Mahaveer Vani #21

Now the sutra: ‘Always apramadi, remaining alert, renouncing the untrue, one should speak only truth that is beneficial. To speak such truth is always very difficult.’

Mahavira places great conditions upon truth. He could have said only this much: one should speak the truth. He does not. Mahavira is supremely skilled at uncovering layer upon layer. It would seem enough to say: speak words of truth. What more need be added? But Mahavira knows human beings well, and man is so troublesome that even the dictum “speak the truth” can be misused. Hence so many conditions.

Always apramadi—speak truth with awareness. Many times you speak truth only to wound another. It is not that only untruth is evil; truth too can be evil—in the hands of an evil person. Often you speak truth precisely because it makes violence easier. You tell a blind man, “Blind!” Totally true. You tell a thief, “Thief.” You tell a sinner, “Sinner.” All true. But Mahavira would say: it should not have been spoken.

Because when you are calling someone a thief, are you really pointing to his thievery—or are you intent on insulting him? What truly is your purpose in speaking truth? Is your purpose to utter the true—or to humiliate a man? When you call someone a thief, are you certain he is a thief—or are you simply enjoying calling someone a thief? For whenever we call someone a thief, somewhere inside we feel, “We are not thieves.” The relish that arises—does it belong to truth? It does not.

Therefore Mahavira says: ‘Always apramadi.’ The first condition: speak truth consciously. Truth spoken in unconsciousness can be worse than untruth. Remain alert, weighing each word carefully, observing, considering, cautiously; do not blurt out immediately. Before speaking, gather your awareness for a moment, pause, stop, look from all sides—rising above yourself and the situation.

To be alert means: What will be the consequence? What is the motive? When you are speaking truth—what is the motive? Why are you speaking? What result do you desire? By speaking, what do you want to bring about?

You can entangle someone even by truth. What is the motive within you when you speak truth? For Mahavira’s entire emphasis is that sin and merit do not lie in the act, but in the motive. They lie in the intention, not in the act.

A mother slaps her child. In that slap—and a slap given by an enemy to his enemy—physiologically, in bodily terms, there is no difference. If a scientific machine weighed both slaps, it could not tell whose is whose; it could report the weight of the slap, how strong the blow, how much pain, how much force, how much electricity—everything. But it cannot tell what the motive was. The slap by the mother, the slap by the enemy—both are the same act, but not the same motive.

Nor is it necessary that the mother’s slap is every time a mother’s slap. Sometimes even a mother’s slap is an enemy’s slap. So even if a mother slaps twice, it is not necessary that the motive be the same. Hence mothers should not assume that whenever they slap, the motive is maternal. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it is the enemy’s. The mother does not slap because the child is being naughty; she slaps because the child is not obeying her. Naughtiness is not the big issue; the issue is my command, my authority, my ego.

So a mother’s slap is not always a mother’s. Mahavira holds: What is the motive? What is within? For what reason?

Understand this difference… A child is being naughty and the mother slaps him. You will say: the reason is clear—he was naughty. But that is not the motive; that is only the occasion—that the child was naughty. The motive will be within you, because yesterday at the same time the child was naughty and you did not slap. Today you did. Yesterday the situation was the same. The day before, too, he was naughty, but you praised him before the neighbors, “My boy is quite a rascal!” Yesterday you did not slap—you even enjoyed it; today you slapped. What has happened? The motives are shifting though the occasion is the same in all three; within you the motive is changing. When you told the neighbor, “My child is such a rascal,” your ego was gratified. The child’s mischief seemed delightful to you. Yesterday he was naughty, but you were absorbed within yourself; his mischief did not hurt you. This morning you quarreled with your husband or wife; you cannot go within; anger is boiling; the child is naughty—the slap lands.

That slap arises from the motive of your inner anger. The child is only an excuse, a peg; the coat comes from within you and hangs there. Mahavira says: Be careful. Meaning—look to the motive: Why am I speaking the truth?

‘Remaining alert, renouncing untruth, speak only truth that is beneficial.’ Remain alert, and whatever is seen to be untrue, drop it. Whatever the price—Mahavira does not accept worldly values. For the seeker there is only one value: the formation, the creation of his own soul. At any cost, having examined the motive with apramada, with care, drop whatsoever is untrue—at once.

