Mahaveer Ya Mahavinash #2

If we sit and gaze at the empty sky even for a little while, the empty sky will empty you. If you sit among flowers and look at them for a little while, soon the fragrance and the very perfume of the flowers will begin to fill you. And if you sit and look at the sun for a while, you will find the sun’s light has entered within you. And if you sit long enough by the waves of the ocean, you will find the ocean has begun to take waves within you.

In the same way, when someone sinks into the remembrance of the supreme ones, when someone becomes filled with the memory of those utterly pure emblematic beings, something within begins to be transformed, something begins to change, something new starts within. So, in this hope I shall speak a little on Mahavira—that in this brief nearness, in this short remembrance of him, some transformation may be touched within you, some movement may arise within, some longing may awaken, some seed may begin to sprout, and the aspiration to attain a new life—the real life—may arise within you.

This can happen. It is possible for every human being. Each person carries within the same possibilities which in Mahavira we experience in their fulfillment. What has flowered for Mahavira exists within us as a seed.

Therefore let no one curse his misfortune, let no one think we are incapable of rising to such heights. And let no one think our task is merely to worship Mahavira. The worship of Mahavira is no one’s true task. The task is that each one grows toward becoming a Mahavira. And even if worship is to have meaning, it is only in this sense—that through it, gradually, we may be able to rise toward Mahavira, to rise like Mahavira.

Keep this in remembrance: no human being is born merely to worship. If someone were born only to worship—what greater insult to man could there be? Every human being is born to become a Mahavira. No one is born only to worship. Each is born so that what has developed in one life can develop in every life.

Thus I see it so: here so many have gathered—one day all will become Mahaviras. I see it so: all who stand upon the earth—one day all will become Mahaviras. If even one were to miss becoming a Mahavira—how could that be possible? Infinite ages may be required, infinite time may pass, but it is impossible that any one of us should miss becoming a Mahavira. It is impossible that the seed of the Divine that is within us fails to become the Divine. One day it will become the Divine.

It may be that thousands of years lie between Mahavira and your becoming a Mahavira. It may be that innumerable births lie between Mahavira’s becoming Mahavira and your becoming Mahavira. But this makes no great difference. Time is infinite—within the infinite neither thousands of years nor innumerable births matter.

The remembrance of Mahavira fills me with joy because it is a remembrance of the possibility of Mahavira within us. To contemplate Mahavira is meaningful, useful—because through it we become alert to that possibility which sleeps within and can awaken. If thinking of him does not evoke the feeling to become as he is, then the thought is in vain. So this morning I would say: do not only worship Mahavira—sow within yourselves the seeds of the longing to become Mahavira, and give birth within to the resolve that I may become like him. And in this longing, in this resolve, whatever is supportive, whatever can prepare the field—embrace that field, that conduct, that thought, that discipline of life.

I see that two kinds of great ones have appeared in the world. One: those who gave great ideas. The other: those who gave great conduct, a great discipline, a great way of life. Mahavira is not of the first kind. Mahavira is of the second—he gave a very great discipline, a great conduct, a life. Surely, to give great ideas is not as valuable as to give a great life. Surely, to give birth to great speculation is not as valuable as to give birth to a great way of living. Thoughts are like dreams. Thoughts have no real worth—they are like lines drawn upon water. Conduct has worth—it is a line carved upon stone. Mahavira does not vanish from our remembrance because his conduct has drawn a line upon our hearts—his conduct, his life.

Do not call Mahavira a thinker. Mahavira is not a thinker. Mahavira is a sadhaka and a siddha. This is the difference between a thinker and a seeker. The thinker thinks, “What is truth?” The seeker lives.

The thinker thinks about truth; the seeker lives truth.

In this land we have not placed great value upon thinkers. Great thinkers there have been, who spoke of far-off things—of creation, of the making of the universe, of God, of heaven, of hell—they spoke great speculations. Mahavira is not among these thinkers. Mahavira stands upon very solid ground. He is altering his entire manner of living. And let me say this: the one who merely thinks, thinks about truth; the one who brings truth into life and lives it does not think about truth—he practices in relation to ananda.

Mahavira is not a seeker of truth; Mahavira is a seeker of ananda.

A seeker of truth is a philosopher, a tattva-chintak. A seeker of ananda is a yogi. Mahavira is seeking ananda. Hence it may be that a thought is sometimes wrong—this cannot be that ananda is wrong.

