My beloved Atman! On this remembrance day of Bhagwan Mahavira, to say a few things about his life will be a joy to me. Bhagwan Mahavira—as we understand him and know him, the image that has formed in our eyes and in our hearts, the way we worship and adore him, the way we have enthroned him as God—in that image I see a certain mistake, and a certain injustice being done to Mahavira. Mahavira’s entire proclamation, the message of his life, is contained in one thing: there is no God in this world. His proclamation is that the path to bliss and liberation is not in anyone’s worship or anyone’s prayer. No worship, no prayer, no ritual takes one to truth and to the soul. If one is to understand Mahavira, one will have to understand not prayer and worship, but meditation and Samadhi. Prayer and worship are addressed to God, to some deity. Meditation is not addressed to any deity. Prayer, worship, are for some God. Meditation is to awaken that which is asleep within. Mahavira is not a worshipper of some God; not a devotee of some deity seated in the sky; his prayer-rite is not for any God. His understanding is that something within us lies dormant, asleep; it has to be awakened. God is not enthroned elsewhere; God is the name of the power asleep within each consciousness. It has to be raised, brought to manifestation, made to stand upright and awake. Therefore do not pray to anyone—because who will pray? If God is present within, who will do the praying, and for whom? If the one who prays is himself God, then whose prayer will it be? Prayer cannot be. But efforts can be made to awaken, to raise, to arouse that which is within. Mahavira’s path is not the path of bhakti, but of jnana. His path is not prayer addressed to some God; his path is to awaken that supreme power, the Paramatma, dormant in each one, to bring it to wakefulness. I say this truth at the outset because without it the totality of Mahavira’s personality, his whole life, does not become clear. We too have turned him into a God. We have built temples for him, fashioned his images, and started worshipping and praying to him! And we are in delusion—and many support this delusion—that by worshipping and praying to him there will be welfare! Multitudes appear to support this, that by his worship and prayer there will be welfare! Whereas Mahavira’s proclamation is that no one’s worship and no one’s prayer can bring welfare. Welfare comes by self-awakening, not by anyone’s name-chanting. Not by repeating ‘Mahavira, Mahavira’ or ‘Arihanta, Arihanta,’ but by descending into that state where all saying stops. Not by proclaiming any name, but by entering that consciousness where all names fall away. Not by repeating any thought again and again, but in that thought-free state where all thoughts dissolve—there his vision will be, his experience will be, the awakening of that which is the Lord. So when we set out considering Mahavira as God, there is not honor and regard for Mahavira in it; there is our ignorance and foolishness in it. Not their honor, but our ignorance, our weakness, our helpless sense of inferiority. Each person feels so inferior that without someone else granting welfare, how will my welfare happen! The notion of God—developed everywhere as a kind of helper—has behind it the hidden inferiority and weakness in the human mind. We feel, we are so weak! So lowly! How can we attain bliss, moksha, knowledge by ourselves! Some support is needed, some path-seer, some hand to take us onward. Mahavira’s revolution lies precisely in this: he says, there is no such hand that will carry you forward. Do not spend your life waiting for some imaginary hand. There is no support except that which is within you, that which you are. There is no other security, no other hand that will lift you up, except the power within you—if you raise it. Mahavira broke all props. Mahavira shattered the very idea of support. And for the first time he established the individual in his supreme dignity and glory. And he affirmed that the individual is so capable, so powerful within himself, that if he gathers together all his scattered energies and awakens all his sleeping consciousness, then in his state of total awareness and enlightenment he himself becomes Paramatma. The dissolution of the feeling of inferiority and helplessness within the individual is the first step in understanding Mahavira. He does not wish to give any support, any imaginary support. I am reminded: his closest disciple was Gautama. Those who came after Gautama attained liberation, attained Samadhi—but Gautama did not. Again and again Mahavira said to Gautama, You have delayed too long; much time has passed listening and contemplating knowledge. Why has your own prajna not yet arisen? Try to understand a little! Gautama said, I am trying to understand everything. I do not know what obstacle holds me back. And then Mahavira’s Mahaparinirvana occurred. Gautama remained unliberated. The day Mahavira left the body, Gautama had gone to a nearby village. When he returned, travelers told him that Mahavira had dropped the body. Right there Gautama began to weep. And he said, What will become of me? While that Bhagwan was alive I did not attain Samadhi and truth. Even in the shadow of that Bhagwan I did not experience the awakening of the inner power. In the presence of that Bhagwan I have not yet realized the Self. What will happen to me! I am lost! Did that Bhagwan remember me in his last moments? Has he left any golden thread for me too? The travelers said, Mahavira has said, Tell Gautama—and this I want to say today to all who love Mahavira, respect him, worship him as God—Mahavira has said, Tell Gautama: You have crossed the whole river; why are you clinging to the bank now? You have obtained all; why are you clinging to Mahavira? Drop this too! This is a wondrously revolutionary utterance. This is a wondrously revolutionary utterance—that Mahavira says, Do not cling even to me; I too am outside you, other than you, I am not your Atman. The world is outside; the Tirthankaras are outside. Do not hold anything outside. When every grasping outside is dropped, then within will awaken, within will be seen, that which does not appear because of grasping at outer things. That which is hidden, covered by outward things, will be experienced. It is an astonishing revolution that a shasta, a guru, should say, Leave me too! Ordinarily a guru will say, Hold on to me! Follow me! I am the path! Come to my refuge; I am everything! I will carry you across! I will show you the door to truth! I will take you to Paramatma! Ordinarily the guru says, I am everything, accept me. If you do not accept, that is your weakness. Accept totally. Mahavira seems a very contrary kind of person. He says, Leave me too! Such a guru is rare in this world who says, Leave me too. Do not imitate me, for I too am outside. Follow your own Atman. The distinction I want to make clear… If I say to you, Follow me, you will walk behind me. This walking is outer walking, for you are following another. Mahavira says, Do not follow anyone outside. All outer roads lead into the world. Do not follow anyone; follow only your own Atman. Do not go into anyone’s refuge; become your own refuge. Mahavira’s sadhana is the sadhana of no-refuge. Not going into anyone’s refuge, but coming into one’s own refuge. This original, revolutionary point has to be understood. With this understood, Mahavira’s revolution in sadhana can be understood. So let me say the first thing to you: