coming from outside but arising within? Then you will begin to hear a different kind of silence. Even in this bazaar’s crowd there is a sound that is resounding within all the time.

But we are so entangled with the noise of the outer crowd that that inner silence is not heard. Keep listening to all the sounds, do not fight, do not move away—just begin one more search within: among these sounds coming from the outside, is there also a sound that is not coming from outside but is arising from within? Very soon you will be able to hear the sound of silence—as sometimes in a lonely forest it is heard—even on the street in the marketplace. The truth is: the silence you hear in the forest is less of the forest and more the reflection of your inner sound because the outer noises have receded. It can be heard; there is no need to go to the forest. Even if you close both ears with your hands, the outer will be shut and within a silence will begin to hum—as if crickets were chirping. This is the first recognition of the inner sound.

And as soon as this recognition happens, outer sounds will begin to become less tasteful. This inner music will begin to capture your rasa. In a few days, what earlier seemed like silence within—will become swift, dense, take form. This very silence will begin to be sensed as soham. The day it begins to sound like soham, no music born of outer instruments can compare. The music of the inner veena has come within your grasp. Now you will not have to restrain the ear’s taste. You will not have to declare: I shall no longer listen to the sitar; I renounce the sitar. No—there will be no need to renounce. You will suddenly find that a vaster, superior, deeper music has become available. Then even while listening to the sitar you will hear this music. There will be no opposition, no contradiction. The outer music will become a pale echo of the inner music—no enmity, only a faint resonance. And then within you an integral personality will arise that does not divide outer and inner.

A moment comes—step by step as we go within—the distance between outer and inner falls away. A moment comes when nothing remains outside, nothing inside. Only that remains which is outside and inside. The day this moment happens—that what is outside is the same as what is inside, what is inside is the same as what is outside—on that very day you have attained samyam, that equilibrium where all becomes even, where all becomes still, where all is silent, where there is no movement, no running, no vibration.

Begin with any sense and keep moving inward; immediately that sense becomes a cause to join you to the within. Begin to see with the eyes, then close them. Keep seeing outer scenes, do not fight. Slowly, slowly become awake to that which is not an outer scene. Very soon, between two outer scenes, glimpses of inner scenes will begin to appear. Sometimes a light will fill within that even the sun cannot give outside. Sometimes colors will spread within that are not in the rainbows. Sometimes flowers will bloom within that have never bloomed upon the earth. And when you begin to recognize: this is not an outer flower, not an outer color, not an outer light—then for the first time you have a comparison: should we call the outer light light, or in comparison to the inner should we call even that darkness? The flowers that bloom outside—shall we call them flowers, or in comparison to the inner call them only reflections—resonances, pale tones? The colors that spread over the outer rainbows—are they truly colors? It will be very difficult, because when one knows the inner color, color attains a living quality that the outer colors do not have. However shining the outer colors, they are dead. When color appears within, for the first time color becomes alive.

We cannot even imagine what it means for color to be alive—color and alive! Only when known does it come to mind that color can be alive, vibrant with prana. And the day inner color becomes visible as living, the attraction of outer colors is lost. You do not have to leave them—it simply drops.

Every sense can become a door to the within. You have touched much; you have much experience of touch. Sit down, close your eyes, meditate upon touch. You have touched beautiful bodies, beautiful things, flowers. Once in the morning you may have touched the dew upon the grass. Once on a cold morning you sat by the fire and took the warmth of its touch. Once lying in some world of moon and stars you touched their moonlight. Let all those touches stand around you. Then begin to search: is there a touch that has not come from outside? And with a little effort, a little resolve, you will begin to sense a touch that has not come from outside—that cannot be had from moon and stars, not from flowers, not from dew, not from the sun’s warmth, not from the cool caress of the morning breeze. The day you become aware of that touch, that very day you have found the inner touch. That day outer touches become futile. Then each person should take hold of that sense which is the most keen and alert in him.

Let me tell you here as well: the sense that is most intense in you, you make it your enemy if you understand samyam in the prohibitive way. If you understand the affirmative way, then the sense most active in you is your friend—because through that very sense you will reach within. One who has no rasa in colors yet, who has not lived or known even outer colors—he will have great difficulty reaching the inner color. One who feels only noise in music—at best only organized noise, sounds, tones, at best the least disturbing sounds—he will find difficulty going toward the inner sound. He will be hindered. No—the sense that seems to trouble you most, against which the prohibitive approach starts fighting—that is your friend. Because that sense can be turned inward first. So find your sense.

