Mahaveer Ya Mahavinash #1

On this sacred day of remembrance I am both sorrowful and rejoicing. Sorrowful because we remember Mahavira, yet we have no love for Mahavira. Sorrowful because we enter temples of dharma, yet we have no reverence for those temples. Sorrowful because we talk of truth, yet we hold no commitment to truth. And those who enter temples falsely, who remember God falsely, are worse than those who do not remember God and do not enter temples. For those who stand openly against religion are at least morally honest — unlike those who are not for religion, yet pretend to stand for it in appearance.
The whole earth has been filled with such religious people who are not religious, and because of them religion sinks a little more every day. The temples are crowded with people who are worse than atheists, and thus temples have ceased to be temples. To chant the name of Lord Mahavira, or Buddha, or Krishna with lips that hold no true honor for dharma is an insult. Therefore, I am sorrowful.
And yet I rejoice that despite all this — after all the roots of dharma seem to have been severed from human life, after the inner, vital connection with dharma appears broken, after faith and trust stand shattered — still, within us a faint line of remembrance rises for someone who lived twenty-five centuries ago. I am sorrowful for the depth of the darkness, but I rejoice for the little ray of light that remembrance still is.
However far we may have strayed, some remembrance, some memory, some hint still lingers in the mind. By the grace of that ray, perhaps the whole darkness can one day be dispelled.
On this day of remembrance I will say a few small things about Mahavira, and a few small things about you. For what is said only about Mahavira may be of no use to you; and what is said only about you may bear no relation to Mahavira. It is therefore fitting that I speak a little of you and a little of Mahavira, so that you may come into rapport with him — so that a path opens, and your eyes can be lifted to his vision, to that sky. So a little about you, and a little about Mahavira.
Before I say anything of Mahavira, it is more appropriate that I speak of you. You wish to understand Mahavira, to love Mahavira, to be devoted to Mahavira. You wish to be benefitted by his insight and his sadhana. Then a few points about you are essential.
The first: understand that if you give reverence to Mahavira because you were born in a Jain household, such reverence is not worth even a penny. If your respect for Mahavira arises from being born Jain — forgive me — you offer no respect at all. How can your birth into some home confer any meaning upon your reverence for Mahavira? Your birth into a society or a family does not relate you to Mahavira.
Remember this: one born in a Christian home is not thereby related to Christ; one born in a Jain home is not thereby related to Mahavira; one born in a Hindu home is not thereby related to Krishna. It is not that cheap. To be related to dharma is life’s costliest bargain. What shall we say of those deluded ones who think it is decided by blood and birth?
To be religious is the work of arduous sadhana. Religiousness has no connection with any birth; rather it is related to the death of all that is dark and evil within. Not by your birth, but by your dying — you will be related to dharma. Not by being born into some house, but by allowing your entire ego to die will you be connected with dharma.
And let me say this as well: just as being born Christian does not relate one to Christ, and being born Jain does not relate one to Mahavira — likewise, whoever becomes related to Mahavira becomes related to Christ and to Krishna too. Whoever becomes connected to any one of these living, luminous sources, becomes related to infinite lights.
Someone once wrote to Gandhi from America: you honor the Gita greatly; may I have your permission to become a Hindu? Gandhi replied: I cannot tell anyone to become a Hindu or a Muslim. I can only say: go to the very depth of the religion you are in. If he is a Christian, let him become a good Christian; if a Muslim, a good Muslim. Between a good Muslim, a good Christian, and a good Jain there remains no distance. All distances exist among the bad; there are no distances among the good.
Therefore, those religions that stand opposed, those temples and churches that stand apart — know this: they must have been erected by the bad. They cannot be the work of the good. Wherever divisions into sects and organizations arise, know the leaders there are bad; it cannot be the work of the virtuous. In the world of sadhus no one sets people to fighting; the unholy do nothing but incite conflict.