This is the negative step: drop the untrue. Then he says: speak only truth that is beneficial. And even truth comes with another condition: it must be for the other’s good.

It is not enough that you bear no ill motive within. For even without ill motive, your truth may harm another. So Mahavira says: a truth that harms another is not to be spoken either. The conditions have become very many. Renunciation of untruth is no longer a simple thing. Renunciation of untruth has absorbed the renunciation of carelessness, the renunciation of negligence, and the renunciation of another’s harm. And then the truth that remains—that alone may be spoken. You will become silent. Perhaps nothing will remain to be spoken.

Mahavira remained silent for twelve years in this discipline. He would not speak. You will say: This is too much. Even if one is to speak truth, there are still so many things to be said. You are mistaken. If you hold a touchstone as exacting as Mahavira’s, you will have to become silent. For untruth exists in multitudes. First, there are those untruths that you sit believing as truths, which are not truths. And if your society also believes them, you will not even know they are untrue.

You say: Ishwar is. Do you know? Mahavira will not speak. He will say: For me this is untrue; I do not know. But in the society where you were born, this untruth—untruth not because Ishwar is not, but because believing without knowing is untruth—if your society believes Ishwar is, then you too believe Ishwar is. You have never returned to ask: Is He, indeed?

When I fold my hands before a temple, that folding is untrue so long as I have no clue of Ishwar. Mahavira will not fold his hands before a temple. He says: this is a collective untruth. When the whole group speaks, you do not even notice. You notice only when someone rebellious arises within the group. He says: Where is Ishwar? Then you become angry.

If truth is with you, you should be able to show it. There is no cause for anger. But when someone asks, “Where is Ishwar?” you are not eager to show—you are eager to kill him. Your tendency betrays you, for anger arises only from untruth, not from truth. If Ishwar is, then show. The poor man has asked nothing wrong; he has only asked a question. Yet we are always keen to kill the atheist. Which means our theism is false. Hokum. It has no life; it is an outer scaffolding. A little probing finger and the inside is in turmoil.

You believe there is an Atman within you. Do you know? Have you ever met it? Forget Ishwar—He is too far. The Atman is utterly near; they say—nearer than your heart. Mohammed says: nearer than the throbbing vein in your neck. Do you know this? You have read it in a book. Delightful!

One day a man came to Ramakrishna. Ramakrishna said, “I hear the neighbor’s house has collapsed.” He replied, “I haven’t seen the morning paper yet. I’ll go and check.” Even that you learn from the newspaper—though the neighbor’s house is not a small matter nowadays, and the neighborhood has become vast. Perhaps you did not hear. But that you have an Atman—you know that as well from reading a paper: that it is, or is not.

If a paper carries an article that there is no soul, you begin to doubt. If a book asserts that the soul is, you begin to trust. People go around asking, “Is there an Atman?” Amusing! You can ask others about all sorts of things—but this too? You are asking: Am I? Let someone tell me that I am.

Mahavira says: This too is untruth. Do not say, “I am,” until you know. Do not say there is an Atman within, until you know. Who knows—perhaps it is but a conjunction of bones and flesh, and this speaking and walking is only a by-product. As Charvaka said: we mix five things in paan and a redness comes upon the lips. That redness is a by-product. Each of the five, taken alone, brings no redness. Let the five be mixed and the redness arises out of their combination. But redness is no independent entity; it is the gift of the five. Separate them and the redness is lost. With the five separated, you cannot say the redness is somewhere—hidden or invisible; it is simply gone.

So Charvaka said: this body too is an aggregate of five elements. The Atman that appears here is a by-product, an up-udbhava. It is no element in itself. The elements are five. From their combination the soul appears. Separate the five and the soul does not remain. It is lost, it ends.

Mahavira says: Who knows—perhaps Charvaka is right. Do not utter untruth saying, “I am Atman, I am immortal.” Do not say it. Do not say there is rebirth until you know. Do not say there were past lives until you know. Do not say the fruit of punya is always right. Do not say papa always leads to suffering—until you know.