by installing Mahavira in the form of God we are doing injustice to him. Mahavira does not want to be installed as God. Mahavira wants that you should experience that you are God. Mahavira wants—not that you worship him as Paramatma—but that you experience the Paramatma present within you. The human inner self, purified, becomes Paramatma—this is his message. And to see this rightly… Who is there within us whom we may call Paramatma? The body we know—there is nothing godlike in it. The mind we know—there is nothing godlike in it. The body is utterly animal. What in the body can be God? In the body is everything that is animal. There is no essential difference between a human body and an animal body. The laws of the body are the same as those of an animal’s body. From the standpoint of body, you are no different from any animal. If we are only body, then we are animals. So in the body there can be no God. Perhaps in the mind there is God! Peer a little into the mind and you will find there is something worse than animal there. If you look at the mind you will find there is something worse than animal there. No animal in this world is as depraved as the human mind. How much sin, how much hatred, how much malice, how much violence pervades the mind! A great psychologist has said, if the entire account of each person’s mind could be gathered, it would be difficult to find anyone who has not entertained thoughts of murdering many. Difficult to find anyone who has not plotted great robberies in his mind. Difficult to find anyone who has not in many ways imagined and schemed adultery. In the mind not one or two sinners, but multitudes of sinners seem assembled. The mind too cannot be God. Mahavira says the Paramatma is within you. Where then will he be? The body is animal. The mind within is worse than animal. In this body and mind both, the Paramatma cannot be. But our knowing, our recognition, our awareness is not outside body and mind. We know our body and we know our mind. Beyond these, you have no inner vision of anyone. Without attaining that inward-seeing which is behind body and mind, no one will be able to understand the truth that the Paramatma is within. If I say to someone, The Paramatma is within you, great surprise arises. That is not our knowing. Joad, a great Western thinker, has written, I hear that people of the East say there is a God within everyone! When I look within, I find no one but an animal. Freud too had the same experiences, the same conclusions: there is no one within man but an animal. The work being done on the mind so far bears this out: You are in great delusion; there is nothing like God in the mind. Not even a glimpse of God is there. If for half an hour you walk within your own consciousness and observe the layers of conscious and unconscious thoughts, you will be very frightened, very exasperated. Terrible fear will be felt; a great hell will be seen—What is this inside me! This is me! This is my being! This is my existence! Great panic will be felt—and because of that panic none of us wishes to go within. Let anyone say a thousand times, Know thyself! We do not wish to know ourselves; we want to avoid knowing ourselves. We spend twenty-four hours making sure that somewhere we do not meet ourselves, that no encounter happens, no meeting happens. We are doing everything to forget it. Our entertainments, our laughter, our amusements are to forget it. Our intoxicants are to forget it. In music, in sex, in wine, we try to forget it so that we do not have to look inside and see who is there. While awake, we keep ourselves distracted. Then we sleep, and again we rise and get busy! If we were left empty-handed, you would be very restless, very frightened. It is a strange thing—if for one month you were given no opportunity to escape from yourself, you would go mad. Such an incident occurred. In Egypt there was a king. A fakir said to him, You think you are very wise! You are greatly ignorant. You think you speak of self-knowledge! You are afraid to go within. The fakir said, If we lock you up for a month—as I have said—you will go mad in a month. If we give you no chance to run out of yourself, to keep yourself occupied with some work, to keep busy, to become entangled, and again and again you had only yourself to look at, you would become deranged. The king said, Strange! I will try the experiment. There was a hale and hearty man who passed daily by his gate, happily returning in the evening from work. He had a full family, a wife and children, looked cheerful. In the morning he would go to the office, in the evening return home. One evening the king had this happy man seized from the road and brought. He said, We will lock you up for a month. No crime of yours, just for an experiment. He had a message sent home—told his wife—We have confining your husband; do not be alarmed, all expenses will be paid by the state and he will be released after a month. That man was locked up for a month. For a day or two he shouted, Why are you locking me up? What do you mean by this? What offense have I committed? No answers were given. Food was given; he threw it away. Water was given; he would not drink. He kept shouting for two, two and a half days; then he got tired and drank water. More tired, and he ate. More tired, and he even stopped shouting. He sat in that room and the king observed him through a window. Day by day passed. Then he began to talk to himself aloud! He began talking to his wife, playing with his children there! There were no wife, no children in that room. After a month, when he was examined, the man had gone mad. He was given good food, clothes, water—every facility, no difficulty—but he was given no way to run away from himself. Bare walls, no book, no newspaper; no radio, no cinema, no friend; no avenues to keep himself forgetful of himself. For twenty-four hours he had to look at himself. There was no one there but an animal. Nothing there but wrong, futile thoughts. He went insane. If you look at your mind, nothing will remain but madness—there is a madman dwelling there. So Mahavira says, There is the Paramatma. Then where? Not in the body. This mind is not the Paramatma. Mahavira says, The Paramatma certainly is. But to reach it one has to go beyond body; and to reach it one has to go beyond mind. Withdraw behind the layer of body—there is mind; withdraw behind the layer of mind—then there is that which he calls Paramatma. We live in a house with three chambers—my soul, my mind, my body—but we pass our life in only two, and remain unfamiliar with the third! We circle only in the foyer and remain unacquainted with that inner chamber where our real being abides! And one who is unfamiliar with that is bound to remain in sorrow, bound to remain in suffering; his whole life he will try to erase sorrow, but cannot. His whole life he will strive to attain happiness, but cannot. For sorrow is due to only one thing: he is uprooted from his center. Not being at his center—that is his sorrow. He thinks the sorrow is due to not having objects. That is not the sorrow; because even when many objects are gotten, happiness does not come. On this earth there have been people who had everything. Mahavira himself had everything, but that everything did not give him happiness. Not one person in human history has ever said, I got everything—and I became happy. Even after getting everything, the sorrow remains just as it was when one had nothing. There is no change in sorrow. What you have does