If you become related to Mahavira, you will become related to Christ and to Krishna as well. Names may differ; the truth within is one. A thousand lamps may burn here — the lamps are many, but the flame is one. A hundred thousand flowers may bloom — the flowers differ, but the beauty manifest in them is one. All over the earth, those rare ones in whose lives the light of the Divine has descended, who have tasted beauty, who have realized truth — their bodies may be different; their souls are not.
So on this birth-day of Mahavira, first I say to you: do not imagine your heart is full of reverence for him merely because you were born in a Jain home.
Dharma is no inheritance, and it does not come by lineage.
Dharma is each person’s own attainment, found only through one’s sadhana.
The great delusion covering the earth today is this: that what must be attained through effort, practice, and striving — we presume we have acquired by birth! There can be no greater deceit. Whoever deceives you thus is your enemy. Whoever calls you Jain because you were born in a Jain home is your enemy, because he blocks you from becoming a Jain in the true sense. Before you can be truly Jain, you must drop being Jain in the false sense. Before truth can be realized, the untruth seated in the mind must be set aside.
So, about you: if your love and reverence arise only from birth, they are false. And false reverence leads nowhere. False reverence misleads; it never delivers. False reverence keeps you moving, but never near to the goal. False reverence is an endless circling. True reverence carries you in a single leap.
Let this false reverence fall. Erase the notion that through blood and birth one can be religious. Religiousness arises through a transformation of inner consciousness. This is the first thing about you.
Second, perhaps you do not really know what dharma is. Every day you hear: Jain dharma, Hindu dharma, Muslim dharma. These are names; they are not dharma. Perhaps you think dharma means memorizing doctrines. Perhaps you imagine it means learning some system of thought, some philosophy. Then you are mistaken.
Dharma has nothing to do with remembering or reciting doctrines. You may memorize all the doctrines and yet never become religious. What has memory to do with dharma? Nothing at all. It may happen that you repeat every tenet of religion; they may enter your speech and thought — and still nothing will happen.
Many think that if they know something about religion, they will become religious. No one becomes religious by knowing about religion; one who becomes religious comes to know all about it. Let me repeat this sutra: by knowing about religion no one becomes religious; when one becomes religious, one knows all about religion.
So if you know something about Jain dharma, something about Mahavira’s dharma — it has no great value. But if, in Mahavira’s sense of the word, you are even a little religious, it has immense value.
Dharma is not information; dharma is the transformation of life at the very root. Dharma is not something to be learned or worn like a garment; it is like the breath, the life-force, the heartbeat — meaningful only when it permeates your whole life.
So, second: if you merely know Mahavira’s doctrines, it is of little worth. If you know his way of living, it has value. What Mahavira said about how the cosmos came to be, how many substances and elements there are, what logic is and what truth is — knowing this has no value. The value lies in how Mahavira walked, how he rose, how he lived. His metaphysical reflections are secondary; his way of life is primary.
Whoever practices the way of life will, of himself, come upon Mahavira’s insight into the elements. Whoever only learns his doctrines will remain a theoretician; he will never know Mahavira’s way. The way is the tree; knowledge are its branches that sprout on their own. But one who merely gathers branches ends up with a heavy bundle of sticks in hand; no light of liberation dawns in his life. This is the second thing.
Third, dharma is only for those who are thirsty. We may stand by a well; the water there is only for the thirsty. Otherwise, water is not water. The being of water is not in the water; it is in your thirst. If there is thirst, water becomes water; without thirst, it is nothing.
This lamp is burning here. Its being is not only in the lamp; it is also in my eyes. If there are eyes, this is light; without eyes, all is darkness.
The truths of dharma are eternally available, as light is eternally available. The question is not about the truths of dharma; the question is whether the eye is present within me. Water is always available — the question is not of water, but of thirst.
Therefore, before I speak of water, it is necessary to speak of your thirst. So, third, let me say as far as I can see: perhaps you have no thirst for dharma. For those who are thirsty for dharma cannot remain long without becoming religious. I cannot even imagine someone saying to me, 'I have been thirsty for a year and have not yet gone toward water.' It does not enter my imagination that a man has been thirsty for a year and has not gone to the well. His not going proves there was no thirst. If there is thirst, one has to go. If there is thirst, the feet move that way; the breath is drawn that way; the life-energy rushes there.