If truth is of this order, you will have to be silent. There are collective untruths. And then there are the workaday, utilitarian untruths we never even consider untrue.

On the road you meet someone, ask, “How are you?” He says, “Just great.” Never pauses to consider what he said. “Just great!” If you were to consider again—“Just great?”—you would find no inner support. But when someone asks along the way, “How are you?” we say, “Just great.” And when we say it, even our gait changes—we adjust our tie and walk on. It even feels as if we are doing just great.

Saying it to another, it even feels true. If four people ask, the heart becomes happy. If none asks, the heart becomes sad. When someone says, “Hey! Hello!” a tickle arises within. For a moment it seems life is going very well.

We are not only saying it to the other; these are utilitarian untruths. They are useful—we support each other’s lies thus.

Mahavira says: Even utilitarian untruths are not to be spoken. We keep talking. Habitual untruths—habitual. There is no cause, no motive; we speak them by habit.

I had a professor. Name any book and he would always say, “Yes, I read it—fifteen, twenty years ago.” It was habitual. Because he always said fifteen or twenty years. He could not have read all the books fifteen or twenty years ago. Some he might have read sixteen years ago, some ten, some fifty. He was an old man, yet he always said, “Fifteen, twenty years back I read that book.” A stock phrase—habit.

Then I named books that do not exist at all, and he said of those too, “Yes, I read it—fifteen, twenty years ago.” Then I realized he was not lying—he was habitually lying. Even his eyes did not betray that he was lying. And there was no reason to lie. Whether he had read a book or not made no difference to his prestige. He was already well regarded.

One day I told him, “That book does not exist—the one you read fifteen or twenty years ago. Neither is there such an author nor such a book.” He came to. He said, “It has become my habit.”

But why has this habit formed? Even behind a habit there is some deep motive. How can there be a book that the professor has not read—such a thing cannot be! That motive is there, pushed deep down by years. Now it functions as habit.

You speak many things by habit—which are untrue.

Mahavira became silent for twelve years. Then there are statements that are uncertain. When you say, “So-and-so is a sinner,” you are speaking wrongly; because the information you have is already out of date. In the meantime the sinner may have become a saint. For “sinner” is not a frozen thing; what was a sinner in the morning can be a sadhu by evening. And the one who was a supreme sadhu in the morning can be a sinner by night.

Life is fluid, but words are fixed. You say: so-and-so is a sinner. Mahavira will not say so. He will say: man is a flow. Mahavira will say: syat—perhaps he is a sinner, perhaps a saint.

And the man who is a sinner is not wholly a sinner even in his sin. In his sin there may be a portion of merit; and the man who is doing punya—his merit may contain a portion of sin.

Man is a great event; the act is a small thing. Thieves speak truth among themselves and are honest—and those we call sadhus, the thieves among them speak more truth among themselves and are more honest. Seat ten sadhus together—it is difficult; ten thieves embrace one another. To gather ten sadhus is itself hard. First there will be conflict about who sits where: who below, who above. Among thieves there is never quarrel about such things.

Within the sadhu the asadhu is hidden; within the thief the sadhu is hidden. The thief’s thievery is outside; behind it a sadhu is concealed. Even to steal, one must keep one’s word, accept rules, keep truthfulness, keep honesty.

I have heard: a case was brought against Mulla Nasruddin for theft. He was caught because in one night he entered the same shop seven times. On the seventh, he was caught. The magistrate asked, “Nasruddin, we have seen many thefts, many cases; but to enter the same shop seven times in one night—what is this? If you had so much to carry, why not take companions? Why alone seven trips?”

Nasruddin said, “Very difficult! People have become so dishonest that it is hard to take partners—even in theft. One. And it was a cloth shop; whatever I brought home my wife would say: ‘Dislike.’ Then back again. All night I hauled cloth—that’s what delayed me. And people have become so dishonest that one has to steal alone. No one can be trusted—even in theft. Among sadhus trust was never there, but among thieves it always was.”

And a thief does not deceive a thief. There is a thief’s code—just as there is a Hindu Code Bill, so a thief’s code. Their own rules—they do not betray.

