Mahaveer Vani #29

Now the sutra: “As the lotus does not touch even the limpid waters of autumn, remaining unattached.”

Have you seen the lotus? The lotus is our ancient symbol. Whether Mahavira speaks, Krishna speaks, Buddha speaks—their doctrines may differ, but the lotus always appears.

In this land three great religions were born—Hindu, Jain, Buddhist—and then hundreds of significant sects. Yet not one true master has been who forgot the lotus; one has to speak of it. There is something here—a note running through the voice of all religions, however different their doctrines: nonattachment is the path; hence the lotus appears.

In the lands outside India, where the lotus does not grow, masters have had difficulty: they lacked a ready example of the sannyasi. What does sannyasi mean? It means: lotus-like. A drop of water falls on the lotus leaf and rests there, gleaming like a pearl—more lustrous than it ever was in water—yet it does not touch the leaf; the leaf remains untouched. Such a shining drop, pearl-like in its being—and the leaf remains untouched. The lotus does not run away from water; it lives in water. It grows in water, rises above water, yet never touches, remains untouched, remains virgin.

This sense of nonattachment is the meaning of sannyas in the midst of the world. Therefore the lotus became the symbol. And for another reason too: it is born from mud, from filthy mire, yet it rises above and becomes a lotus. How vast the distance between lotus and mud—the greatest possible between two things! What innocence the lotus has! What beauty! And what is mud! Yet from mud alone the lotus is formed.

For this reason the sweet talk of the lotus continued through centuries. Man is born in the world—in the mire—but he can become a lotus. One must be born in mud—whether Mahavira or Buddha or you; all are born in mud. The world is mire. A few cross beyond it and become lotuses. Those who cross are the ones who master nonattachment.

Nonattachment is the pole that carries you beyond the mire. By it they get free; the mire remains below, the lotus rises above. And the day the lotus rises, seeing the lotus you don’t even remember the mud. When you see a lotus, do you remember mud? Not even the memory arises. Therefore wondrous notions arose.

The followers of Jesus say Jesus was not born of ordinary intercourse, but of a virgin mother. This is sweet and profound. To see Jesus, one does not feel he was born of two people’s lust. Seeing the lotus, who remembers the mud? Seeing Jesus it does not occur that two people, like animals, entangled in lust—bodies restless, disordered, animal-like, the stench of desire—that from such mire Jesus arose.

Seeing the lotus, the mud is forgotten. And if we had no knowledge that the lotus is born of mud, if a man had never seen mud and only a lotus, he would say it’s impossible that such a flower be born of mire.

So, if on seeing Jesus people felt, “Such a one could be born only of a virgin mother,” that feeling is like seeing a lotus and thinking, “Such a flower could only be born of butter, not of mud.” But no lotus is ever born of butter. None has produced a lotus from butter yet. The lotus is born of mud. In truth, the way of birth is only possible in mud. Therefore we say: once one becomes a lotus he is never born again, because there is no way to be born again—he cannot descend into mud, so he cannot be born. Hence we say: the journey of births ends the day one becomes a lotus. Up to the lotus is the journey of mud; mud can become lotus, but lotus cannot become mud again. There is no way to fall back.

For this too the lotus became a sweet symbol. If we were to choose one symbol for Indian or Eastern consciousness, it would be the lotus.

Mahavira says, “As the lotus does not touch even the limpid waters of autumn…” How delightful the statement! It does not touch dirty water—nor does it touch the limpid, autumn water. Even where there would be no harm in touching, where perhaps there might be benefit—it does not touch. It does not touch at all. It is not a question of profit and loss, nor of impure and pure. Touching itself has been dropped. It does not touch sin, nor does it touch virtue.

“As the lotus does not touch even the limpid waters of autumn, remaining unattached—so, Gautam, erasing all attachments to the world, free yourself from all bonds of affection!”

He is telling Gautam: become like this. Wherever we have affection (sneh), there is touch. Affection is our way of touching. When you look at someone with affection, you have touched them—even from far away.

A man may come in anger and stab you, and still he has not touched you. The knife may enter your chest, there may be blood, yet he has not touched you—he is far away. And another, thousands of miles away, if remembered with love, touches you that very moment. Affection is touch. When you look at someone with affection, you have embraced him; you have touched him—the touch has happened; the mind has touched.