Where there is thirst, there is movement. Where thirst is absent, there is no movement.
People say the world has become irreligious. The world has not become irreligious; only one thing has happened: the thirst to go toward dharma has waned. The awareness of it has dissolved; even the idea of it has faded. Ideas arise in response to seeing. Thoughts and longings are inspired within when events happen without.
When a man like Mahavira passed through a village, and thousands saw his bliss, his peace, his radiance, naturally a thirst would arise: how can we too come upon such peace and bliss? Let me tell you: Mahavira or Buddha or such beings do not really give 'teachings' to anyone. Their teaching is one — and it is very deep: when they pass near you, they jolt awake a thirst within. Their words do not matter so much. Hence their teachings remain written in books, but they make no impact on you. Whenever the Teacher disappears from the world, his teachings remain; yet they lose their meaning. Because the Teacher’s power did not lie in the teachings; it lay in awakening thirst within you. No dead teaching can do that. Only a living presence can.
Even if in imagination you contemplate Mahavira — if the thought of Krishna or Christ arises — what will happen within you?
Within, this will happen: you will feel that if in a body of flesh and bone such a flowering of beauty is possible, then is my flesh of a different kind? Are Mahavira’s bones made of some special stuff?
The unintelligent will say: yes, special. The unintelligent will say: in their bodies there was no blood — only milk. But I tell you: in their bodies flowed exactly the same blood as in yours. Their bones were as mortal as yours. I say this so you do not forget: becoming a Mahavira is your possibility too.
If instead of blood their veins held milk, then you could never be Mahavira. If Mahavira’s body were made of thunderbolt, you could never be Mahavira. How could the weak, who reach the hospital every few days, be Mahavira? Those naive ones who propagated that Mahavira’s body was Vajra-like, who said his body obeyed different laws — they deprived the whole world of Mahavira.
Some may feel I am bringing Mahavira down. I want to make Mahavira an ordinary man — so that ordinary men may find him useful. A ladder that does not reach you — how will it take you to the sky? Only a ladder that comes to your feet can lift you upward. If you would place Mahavira as your summit, if you would rise to his height, then the ladder of Mahavira must reach you.
A great mistake occurred across the centuries: in the intoxication of reverence we made these beings supernatural. We made Mahavira and Buddha into gods. We said they are superhuman. We spoke so in love, but we did not see that this love would prove costly. And it has. Now we worship and honor them, but the longing never arises within to become a Mahavira. If I tell you to let the longing arise to become Mahavira, many will feel it is irreverent, even an insult to Mahavira.
I tell you, even if it were an insult to Mahavira, I am ready. For who can insult one who has gone beyond honor and dishonor? But I can honor you. Even if Mahavira were insulted and you were uplifted by it, we would choose that 'insult' — to raise the lowliest human being, to bring him to Mahavira.
Mahavira is a person like you — just like you. But a day came when he was no longer like you. He too was made of your flesh and bone. But a moment came when within him a soul awakened that is beyond the ordinary. The body was yours; the soul was not yours. The body was just like yours; the Mahavira-soul was not like yours. Therefore a way exists. At least on the plane of the body you stand with Mahavira, as companion and friend. If on the bodily plane you are his companion, why not let the longing arise to be his friend on the plane of soul?
If at the level of seed we are equal to the trees... If a banyan seed, lying near a great banyan tree, thinks: I am the same as this tree — for it too was once a seed and I am a seed. If it comes to know that within this vast tree abide the very elements that abide within me — that what has awakened in the tree sleeps within me — then thirst will arise in that seed. Thirst arises when possibility is seen as possible.
By deifying these men we have weakened our own thirst. We have struck our own feet with our own axe. Out of reverence we have fabricated such notions that have deprived us of our own beloved ones who should have become the heartbeat of our hearts.