Mahavira says: When we call someone a thief, we call him wholly a thief—which is wrong. When we call someone a sadhu, we call him wholly a sadhu—which is wrong. Life is a mixture; everything is blended. Do not say so. Very difficult! Then what will you speak? What will you speak?

A man says: the sun rose this morning, it is very beautiful. Is this truth? Hard to say, for it is a private truth. One person’s private truth may not be another’s. The one whose child died this morning—the sun will not appear beautiful to him today. So “the sun is beautiful” is a private truth, not an absolute truth. The one whose child has died weeps, and today he wishes the sun would not rise. May the sun never rise. May there be no day. Let darkness descend, and let it be all night. The sun will seem an enemy when it rises. It cannot be beautiful.

When is the sun beautiful? When within you some event has occurred that makes the sun beautiful. The sun becomes unbeautiful when within you some event darkens the sun.

You project yourself and see the world. What you see is private truth, a private vision. And truth is never private. Untruths are private. Truth is universal—sarvajanik, universal. Therefore Mahavira will say: perhaps the sun is beautiful. He will never say: the sun is beautiful. He will say: perhaps, perhaps. Why? Mahavira will never say in any sentence that “it is so.” He will say: it may be so. He will also say: the opposite may also be so.

This sun has risen for hundreds of thousands. Someone will be sorrowful—the sun will be unbeautiful. Someone will be happy—the sun will be beautiful. Someone will be anxious—the sun will not be seen at all. Someone full of poetry—the sun will become his very life and soul. Nothing can be said—it is private.

Mahavira remained silent for twelve years, because to speak truth is very difficult. Therefore Mahavira says: to speak such truth is always very difficult. One who wishes to speak truth of this kind must pass through long silence—through deep testing. And then Mahavira spoke.

Therefore if the Jains say that speech like Mahavira’s has not been spoken again, there is reason. Silence like Mahavira’s has never been practiced. Hence speech like Mahavira’s has not been uttered again. From so much silence, so much testing, so many difficulties, so many touchstones—when a man consents to speak, what he says is very deep and of real value. Otherwise, he would not speak at all.

‘The noble sadhu should not speak speech that is sinful, certainist, or that gives pain to others.’

The noble sadhu should not speak sinful, nishchayatmak—certaintist—words. Do not say: that man is a thief. To be so certain leads toward untruth.

This is a very amazing point; it deserves a little pondering. We would say truth is certain. But Mahavira says: truth is so vast that it cannot be contained in any of our definite sentences. When we say: so-and-so was born—this is partial truth, because the man began to die the moment he was born.

Saint Augustine has written—his father was dying. He lay on his deathbed. Doctors were treating him. Finally the treatment failed. One day it does fail. Sooner or later the doctor loses, and death wins. That battle is bound to be lost. The doctor may win in the middle, but in the end he will lose. The final victory in that battle is never in the doctor’s hands; it is always in death’s hands.

The matter is like this: you give a mouse to a cat, and she plays with it. She lets it go because letting go is fun—then grabs it again. Again lets go. The mouse is startled and runs; the cat is unconcerned, because in the end she will catch it. It is only a game.

So death plays with man. Sometimes it lets go—a little illness, a big illness—and lets go… The doctor very pleased! The patient very pleased! And death the most pleased—because the game continues and the victory is certain. In this game there is no obstacle. A mouse may escape a cat sometimes; man never escapes death.

The doctors gathered—the doctors of the whole village—and they said: Now we are helpless. Now nothing can be done. Now this man cannot recover. Now this man will die. Now this man cannot recover.

Augustine writes in his memoirs: That day I understood—the sentence doctors say at the time of death ought to be said the day a child is born: Now this child cannot recover. This child that is born now cannot be saved. We should say it that very day. Having been born, can one be saved from death? Useless to wait so long to say: Now this man cannot recover. Say it that day.

Mahavira says: Do not be nishchayatmak—if you wish to be true. To be true means: life has infinite facets, and whenever we speak, only one facet gets revealed—one facet out of the infinite. If we utter that facet with such certainty that it seems the whole truth, it becomes untruth.