Mahavira says: so long as this outer touching continues, so long as the hope remains that someone else’s touch will give you joy—and that is the very meaning of affection—you will remain in the world; you cannot be a sannyasi.

So long as the lotus is eager to touch the mud, how will it rise beyond? So long as the lotus itself longs to touch, how will it be free? Affection is a bond. Wherever we are filled with the desire to touch, wherever we are filled with the hope of getting joy from another, there we become entangled. Wherever the “other” seems important, there we are caught.

Your attention keeps searching all around for whom to see, whom to touch. Your attention runs in all directions. Like an octopus, your tentacles seek to grasp. Through all your senses your attention keeps going out, eager to touch someone. You may restrain yourself, manage yourself—that’s necessary, useful, convenient—but your attention keeps running everywhere. If you search your mind you will find where you want to get entangled, where you want to touch.

This mind of yours, running and flowing toward the whole world, eager to touch the whole world—as Byron has said somewhere, “One woman will not do; the mind wants to enjoy all women.” Rilke writes in a poem: “It is not that I ask for one woman—through one woman I ask for all women.” And even if all women were enjoyed, he says, I still would not be satisfied; the demand would continue. This demand to touch spreads—whether it is woman or man, wealth or house—it spreads.

Mahavira says: “Become unattached—erase all attachments, cut this expanding web of desire.”

How will it be cut? Mahavira says: “Gautam, do not be negligent even for a moment.”

Negligence (pramāda) means unawareness; it means living inattentively—intoxicated, in a swoon. Whenever we forge bonds of affection, we do so in a swoon. We do not forge them in awareness. One who lives with awareness will not forge bonds of affection. This does not mean he will turn to stone and be without love. The truth is: only he will have love—but his love will be unattached. This is the hardest event in the world: to have love and yet be unattached.

When Mahavira says this to Gautam, it is an utterance full of love: “Gautam, do this so you become free; do this so you go beyond.” There is abundant love, but not a trace of attachment, not a trace of infatuation. If Gautam does not become free, Mahavira will not beat his chest and weep. If Gautam does not become free, it will not become Mahavira’s worry. If Gautam does not listen, Mahavira will not become disturbed.

When Mahavira speaks to Gautam—“Be free”—and speaks words soaked in compassion, he is exactly like the lotus on which a drop of water has fallen. The drop is so close that it may well imagine the lotus has touched it. And I say, the drop must have this illusion—how will it believe that the leaf on which it rested did not touch it? The leaf on which I lay, on which I dwelt—how could that leaf not touch me? The drop will surely feel it was touched. But the leaf does not touch the drop.

Gautam too may have felt that Mahavira was concerned for him. Mahavira is not “concerned.” What he says carries no anxiety—only compassion. Remember, compassion is love without expectation. Attachment is love full of expectation. Where there is expectation, there is touch. Where there is no expectation, there is no touch. Negligence is the door of touch, the door of attachment—the swoon.

Have you ever noticed? When you fall in love you do not remain conscious—unconsciousness seizes you. Biologists say the cause is the same as when you drink wine and your feet stagger—or when you take LSD or marijuana and the world turns very colorful. An ordinary woman or an ordinary man—when you fall in love, she suddenly becomes a celestial nymph, he becomes a god.

An ordinary woman—yesterday she passed this way, the day before too; perhaps you have seen her since childhood and never thought she was a nymph. Suddenly, one day something happens within—you don’t even know what—and a woman becomes a celestial being. Everything about her changes—a metamorphosis. You begin to see in her what you had never seen. The whole universe seems gathered around her. All your dreams seem to be fulfilled in her. All the poets’ poetry goes pale—this woman becomes poetry.

What has happened? Biologists say: your body secretes hypnotic chemicals. A man may take LSD from outside—when Huxley took LSD, the chair he sat before became suffused with iridescent colors. A chemical went inside, ran in the blood, and veiled his eyes. That ordinary chair, always in his house, never noticed—began to emit rainbow rays. It became a rainbow.

Huxley wrote: in that moment nothing could be more beautiful. “Had Kabir known in his samadhi, had Eckhart known?”—so Huxley wondered—“when a chair becomes so radiant, heavenly, that the chairs of the gods grow dull.” The whole world looked petty.