So I say to you: call Mahavira 'God' later; first call him your friend, companion, colleague, neighbor. Feel him near, so that rising to his far height becomes possible for you.
These are the three things I want to say to you. On the basis of these three, it becomes possible that whatever I say of Mahavira, you can understand.
First, I said: your birth does not decide your dharma; something else must be done. Look at Mahavira’s life — his intense longing and aspiration — his sadhana and thirst. What is Mahavira doing? His entire sadhana is for one thing: that Vardhaman may die within, so that Mahavira may be born. If dharma were obtained by birth, he too would have had it. Then to enter twelve years of austere tapascharya would be foolishness. Then to melt and transform his life would be madness. Then to burn himself bit by bit and climb that arduous solitary ascent — how would we justify it?
But Mahavira knows: dharma is not obtained by birth. Dharma is attained by resolve. Dharma is attained by labor — by one’s own effort. Hence Mahavira’s lineage was called the Shramana tradition. Shramana means: dharma is attained only by shram, by effort, by toil — not otherwise. Exactly to the measure that we labor, it is attained — not more. No 'prasad' can come from God’s side. No guru’s blessing can accomplish it. By prayer or praise it cannot be found.
This was a wondrous proclamation. But we are so unintelligent that the very Mahavira who said that by praise and prayer dharma cannot be found, that there is no 'prasad' to be received, that nothing of dharma can be obtained in alms — his devotees stand with folded hands before his statues praying that he give them something. He who said: nothing can be given; whatever is to be had must be seized — through your own daring, by your own valor. He spoke words of great glory about man — never has man been honored more.
If someone says to me: we will give you truth; you need do nothing — I will say: how shall I take such a truth? Only the impotent can accept a truth for which they have done nothing; the unvirtuous, those whose life-energy is extinguished, can accept it. And can such a truth, obtained in loan or alms, ever be alive? Can such a thing fill life with radiance?
Mahavira said: truth is never obtained by begging; truth must be conquered. For truth one must be a kshatriya, not a bhikshu.
Whoever has realized truth in this world has had to become a kshatriya — a warrior — to win it by the sword of one’s own effort, by one’s own striving. Thus his lineage was called the Shramana tradition. Thus Mahavira became the herald of an astonishing human dignity: he gave man this pride — do not beg for truth; win it.
Do not beg for truth; live for truth. Do not sing praises for truth; struggle for it. Fight for truth; sacrifice for truth; surrender yourself for truth. To the extent that one is ready to give oneself, to that extent one’s claim upon truth is assured. Mahavira called this tapascharya.
Tapascharya means: to give oneself inch by inch in order to attain truth. The day a person becomes capable of offering his totality, that day he attains the total truth. To give oneself and to receive truth are the two faces of one coin. Therefore, leave worrying about truth, and worry about giving yourself.
What does it mean to give oneself? Do you think that if you abandon your home you have given yourself? Do you think leaving wife and children is to give yourself? Do you think renouncing property and position is to give yourself?
This is not giving oneself. What was the value of position? What was the value of wealth? Wealth served only to gratify my ego. Position had value only because it strengthened my pride. If by discarding wealth the ego of renunciation arises, then renouncing wealth is futile. If by discarding position the vanity of being a renunciate arises, then abandoning position is futile.
It is not a question of dropping wealth and position; it is a question of dropping egoity. Whoever drops ego drops himself. And whoever drops anything other than ego, his renunciation is futile; for in that very renunciation his ego will grow stronger. What was thickened by wealth will be thickened by the renunciation of wealth. The ego that strutted down the road boasting 'I possess so much' will tomorrow strut proclaiming 'I possess nothing — but I!' The 'I' remains intact.
I have heard: a king, as a child, studied in a school. He had a friend. Later that friend became a fakir, a naked mendicant, having left everything. The king came of age, ascended the throne, conquered distant lands, expanded his empire, built a new capital, unfurled his banners of splendor far and wide. One day the old friend, the fakir, came to the city. The king said: my friend comes, having renounced everything; his attainment is great. We shall welcome him with royal honor. He adorned the entire city. On the evening of the fakir’s entry he celebrated a festival of lights. He had rich Iranian carpets spread along the route. He himself, with his courtiers, went to the gate to receive him.