Therefore Mahavira devised the saptabhangi—the sevenfold way of speaking. Ask Mahavira one question and he would give seven answers. Because he would say… And hearing seven answers, your mind would be dizzy, and you would understand nothing at all. For you are asking: is this man alive or dead? This should be said clearly: yes, dead; or yes, alive—where is the question of seven? But Mahavira says: perhaps dead, perhaps alive, perhaps both, perhaps neither. Thus he would answer in seven modes. You would understand nothing. But Mahavira made an untiring effort to speak truth—no man on earth has ever labored so.

Yet, to attempt to speak truth is a most intricate affair. When you say: a man has died—it is not necessary that he has died. His chest can still be massaged. He can still be given oxygen. His blood can be made to circulate, and it may be that he revives. So your saying “he is dead” was wrong.

In Russia during the last great war, experiments were tried on some twenty people. Of those, six revived—and are still alive. The doctor had written: dead.

Even death occurs in stages in the body; it is not a single event. When you die, first those parts that are very essential break; the outer parts, which keep you at the periphery, which attach you to the body, break. But you have not yet died. You can still be revived. If a heart could be inserted, you would rise again—the pulse would start. But this has to happen within six seconds. If six seconds pass… then for those who die of the breaking of the heart—heart failure—within six seconds many can be revived; in the century to come they will be revived. But within six seconds the heart must be replaced. Such quick replacement is not yet possible; one expedient scientists are thinking, which will soon be effective: an extra, spare heart attached beforehand. And it should switch automatically—as soon as the first stops, the second begins to beat. Only then can it happen within six seconds; only then will the man live. If more than six seconds pass, deep brain fibers break; to reestablish them is difficult. And once they break, then even the heart cannot beat—for it beats by the brain’s command, whether you know of that command or not.

Therefore if a man inwardly decides with his whole mind to die, he can die this very moment. Or if he drops hope of life entirely—if the brain drops hope completely—the heart will stop beating, because commands stop arriving. Hence hopeful people live longer; despairing people die sooner.

Note: natural deaths are very few in the world. A truly natural death is rare. Most people die by suicide—most. When a knife is thrust, it is visible. When despair kills within, it is not visible. When someone drinks poison, you see he has killed himself—poor fellow! And you too will die by suicide. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, man dies by self-destruction.

Animals die natural deaths; man does not. He cannot, because he influences his life at every moment—hope, despair, to live, not to live—he impacts it from within. The day the mind fully agrees, “No,” that day the heart’s beat stops. Therefore if the brain’s fibers break, it is difficult. It is difficult now; in a hundred or two hundred years it will not be difficult, for even brain fibers will be replaced one day. There is no obstacle. Then man will live again.

So when is a man dead? When should we say so?

Until the relationship between body and soul is broken, a man is not dead. And when does this break? It has not yet been determined. It breaks somewhere—but when, we do not know. At some deep moment it breaks; after that nothing can be done. Replace the brain, replace the heart, the entire blood, the whole body—still it will be a corpse.

Shall we then say: when the body–soul relationship breaks, the man has died? Even then the statement is incomplete, for no one ever dies—the body was always dead; it is dead. And the soul was always immortal; it remains immortal. No one dies. So when shall we say that a man has died!

I have taken this as one example.

Mahavira will say: syat. Do not speak nishchayatmak, do not speak absolutistically.

Therefore Mahavira will not be liked by Shankara. Nor by Buddha. In India, very few thinkers have liked him. For the thinker enjoys a definite conclusion; otherwise the joy is lost.

Shankara says: Brahman is. Mahavira will say: syat. Shankara says: Maya is. Mahavira says: syat. Charvaka says: there is no soul. Mahavira says: syat. “There is no Ishwar”—Mahavira will say to that also: syat. He says: whatever can be said will always be a fragment. To take the fragment as the whole is untruth. Therefore Mahavira says: all viewpoints are untrue—all viewpoints. All ways of seeing are incomplete, hence untrue. And there is no way of seeing that is total—for every way will be partial.

From wherever I look at you, it will be partial. However I look, it will be partial. Therefore Mahavira says: the Whole can be seen only by one who is free of all viewpoints. Hence the meaning of samyak darshan in Mahavira’s philosophy is: to be freed of all drishtis—of all standpoints. To reach a state where no viewpoint remains, where no way of seeing remains. Then one knows the complete truth. But when he speaks, again a viewpoint must be used—and then it will be partial. Therefore Mahavira’s point deserves understanding.