On the ground of thought we can differ: your thought may be different from mine. But in the search for ananda we cannot be different. Everyone’s search is for ananda.

Therefore Mahavira’s dharma is universal, all-human. Whoever in this world seeks ananda will have, apart from Mahavira, no other way.

Had Mahavira been a thinker, he would have been meaningful to a few, to those who agreed with his thinking. For those who opposed his thought he would have had no meaning. Hence thinkers have sects; yogis have no sect. Thinkers create denominations; seekers of ananda have no denominations—because the entire world seeks ananda. There is no difference of opinion in this. From the tiniest creature to man, all are seeking ananda. About ananda there are no two opinions, no opposition. Therefore thought is a superficial matter; the search for ananda is very deep.

If I ask you to choose between two options—do you want perfect ananda, or do you want perfect thought? If you must choose between knowing what the truth of the world is, or being what perfect ananda is—I do not think your hearts will bear witness for truth. Your hearts will say: we want to be available to perfect ananda.

Truth too is sought only so that it may become supportive in the quest for perfect ananda. What is the value of truth in itself? Truth in itself has no value except that through its realization we suppose the foundations for perfect ananda can be laid.

Truth too is merely a means in the search for ananda.

Therefore, the first thing I wish to say today about Mahavira is this: do not see him as a seeker of truth; see him as a seeker of ananda. He is a seeker who searches for ananda. And therefore his entire discipline, his whole vision, his whole life is centered on moksha. Ananda and moksha are two names of one thing.

What is suffering?

Suffering is limitation, dependence, bondage.

And ananda?

Ananda will be freedom, release from bondage, the breaking of all limits. Perfect ananda will be the state of perfect liberation. Between moksha and perfect ananda there will be no difference. One who attains perfect ananda will be free. One who is free will attain perfect ananda.

Thus the thinkers of the West ponder: What is truth? The sadhakas of India ponder: What is liberation? What is moksha? What is the means to moksha? This is the difference between philosophy and religion. The philosopher thinks: what is truth? The religious seeks: what is moksha?

Read the Western thinkers—you will find they do not think about moksha, they do not even consider it. In their books you will not find a discussion on moksha. Read India’s scriptures—you will find that apart from moksha we are seeking nothing at all.

Buddha was passing by a village, and a man had fallen there—someone’s arrow had struck him as he moved through the forest. Buddha came near and said to the man: let us pull the arrow out. The man said: first tell me, who shot the arrow? First tell me: was the arrow poisoned or not? First tell me: was the shooter a friend, an enemy, or did he shoot unknowingly?

Buddha said: ask these things later—first let us take the arrow out. Do not let it be that we talk while your life ebbs away! He said: let us remove the arrow first; then later we shall consider who shot it. Do not let it be that we think and your life departs!

Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna or Christ are saying just this: the arrow of sorrow lodged in the heart—first we take it out; then later we may think about truth. Do not let it be that we think about truth and life ends! Therefore the entire search of India is not for truth, but for moksha. India’s search is not to know who shot the arrow, but how the arrow may be removed.

So, in Mahavira the central search is for ananda, for moksha. The search for what truth is, is not central—it is secondary. Those who take him as a metaphysician fall into error. And we have taken Mahavira to be a metaphysical thinker. That is our mistake—let me say it to you first. And therefore I also say this, so you can understand why Mahavira can have no sect, no society, no denomination. Whoever seeks ananda is in Mahavira’s denomination; is in Mahavira’s path.

Recently I was somewhere. A Jain monk said to me: apart from the Jain dharma, apart from being a Jain, there is no path to moksha. I said to him: do not say that. Do not say there is no path to moksha apart from Jain dharma. Rather say: whoever goes to moksha from anywhere—he is Jain. Say: whoever goes to moksha, from wherever—he is Jain. Do not say: only the Jain can go to moksha. Say: whoever goes to moksha—is Jain.

And if the second statement seems right to you, then all on this earth who have attained moksha are in Mahavira’s path; they are with Mahavira. Then Mahavira will appear as a vast being, not bound within a narrow circle.

I have only one longing: that Mahavira be freed from the Jains, so that his message, his vision, his way of life may serve everyone. Wells upon which someone has laid claim—their water ceases to be for all to drink. And the water of such captured wells cannot quench everyone’s thirst. Break the wells’ walls, unbind Mahavira, and you will be amazed—his inner insight can become the fundamental medicine for the health of all humanity. Mahavira’s insight is very deep, very sharp—and it is able to remove whatever diseases afflict man. What are the basic foundations of that sharp insight? Let me tell you.