What happened to the chair? Nothing. The chair is still the same. Something happened to Huxley. A chemical inside changed his state of mind. Huxley became hypnotized. Now the chair became a nymph. Six hours later, when the LSD wore off, the chair returned to being a chair; the chair was always a chair. Huxley became Huxley again. The chair became ordinary.

Therefore, if after the honeymoon the woman becomes ordinary, the man becomes ordinary—don’t panic. The chair has become a chair again. If someone wants to live his whole life on the wedding night, he is mistaken. Even one whole night being a wedding night is difficult—who knows when the intoxication will break?

Mulla Nasruddin was at the station, seeing his wife off. The train left. An acquaintance asked, “Nasruddin, where is your wife going?” Mulla said, “On a honeymoon.” The friend was startled: “What are you saying? She is your own wife, isn’t she?” Mulla said, “She is.” “Then how is she going on a honeymoon alone?” Mulla said, “We went last year—this way it was cheaper, and more convenient, to go separately.”

A few things need to be understood. First, it depends on your question whether the answer can be given from consciousness or from memory. If your question pertains to the outer world, there is no way to answer it from consciousness. Neither Mahavira nor Buddha nor anyone else can do that. From consciousness one can answer only questions related to consciousness. If you go to Mahavira and ask how to fix a punctured tire, that answer cannot come from consciousness. It can come only if it exists in Mahavira’s memory.

There is no way to know the outer world except through information. And just so, there is no way to know the inner world through information. The outer is known by information; the inner is not. Therefore, if someone answers questions about outer facts from consciousness, those answers will be as wrong as someone answering questions about consciousness from scriptural information. Both will be wrong.

We are adept at committing both errors. We imagined that since Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna attained knowing, therefore whatever we ask them about the outer world will also be science. There we made a mistake, and so we did not give birth to science.

If science is to be created, there is no method of inquiring within; one has to inquire of the outer world itself. If you want to know about matter, you must ask matter. If you want to know about trees, you must search among trees. But in this land we believed that one who knows the Self knows everything. Therefore, we did not give birth to science, and we fell behind the world.

Whatever Mahavira says concerning the inner comes from his consciousness. But what he says about the outer world is information. So understand one more thing: the information Mahavira gives about the outer world may be wrong tomorrow. For up to Mahavira’s time, whatever information existed about the outer world, that is what he conveyed. Later that information changed—science grows and changes every day; new discoveries happen. So what Mahavira said about the outer world will become wrong tomorrow. That does not make Mahavira wrong. Mahavira would be wrong only if what he said about the inner turned out to be wrong. That is what causes real difficulty.

Jesus, too, spoke in keeping with the information available in his time. He said the earth is flat—because that was the information then. Jesus could not have known that the earth is round. Then Christianity was thrown into great trouble. When it became known that the earth is round and not flat, a crisis arose. Christianity tried its utmost to maintain that the earth is flat, because Jesus had said so—and Jesus cannot be wrong. The fear was this: if Jesus can be wrong in one matter, then he could be wrong in another—this suspicion. If Jesus can say something as wrong as that the earth is flat rather than round, then what trust can we have? What he says about God, about the soul—could that be wrong too? When one statement is found wrong, doubts arise about the rest. So Christianity tried its best to insist that everything Jesus said is true. But the result was disastrous. Because once science has established something, even a thousand Jesuses cannot undo it.

Punish Galileo, persecute him—it changes nothing. Facts cannot be falsified. In the end, out of compulsion, Christianity had to accept that the earth is round. Then in the minds of Christians doubts began to arise: what now? Might Jesus be wrong in other matters too?

Mahavira’s followers believe that he said the moon is the abode of gods. At that time, that was the external information. He conveyed the best information available then. But it does not become true because Mahavira said it. It is a scientific matter, an external fact. What Mahavira says does not make it true.

Now Jain monks are in difficulty because man has landed on the moon and there are no gods there. So the Jain monks are in the same predicament Christianity was in. What to do now? They are trying to prove their point. There are three or four stock attempts—they are stale, but still used. First: “This moon is not that moon.” Then which moon is it? Second: “No scientist has landed there; it is a hoax, a rumor.” That too is madness. Third: they say, “They did land—one Jain monk argues—yes, they landed; it is no hoax; and this is the same moon, but they did not land on the moon itself. Around the moon are the immense chariots and craft of the gods; they landed on those, and mistook them for the moon.”