Truth can be fully known—but it can never be fully said. Whenever said, it will be untrue. Hence be careful, and do not say anything in the mode of certainty.

We, however, utter even untruth with such certainty that there is no measure. And Mahavira says: do not utter even truth with certainty. We assert even untruth with absolute claim. In fact, the greater the untruth, the harder we pound the table. Because support is needed. The greater the untruth to be spoken, the louder one must speak. If you speak softly, people will suspect something is amiss. Speak loudly. Pound the table.

Dr. Gaur, Vice-Chancellor of Sagar University, was a great lawyer. He told me, “My guru said to me: when you have legal evidence in court, a soft voice will do. When you have evidence, there is no need to carry big law books and cite statutes. When you do not have legal evidence, enter court with big tomes. And when you know there is evidence against you, then pound the table before the judge as hard as you can.”

The bigger the untruth, the more certain it must sound. Otherwise who will accept your lie? For lying, you need an innocent face, a certaintist mind, a loud voice—then you may succeed; otherwise you will be in trouble. To be a sadhu an innocent face is not so necessary. Hence innocent-faced sadhus are hard to find, but innocent-faced criminals you will meet continually; because for crime an innocent face is essential. For lying you need other sorts of proof—the air must be created.

Mahavira says: do not utter even truth with certainty. Therefore Mahavira’s influence did not spread much. Strange that a blazing genius like Mahavira should have such little impact, almost none. Half the world follows Jesus. Crores upon crores follow Buddha. Crores follow Mohammed. No one follows Mahavira. Those twenty-five lakhs who appear to follow him do so by compulsion; there is no one really following.

To follow Mahavira is difficult. People go to a guru because they are uncertain; they want the guru to speak with certainty so they can gain trust—and Mahavira refuses to speak certainly. He says: only one thing is certain—that truth cannot be spoken with certainty.

How can the man who came seeking reassurance—and everyone comes to the guru seeking reassurance—follow such a guru! To follow Mahavira calls for a very deep inquiry—very deep. Not the search for assurance, not consolation, but quest.

Hence very few people could follow Mahavira; and it seems doubtful that many ever will. Yet some day—as human consciousness widens and the infinite facets of truth begin to appear—our clinging to certainty will fall away. Certainty is weakness; uncertainty is great wisdom.

Einstein is uncertain in the world of science; Mahavira is uncertain in the world of philosophy. Two peaks—astonishing. And Mahavira gave philosophy as much as Einstein gave science. Both are uncertain. Mahavira’s name is syadvada; Einstein’s name is Relativity. Einstein says: no truth is absolute; it is relative—relative to something, in comparison to something. There is no straight, complete truth.

We thought science was very certain—but the new science becomes utterly uncertain. My own understanding is: wherever man comes close to truth, there he becomes uncertain.

When, with Mahavira, we approached truth in philosophy, uncertainty arrived. Syat—relative, not absolute; say it, but knowing it is incomplete. A fraction, not the whole. And say it knowing that the opposite may also be true. Your statement tells something, but it refutes no one.

In science with Einstein we approached truth from another direction—and everything became uncertain. Einstein said: speak, but remember everything is comparative. Nothing is complete; all is partial. Therefore uncertainty is an essential part of knowledge. Statements will be uncertain; experience can be certain.

Such stringent conditions for truth—even in anger, greed, fear, and in jest—do not speak untruth.

Even in jest we do not speak untruth without motive; there is motive. Often when you make fun of someone, it is to wound him. Therefore the wise do not make fun of the other; they make fun of themselves. A joke at another can be violence.

These many stories I tell you of Mulla Nasruddin—they are jokes made at oneself. In every story, Mulla himself gets trapped; he himself is proved foolish. He laughs at himself.

Nasruddin has said: one who laughs at others is unwise; one who can laugh at himself—wise.

Even in jest we have our motives—our blows and wounds for someone. Freud made a great inquiry into jokes. He would have agreed with Mahavira had he known that Mahavira said: even in jest, do not speak untruth. Freud said: your jokes are strategies. What you cannot speak directly with courage, you speak through a joke.