Mahavira’s insight into all the sickness, all the derangement, all the sorrows, pains, and torments of human life stands upon one point: we, who consider certain things to be suffering and pain and distress, strive to remove them. Every person is trying to remove his pain, his sorrow. Whether he seeks wealth, fame, position, prestige—he is seeking a way to remove suffering. Mahavira’s insight is this: one who tries to remove suffering without knowing what suffering is is unwise, and will never remove it. One who tries to remove suffering without understanding what it is and to whom it happens is unwise and will never remove it. He will remove one sorrow and another will besiege him, because the root cause will remain. My foot aches—I treat it, it is cured. Tomorrow my head aches—I treat it, it is cured. Sorrows go on being removed, but sorrow does not go; sorrow keeps pursuing. One sorrow departs, others are present—because the root cause is not dissolved.

Mahavira says: if we wish to understand and remove man’s fundamental sorrow, we need not remove them one by one; we need to know what suffering is and to whom it belongs. When my foot aches or my head aches, I need to know what pain is and to whom it is occurring. If I can see—who it is that suffers, who it is that feels tormented...

There are sorrows in human life—many sorrows. Remove one and another encircles; remove the second and the third arrives. One who is engaged in removing sorrow piece by piece is a householder. One who is engaged in removing the root of all sorrow is a sannyasin. One who treats illnesses item by item is a householder; one who removes illness itself is a sannyasin.

Mahavira’s insight into man’s sickness, sorrow and pain is this: we must know whether, when we feel sorrow, we actually suffer—or are we deluded into thinking we suffer? Does pain occur to me, or does it occur around me and I assume it is mine?

When Alexander was returning from India, he desired to take a sage to Greece. When he had set out from Greece, his friends had said: bring things from India—and bring a sage as well. The sages of India were spoken of beyond India. Now Alexander would return having conquered India—his friends had said: bring many things—and bring a sage. We wish to see a sage.

When Alexander was about to return, near India’s border he remembered and said: we must take a sage. He sought advice from a wise man. The wise man said: one who agrees to go will not be a sage; and one who is a sage—his going will be difficult. Alexander said: what are you saying! Before whom mountains give way, who can bind mountains and take them to Greece—he could take an entire country to Greece—yet a single sage cannot be made to go? Then what use is Alexander’s sword? The wise man said: one before whom the sword is useless—that is precisely a sage. One who goes out of fear of the sword—know you have brought a useless man; he is an ordinary man, not a sage. Still, try if you wish.

Alexander was both surprised and intrigued. He halted the camp and said: we will leave only after we find a sage. This is indeed a strange thing, if a sage is such a being. A sage was found living by a river, at the foot of a mountain, near a valley. Alexander sent his generals. They said to him: it is the command of the great Alexander that you come with us! We shall honor you greatly, give you much respect, and take you to Greece. The sage said: tell your Alexander—one who has ceased to obey all but himself—tell him that is a sage. Tell Alexander: we move only by our own command; not by another’s. The generals said: you are making a mistake. Alexander also sent this message: if you refuse, we can take you by the power of the sword. The sage said: tell your Alexander—whoever can be taken by the sword, we left him long ago. Whoever can be taken by the sword—we abandoned him long ago.

Alexander himself came, with naked sword. Seeing him, the sage said: put your sword back in the sheath. For the one before you, the sword is useless—and you look very childish holding a naked sword! We shall laugh a great deal at you; put it away. Alexander said: you must come—otherwise I shall finish you. The sage said: the one you will finish—we too shall watch him coming to an end. The one you will finish—we too shall be the witness. Finish him. When you cut me, just as you see me being cut, so too shall I see the cutting—because the one you cut is not me. I am separate; I am behind.

Behind that upon which blows fall, our being stands. The one to whom pain and sorrow come—our being stands behind that. The body—on whose behalf we keep striving to remove pains and sorrows—is not us. One who removes sorrows one by one will remain bound to the body. One who looks into the root of all sorrows will find: we are separate from the body.

Mahavira says: what is the root of all sorrow? The root is identification—tadatmya—the identity “I am the body.” The root of all ananda will be: that I know I am not the body.