All this is madness. But there is a logic behind it: if Mahavira is wrong on this point, what about the rest? So I want to tell you: whatever Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna said about the outer world was the best available at their time—the truest then. But outer information grows day by day. So sooner or later, matters will go beyond Mahavira and Buddha. When that happens, the devotee or follower need not be troubled. One clear division must be kept: what Mahavira has said about the outer world is information; what he has said about the inner world is experience.

It is appropriate that we accept Armstrong regarding the moon rather than Mahavira, and accept Einstein regarding matter rather than Krishna. Because the search in the outer world keeps advancing daily. Even what I am telling you today—whenever I speak about the outer world—today or tomorrow it will be found wanting; something more accurate will be discovered. But what I say about the inner world will not become wrong; that I say from my own experience.

If we fail to maintain this distinction between information and knowing, then sooner or later Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna will all begin to seem unintelligent. Keeping this distance is essential.

It depends on your question where I am answering from. Some answers can only be given from memory, because regarding the outer there is memory, not knowing. Regarding the inner there is knowing, not memory. So it depends on what you ask.

You ask a second thing: “If inner knowing has happened, then what is the purpose of scriptures, literature, books?”

They have a purpose—for you, not for me. Today someone comes to me to ask—or someone would go to Mahavira or Buddha to ask—about the moon, and Mahavira would say something. Mahavira has no use for the moon, but the one who came asking does. But why say even this?

There are reasons. People come to me: someone has read Freud and is losing his sanity; he comes. Until I can say something to him regarding Freud, no bridge is built between us. Only when he sees that I understand Freud can the discussion proceed. Someone comes having grasped Einstein; if I speak to him in the stale physics of three thousand years ago, I become useless immediately. No relationship can be formed further. If I am to offer him any inner help, it is absolutely necessary to assure him that I know at least as much about the outer world as he knows. Without that trust, there is no movement, no connection.

Today the link between ordinary people and monks/renunciates has snapped, because the ordinary person knows more about the outer world than they do. And when even ordinary people know more than they do, it becomes difficult to trust that those who know nothing of the outer could know anything of the inner. In Mahavira’s time, the monk knew more than the layman.

If any relationship is to be formed with you, first it is formed through your outer knowledge. And until I render your outer knowledge futile, pointing toward the inner is impossible. I do not read for myself; I read for you. Its sin will attach to you, not to me.

And it is not only that I do this. Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna—all had to do the same; they must. If Krishna knew less than Arjuna about the outer world, their dialogue could not proceed. If Mahavira knew less than Gautam about the outer world, it could not proceed. Mahavira knew more than Gautam. You should know: Gautam is Mahavira’s chief disciple, whose name appears in this sutra. It will be good to understand a little about him, so the sutra can be understood.

Gautam was a great scholar of his time. He had thousands of disciples even before meeting Mahavira. He was a renowned Brahmin. He came to Mahavira to debate, to defeat him. If Mahavira had had less information than Gautam, there would have been no way to transform Gautam. Gautam was defeated by Mahavira’s information. He could not have been defeated by knowing, because knowing was not yet in question. He could be defeated only by information, for information was his wealth. When he was defeated, he fell; only then did he look at Mahavira with eyes of reverence. And then Mahavira said, “Now I will tell you that of which you have no idea. Until now I was saying what you already knew. I spoke to bring down your knowledge; now you have become ignorant. Now you have no knowledge. Now I shall tell you that by which you can truly become a knower. For what is the worth of knowledge that falls in debate? What is the worth of knowledge that is cut by argument?”

Gautam fell at Mahavira’s feet and became his disciple. He was so affected that he became attached—filled with infatuation for Mahavira. Gautam is the foremost disciple, the first, the most excellent—Mahavira’s first ganadhar, his first messenger. But Gautam could not attain knowing. Thousands came after Gautam, were initiated, and attained; yet Gautam did not. His scholarship became his obstacle. He had been a pundit before; he remained a pundit now. Earlier he was a pundit in opposition to Mahavira; now he became a pundit on Mahavira’s side. He grasped what Mahavira knew and said, made it into scripture, and repeated it—perhaps even better than Mahavira. But he did not attain; he remained a pundit. As he had gathered outer information, likewise he gathered inner information. That too remained information; it did not become knowing.