not change sorrow. Therefore something basic must be different. Sorrow is not related to getting something. Sorrow is related to losing the inner center, the center. We are not at our own center—this is our pain. If we come to our center, this will be our bliss. Mahavira’s entire sadhana is how to return the centerless man to his center. Our sin and sorrow are nothing but this—one sorrow, one sin, one suffering: we are not at our center. The real being that is ours, our authentic being, our genuine existence, we are not related to it. We are roaming outside ourselves. We are circling somewhere outside our own being. We have become strangers to ourselves. In a human life there is one agony—that he can become a stranger to himself. This estrangement, this not-knowing oneself, this unfamiliarity with oneself—religion is nothing but the path that leads toward this acquaintance. Reflect on this sometimes, experience it sometimes, observe this truth sometimes—Do I know myself? The same agony seized Mahavira. He had everything—comfort, arrangement, prosperity. One agony alone—he did not have himself. He had everything; he was not with himself. Everything was available to him; his own being was unavailable. All was conquered; the self remained unconquered. All was known; one center was unknown and unfamiliar. When even after knowing all happiness did not come, even after gaining all happiness did not come, even after conquering all peace did not come—then naturally the idea arose that that unconquered point, perhaps that is the very center of bliss and peace. If I search every nook and corner of this house and find no light, perhaps I will think—the corner that remains unknown, let us search there too. Having gotten everything, it was realized that happiness did not come by getting it all. Perhaps what I have left ungotten—my own self—getting that may bring bliss! And those who tried to know that self, they experienced—bliss was there. Bliss did not have to be brought; bliss was present there, only unveiling was needed. Bliss was not to be searched for; bliss was the very nature. Only garments, coverings had to be removed. I watched a well being dug. Layers of earth were removed and the springs of water sprang up from below. Water was present there; it was covered by earth. Water was not brought; only the coverings above were removed, and below the springs burst forth. They were eager to burst forth. No sooner was the earth removed than they began to flow; they were full of longing to flow. The earth was taken away and they began to stream. So it is with bliss within us. Only some of the covering earth has to be removed; the upper wraps have to be taken away. And what I am saying—what Mahavira said, what Buddha said, what Christ said, what Krishna said—that within there is knowledge, infinite knowledge, infinite power, infinite bliss; Sat-Chit-Ananda is present—only the coverings have to be removed. This is not a doctrine, not merely a thought; this is an experience. Crores upon crores have known this. In this very way, removing the coverings, they have experienced that Satchidananda. Others may not have seen the experience itself, but the fragrance spreading from that experience has been felt by others. Seeing Mahavira, millions felt: something has happened in this man which has not happened in us. Some bliss has showered in him, some peace has condensed in him. He has become a being of another plane, another dimension, another sky. His fragrance, his music, the rays spreading from his life have been felt by many. His truth cannot be experienced by another, but its fragrance has been experienced. On this earth, whenever someone has found bliss, he has found it not outside but within. I read a small, sweet story. There was a Sufi woman fakir. She was sewing clothes inside her home. Her needle fell. It was evening, darkness gathered; there was no light in the house—she was poor. Searching for the needle, she came outside into the veranda. A little light was falling there. The sun was setting. She searched there, but the sun set. So she came to the road. There was still a little light. The neighbors asked, What is lost? She said, My needle is lost. They asked, Do you know where it was lost, so that we can search for it? The old woman said, Do not ask this, do not touch my sorrow, do not touch my wound. Do not ask where it was lost. Search; if it is found, good. They said, This is very difficult; the needle is small, and if it is not known where it was lost, where can we search? The woman said, The trouble is great. Where the needle was lost, there is no light; and where there is light, there the needle was not lost. My needle was lost inside, but there is no light there. Here there is light, so I search here, because in light one can search. It is the same with man, the same accident. Our eyes open outward. Our hands extend outward. Our ears hear outward. The light of all our senses falls outward. Therefore we search outside. But have we asked where it was lost? What are we searching for? They will not be called ignorant if they search without asking where it was lost! All of us are searching for bliss without asking where it was lost! All of us are searching for bliss. In this world no one searches for anything else. Whatever one searches, essentially it is bliss. But without asking where that bliss was lost. To search without asking where it is lost cannot be meaningful; there can be no finding until we ask where it was lost. Ask where it was lost. And before you go to search in someone else’s house, it is better to search in your own house. Before you go to ask another, before you set out to search this vast earth, is it not reasonable and right to first search in your own house! If it is not found there, then go into the world. We are strange people—we will search the world, and when we do not find it in the world we will search within! The world is very large and life is very short. Even infinite lifetimes will not suffice to exhaust the world by outward search. Our infinite lives will be wasted. Is it not simple arithmetic that before I go to search in this vast world, I should search in my small house! If not found there, then I will go out to search. With this contemplation Mahavira went within. He did not search in the world. He thought, First let me know within; if it is there, fine, otherwise I will go elsewhere. And whoever has used this contemplation and searched within—none of them ever went to search outside again. It has never happened that someone searched within and then went to search outside. It has always happened that those who searched outside, one day had to turn within. But it has never happened that one who searched within later went to search outside. Without exception, those who glanced within have found. There is something within. Something wondrous abides within. Within is our very nature. And let me tell you the truth: if you reflect on your own life, inner glimpses of truth will begin. Let me ask you: Why do you not want suffering? Why do you want bliss? A simple question—why do you not want suffering? Why does no one on this earth want suffering? Mahavira said, no one wants suffering. But why not—have you ever asked? We too do not want suffering; I do not want suffering; but why not? It is strange—we spend our life not wanting suffering, but we do not ask why. If you ask, an astonishing answer will be known to you. If you do not want suffering, it means suffering is alien, foreign; it is