Some people, seeing all this, warned the fakir: the king wants to display his wealth and splendor, to dazzle you — to show you that you are a poor nobody, a naked beggar, and what the king is.
The fakir said: if he wishes to display his wealth and splendor, we too shall show him something. They were surprised: what could the fakir show? He had nothing but a naked body. But he said: we too shall show him.
When he entered the city and walked upon those precious carpets, people were astonished: though it was not the rainy season, his feet up to the knees were caked in mud. That naked fakir was covered with mud and walked with muddy feet upon the costly carpets. Climbing the palace steps, the king could not restrain himself: 'Friend, may I ask how your feet are so full of mud?'
The fakir said: if you spread carpets along the roads to display your wealth, we are fakirs — we will walk upon them with muddy feet to display our fakiri.
The king said: I thought a difference would have arisen between us, but we remain old friends; no difference at all. You too are where I am. You have renounced and yet gratified the same conceit that I gratify by possessing.
Therefore the question is neither of leaving nor of holding. The question is to give oneself — not to give away property, but to give away the selfhood.
Mahavira’s sadhana is not to abandon property but to abandon swatva — the sense of 'mine-ness' and 'I-ness'. When swatva drops, property drops by itself. Those who abandon property do not necessarily abandon swatva.
Mahavira’s sadhana is to dissolve and immerse the self.
Mahavira says: when ahankar dies, at the death of ego there will be the vision of the Atman. As long as ego is, there can be no vision of the soul. Whoever would know the Atman must dissolve the 'I', the feeling of 'I'.
The sun of the soul is hidden behind the clouds of 'I'. So long as the clouds of 'I' remain, there will be no glimpse of that sun. Hence Mahavira’s entire sadhana is the sadhana of dropping the 'I'. From every side, by every means, let the feeling 'I am something' fall away. In whom that feeling dissolves — 'I am something' — in him the feeling arises: 'I am all.' Whoever becomes empty finds the Full. Whoever, leaving all, stands naked, empty — he becomes master of the mystery of the whole existence.
Leaving the 'I' is Mahavira’s fundamental foundation.
You have heard that Mahavira’s teaching is ahimsa. I tell you: only he is truly ahimsak in whom the sense of 'I' has dissolved. The only violence is 'I', the ego. The belief 'I am something' is the one violence, and it leads to all violences. The violent man has nothing but a thickened 'I'.
What is in the ahimsak? Emptiness of 'I'; the dissolution of the 'I'-sense.
Just this afternoon I spoke of a monk far away in China. When he came to his master’s ashram, the master lifted his eyes and looked at him. Seeing that the master had looked, joy arose: the master has seen me, accepted me, honored me. But the moment that thought arose — 'he has accepted me, seen me, honored me' — the master’s eyes dropped and closed. For three years after that the master did not raise his eyes to look at him. He was baffled: what mistake have I made?
He asked a fellow monk, 'What is my mistake? The master looked at me; I was pleased — and from that day his eyes have stayed lowered.' The friend replied: 'Do not worry. When he looked, your 'I' was stirred into alertness; hence he did not look again. For then looking would be a sin, for your 'I' would be thickened by his gaze — that the master looks at me. Therefore he does not look. You will be worthy of his eyes the day his eyes look upon you and nothing stirs within you.'
Three years passed. One day in the garden the master not only looked at him but smiled. The monk did not feel the old ego, but a wave of wonder arose: 'After three years why is he smiling today?'
The instant this arose, the master’s smile vanished and his eyes again dropped. Three more years passed. He asked another, 'What happened? He smiled, then took it back.' The other said: 'If even wonder arose within you from his smile, if even curiosity — then outer happenings still ripple you within. The master must have withdrawn his smile in fear. He will smile when his smile makes no difference within you.'