Gautam wept often. Again and again he would tell Mahavira, “Those who came after me, who knew less than I, ordinary people—even my own disciples—came to you and attained knowing. When will my lamp be lit? When will this flame arise in me? When will I arrive?”

On Mahavira’s final day, he had sent Gautam to a nearby village with a message. Gautam was returning after delivering it when a wayfarer told him on the road, “Mahavira has attained nirvana.” Gautam sat down in the road, beating his chest and weeping. He asked the travelers, “He has attained nirvana? What will become of me? I have wandered with him all this time and have not yet received that ray. Until now, I have only been passing on, on loan, what he used to say. That which he spoke of has not happened in me. What will happen now? If I could not do it while with him, what will happen without him? I am drowned, I am lost. Now I will wander for eternity. Where will I find such a teacher again, such a guru? Did he remember any message for me—and how hard he was with me! When it was time to go, why did he send me away?”

Then those wayfarers told him this sutra. This sutra was spoken for him. They said, “He remembered you and said, ‘Tell this to Gautam. Gautam is not here—tell this to Gautam.’” This sutra was uttered for Gautam:

“Just as the lotus remains untouched by, and aloof from, even the crystal-clear waters of autumn, so too, erasing all your attachments to the world, be free of every bond of affection. Therefore, Gautam, do not be negligent even for a single moment.”

“You have swum across this vast ocean of the world, teeming with entanglements—why do you stall upon the shore? Make haste to reach the other side. O Gautam, do not be negligent even for a single moment.”

These last words—“You have crossed the ocean of the world.” Gautam left his wife, his children, wealth, prestige, position. He was renowned, known to many, a guru to hundreds; he left all that and fell at Mahavira’s feet—he left everything. So Mahavira says, “You have left the whole ocean, Gautam, but now you have grabbed the shore and are stuck. You have clutched me. You left everything, but you have held onto Mahavira. Leave the shore as well; leave me too. When you have left all, why hold me? Leave me as well.”

The final task of the highest guru is precisely this: when the disciple, having left all, clings to him, the guru allows that clinging as long as it helps the disciple to drop the rest; and when everything else has been dropped, he helps the disciple to drop even himself. A guru who cannot free the disciple from himself is no guru. This is Mahavira’s word: “Now leave me too; leave even the shore.” You have left everything; you have crossed the river; and yet, holding the shore, you are still in the river. You are not holding the river—you are holding the shore. The shore is not the river. But one can still be in the river while holding the shore. Then the shore too becomes an obstacle. The bank is to be climbed upon, not clung to. Let it go as well and go beyond.

We will explore this sutra. Before that, there are one or two more questions. To the friend who has asked about “knowledge and memory”—please understand this well. Memory is not useless. Memory is meaningful for the outer world. Erudition is not useless; it is meaningful for the outer world. For the inner world it is useless. But the reverse, the opposite statement, is also true. Inner insight is meaningful for the inner world, but it is not meaningful for the outer world. Science is for the outer world; religion is for the inner world. Science is memory; religion is experience. Therefore science grows with the support of others; religion grows only on one’s own support. If we remove Newton, Einstein cannot be born. The amusing thing is that Einstein advances precisely by proving Newton wrong; yet without Newton he still cannot move ahead. Einstein begins his work on the very foundation of what Newton has said, then discovers where it is wrong and prunes it. But if there had been no Newton at all, Einstein could never be—because outer knowledge is collective, dependent upon the whole community.

Understand it this way: if we were to destroy all the books of science, do you think an Einstein could arise? Absolutely not. We would have to start from A B C. If we destroyed all the scientific books, do you think someone would suddenly build an airplane? He cannot. He would have to begin with the wheel of a bullock cart, and it would take some ten thousand years to come from the bullock-cart wheel to the airplane. And in those ten thousand years, it would not be the work of one person—thousands would be working. Science is tradition. It is the outcome of the labor of thousands.

Religion? Even if there were no Mahavira, no Buddha, you can still become a Mahavira. There is no obstacle—not even the slightest. For my becoming a Mahavira or a Buddha, there is no need to stand upon their shoulders; in fact, no one can stand upon them. In the realm of religion, each person stands on his own feet; in the realm of science, each person stands on another’s shoulders. Hence science can be taught; religion cannot be taught. We must impart the education of science. If we do not teach a child mathematics, how will he understand Einstein?