So long as I know I am the body, I am in the world. And the moment I know I am not the body, I enter moksha.

Moksha means this awakening: I am not the body.

And the world means this unawareness: I am the body.

So if you feel “I am the body,” then whether you are a monk or a householder, you are in the world. And if you feel “I am not the body,” then whether you are a monk or a householder, you are not in the world.

I met a nun. The wind blew strongly and my cloth touched her. She was greatly perturbed. A friend with me stopped me and said: your cloth is touching her. I said: astonishing—can cloth also be male? And if cloth can be male, what will happen if a man should touch!

Those for whom cloth can be male know they are the body. They are entirely confined to the bodily outlook. These are all materialists. They are not spiritual people. For those who are shaken because my cloth touched them—who are more materialist, more body-obsessed than they?

One sage says: thrust your swords into me and I shall stand and watch! For him, even the body is not his own part. For these others—even cloth is their own part! So there are householders in the world who can be spiritual; and there are monks who are utterly materialist, utterly body-centered.

Mahavira’s insight is: let your consciousness be freed from your body. But the countless monks following him are so bound to the body—how will they be free? Mahavira’s vision is: let this be known in your inner consciousness, that the body is an outer shell, like a garment we have worn; we have put it on, and if we wish, we can drop it this very moment. Our cravings require that we wear it. The day our cravings wane, there will be no need to wear it.

The body is like a garment we wear to gratify desire—again and again we wear it, again and again we drop it. But the one who wears the body is separate from the body. The one who enters the body at birth is separate. The one who leaves it at death is separate. The one who dwells in it throughout life is separate.

If a man begins to feel that the house in which he lives is himself—what account of his suffering will there be! When the roof breaks, he will cry, “I am broken.” When the plaster falls from the wall, he will say, “I am dying, my plaster is falling.” If his house catches fire, he will cry, “I am burning.” But the wise will say to him: fool! you are neither burning nor breaking; you merely dwell in this house. What happens, happens to the house—nothing is happening to you. Whatever is happening in this world is happening to the house; no event happens to the one inside. Until today it has been impossible that anything should happen to the one seated within. All that happens, happens to what surrounds. The cause of sorrow is that we think it is happening to us.

There is nothing in life that can happen to the Atman. Whatever happens, happens to the body. No power in this world touches the Atman, nor can it. Whatever touches, touches the body. But one delusion—“I am the body”—becomes the cause of pain and sorrow.

The basic teaching of Mahavira’s dharma is one: that a person knows he is not the body. The path to know this—he calls tapascharya. Mahavira says: at every moment—in pain, in pleasure, in discomfort, in comfort—know continuously that you are not the body. Rising and sitting, sleeping and waking—know you are not the body. Eating or fasting, clothed or naked—know you are not the body.

If for twenty-four hours this continuous remembrance flows—that I am not the body—when walking, know: the body walks; I do not walk. When eating, be aware: the body eats; I do not. When someone strikes you, know: the blow is upon the body; not upon me. If this continuous remembrance proceeds—this very remembrance, together with a life lived accordingly, is called tapas.

Much suffering will have to be borne. If you strike me here and now, I must know that I was not struck. And when I am not struck, what answer can I give you? None. When suffering comes, know: it has come upon my house, not upon me. To know this in suffering; to know likewise in pleasure that what has come has come upon my house, not upon me—to be unagitated in pleasure, unagitated in pain, and equal in both is Mahavira’s essential teaching. He calls this samyaktva. He calls it the feeling of samata—equanimity. This state of samata will bear fruit only when I can keep this remembrance—in all situations.

One who from morning to evening, from evening to morning, in all doing keeps knowing, does not lose this awareness, does not let this memory fade—that whatever is happening is not happening upon my inner consciousness—such a one will have an experience. Progressively, moving in this, one day he will find: he is completely separate and the body completely separate. This awareness will be more clear than any other clarity. The distance between sky and earth is not as great as the distance between my Atman and my body. Sky and earth can be joined; my Atman and my body cannot be joined. The gap will remain. The body is so near to my Atman—yet an infinite distance that cannot be erased.

If the distance between Atman and body were erased, moksha would become impossible. Therefore the soul-body distance is the same for the worst sinner as for the noblest saint. The distance between body and Atman is the same for you as it was for Mahavira after kevala-jnana. The distance is not less for Mahavira, nor more for you—the only difference is in bodha, in awareness. Mahavira sees the distance; you do not. Where Mahavira stands, there you stand. He sees where he stands; you do not. There is no greater difference than ignorance.