contrary to your nature, hence you do not want it. That is, somewhere your nature must be bliss, therefore you do not want suffering. Otherwise a ‘non-wanting’ for suffering would not arise. Not wanting suffering means that somewhere within your nature is bliss; that is why you do not want suffering. In truth, if your nature were suffering, then you could never know suffering as suffering. If my nature were suffering, I would not even know it as suffering; rather, when suffering came I would welcome it with love—it would enrich my nature. But no one welcomes suffering. This informs us that suffering does not enrich our nature; suffering does not augment it; suffering is adverse to our nature, not congenial. If suffering is adverse to our nature, then nature must be bliss. We desire bliss because our nature is bliss. None of us desires death because our nature is immortal. None of us desires darkness because our nature is light. None of us desires fear because our nature is fearlessness. None of us desires to be mean and low because our nature is the Lord. If this is understood, then whatever we do not desire points toward our nature, gestures toward it. Whatsoever we do not desire—our nature will be other than that. If this contemplation is born in someone, if his inner being is churned by this, seized by this pain and longing, seized by this thinking—if he begins contemplating each truth of life, Why do I not want suffering! If this contemplation arises— I am searching for bliss, but where did I lose it! If this contemplation begins, from its result an astonishing thirst will begin to arise in one’s life. That tendency which blindly sought outside will, because of the questioning, fall away; obstacles will arise in outward seeking, and a leaning will begin toward the inner. Contemplation—on this truth, that life that has been given to us—what is it? Why are the experiences we have as they are? Why am I searching for bliss? What am I searching for? Where am I searching? If these questions become alive, if they stand aflame before you, then for the first time a true inquiry for Dharma will begin in you. The inquiry into Dharma has no relation with whether God exists or not. The inquiry into Dharma has no relation with who made the world or did not. The fundamental inquiry of Dharma relates to this truth: Why is there suffering—and why do I not agree to it? Why is my thirst for bliss? The rest are questions of scriptures and books; they have no relation with life. The inquiry of Dharma begins from the analysis and observation of life. In Mahavira’s vision of life and sadhana, the most important thing to me is that Mahavira’s contemplation does not start from scriptures; it starts from life. Our contemplation starts from scriptures, not from life. This truth needs much reflection. People come to me. A Christian asks me, Was Mary, who gave birth to Jesus, a virgin? I ask him, What difference will it make to know this? Though besides a Christian no one asks me this question. No Jain asks it. Jains ask me, What is nigod? No Christian will ask that, because he does not even know of nigod. A Muslim asks me, When the Quran descended upon Muhammad, did the book descend as a book or how did it descend? No Hindu or Buddhist asks that! Why? Because these are not questions of life—they are questions of books. The question of life will be the same for Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—because life raises only one question; books raise different questions. And those who ask questions from books may become pandits, but they will not attain prajna. They may gather much information, write books, give speeches, develop in themselves the vanity of being able to explain to others—but no solution will come from it. Questions that arise from books are dead. Questions that arise from life are alive. And the questions that arise from life alone have the power to change life; questions from scriptures do not change life. For Mahavira, questions arose from life. This is the first thing. And the second—he accepted no one’s answers; he began to seek the answers himself. First, questions arose from life; second, he began searching within his own life—he did not arrange to go and take instruction from someone. Questions that arise from books will find their answers in books. Questions that arise from life will find their answers in sadhana. This must be understood. Questions arose from life for Mahavira. Sorrow, non-liberation, bondage—the sole question in Mahavira’s consciousness. The one question—Why is there sorrow? Why is there bondage? And when this is the question, there is only one sadhana: Can one go beyond sorrow? Can one rise above the bondage of sorrow? No book can answer this. No ready-made answers of anyone can be of use. It must be known through experience. From life the questions arose; Mahavira entered sadhana. What sadhana did he undertake? People see that he renounced home and wealth and kingdom. They think this was the sadhana. This is not sadhana. What is seen outside has no essential relation with sadhana. To leave the house outwardly is easy. The question is not to get out of the house; the question is that the house gets out of my head. I read of a sadhu. A king loved him so much that he kept the sadhu in his palace. He loved him so that later he built him a palace. Years passed. After twelve years the king thought, What difference is there now between this sadhu and me? He is called a sadhu in vain. We are kings and he too now lives like a king. We have some troubles; he does not even have those. He lives in comfort and ease. One morning, walking in the garden, the king said to the sadhu, Friend, a question has arisen in my mind since last night. I want to ask, What difference is there now between me and you? The fakir laughed and said, Do you want to know truly? Walk a little with me outside the village; when we get a bit of solitude, I will answer. The king said, Good. They both went out of the village, crossed the river that was the boundary. The king said, Now give the answer. He said, Come a little farther. The sun grew hot. The king said, Answer now. We have solitary forest now; there is no one to listen. The fakir said, Listen! Now I have no wish to return; I am going. The king said, Where are you going? The fakir said, Now I am going. Will you come with me? The king said, What are you saying! My palace is behind; I must return. The fakir said, I have no palace behind me; I have no return. We were in the palace there, but the palace was not in us. If you see the difference, it can be seen. Mahavira left the palace—this is not valuable. From within Mahavira, the palace dropped—that is the point. Mahavira left wealth—this is not valuable. From within Mahavira, wealth dropped—that is valuable. What he left outside is not valuable. What was dissolved within him—that is valuable. The world is not outside. The world is not outside at all. The world is a great mental phenomenon—a mental thing. These walls and houses and roads you see—this is not the world, because the liberated Mahavira will still pass by these walls and roads. This is not the world, because when Mahavira attains knowledge, he still walks on roads, still is in the world—yet you do not call him worldly! He is in the world, yet why do you not call him worldly? Because these are not the world. The world is something else. The world is mental; the world is not material. That world which has been made within us, that world of pictures and thoughts