Whoever went to Gurdjieff, he used to ask: what is your greatest weakness? First tell me your greatest weakness—then I will transform it into your greatest strength. He was right. That is power. What is your greatest weakness? Do forms attract you? Do not be afraid—form will become your door. Does touch call you? Do not be afraid—touch is your path. Does taste pull you—enter even into your dreams? Then thank taste—it will become your bridge. If you fight the sense that is the most sensitive in you, it will become repressed—you will have broken your own bridge. If you move with the affirmative vision of samyam, you will make that very sense your path—you will return along it.

And remember: the very road by which we go out—is the road by which we return within. The road is the same; only the direction changes. The face changes. You have come here to this building by a certain road—you will return by the same. Only your orientation will differ. Your face was toward the building, now it will be toward your home. But if, by mistake, you think the road that brought me so far from my home is my enemy, and I will not walk upon it—then be certain you will never reach your home. No road is an enemy—and all roads are open in both directions.

So, the road by which you are most attracted outward—whether eye, taste, sound, anything—by which you are pulled most outward, or by which you have gone farthest from yourself—that very road will become your ally in the affirmative direction of samyam. You have to return by it. Do not fight it. If you fight, you will break it. Once broken, returning becomes very difficult. Remember this—it may sound strange—but let me say it strongly: people do not wander outward because of the senses; they wander outward because they break the roads of the senses. They get lost because they break the ways of return. No one gets lost because of the senses. We all break.

People come to me and say: we have no other trouble; only taste troubles us. Somehow free us from taste. They do not know that what troubles them is their very way back. This I call the affirmative vision of samyam.

Take into account another aspect. The senses we have—all of them have an outer form we call bahir indriya. Mahavira has spoken of three states of the soul: the first he calls Bahir Atma—the soul that is still using the senses outwardly. The second Mahavira calls Antaratma—the soul that is now using the senses inwardly. And the third he calls Paramatma—the soul for whom outside and inside have dissolved; for whom nothing is outside, nothing inside; who is neither going out nor coming in; who is not going out is Bahir Atma; who is coming in is Antaratma; who now goes nowhere, is established in his own nature—that is Paramatma.

The senses have an outer form; they join us to matter. Where they join us to matter, their manifestation is very gross. But those very senses also join us to ourselves. For the very thing—understand: my hand, if I extend it and take your hand in mine, my hand joins at two places: it joins me to your hand—and the hand is also joined to me. The hand, in between, joins the two. Remember: where it joins me to you, it joins only to your body. But where it joins to me, it joins to the soul. When the senses join outside, they join to matter; when they join within, they join to consciousness.

So, only the very gross form of the senses manifests outside. For a hand that can join to the soul—a hand with such capacity—outside can join only to bodies. Outside its capacity becomes very poor. The capacity is certainly in it to join to the soul—otherwise how would it be joined to me? When I say: my hand, rise up—and it rises. My resolve is joined somewhere to my hand. When I say no to raising the hand—it cannot rise. My resolve is joined to my hand somewhere.

Now, it is astonishing: the body is matter; resolve is consciousness. How do consciousness and matter join—and where? The join must be very subtle, invisible. But outwardly my hand can join only to matter. Do not be angry at the hand for that. This hand also joins within to the soul. If I flow my consciousness outward into the hand, it goes and gets stuck on other bodies. If I return this same consciousness back into my hand—toward the Gangotri, not toward the sea—it dissolves into my soul. The energy that flows in the hand toward the outside is the form of Bahir Atma. The energy that flows in the hand toward the inside is the form of Antaratma. Where energy does not flow—that is Paramatma. To reach Paramatma one must pass through Antaratma. Bahir Atma is our present state. Paramatma is our possibility—our future, our destiny. Antaratma is our path of journey—we must pass through it. The roads we pass through are the very roads we used to go out. One point. Second point: outside, the senses join to the gross; inside, to the subtle. Hence the senses have two forms: one we call the sensory power, and one we call the extrasensory power.

Parapsychology studies this—and is astonished. Yoga has studied it long. Yoga has called it siddhis, called it vibhuti. In Russia today they are giving it a new name: psychotronics—the world of mental energy, of psychic power. This inner extrasensory form of ours—samyam increases as we go on experiencing our extrasensory form. Begin to experience the extrasensory through any sense—you will be astonished.