Religion is the reverse. If we teach a child too much religion, then he will not be able to understand Mahavira. There can be no education in religion. Education belongs to the outside, not to the inside; inwardly there is sadhana, practice. On the outside there is education. Education strengthens memory; sadhana breaks open the doors of knowing. Understand it in another way: with regard to the outer, what we come to know is something new—what was not known yesterday, and which would never be known if we did not inquire. With regard to the inner, what we come to know was only suppressed—known deep within. When, through seeking, we find it, it is not something new. Ask Buddha, ask Mahavira; they will say, “What we found was already there; our attention simply was not upon it.”

If a diamond lies in your house and there is no light, and then a lamp is lit and you find the diamond, you will not say the diamond is something new that has been added to your house. It was already in the house. There was no light—there was darkness—it could not be seen.

Self-knowledge is with you; it only needs your attention to fall upon it. But science is not with you; it has to be discovered—like a diamond that must be sought in the mine, dug out and brought home. Because of this difference, science can be learned. Those who have gone to the mine and dug out the diamond—how did they bring it, what is the technique? All that can be learned. Religion cannot be learned; it can be practiced. There is a fundamental difference between practicing and learning. Learning is the accumulation of information. Practice is the transformation of life. One has to change oneself. Therefore even a little-educated person can be religious; but a little-educated person cannot become a scientist. A completely ordinary person, who knows nothing of the outer world, can still be a Kabir, a Krishna, a Christ.

Christ himself is the son of a carpenter; Kabir is a weaver’s son—no great information about the outer, no erudition, no great accumulation. Even so, the doorway of inner insight can open—because what you are going to attain is hidden within. It is only a matter of a little digging. The diamond is close by; the fist is closed—it is only a matter of opening it. This opening of the fist—that is sadhana. What the diamond is, where it is hidden, in which mine it will be found, how it will be dug out—all that knowledge is external information. If, in our scriptures, we make this distinction, we will become helpers in preserving the scriptures; otherwise all our scriptures will sink. For words issue from Krishna’s mouth that are of information; they will become wrong—if not today, then tomorrow. Mahavira speaks things of information; they will become wrong.

In the world of science no one can ever be right forever. Every day science will advance and go on proving the past wrong. Buddha has said things that will become wrong. Jesus and Mohammed have said things that will become wrong. But this has nothing to do with religion. In religious scriptures there are both kinds of things: those that have come from within, and those that have come from without. If in the future we wish to preserve the prestige of religious scriptures, we should begin to divide them—information on one side, experience on the other.

Experience will always remain true; information will not always remain true.

So I tell you some things of information. It is not necessary that I tell you—and if your preparedness grows, I will not say them. But where you are, only the things of information are understandable to you. What I say that is of experience—you do not hear at all. With this hope I say things of information: that perhaps in the midst of them one or two things of experience may also enter within you. That information is almost like putting a little sugar on a bitter pill. That sugar is not put there for your sake; there is something hidden behind that sugar that perhaps will travel along with it. If you are intelligent, there is no need for the sugar-coating; the medicine can be given directly. But the medicine will be a little bitter. The intelligent will be able to take it; the childish-minded will not be able to take it.

Truth—the truth that is of experience—will be a little bitter, because it will be contrary to your life. To bring it to you, information is only a means.

There is no danger for the realized one, because he is no more. Danger exists only for the one who still is. Think of it this way: is there any danger for a dead man living among the sick? Will he catch a disease? He won’t. A dead man doesn’t catch diseases. Let there be plague all around, cholera all around—seat a dead man right in the middle and he will sit there in perfect ease. Cholera won’t catch him, nor will plague. Because for disease to catch, there must first be someone there to catch it. That man is dead—he is no more. Whom will it catch? So the realized one has no danger, because in a profound sense he has died within: the ego that diseases catch hold of—the greed, the anger—that ego is finished. Now there is no danger for the realized one. The very meaning of realized one is: one who is no more. Danger lies on the path. Until you are realized, there is danger.