I have populated around my consciousness—those images, imaginations and dreams that have accumulated there—that is my world. The world is of my dreams, not of objects. Therefore one who is occupied in leaving objects is unintelligent. One who is occupied in leaving dreams is wise. Objects do not bind; the dreams projected upon objects bind. Objects do not bind; the desires entertained towards objects bind. Objects do not bind; the attachment aroused toward objects binds. All that is mental. Revolution is not leaving the world; revolution is transforming the mind. Otherwise you may run away leaving house and home, and you will find that house and home follow behind. A man leaves the woman and runs away; a woman leaves the man and runs away, and on return finds that those whom they left behind have come along. They have not been left behind. Surely what was physical—the man or woman—has been left. But the man and woman of imagination have come along. The pain—the body of a man or woman is not giving it; the pain is given by that imagination, that dream within. Its is the bondage, its is the hold, its is the grip. That which is abiding within—that grip is its. To dissolve that is to dissolve the world. To be free of that is to be sannyast. I remember a story from Korea. That image will explain Mahavira. It will give an inner insight and help to free us from a very stale, rotten notion that has grown around Mahavira’s sadhana in tradition. A young monk and an old monk were going along a riverbank, crossing a river. A young woman too had stopped to cross. It was a mountain stream, fast current; she did not have the courage to cross. The old monk thought, I should give her my hand and help her across. But as soon as the thought arose—to give a hand—the dormant lust and longing toward woman stirred within. At the very imagination of the touch of the hand, many sleeping dreams awakened. Much that had been suppressed, in relation to women, arose again. He became very frightened. For years, no thought about woman had arisen. He scolded himself, What foolishness is this I thought! What is my purpose? People will cross the river, let them cross; what is it to me? Why should I spoil my life for the sake of taking her across? He lowered his eyes and began to cross. He did not give her support. He did not because the very imagination of support had awakened the inner image of woman. He lowered his gaze. But do forms end by lowering the eyes? By closing the eyes do they not become more lovely, more beautiful? By closing the eyes, do forms get destroyed? By closing the eyes they become more golden, more heavenly. He closed his eyes in panic, and remembering God he began crossing. Behind him his young companion monk was coming. After crossing, the old monk thought, That foolish lad, may he not fall into the very mistake of service and help. He turned and saw: the lad was carrying the girl on his shoulders across the river! Fire ran through his whole body. He could not imagine it—he was old, and this one is young, and he is carrying a young woman on his shoulders! He did not know what to do. In anger he kept silent. When they reached the ashram and were climbing the steps, he said to the youth, Listen, I will go and tell the guru, and you will have to do penance and bear punishment. The youth said, What mistake have I made? The old monk said, Why did you lift that girl onto your shoulders? The youth said, I put her down at the riverbank itself—you are still carrying her! This man who is still carrying her—on what shoulders is he carrying? And are we not carrying our world on our shoulders? Is the world somewhere outside? Is the world in those houses and children and occupations outside? Or is it that we are carrying the world on some imaginary shoulder? One need not run away from the world; one must set the world down from the shoulder. So what Mahavira left outside is not valuable. What he left within—what he set down from the shoulder—that is valuable. How he set it down—that is his sadhana. For twelve years of tapascharya this is what he was doing. I hear discourses about his tapascharya, I see scriptures, and I am surprised. People describe how much heat and cold he bore, how many days he remained hungry, how he remained naked without clothes, what pains and troubles he faced! How people tormented him and he said nothing—people describe all this! This has no relation with sadhana. This is not the real thing. The real thing is not what outer drama is happening around Mahavira; the real thing is what is happening within Mahavira. In those twelve years—whether Mahavira stands in the sun or in the cold—that is only the body standing. That is not the question. The question is, Where is Mahavira’s chitta! Whether Mahavira stands in the sun or hungry, fasting—that is not the question—Where is Mahavira’s chitta! If Mahavira is fasting and the chitta is in food, all fasting is futile. If Mahavira is standing in the sun and the chitta is in some shade, standing in the sun is futile. Where Mahavira stands is not the question—Where is Mahavira’s chitta! What Mahavira is doing is not the question—What is Mahavira’s chitta doing! Our chitta is always doing something or other. Mahavira’s sadhana is that the chitta reach such a state where it is not doing anything. Because whatever the chitta does will be the raising of the world. Because whatever the chitta does, it can do only one thing—make pictures. As I understand, the chitta is a painter. Its only function is to make pictures. It can do nothing else. And it can entangle us in those pictures and dreams—and nothing else. To erect images and dreams is the chitta’s work. So as long as the chitta is working, it will raise dreams and pictures and get tangled in them. It will create the world. The world is not created by God; the world is created by chitta. Remember, the world is not created by God; the world is created by chitta. So as long as the chitta is active, the world is. When chitta becomes inactive, you are outside the world. If chitta is active, there is bondage; if chitta becomes inactive, there is moksha. So Mahavira is taking the chitta to such a state where its activity, attenuated more and more, dissolves; where activity, weakening, weakening, becomes zero. Sadhana is to slacken the chitta; siddhi is the chitta becoming zero. Dhyana is to slacken and inactivate the chitta. Samadhi is the chitta becoming inactive and zero. Mahavira’s sadhana is to slacken the chitta; his attainment is to nullify the chitta. If chitta is active, then—as I said—the world is made. And in that world, in those reflections, we get lost and forget that which we are. That which is within is forgotten. Truly, when you watch a picture, a film, a play, an amazing thing is experienced: while watching a film you become so absorbed that you do not even remember that you also are! When the screen goes blank, suddenly you are startled—two hours have passed; we were there, but we did not remember! In one picture, one story, we too became a character! Has it not happened many times that with those characters you have wept, and with those characters you have laughed? When the screen became blank and people began to get up, have you not often hidden your tears so the neighbor might not see that you cried watching a film? But you cried from seeing a picture—astonishing! Are pictures so effective that they make you cry and laugh? And you know well there is nothing there except a screen! You know well—you yourself