And that ignorance is one. The fundamental ignorance is one—the delusion that I am the body. We nurse and nurture this delusion. We nurse it in endless ways, we protect it. The wicked protect it, the virtuous protect it. The householder protects it, the monk protects it. Both keep nursing this delusion! And then this delusion thickens and becomes the cause of birth after birth.

Two directions lie before man: one toward the dissolution of delusion; one toward the nourishment of delusion. Those who are eager for Mahavira’s way must attend to the dissolution of delusion. They must be mindful that whatever they do, whatever they speak, whatever they think—let them watch: is their action, their thought, their speech cooperating in strengthening this delusion that I am the body? If it is thickening, their acts and thoughts are sin. If it is thinning, their acts and thoughts are virtue.

Beyond this I see no other definition of punya and papa. Whatever shatters within you the delusion “I am the body”—that action, that thought is punya, is a wholesome deed. Whatever thickens this delusion—that action, that thought is papa.

How will we keep remembrance? How will tapas continue? How shall we forget that we are the body and know the truth that we are Atman? I have said: by continuous remembrance. Mahavira called this vivek. Mahavira said: a sadhu should live by vivek. There are some who think vivek only means watching while walking so as not to tread upon insects; or while turning in bed lest some tiny creature be hurt; or drinking only filtered water. These are extremely petty meanings of vivek. The deeper, essential meaning is another.

Vivek means: while walking, the sadhu must know—I am not walking. Not for even a moment should this attitude slip, not for a moment should the illusion arise that I am walking. Let there be remembrance: the body walks, I see. Desire moves, I see. I am the witness. The mind moves, I am the seer. The body moves, the mind moves—I do not move. I am still. Amidst all motion, amidst all change, amidst all movement, that still point within—which in the Gita Krishna calls sthita-prajna—let there be awareness that I am the one at rest. One who knows, while walking, that I am at rest—while eating he will know he has never eaten; while clothing himself he will know no garment can cover him. When pain comes he will know it has not come upon him; when pleasure comes—likewise. When death knocks at his doors, he will know: this death is not mine; this summons is not for me.

To thread such vivek into every act of life—to weave it into each act, small and great—Mahavira calls this the foundational duty of the seeker. Whoever does this steps upon the first step.

And remember: one climbs only one step at a time—no one climbs many at once. Climb one step, the next presents itself. If someone climbs the step of vivek, other steps unfold by themselves. For man, what is to be learned is vivek—there is nothing else worth learning.

But we do not learn vivek—we learn thoughts. There is a difference between vivek and thought. We do not learn Mahavira’s vivek; we learn his thoughts. We learn the scriptures built upon Mahavira’s thought! We learn discourses and scholarly talk that proceed from those thoughts!

I tell you: do not learn Mahavira’s thought; learn Mahavira’s vivek. If you wish to attain Mahavira, learn his vivek. If you learn Mahavira’s doctrines, you will not attain Mahavira. You will not find him through those doctrines. Do not collect Mahavira’s ideas; awaken Mahavira’s vivek within.

The lives of all the true ones have two parts—their thought and their vivek. Those who seize their thought end as pundits. Those who seize their vivek attain prajna and moksha.

So this morning—Mahavira’s vivek, not Mahavira’s doctrines. Whatever Mahavira says is not important; the place from which he speaks—and how to reach that place—that is important.

There was a sage. Someone came with a problem and asked him to solve it. The sage said: if I solve today’s tangle, do you think another will not arise tomorrow? How could it not—life is tangle. Tomorrow you will come again; the next day again. Today I am here; tomorrow I will be gone—who will then untie your knots? It is better you do not ask me for solutions. Ask me for the insight by which the capacity to solve all tangles arises in you. Ask me for the way by which solution arises on its own—and for the inner seeing by which all knots unwind.

If a blind man comes and asks: where is the door of this hall? I can show him. Tomorrow he will come here and ask again; in another house he will ask again. In whichever house he goes he will ask: where is the door?

If my compassion for him is complete, I should not point out the door—I should tell him how to heal the eyes. Of what use is showing the door? Showing the door is giving a thought; healing the eyes is giving vivek. To show the door is to give one idea, one solution for one event; it will not solve all. The real solution begins when inner insight awakens and a certain knowing, a vivek, is enkindled within.