Ten years ago, in 1961, in Russia a blind girl began to read with her hand. It was astonishing. Many tests were done. For five years continuous scientific testing was done. Then the highest scientific institution in Russia, the Academy, declared after five years of study: the girl is right—she reads. And the surprising thing: the hand was studying more receptively than the eyes. If she runs her hand over a written page—not in Braille, not in the language of the blind, in your normal script—she reads. If the page is covered with cloth, she places her hand on the cloth—still reads. If covered with an iron sheet, she runs her hand over the sheet—still reads. The eye cannot do this. Even the scientists doing the experiments cannot read what lies beneath.

Vasiliev, who was working with the girl, thought: what is possible in one must be possible in some form in all. Can we train other children? He began experiments on twenty children in a school for the blind—and was astonished: after two years of experiment, seventeen of the twenty children could read with the hand. Then Vasiliev said: ninety-seven percent of people have the potential to read with the hand. The remaining three, we should assume, are blind as far as the hand is concerned—no other reason; some defect in the instrument of the hand. The result of Vasiliev’s experiments—when the news came in the papers—was that many blind children began experimenting at home. Hundreds of reports came to Moscow University from villages: such-and-such child can read; such-and-such child can read.

Astonishing: how can the hand read? The hand has no eyes. No apparent connection to reading. The hand can touch. But if an iron sheet is placed, even touch cannot reach. As experiments deepened, it became clear: it is not a question of the hand—it is extrasensory, parapsychic. The girl was then asked to try reading with the foot. In two months she began to read with the foot. Then she was asked to read without touching. She began to read a board placed on the other side of a wall. Then a book was placed miles away, opened—and from here she could read. Then touch had no relation at all. Vasiliev said: besides the forces we know, evidently some other force is operating.

Yoga has always spoken of that other force. In Mahavira’s process of samyam, awakening that other force is the basis. As that other force awakens, the senses become pale—just as when you are reading a novel in a book and then the same story is enacted on television—you close the book. The book suddenly becomes pale. The story is the same, but a more living medium is before you. Books will not last for long; they will disappear. Television and cinema will swallow them. Whatever education can be given by television will no longer make sense to give by book. It has no meaning—because a book is very dead, very pale.

If someone tells you: read this story in a book, or watch this story on film—choose one—you will put the book aside. Those who know nothing of television will think you renounced the book. You have not renounced; you have simply chosen the superior medium. Man always chooses the superior. If the extrasensory route of your senses begins to be revealed, certainly you will leave the rasa of the senses and enter a new rasa. Those still living only in the senses, whose understanding cannot cross the senses, will say: you are a great renunciate. But you have only progressed toward deeper, innermost enjoyment. You have begun to attain that rasa which those living in the senses never even come to know. This affirmative vision of samyam begins by increasing extrasensory possibilities.

Mahavira made very deep experiments to increase extrasensory possibilities. If we begin to understand all of Mahavira’s sadhana from this, much will be revealed. If Mahavira lives for years without food—what is the reason? The reason is: he began to find a food within. If Mahavira sleeps on stone and needs no mattress—he has begun a new world of inner touch. If Mahavira can accept any kind of food—in reality he has birthed an inner taste. Now outer things are not so important. The inner over-imposes itself on outer things—overlays them, surrounds them. Therefore Mahavira does not appear shriveled—he appears expanded. There is no constriction in his personality. There is blossoming. He is joyous—not miserable like the so-called ascetics.

This could not happen with Buddha. Consider this carefully; it is precious and easy to understand. The type was different. The same could not happen with Buddha. Buddha also began the same practices that Mahavira did. But after each practice Buddha felt: I am becoming more poor and feeble; I am not attaining anything. So after six years Buddha left all austerities. Naturally he concluded: austerity is futile. Buddha was both intelligent and honest. If he had been foolish he would not have drawn this conclusion. Many foolish people go on heading into directions that are not for them—directions for which they have no capacity, that do not accord with their personality—and go on consoling themselves: perhaps it is due to past karmas, perhaps due to sins done; or perhaps I am not making full effort. Remember: in a direction that is not yours, you will never be able to make full effort—so the illusion will remain that you are not doing enough.