Have you noticed that ninety-nine percent of jokes are related to sex? And a joke without sexuality hardly seems a joke. Why? Because we cannot speak directly about sex; hence we speak through jokes. It is our lie—covered. What we cannot say directly, we circle around and say.

Have you noticed whom you insult through jokes?

Imagine on a street a political leader slips on a banana peel and falls—you will enjoy it far more than if a laborer fell. Why? Because you harbor a deep wish to see the leader fall. If a laborer falls, compassion will arise: poor fellow. If a politician falls, the heart rejoices. The banana peel is the same, the falling the same. But why such delight when a politician falls? Because you longed that he fall. What we could not do, the banana peel did—and so the heart is glad.

Even in our jokes there are motives. When we laugh, there are motives. We can neither laugh without cause nor weep without cause. Everywhere motive.

Mahavira says: search there too; remain alert; even in jest—no untruth.

Enough for today.

Let us pause five minutes, let us sing kirtan…!

There are two approaches to sadhana. One: we keep purifying the ego. Because when the ego becomes utterly pure, it does not remain. In becoming purer and purer, it dissolves… That is one. There are many ways of how we may go on purifying the ego. The dangers are great too, because it is very difficult to tell whether the ego is being purified or being nourished.

The second path is that we keep dropping the ego—do not try to purify it, only try to let it go. Wherever it shows its face, renounce it right there. This too has dangers. The danger is that a second ego is born within: “I have renounced the ego. I am such a one who has absolutely no ego.”

Sadhana is certainly dangerous. Whenever one moves in any direction, the fears of going astray become certain. And there is no path so laid out that it is guaranteed you will reach the destination. In this unknown realm, the path is created by your very walking. If the path were ready-made, it would be easy. If it were like railway tracks where there is no possibility of the carriages straying and you just run along the track—then fine.

But this is not a matter of railway tracks. Here the way, the iron rails, are not laid in advance; once you climb onto them there is no way to get off and you will reach the destination—destiny is not so explicit.

And it is good that it is not; that is why life has so much juice, mystery, and joy. If you could reach God as on railway tracks, even God would become a futility.

One has to search. The search for truth, the search for the divine, is essentially a search for the path. And if even many paths were ready-made, it would still be easy: we would choose A, or B, or C—decide once and start walking.

The search for the path is also the creation of the path. A man walks, and by walking he makes the way. Hence the dangers; hence the constant possibilities of going astray. But if there is awareness, all methods can be used. If there is vigilance, if there is wakefulness, awareness, any method can be used. And if there is no awareness, every method will lead into danger. Therefore one element is indispensable—whatever the road, whatever the method—awareness is indispensable.

If you are engaged in purifying the ego, then what does the purification of ego mean? The sinner’s ego is: “There is no greater bandit than me.” That too is an ego. The saint’s ego is: “There is no greater saint than me.” Call the sinner’s ego a dark ego; call the saint’s ego a snow-white ego. But if the saint has no awareness—of course the bandit will not have awareness; otherwise it would be difficult to be a bandit—if the saint lacks awareness and the mind begins to relish, just as the bandit relishes, “There is no greater bandit than me,” so “There is no greater saint than me,” then this too becomes a dark ego, impure.

If in “There is no greater saint than me” the emphasis is on saintliness and awareness is kept, the ego is purified. If the emphasis is on “greater than me,” the ego is impure. In the feeling “There is no greater saint than me,” if only saintliness is important, and it is also seen that as long as I feel “there is none greater than me,” there is some weakness in my saintliness—because for a saint to know “I am great” is a sign of the un-saintly.

If someone is smaller than me, that is violence. This has to be dropped, slowly. One day only saintliness remains—no one greater than me, no one lesser than me. Let only “I am a saint” remain; then the ego is further purified.

But even now, if I am a saint, a distance from the un-saint remains. I am not yet compassionate toward the un-saint. I still reject the un-saint. Somewhere deep down there is condemnation toward the un-saint. This too should go, else I am not a complete saint.