But there is an amusing point: if you come to know, “I have become realized,” then danger is still there. Because if you know, “I have died,” you are still alive. You sit with eyes closed thinking, “I am dead; no disease can catch me now”—then know it for certain: be careful. You are still very much alive; diseases will catch you.

A realized one is one who has become like air, like water—one to whom nothing belongs, who does not even carry the sense, “I am realized.” Where the very feeling of “I” has dissolved, there no disease can be. For disease to take hold, the capacity of the “I” to grasp is needed, and the “I” is a magnet for disease. That sense of “I,” that ego, is the magnet that pulls diseases. And don’t imagine that the other “gives” you disease; it is only given when you are ready to receive it.

Have you ever noticed? In a plague the doctor moves among patients and the plague does not catch him, but it catches you. What is the matter? Physicians themselves have been puzzled: the doctor goes about all day, serving thousands of patients, giving injections, running here and there, moving among the very germs—and where you get sick, he does not. Why? For only one reason: the doctor’s keen interest is in the patient, not in himself. Hence his “I” thins out. He is so intent on helping the other that he has no leisure left to be where disease catches. He becomes non-receptive, because he barely remembers, “I am.”

When the epidemic is fierce, the doctor completely forgets himself. If he doesn’t forget, he will fall ill. This forgetfulness even wards off outer disease. Others around are afraid—“I might catch it.” That very “I might catch it”—that “I”-feeling—becomes the door for disease. You become receptive.

That is with outer disease; with inner disease the complexity is even greater.

All these instructions are for the seeker. Not only these, but all instructions are only for the seeker. What instruction is there for the realized one? The very meaning of realized is: nothing remains to be done. What does “realized” mean? That there is nothing left to do; everything is fulfilled. For him there is no instruction. All instruction is for the traveler on the path, the seeker.

There is another question: Is āshupragya—instant wisdom—nature-given, a chance happening, or the result of practice?

It is not nature-given, not accidental; it is the result of practice. Nature is unconscious. You feel hunger—that is given by nature. You feel thirst—that is given by nature. You sleep at night—that is given by nature. You wake in the morning—that is given by nature. All this is natural and unconscious; you did not have to do anything—it is inherited with the body. But if a man meditates, that is not nature-given. If a man does not do it, it will never happen by itself. Hunger will come by itself, thirst by itself; meditation will not. Lust will arise by itself, the bonds of delusion will form by themselves, greed will seize you, anger will seize you—these happen by themselves. Religion will not happen by itself. Understand this well.

Religion is a decision, a resolve, an effort, an intention. Everything else is instinct. Everything else is nature. Whatever in your life is happening by itself is nature. What will happen only if you do it—and even then with great difficulty—that is religion. It will happen only if you do it, with great difficulty, because your nature will oppose it at every step: “What are you doing? What is the need?” The belly will say, “What is the need of meditation? Food is needed.” The body will say, “Sleep is needed; what is the need of meditation?” The sexual glands will say, “Sex is needed, love is needed; what is the need of religion?”

If a surgeon were to lay your body on a table and examine it thoroughly, nowhere in any gland would he find a need for religion. He will find all other needs: the kidneys’ need, the lungs’ need, the brain’s need—he can dissect and show the need of every part—but there is not a single organ in the human body whose need is religion.

So religion is utterly non-necessary. That is why the man who thinks only in the language of the body says religion is madness—for the body there is no need for it. Behaviorists, body-centered psychologists say, “What madness is this? There is no bodily need for religion. There are needs; what need is religion?” Socialists, communists say, “What need is religion?” Other needs make sense because they can be traced; the need for religion does not. There is nowhere any reason for it. Therefore animals have everything man has—except religion. And the man in whose life religion is absent has no right to call himself “man,” because the animal has everything the irreligious man has. How then will such a man distinguish himself from an animal?

The animal is nature-born. Man too is nature-born—until religion enters his life. The moment religion enters, that day man begins to rise from nature toward the divine.

Nature is the lowest, unconscious pole; God is the ultimate, absolute conscious pole. Whatever happens by itself, in unconsciousness, is nature. What will happen through effort, through aware endeavor, is religion. And the day this endeavor becomes so total that nothing unconscious remains—when even hunger comes by my permission, thirst by my permission; when I walk by my permission, rise by my permission; when even the body ceases to be nature and becomes discipline—on that day the person has become divine.