Buddha did for six years what Mahavira was doing. But the outcome Buddha got from doing was not what Mahavira got. Mahavira attained great bliss; Buddha attained much pain. Mahavira attained great power; Buddha only became weak. Crossing the Niranjana river one day, he was so weak from fasting that he felt he did not have the strength to climb holding the bank. Holding a root, he thought: what will be gained from this fasting by which I have lost even the strength to cross a river—how will I cross the ocean of becoming by this? It is madness; this will not do. He had become emaciated, the bones all protruding. The famous image of Buddha from that time—if you have seen—it is the picture of one who has been caught in the trouble of so-called asceticism. A very old bronze image is available from that time—when Buddha had remained without food for six months. All the ribs are visible; the belly clings to the back; only the eyes look alive, the rest of the body dried up. As if the blood had ceased to flow; the skin shrunk and stuck. The whole body became corpse-like. In such a moment, while crossing the Niranjana, the thought arose: no, this is all futile. And for Buddha it was futile. But from this very same, Mahavira attained great power.

In truth, those from whom Buddha heard and learned—it was all negation... all negation. Leave this, leave that. He went on leaving. Whatever any master said, he did. He left everything—and found that everything had been left but nothing attained; and I am only poor and weak. For Buddha that path was not it. His personality type was different, his structure otherwise. Then Buddha renounced even renunciation... he renounced the renunciation. He had already renounced enjoyment; he found nothing. Then he renounced renunciation itself. And when he renounced even renunciation, then he attained.

Between Mahavira’s process and Buddha’s there is a great reversal. Therefore, though born at the same time, their traditions are very opposite. Buddha also attained—he arrived where one arrives, where Mahavira arrives. But he did not attain through renunciation. Because the notion of renunciation that entered Buddha’s mind was of negation. There the mistake happened. And Mahavira’s notion was of affirmation. Whenever anyone moves in renunciation through negation, he will go astray, be troubled, become weak. He will reach nowhere. He will not gain soul force; he will lose even the body’s strength. The extrasensory world will not open; the world of the senses will become sick, shriveled. The inner sound will not be heard; the ears will become deaf. The inner visions will not be seen; the eyes will become dim. The inner touch will not be known; the hands will become inert and unable to touch even outside.

Negation brings that error—and tradition can give only negation, because what we grasp is only what is left. We do not see what was attained. So, to understand Mahavira rightly, to understand his majestic samyam—healthy, affirmative—enter into the experiments of awakening the extrasensory. In every person, some sense or other is ready to enter the extrasensory realm immediately. A few experiments are needed and you will know what your extrasensory capacity is. Do two, four, five small experiments and you will begin to sense your direction, your door. Move ahead through that door.

How to know what one’s extrasensory capacity might be? We all get many chances, but we miss—because we never think in that direction. Sometimes you are sitting; suddenly a friend comes to mind. You raise your head, and he is standing at the door. You think: coincidence. The chance is missed. Sometimes you think: what time is it? The thought arises: nine. You look at the clock—exactly nine. You think: coincidence. Missed. A glimpse of extrasensory power had come. If such a glimpse ever comes, experiment on it—do not call it coincidence. Very quickly you will know. Experiment. If you thought nine and the clock showed nine, then begin to experiment: never look at the time first—first sense within, then look. Soon you will know: this is not coincidence—because it will happen so often, the number will increase, that it will no longer be chance.

Wake at midnight. First sense: what time is it? Do not think—thinking can err. Let the first impression arise suddenly. Test the first, not the second; the second will be mixed. If, when someone knocks at the door, a friend comes to mind—then experiment. Whenever the bell rings, do not rush to open. First close your eyes—catch the first image that arises—then open the door. In a few days you will see: it was not coincidence; it was a glimpse of your capacity that you were calling coincidence. If your extrasensory form opens even in one direction, your senses will immediately begin to fade, and the affirmative path of samyam will become clear.

In our whole life we miss—who knows how many opportunities—who knows! And we justify missing by calling everything coincidence: it must have happened somehow. Not that coincidences do not happen; they do. But do not call it coincidence without testing. Test. It may be not coincidence. If it is not, you will begin to estimate your power. Once the key of your power comes into your awareness, you can develop it, train it. Samyam is that training.

One day you fasted, and you did not remember food at all—on that day do not engage in the attempt to forget, as fasters try. The day people fast they go sit in temples, singing hymns, read scriptures, listen to sages—so that they do not remember food. They are missing. The day you do not eat, do nothing—just sit empty, lie down, and watch. If in twenty-four hours you do not remember food—then fasting can be a path for you. Then you can enter the world of long fasts like Mahavira. It can be your door. If you remember only food and food—know it is not your path. It will not be right for you.