Three more years passed. Then the master caught him on the path, embraced him, seated him near, and said: 'Today I am pleased. When I embraced you, you looked as though I were embracing someone else. As I speak to you now, you listen as though I were speaking to someone else. Now you have become like air and water. The hardness of 'I' within you has dissolved. The stone of 'I' has gone. Now you have become fluid, simple. Now the Lord’s presence is near to you.'
Those who drop the rigidity of 'I' alone attain saintliness and simplicity.
Mahavira has called this 'I'-less simplicity ahimsa.
By ahimsa, Mahavira does not merely mean 'do not hurt others'. His point is deeper: one in whom the 'I'-sense persists — whether he wishes it or not — will hurt others. Even if he does nothing violent, violence will happen through him — in his speech, in the way he walks and rises. Violence will be in his feelings, in his thoughts, even in his dreams. So Mahavira says: if you wish to be fundamentally non-violent, the question is not about hurting or not hurting others; the question is to dissolve the 'I' within. Where the 'I' becomes empty, hurting another becomes impossible.
And remember this as well: the day it becomes impossible for you to hurt another, that very day the other becomes incapable of hurting you. As trees rise taller, their roots go deeper. As the tree grows upward, it delves inward. The longer the tree, the longer the roots. Likewise, the one who carries sorrow far into others’ lives has sorrow’s roots sunk just that far into his own. The more we spread sorrow without, the deeper its roots reach within. When one becomes incapable of hurting others, then when the tree is cut, its roots vanish too.
If you would attain joy in life, Mahavira says: become incapable of giving pain to others; then joy will be yours. As of now, we do not care whether we hurt others in our pursuit of pleasure; indeed, we even make others’ pain the steps to our joy. Mahavira says: such a person will never come upon bliss. However he seeks bliss, the more he spreads pain around him, the deeper pain will enter within him.
Mahavira calls this karmic bondage: whoever gives pain will bind the karma of pain to himself.
But his basic teaching is not 'avoid hurting others'. His basic teaching is to cut the root because of which the compulsion to hurt arises — and that root is 'I'.
Dharma seeks the death of 'I'. Only he whose 'I' has died is truly religious.
Therefore I said: dharma is related not to birth but to death. When our 'I' dies, we are related to dharma. Whoever longs for dharma must be ready to die.
Do you understand my meaning by dying? One must be ready to let go of that 'I' which we adorn and polish all our lives, which we ceaselessly strive to fatten. Thus, dharma in this world is the greatest audacity.
And what do we see? The old, on the verge of death, become eager to be religious.
If you would be religious, do not wait for the last day. If you would be religious, then when your strength is whole, when life is brimming with energy, when you have the power to dare — jump in. Here too Mahavira brought a revolution. The old religion said: religion is the last stage of life — life is divided into four ashramas; pass through three, and in the fourth, when life is ebbing, practice religion. Mahavira overturned even this. He said: if you would practice dharma, do it when you are young — when all strength and valor, virility and vigor are with you. Dharma is not a medicine for old age; it is the daring of youth.
So remember: do not wait for your strength to wane. Dharma is not a consolation for the dying; it is the venturesome sadhana of the living. Therefore, when you feel energy, whatever measure of it there is, do not wait for it to wither — engage it, apply it, harness it, discipline your life. Then perhaps, one day, by striking again and again upon the sense of 'I', the 'I' dissolves.
Remain continually aware. In all your actions, watch: is my 'I' at work? Is my ego at play? Is my egoity growing? Whoever cultivates such discernment and wakefulness slowly becomes capable of dispersing the clouds of 'I'. Then he comes upon that sun which we call dharma. Dharma is therefore not in scriptures; it is hidden behind the 'I', not behind the words of books. It is not concealed in the words of great ones; it is concealed behind one’s own 'I'. Those who search for it in words become pundits and end there. Those who search for it behind their own 'I' find that truth in life which we call saintliness, which we call sannyas, which we call knowledge — and finally we call moksha.