So the day it does not even occur to me whether I am a saint or a sinner—only “I am” remains—the gap of saint and sinner drops, and the ego is purified even more.

But even in “I am,” two things are still there—“I” and “am-ness.” This “I” is also a hindrance, a weight. It ties being to the earth. The wings cannot open fully yet; the sky cannot be flown completely yet.

This “I” too has to be dissolved, gently, and only “am-ness” remain—just being—only this much sense: “am.” This is the purest state of ego. But it is still a state of ego. When even this is lost—whether “I am” or “I am not”—when only existence remains, then from ego we have leapt into the soul.

This was the way of purification. But even in purification, letting go has to continue. And one awareness must always be kept: whatever my state, half of it will be wrong and half right. So the fifty percent that is wrong, I go on sacrificing for the fifty percent that is right, and keep doing so until only one remains. But even when one remains, the last line of ego still remains; because even the one has a distance from two. When not even the one remains—when even non-duality does not remain, when even advaita is lost—when we become as flowers are, as stones are, as the sky is—there, but with no knowledge that “there is”—when such simplicity arises within that the whole sense of the other is lost, then the leap happens into the soul.

This is the method of purification—but there are dangers. If we place the emphasis wrongly, instead of being purified the ego will grow impure. And when impurity comes in the form of purity, it is very pleasing. If chains come in the form of ornaments, they are very pleasing; and even a prison made of gold, studded with diamonds and pearls, can look like a temple.

The second method is that at every moment, wherever the feeling of “I” or “mine” arises—anywhere—drop it right then. “My house”—attend only to the house, and drop the “my” at that very moment; because no house is mine. It cannot be. The house was there when I was not; it will be there when I am no more. I am only a traveler, halting for a few moments in an inn, and then to depart.

Wherever this “mine” attaches, break it there and then. My wife, my son, my wealth, my name, my lineage—wherever this “mine” attaches, break it immediately. Do not let it attach. Do not try to purify it; do not let it attach—keep dropping it.

My religion, my temple, my scripture—wherever “mine” attaches, keep breaking it. Then my body, my mind, my soul—wherever “mine” attaches, keep breaking it. If this “mine” breaks everywhere, and one day you feel, “Nothing is mine; even I am not mine,” that day the leap will happen.

But the path has to be chosen for oneself. What will be agreeable to you? Will it be agreeable to keep dropping every moment, or to keep purifying every moment? Does it seem proper to make the “mine” nobler, or to uproot the “mine” altogether?

This diagnosis is extremely difficult. That is why the master has such value in sadhana. It is very difficult to discern what will be right for you. Usually, what will be wrong for you will seem right to you. This is the difficulty. What is wrong for you will immediately seem right, because you are wrong. The wrong will instantly attract you.

What attracts you—do not assume it is necessarily right for you. You will have to experiment with awareness—mindfully. What you say is right for you—ninety-nine times out of a hundred it will be wrong for you. Because you are wrong, and your attractions will still be wrong. Therefore the need of a master arose, so that the disciple does not commit suicide. Disciples do commit suicides. And many times they even go and tell the master what is proper for them: “Have me do this; this is proper for me.”

They themselves are inappropriate; whatever they choose will be inappropriate. It cannot be appropriate. And what is appropriate will appear contrary to them: “This is opposite; I will not be able to do it.” Hence the need of a master—to think it through, to diagnose, to search out what will be right; to recognize, standing apart and impartial, what will be right.

You are entangled yourself; you will not be able to recognize. You are sick yourself; diagnosing your own illness becomes a little difficult. Because the mind, due to illness, is restless. The mind, to get well quickly, is full of impatience. The mind is more eager that the illness end somehow right now. It is not eager to examine calmly what the illness is. Therefore the sick person cannot diagnose himself.

But it is also possible to proceed without a master. Then there is only one way: trial and error. One way only—that you make mistakes and correct them. Experiment, and experiment on what seems right to you. Decide for one year that you will experiment with this alone. Then see the results. If they are painful, unpleasant, if they thicken the ego—do another experiment; drop it.

One way is trial and error, experience. The other is to ask one who has gone through trial and error and reached experience. Both have their conveniences, and both have their dangers.