paid money—that there is nothing but a white screen. And behind, only rays of light are thrown to create an illusion of images—even images are not there. And still you laugh and cry! The picture is very impactful. The impact of pictures is ignorance. To be free of the impact of pictures is knowledge. You may not go to a cinema daily, but on the inner screen films run twenty-four hours a day. You are seated daily in the cinema-house of your own making—twenty-four hours! The wonder is that there you yourself are the characters, you yourself the viewer, you yourself build the play, you yourself are the projector, you yourself the screen—there is no one there but you! Therefore Mahavira has said: the soul itself is bondage, the soul itself is liberation. All bondage is your own making; it is born of your imagination, a play of your own imagination. You yourself are making it all. In that entire sadhana, Mahavira is wiping off the pictures to make the screen white—so that a moment comes when the screen becomes white. As soon as the screen is white, at once remembrance arises—Ah! I am. And I had forgotten myself in pictures. Once the chitta becomes zero, self-knowledge begins. There where chitta becomes zero, here the arising, the awakening of self-knowledge begins. Mahavira’s sadhana is, by nullifying the chitta and becoming free of images, to know that whose name is consciousness. One who knows the images will not know consciousness. One who dissolves the images experiences consciousness. He becomes the knower of that knowledge. He becomes aware of that awareness. This awareness, this vision of the Self, is the central pivot of Mahavira’s entire sadhana. People think Mahavira’s sadhana is of ahimsa. No! People think his sadhana is of brahmacharya. No! People think his sadhana is of truth. No! Mahavira’s sadhana is of the soul. And as a consequence of Self-experience, truth, brahmacharya, ahimsa are obtained. They are the flowers of self-experience. One who knows the Self becomes free of untruth that very instant. One who knows the Self becomes free of unchastity. One who knows the Self becomes free of violence. The consequence of self-knowledge—its consequences flower in ahimsa, truth and brahmacharya. People think ahimsa, brahmacharya and truth are disciplines by which the Self will be attained! I think the opposite. They are not disciplines; the discipline is the dissolution of chitta. The discipline is dhyana; the discipline is Samadhi; the discipline is yoga. They are not the means; they are the results of sadhana. When Self-experience happens, they are its flowers. By them it will be recognized whether knowledge has been attained or not. They do not lead to knowledge. Mahavira has said, Ahimsa is the fruit of knowledge. No one reflects on this sentence! Mahavira says, Ahimsa is the fruit of knowledge. If it is the fruit of knowledge, then will knowledge come first or ahimsa first? The Agam says, Padhamam nanam, tato daya—first knowledge, then compassion, then ahimsa. Mahavira says, One who attains knowledge attains conduct. One who does not attain knowledge—his conduct is false. These are clear aphorisms. If we reflect a little, it will be seen that Mahavira’s sadhana is not a moral sadhana but a spiritual sadhana. To make ahimsa, truth and brahmacharya into sadhana is ethics. Today the confusion in the world is precisely this: cultivate ethics and religion will be obtained. I do not agree. I say: cultivate religion and ethics will be obtained. One who cultivates ethics will not find religion; he will, at best, obtain an ego— I am truthful, I am celibate, I am renunciate, I am a sadhu, I am a muni. He may obtain such a conceit—but not that supreme peace where not a trace of conceit remains. Moral sadhana nourishes the ego; spiritual sadhana dissolves the ego. Hence in moral people you will constantly feel a hidden ego. In such sadhus you will constantly feel a latent pride. In such rishis—who curse people in anger—we have known them. From where does this anger arise in them? For one who can curse must have a fiercely burning anger. That anger is there because their sadhana is not spiritual—only moral. From moral sadhana religion does not come, though from religious sadhana morality certainly does. Moral sadhana is the cultivation of merit. The sadhana of religion is not the cultivation of merit; it is the sadhana of purity. Purity is separate from merit and sin. Where neither merit holds, nor sin holds; where both are aside, and I experience that I am free of both and pure—in that experience religion is born. The sadhana of religion is the sadhana of purity. The sadhana of ethics is the cultivation of merit. Ethics can take you only to morality. The sadhana of religion takes you to liberation. The moral cannot become religious, but the religious—unknowingly, effortlessly—becomes moral. Mahavira is not a merely moral man. The greatest among scholars write that Mahavira is a great moralist! Mahavira is not a moralist—Mahavira is a knower of the Self. Mahavira is one who has attained the soul. Morality is his natural outcome; it comes by itself, it need not be brought. If we understand this central idea of Mahavira—Self-attainment—if we contemplate a little upon it, reflect a little upon it, and understand that our chitta is our world, and gradually dissolve the chitta, gradually merge the chitta, gradually lead the chitta toward zero—a moment will come, the chitta can become zero. If you practice non-cooperation with it—as I said in the morning—non-cooperation—if you do not cooperate with the thoughts of the chitta, do not support them. If thoughts come, let them come; do not cooperate. Stand a little apart, as a neutral witness only. Let the thought move; you remain silently watching, offering no cooperation. Your cooperation is the very energy of thought. Those pictures on the film screen that make you cry—the pictures are not making you cry. It is you who, by identifying with them, bring the tears. If you are filled with awareness and know that on the screen there are only images, and you do not identify with them, and you remain only a neutral witness—not a participant, not a consumer—do not become part of the play, remain only a sakshi, only a witness—then you will be amazed: the images pass on the screen, and you sit as you were sitting. No attachment, no aversion arises in you. No tears, no laughter seize you. You remain silent, neutral, just the seer. One who watches thought in this way, through non-cooperation, just as a witness, gradually attains freedom from thought. One who attains freedom from thought can have self-vision. Mahavira is one word—his entire sadhana is in one word, and that word is: Atma-darshan, Self-vision. He who attains that one word will be able to experience what a significant, what a scientific truth he gave us. And we are doing only this—that we are worshipping his image! And carrying his scriptures on our heads! And writing his scriptural utterances on our walls! Astonishing—what injustice we do to our sages! We think we are honoring them! All our honor is an insult. Because fundamentally what they say—we do the very opposite. Honor to Mahavira is in one thing only: become self-knowing. Not remembrance of Mahavira. Do not indulge in remembrance—it has no relevance. If you become self-knowing, whether you remember or not—you have become Mahavira’s. And you may remember Mahavira a million times, but if you do not become self-knowing, you are not Mahavira’s. He who wants to belong