In any direction—twenty-five directions open in twenty-four hours. Those who know say: every moment we stand at a crossroads where directions open—every moment. Finding one’s own direction is essential for the seeker; otherwise he may go astray. Do not impose another’s path—find your own type, your own structure, the orientation of your personality. Otherwise mistakes happen. You may be born in a house that follows Mahavira—so you think you will be able to move on Mahavira’s path; it is not necessary. No one can say that Mohammed’s path may not be right for you. No one can say that Krishna’s path will not be right. It is not necessary that because you were born in Krishna’s devotees’ house, you will have rasa in the flute. Perhaps Mahavira will be meaningful for you—who cannot be connected to a flute at all. If you place a flute near Mahavira—either Mahavira must be removed or the flute; there can be no harmony between them. If you remove the flute from Krishna’s hand—ninety percent of Krishna will be gone, nothing remains. Without the flute, it is hard to recognize Krishna. If the flute alone is left, the thought of Krishna can arise. Personality types exist. And once, as in this land we divided into four varnas—those were actually our four types—the four basic forms of man.

Sometimes bewildering events occur. Recently, Russian scientists have begun dividing people into four types on the basis of electricity. They say there are four types. Their basis is: the flow of electricity in a person’s body indicates his type—and that flow is different for each. I hold that Mahavira’s electric flow was positive—therefore he could leap into any active sadhana. Buddha’s electric flow was negative—therefore he could not gain from any active sadhana. He had to one day become utterly inactive and empty—there his door opened. This is a difference of personality; it is not a difference of doctrine.

Till now mankind has remained in great tumult because we have taken differences of personality to be differences of doctrine and entered into useless disputes. Find your personality. Find your special sense. Make a small assessment of your capacity—then you will find moving toward samyam easy, each day easier. But if you try to walk in imitation of another’s capacity without assessing your own, you will find yourself in trouble each day—because that is not your path, not your door.

This is why the great misfortune that has occurred in the world is that we fix our religion by birth. No greater misfortune has occurred on earth. It produces only disturbance. Each person should consciously find his own dharma. The supreme aim of life is not decided by birth—you must find it. It will become clear only with difficulty—but the day it becomes clear, that day everything becomes easy for you.

Among the basic reasons why religion has been destroyed in the world is this: we have tied religion to birth. Religion is not our discovery—and so it happens that in Mahavira’s time Mahavira’s vision transforms more people than in twenty-five centuries since. The only reason: those who came to Mahavira made a conscious choice—not by birth. One who comes to Mahavira comes by choosing. His son will become a Jain by birth. He himself had come by choice. There was some magnetism, some resonance between his personality and Mahavira’s—he was drawn and came. But his son? By merely being born, he will go to Mahavira—he will never reach. Therefore, in the living moments of Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna or Christ, those who come to them undergo radical transformation. Later this never happens again. Each generation slowly becomes formal. Religion becomes formal—because we go to this temple as we were born in this house. What relation has house and temple? What is my personality? What is my direction, my dimension? Which magnet can draw me, to which magnet can I relate? Each person should find that.

We will be able to build a religious world only when we give each person the simple freedom to choose his own religion. Otherwise, there will be no religion in the world—only irreligion. Religious people will be formal; the irreligious will be real. A strange thing: a man chooses atheism consciously; he must choose. He says: there is no God—this is his choice. One who says: there is God—this is his forefathers’ choice, not his. Therefore, before the atheist, the theist always loses. The reason: it is not your own choice. You are theist by birth. That man is an atheist by choice. In his atheism there is a strength, a speed, a life-tone. Your theism is merely formal—a piece of paper in the hand which says which house you were born in. The theist loses before the atheist. But this will not continue for long. Until now it has been so. Now atheism has also become a religion.

After the 1917 Russian revolution atheism also became a religion. Therefore in Russia the atheist is now utterly weak. There the atheist is an atheist by birth—because his father was an atheist, he is an atheist. Now atheism too becomes feeble, impotent—no strength remains. Strength certainly lies in one’s own choice. Even if I jump into a pit to die, and it is my choice—then in my death there will be the aura of life. And if I am pushed into heaven formally—then I will wander the lanes of heaven depressed. It will become hell for me—my soul will not be in tune with it.