Thus Mahavira did not teach thought—Mahavira taught vivek. And whoever tells you that Mahavira taught doctrines speaks utterly untrue. Mahavira did not teach the doctrine of ahimsa, nor of aparigraha; he taught the inner seeing upon whose coming ahimsa happens, aparigraha happens.

One who begins to see “I am not the body”—how can he be possessive? And let me say: he will also not be the so-called non-possessive you see. For one who begins to see “I am not the body,” the fascination to gather things does not remain—and the question of running away from things also does not arise. He attains asparsha—the state of being untouched. Amidst things, things do not touch him. When things are not nearby, he does not remember them. He attains asparsha.

There was a sage. A king loved him greatly and took him as a guest into his home. Before being a guest he lay under a tree, a naked fakir. As a guest, all the royal comforts became available. That night he slept upon a priceless bed.

As the king lay upon his own bed, a doubt arose: this is strange—this man does not seem to be a sage. He used to beg at doors and lie naked beneath a tree. We honored him and said come to the palace—and he did not refuse even once! If he were a sage he would have refused; so thought the king. If he were a sage he would have said: what have we to do with palaces! But one who says “what have we to do with palaces” still has much to do with them. He said nothing—when we said come up, he came! Certainly he is no sage—this is deception. He has no aparigraha. We laid him upon a bed—he slept! We served fine food—he ate!

At dawn the king said: I have a doubt. The sage laughed: now you have it—but I had it immediately when you said, come up. The king said: meaning? The fakir said: I saw at once—your reverence had vanished; it was finished. Had I said, I am a fakir—how can I go to palaces—and kicked it away, you would have rejoiced, fallen at my feet, placed your head there. Why? Because whatever is your craving—whomever appears to renounce it—you consider worthy of reverence.

Remember: whenever you respect someone, it is less his honor and more the proof of your craving. If I renounce all wealth and you fall at my feet, I shall understand you are greedy for wealth. Why touch my feet? Your greed bids you: he has renounced all wealth. You are greedy! He has done an ultimate renunciation—touch his feet. If I drop my garments and stand naked, you will bow—because you lack the courage to drop your garments.

So when you revere someone, it is less reverence and more your exposure—and proof of your inner reality. The lustful will greatly honor the celibate. The indulgent will honor the renunciate. The possessive will honor the non-possessive. And therefore the deceitful adopt aparigraha and collect honor. The deceitful adopt brahmacharya and collect honor and satisfy their ego.

The sage said: I knew then the matter was finished. But I thought—let it be when you yourself say it. The king said: I did not sleep all night. I kept thinking—what kind of sage is this! I kept thinking—what is now the difference between you and me? You slept there; I slept there. The same comforts I have, you have. The fakir said: come with me outside the town; I shall answer on the way.

They went outside the town. Where the river came and the village ended, the king said: now tell me. The fakir said: a little further. Whenever the king asked, he said: a little further. It was noon. The king said: what madness is this? If you must answer, do so—what is the meaning of going further? The fakir said: further along lies my answer. Now we shall not return. Will you come with me? The king said: how can I go! Behind me is my palace, my queen, my children, my kingdom! The fakir said: if you can, see the difference: we go—you cannot. We go—nothing remains behind us. We slept upon that bed—we slept. That bed is not left behind as something we must sleep on again. Tomorrow when we sleep under a tree—we shall sleep. And from the tree no attachment will form.

This is asparsha-yoga. Let things not touch you—this is the life-sadhana.

When things touch, parigraha happens. When things do not touch, aparigraha happens. Real aparigraha is this mastery—let things not touch. Whether you run from things or not is secondary—it has no value.

Whoever establishes Mahavira’s vivek within gradually attains this state of being. Then he lives upon the water—like the lotus leaf.

May such a state be available to you. And if there is longing for such a state, then practice what Mahavira called vivek. If there is longing, practice the continuous remembrance that I am not the body. Slowly—just as drop by drop the ocean fills, just as ray by ray the whole world is filled with light—so, moment by moment, by practicing remembrance, one day the sun of vivek is born, and man attains the supreme truth, the supreme peace, ananda.

May such a longing arise in you; may such a resolve be born; may such courage for effort arise. And may that life, for which life is given, become possible for you.

With this wish, I bring my words to completion.

You have listened with such love—I am deeply obliged. Accept my salutations to the Mahavira who is possible within each of you.