to Mahavira should drop the concern for Mahavira and take concern for the one who sits within. And he who drops that concern, even if he carries Mahavira all around, he cannot belong to Mahavira. Let us remember this one truth. All those in the world who have awakened, who have known themselves—their teaching is one small thing, and it is this: Bliss is within; return within. The method of returning within: dissolve the chitta; become a neutral witness to the chitta; be the seer. Chitta dissolves, merges—you will know yourself, you will realize your own being. And what a flame of bliss will be experienced there, how you will be filled with light, how you will descend into condensed peace—there is no way to tell it in words. Mahavira has said, Before speaking of that experience, words retire. Mahavira has said, There are no words to say it. That which is found in the wordless—how can words say it? That which is attained by losing the chitta—how can the chitta find a way to say it? I will say nothing about that—in truth, no one has ever said anything about it. But there have been indications toward it, gestures toward it. And Mahavira is among the greatest gestures made on this earth in history. His finger is raised toward that truth. But we will be fools if we begin to worship the finger and do not look to where the finger points. People are worshipping Mahavira! Mahavira is only a gesture toward that Self-nature which abides in everyone. In Japan there is a temple—let me end with that story. There is a temple in Japan in which there is no statue of Buddha. In that temple there is only a finger of Buddha sculpted inside, and above—a moon. People go and are astonished; they ask, What is this? Below is carved a saying of Buddha. Buddha said, I have shown a finger toward the moon—but I know you are foolish; you will not look at the moon, you will worship my finger. Mahavira, Buddha, Christ and Krishna are gestures. Do not worship them—look toward where they gesture. And there, there is no other—there is you. There is no other there—I am. That gesture is not to someone else, it is to our inner soul. If on this sacred remembrance day of Mahavira Jayanti one thing arises in your reflection—that one has to look within—then the whole life can become meaningful. Before that there is neither meaning nor bliss nor peace nor life. After attaining that, the entire life becomes transformed into nectar, into Satchidananda. You have listened to my words with such love; for that I am deeply grateful, and I bow to the Paramatma seated within all, and I hope that today or tomorrow, that which is dormant will awaken, and we will be able to attain the experience of bliss, of the supreme life. Again and again, my thanks to you.
Osho's Commentary
On this remembrance day of Bhagwan Mahavira, to say a few things about his life will be a joy to me.
Bhagwan Mahavira—as we understand him and know him, the image that has formed in our eyes and in our hearts, the way we worship and adore him, the way we have enthroned him as God—in that image I see a certain mistake, and a certain injustice being done to Mahavira.
Mahavira’s entire proclamation, the message of his life, is contained in one thing: there is no God in this world. His proclamation is that the path to bliss and liberation is not in anyone’s worship or anyone’s prayer. No worship, no prayer, no ritual takes one to truth and to the soul.
If one is to understand Mahavira, one will have to understand not prayer and worship, but meditation and Samadhi. Prayer and worship are addressed to God, to some deity. Meditation is not addressed to any deity. Prayer, worship, are for some God. Meditation is to awaken that which is asleep within.
Mahavira is not a worshipper of some God; not a devotee of some deity seated in the sky; his prayer-rite is not for any God. His understanding is that something within us lies dormant, asleep; it has to be awakened. God is not enthroned elsewhere; God is the name of the power asleep within each consciousness. It has to be raised, brought to manifestation, made to stand upright and awake. Therefore do not pray to anyone—because who will pray? If God is present within, who will do the praying, and for whom? If the one who prays is himself God, then whose prayer will it be? Prayer cannot be. But efforts can be made to awaken, to raise, to arouse that which is within.
Mahavira’s path is not the path of bhakti, but of jnana. His path is not prayer addressed to some God; his path is to awaken that supreme power, the Paramatma, dormant in each one, to bring it to wakefulness.
I say this truth at the outset because without it the totality of Mahavira’s personality, his whole life, does not become clear.
We too have turned him into a God. We have built temples for him, fashioned his images, and started worshipping and praying to him! And we are in delusion—and many support this delusion—that by worshipping and praying to him there will be welfare! Multitudes appear to support this, that by his worship and prayer there will be welfare! Whereas Mahavira’s proclamation is that no one’s worship and no one’s prayer can bring welfare. Welfare comes by self-awakening, not by anyone’s name-chanting. Not by repeating ‘Mahavira, Mahavira’ or ‘Arihanta, Arihanta,’ but by descending into that state where all saying stops. Not by proclaiming any name, but by entering that consciousness where all names fall away. Not by repeating any thought again and again, but in that thought-free state where all thoughts dissolve—there his vision will be, his experience will be, the awakening of that which is the Lord.
So when we set out considering Mahavira as God, there is not honor and regard for Mahavira in it; there is our ignorance and foolishness in it. Not their honor, but our ignorance, our weakness, our helpless sense of inferiority. Each person feels so inferior that without someone else granting welfare, how will my welfare happen! The notion of God—developed everywhere as a kind of helper—has behind it the hidden inferiority and weakness in the human mind. We feel, we are so weak! So lowly! How can we attain bliss, moksha, knowledge by ourselves! Some support is needed, some path-seer, some hand to take us onward.
Mahavira’s revolution lies precisely in this: he says, there is no such hand that will carry you forward. Do not spend your life waiting for some imaginary hand. There is no support except that which is within you, that which you are. There is no other security, no other hand that will lift you up, except the power within you—if you raise it. Mahavira broke all props. Mahavira shattered the very idea of support. And for the first time he established the individual in his supreme dignity and glory. And he affirmed that the individual is so capable, so powerful within himself, that if he gathers together all his scattered energies and awakens all his sleeping consciousness, then in his state of total awareness and enlightenment he himself becomes Paramatma.
The dissolution of the feeling of inferiority and helplessness within the individual is the first step in understanding Mahavira. He does not wish to give any support, any imaginary support.
I am reminded: his closest disciple was Gautama. Those who came after Gautama attained liberation, attained Samadhi—but Gautama did not. Again and again Mahavira said to Gautama, You have delayed too long; much time has passed listening and contemplating knowledge. Why has your own prajna not yet arisen? Try to understand a little!