Choose samyam. Find yourself. Do not insist upon doctrine—find yourself. Find your senses. Watch your currents—where does my energy flow? Do not fight it—that will be your path. Return by that very flow—and affirmatively begin to experience a little of the extrasensory. Every person has extrasensory capacity—whether he knows it or not. Every person is miraculously endowed with extrasensory genius. Knock at some door—and the treasures begin to open. As soon as this happens, the world of the senses becomes pale.

Two or three more points about samyam—because tomorrow we will begin on tapas. Man does not make new mistakes; he repeats the old ones—this too is proof of inertia. If you look back over your life, you cannot count more than a dozen mistakes—yes, the same ones done many times. It seems we learn nothing from experience. And one who does not learn from experience will not enter samyam. To enter samyam means: experience has shown that non-restraint is wrong; experience has shown that non-restraint is suffering; experience has shown that non-restraint is only pain and hell. But we do not learn. It is good that I tell you a story of Mulla.

Mulla is sixty. In a coffee house he is chatting with friends one evening. The talk wanders and comes to this: one old friend—everyone is old; Nasruddin is sixty—asks: Nasruddin, do you recall an occasion in your life when you were in great difficulty—a very awkward moment? Nasruddin said: everyone’s life has such moments. But you tell yours first—then I will, too.

All the old men told the moments when they were in great trouble—where there seemed no way out. Someone stole and was caught red-handed. Someone told a lie and it was revealed nakedly, with no way to cover it.

Nasruddin said: I also remember. The maid was bathing at home and I was peeping through the keyhole. My mother caught me. That time I was in a very bad state.

The old men laughed, winked: do not be so upset—such things happen in everyone’s life in childhood.

Nasruddin said: what? What are you saying? This is about yesterday. You say childhood—this is yesterday’s story!

Between childhood and old age craftiness may grow; mistakes do not change. The same mistakes. The old man becomes a little clever—gets caught less often, that’s all. The child is less clever, gets caught quickly. He has fewer tricks. Or it may be that there are people to catch children; there are none to catch old men. Otherwise, nothing seems to differ in experience.

Nasruddin died. He reached heaven’s door. He died over a hundred; lived long. The tale says Saint Peter, who guards heaven’s gate, asked: you stayed quite long—what sins did you commit on earth?

Nasruddin said: sins? None at all.

Saint Peter thought perhaps sin is too generalized—hard to recall. The old man is old.

He asked: did you ever steal?

Nasruddin: no.

Ever lie?

Nasruddin: no.

Ever drink?

Nasruddin: no.

Ever run madly after women?

Nasruddin: no.

Saint Peter was surprised: then what have you been doing there for so long a time? How did you pass so many days over a hundred years?

Nasruddin said: now you have caught me. This is a sticky question. But I want to answer by asking you a question: what have you been doing here? What do you do? We were there only a hundred years—you are here since eternity!

If there is no sin, a man feels he will not know how to live. If there is no non-restraint, a man feels he will not know how to live. People like Mahavira fall outside our understanding—not for intellectual reasons, but existential ones. Intellectually, they are perfectly understandable. The difference is in our way of living. It does not enter our understanding: if samyam is there, then what will we live? There will be no taste in flavor, no delight in music, no form will attract, food will not call, clothes will not entice, ambition will not remain. Then how shall we live?

People come to me and say: if ambition does not remain—if the idea of building a big house disappears, if the idea of becoming more beautiful vanishes—how will we live? If the idea of more wealth disappears—how will we live? It seems to us that sin is the method of life, non-restraint is the way of living. Therefore we listen to samyam as good, but it does not touch us. It does not match our experience. And our question is right, because whenever the thought of samyam arises, it looks like negation: leave this, leave that. But this is our life—leave all? Then where is life? Because of being negative, this is our trouble.

I do not say: leave this, leave that. I say: this too can be attained, that too can be attained, this too can be attained. Attain. Yes, in this attaining something will drop—certainly. But then no emptiness will remain inside. Then within there will be a new fulfillment, a new fullness.

All our senses live in a pattern, in an arrangement. If extrasensory vision begins to appear, it is not that only the eyes are freed. The day the eyes are freed, suddenly the ears also begin to be freed. Because when a new form of experience comes to your awareness—that in the realm of the eye there is an inner vision—then there will be an inner sound in the realm of the ear. Then in the realm of touch there will be an inner touch. Then in the realm of sex there will be an inner Samadhi. It begins to dawn immediately. If the structure of non-restraint breaks in one place, the wall begins to fall everywhere. Everything lives in a structure. Pull one brick—all falls.