If one is to be free, there is only one bondage from which to be freed — the bondage of 'I'-ness. 'I'-ness is violence; the zeroing of 'I'-ness is ahimsa. Therefore Mahavira called ahimsa the supreme dharma. In this sense it is supreme: whoever masters it, everything else is mastered of itself.
What has this ahimsa to do with Jain, Hindu, Muslim? What has dropping the 'I' to do with Hindu, Muslim, Christian? This is a universal, timeless truth. The truths of dharma belong to no sect.
Therefore, please — free yourself from Mahavira and free Mahavira from yourself. Do not bind him in a sect, and do not bind yourself in his sect. He has no sect. Dissolve your 'I', dissolve your ego. Through that, drop your violence and attain ahimsa. Come to the death of the 'I'. Then you will find you belong to Mahavira — to that dharma which is Mahavira’s, which is the dharma of all Mahaviras, whether they appeared as Christ, or as Krishna, or whether one appears as you tomorrow.
I have said a few things about you and a few about Mahavira. In the end one more thing. I said there is no thirst; if you do not awaken thirst, you will squander your life in vain. But how to awaken thirst?
Thirst awakens from the experience of life. Open your eyes all around — what is happening? When a man dies on the road and his bier passes by, you look at it but you do not think. Whoever only looks remains deprived of the message that the bier could have given. Whoever thinks will soon see: the bier is not someone else’s — it is mine. If one reflects while giving a shoulder to another’s bier, he will realize: others are giving a shoulder to mine.
If we look around with open eyes, this world is at every moment ready to make us religious. If we see the suffering spread all around, the suffering within, the creatures running hither and thither, everything will change.
There was a fakir who lived in a hut outside a village. A man, entering the village, asked him the way to the habitation. The fakir said: if you want the way to the habitation, turn left — a little way and you will find it. The man turned left and soon came upon a graveyard. He returned angrily: you seem mad. There is no habitation there — only graves. The fakir said: and if you wish to find the graveyard, now go to the right. He went and there was the bustling town. He returned at dusk and said: you speak in riddles. The fakir said: I speak as I have come to know. Those who dwell there in the graveyard have settled forever. And those who seem to dwell here are all on the road to the graveyard; they are preparing to enter the graves. If you wish to see habitation, look there; if you wish to see the graveyard, look here.
And it is true. We laugh because we think the fakir said this to someone else. He is saying it to you. To those who laugh he speaks. This is not said to another; it is said to you. Look around as you sit here. If your eyes are even a little deep, you will see the dead gathered here. All are dead; only the dates differ. All are dead; the schedules and times of dying differ — that is all.
If we look thoroughly at life, we will see death; we will see pain and anguish. We will see no essence — only the inessential. No meaning — only meaninglessness, futility. From that awareness thirst is born. Seeing that all this is inessential and vain, the question will arise: what is essential? What is meaningful? And then a longing will slide within, a flame will be born — and that flame will take you toward dharma.
May that flame arise in each of you — this is my prayer. That flame will bring pain, great anxiety. It will shatter your so-called peace. It will rob you of your complacency. It will take away your sleep. It will make you restless.
May that restlessness arise within you. May your false peace be shattered; may you become unquiet. May all the pretenses of your contentment fall away, and may you become so discontent that no shore is visible to you.
The day a person sees no shore, no support in this world — that day for the first time he finds the support of God. When all supports and all peace in the world are taken away, the refuge of dharma becomes available. To take refuge in dharma, one must be freed of the world’s refuge. From that, thirst arises.
And on this sacred festival today I can pray for nothing better. No other wish stirs in my heart but this: may your hearts be filled with thirst. May your hearts see the world, see the meaning of the world, see the world’s meaninglessness — so that within you the flame is born that lifts you across and beyond the world. That flame, little by little, becomes the ladder leading one to truth, to knowledge, to liberation.
On this sacred day that is my prayer and my wish.
You have listened to my words with such love and quiet, with such thirst — I am deeply obliged, deeply indebted. In gratitude for that grace, accept my salutations. My pranam to the Paramatma seated within each and every one.