As of now, whatever we do—even what we think, even going to the temple, even praying—look closely: is it not nature-born? Our “religion” too is nature-born; hence it is not religion, it is a counterfeit. What we call religion is a deception. That is why you remember religion in sorrow, not in joy.

Bertrand Russell has said: so long as there is suffering, the priests will survive by praying to God; the day suffering ends, the priest will not be. He is right—ninety-nine percent right. At least your kind of priests cannot survive if suffering ends, because it is the suffering who go to them. When you are in trouble you remember religion. Why? Because you see the sorrow won’t go; you see no way to end it, so you turn to religion. In happiness you are carefree; then there is no need. You are solving your issues yourself; God is not needed. When your problem gets trapped in some natural tangle you cannot undo, then you turn toward God.

Is man’s helplessness his religion? His impotence? His compulsion? If, when he can do nothing, he goes to God, then he is going even to God to meet some nature-given hunger or thirst. If you stand before God with folded hands asking, “Give my boy a job; cure my wife’s illness,” what does it mean? It means your need is natural, and you stand before God to get service from him too. You would like to oblige him a bit by giving him an opportunity to serve you. Such “religion” has nothing to do with religion.

This āshupragya is not nature-given. It will not arise from your instinct, from your basic drives. When will it arise, then? If it does not come from nature, how will it be born? This seems difficult. It is born when we are bored with nature, when we are sated with nature—when we see that there is nothing to be gained from nature. It does not arise from sorrow; it arises when even happiness begins to taste like sorrow. It does not arise from mere dissatisfaction.

Understand this well. Every hunger and thirst of nature arises from lack. When there is deficiency of water in the body, thirst arises. When there is lack of food, hunger arises. When seminal energy accumulates in excess, sexual desire arises—throw it out, drain it, empty out so you can fill again.

The body has only two kinds of needs: to fill what is lacking, and to throw out what is excessive. That is the whole world of the body. Semen too is a waste. When there is too much, throw it out or it will burden you, make your head heavy. Hence Freud said there is no better tranquilizer than sex—it’s good medicine for sleep. If energy is inside, you will not be able to sleep; throw it out, feel light, empty—sleep will come.

So there are only two needs—when there is lack, fill; when there is excess, empty. That is why so much sexuality is visible in the world today: the needs to fill have been met for many people, far enough; the need to empty has increased. A hungry man, a poor man, without house or clothes, is busy every moment with filling—there is no question of emptying. So if America is suddenly obsessed with sex today, don’t think America has become immoral. The day you become that prosperous, you will be just as sexual. When filling is done, only emptying remains. When food is no longer needed, only sex remains; no other need is left.

Food is filling; sex is emptying. When food is abundant, trouble begins. That is why whenever civilizations meet the needs of food, they become sexual. And we are amazed: why are the prosperous immoral? The poor man thinks, “We are very moral, content with our one wife.” Why are the rich not content, not at peace? Why are they running?

The Sultan of Morocco had countless wives—never counted. But they must have been countless; he had the desire to father ten thousand children. He succeeded fairly far: he sired 1,056 sons and daughters. A poor man will think, “What madness!” But to a sultan it won’t seem so. All filling-needs are over—more than over—only emptying-needs remain.

This is nature’s way. Where does religion begin? It begins where even filling is seen as futile and emptying is seen as futile—where sorrows are futile, and even pleasures are futile—where the whole of nature appears vain.

If you are dissatisfied with one woman, you will look for another woman. But if you are dissatisfied with womanhood itself, religion will begin. If this food doesn’t satisfy, you’ll look for another food. But if food as such looks like a meaningless cycle, the search for religion begins. This pleasure was enjoyed; it didn’t satisfy—then you seek another pleasure. But if all pleasures are seen and found empty, the search for religion begins. When nature reaches the point of meaninglessness, man turns toward āshupragya—toward that inner consciousness, that inner flame.

Why? Because nature is outside. When the outer is felt as futile, one begins to come within. One world is this: what is empty you fill, what is full you empty—so you can fill again and empty again—this vicious circle. The other world is: the outer has become futile—move inward. Nature has become futile—move toward God.

Therefore, if you go toward God to satisfy nature’s demands, know that you have not yet gone. The day you go to God only for God, know that religion has begun.