A census is going on. Officials go to Nasruddin’s house for information about his family. He sits alone, sad. The officer asks for details. Nasruddin says: my father is in jail. Do not ask the crime; the list is long. My wife has run away with someone. Do not ask with whom—because she could have run with anyone. My elder daughter is in the asylum. The mind is being treated. Do not ask what disease—ask which disease she does not have.

The officer started feeling uneasy—it is a big mess; how to escape, how to express sympathy and leave? Just then Nasruddin says: and my younger son is in Benares Hindu University. The officer felt a little pleased: very good, seems talented—what is he studying? Nasruddin said: do not misunderstand—will anyone in our house study? Will any talent be born in our house? He is not talented, nor is he studying; the university people are studying him. They are studying him! Nasruddin said: understand something about our house and—about me, it is better you do not ask. By then the officer had already fled. When he said this, he was no longer present; he had gone.

Things exist within frames. Psychologists now say: if one person in your house is mad, then in some manner the whole family has a frame in which madness exists. New psychology says: no single madman can be treated until his family is treated. Family therapy is developing. Some others say: what difference will the family make? The family itself lives within the frames of other families. Until the whole society is treated, until the whole group is treated—you cannot cure a madman. They talk of group therapy. They say: the whole group’s frame produces the one madman. This much is true.

But one point they have not thought of, which I want to say. It will come to their mind one day; it may take a hundred years. It is certainly true that if one in a house is mad, the entire family contributes something to his madness—without that, how could he become mad? It is also true that until the family members are well, this one cannot be well. It is also true that a family is a part of a larger group, and the group contributes to the family’s madness. Until the whole group is well... But the reverse is also true: if one person in a house becomes healthy, the whole frame of madness begins to break. This has not entered their mind yet; it will someday. In India this has been known for a long time. If one person becomes well, the structure of the entire group begins to fall apart.

Understand it so: if within you one sense begins in the right direction, then the old structure of all your senses begins to break. If one of your tendencies starts moving toward samyam, your other tendencies find it difficult to move toward non-restraint. It becomes difficult. A difference of an inch—and the entire form begins to change and rearrange.

Start anywhere—if even a single point of samyam begins to appear within you, the darkness of non-restraint will begin to fall. And remember: the superior is always the more powerful. I hold that if one person in a house becomes well, he can make the whole house well—because the superior is powerful. If one person in a group becomes well, the currents of well-being begin to spread around him—because the superior is powerful. If even one thought becomes right within you—one tendency—then the whole structure of your tendencies begins to break and change. Then you cannot remain what you were. Therefore, do not rush into total samyam. Total samyam is not possible—today, not this moment. But one tendency you can transform now, today, this very moment. And remember: the change of that one will become the direction for your further change. If a single ray of light descends into your life—no matter how old, how vast the darkness—there is no reason to fear. One ray of light is more powerful than infinite darkness. One small thread of samyam ruins the infinite lives of non-restraint.

But let that one thread begin—and if you begin, keep the affirmative vision. If you begin, begin with the sense that is most powerful. If you begin, do not break the path; return by the same road by which you went out. If you begin, do not imitate blindly the house into which you were born. Take into account the understanding of your own personality. Then, wherever the door opens, walk through. Where Mahavira reaches, there Mohammed reaches. Where Buddha reaches, there Krishna reaches. Where Lao Tzu reaches, there Christ reaches.

Who knows from where the door will open for you? Be concerned with arriving; do not be obstinate about the door—saying, I will enter only through this door. It may be that this door will be a wall for you. But we are all stubborn that if we go, we will go by Jina’s way, or we are Vishnu’s devotees—we will go by Rama’s way. Whom you are a devotee of will be decided the day you arrive—it is not decided earlier. Which door you will leave by will be known the day you have left—before that it is not known. But you have already decided: only through this door. As if the door has great value; arriving has no value. The insistence is on this staircase—we must climb this. Climbing does not matter; even if we do not climb, it is fine. But the staircase must be this.

This is madness—and because of it the whole earth has gone mad. In the name of religion the madness that has arisen is because you have no concern for the destination—your insistence is only for the means: just this. Loosen this insistence a little—be free—and very soon you will be able not only to understand but to live the affirmative vision of samyam.

Enough for today.

Tomorrow we shall talk on tapas.

Sit, do not go yet—five minutes...