Gautama said, I am trying to understand everything. I do not know what obstacle holds me back.
And then Mahavira’s Mahaparinirvana occurred. Gautama remained unliberated. The day Mahavira left the body, Gautama had gone to a nearby village. When he returned, travelers told him that Mahavira had dropped the body.
Right there Gautama began to weep. And he said, What will become of me? While that Bhagwan was alive I did not attain Samadhi and truth. Even in the shadow of that Bhagwan I did not experience the awakening of the inner power. In the presence of that Bhagwan I have not yet realized the Self. What will happen to me! I am lost! Did that Bhagwan remember me in his last moments? Has he left any golden thread for me too?
The travelers said, Mahavira has said, Tell Gautama—and this I want to say today to all who love Mahavira, respect him, worship him as God—Mahavira has said, Tell Gautama: You have crossed the whole river; why are you clinging to the bank now? You have obtained all; why are you clinging to Mahavira? Drop this too!
This is a wondrously revolutionary utterance. This is a wondrously revolutionary utterance—that Mahavira says, Do not cling even to me; I too am outside you, other than you, I am not your Atman. The world is outside; the Tirthankaras are outside. Do not hold anything outside. When every grasping outside is dropped, then within will awaken, within will be seen, that which does not appear because of grasping at outer things. That which is hidden, covered by outward things, will be experienced.
It is an astonishing revolution that a shasta, a guru, should say, Leave me too!
Ordinarily a guru will say, Hold on to me! Follow me! I am the path! Come to my refuge; I am everything! I will carry you across! I will show you the door to truth! I will take you to Paramatma! Ordinarily the guru says, I am everything, accept me. If you do not accept, that is your weakness. Accept totally.
Mahavira seems a very contrary kind of person. He says, Leave me too! Such a guru is rare in this world who says, Leave me too. Do not imitate me, for I too am outside. Follow your own Atman.
The distinction I want to make clear… If I say to you, Follow me, you will walk behind me. This walking is outer walking, for you are following another. Mahavira says, Do not follow anyone outside. All outer roads lead into the world. Do not follow anyone; follow only your own Atman. Do not go into anyone’s refuge; become your own refuge.
Mahavira’s sadhana is the sadhana of no-refuge. Not going into anyone’s refuge, but coming into one’s own refuge. This original, revolutionary point has to be understood. With this understood, Mahavira’s revolution in sadhana can be understood.
So let me say the first thing to you: by installing Mahavira in the form of God we are doing injustice to him. Mahavira does not want to be installed as God. Mahavira wants that you should experience that you are God. Mahavira wants—not that you worship him as Paramatma—but that you experience the Paramatma present within you. The human inner self, purified, becomes Paramatma—this is his message.
And to see this rightly… Who is there within us whom we may call Paramatma? The body we know—there is nothing godlike in it. The mind we know—there is nothing godlike in it. The body is utterly animal. What in the body can be God? In the body is everything that is animal. There is no essential difference between a human body and an animal body. The laws of the body are the same as those of an animal’s body. From the standpoint of body, you are no different from any animal. If we are only body, then we are animals. So in the body there can be no God. Perhaps in the mind there is God!
Peer a little into the mind and you will find there is something worse than animal there. If you look at the mind you will find there is something worse than animal there. No animal in this world is as depraved as the human mind. How much sin, how much hatred, how much malice, how much violence pervades the mind! A great psychologist has said, if the entire account of each person’s mind could be gathered, it would be difficult to find anyone who has not entertained thoughts of murdering many. Difficult to find anyone who has not plotted great robberies in his mind. Difficult to find anyone who has not in many ways imagined and schemed adultery. In the mind not one or two sinners, but multitudes of sinners seem assembled. The mind too cannot be God.
Mahavira says the Paramatma is within you. Where then will he be? The body is animal. The mind within is worse than animal. In this body and mind both, the Paramatma cannot be.
But our knowing, our recognition, our awareness is not outside body and mind. We know our body and we know our mind. Beyond these, you have no inner vision of anyone. Without attaining that inward-seeing which is behind body and mind, no one will be able to understand the truth that the Paramatma is within. If I say to someone, The Paramatma is within you, great surprise arises. That is not our knowing.
Joad, a great Western thinker, has written, I hear that people of the East say there is a God within everyone! When I look within, I find no one but an animal.
Freud too had the same experiences, the same conclusions: there is no one within man but an animal. The work being done on the mind so far bears this out: You are in great delusion; there is nothing like God in the mind. Not even a glimpse of God is there. If for half an hour you walk within your own consciousness and observe the layers of conscious and unconscious thoughts, you will be very frightened, very exasperated. Terrible fear will be felt; a great hell will be seen—What is this inside me! This is me! This is my being! This is my existence! Great panic will be felt—and because of that panic none of us wishes to go within.
Let anyone say a thousand times, Know thyself! We do not wish to know ourselves; we want to avoid knowing ourselves. We spend twenty-four hours making sure that somewhere we do not meet ourselves, that no encounter happens, no meeting happens. We are doing everything to forget it. Our entertainments, our laughter, our amusements are to forget it. Our intoxicants are to forget it. In music, in sex, in wine, we try to forget it so that we do not have to look inside and see who is there. While awake, we keep ourselves distracted. Then we sleep, and again we rise and get busy! If we were left empty-handed, you would be very restless, very frightened. It is a strange thing—if for one month you were given no opportunity to escape from yourself, you would go mad.
Such an incident occurred. In Egypt there was a king. A fakir said to him, You think you are very wise! You are greatly ignorant. You think you speak of self-knowledge! You are afraid to go within. The fakir said, If we lock you up for a month—as I have said—you will go mad in a month. If we give you no chance to run out of yourself, to keep yourself occupied with some work, to keep busy, to become entangled, and again and again you had only yourself to look at, you would become deranged.
The king said, Strange! I will try the experiment.
There was a hale and hearty man who passed daily by his gate, happily returning in the evening from work. He had a full family, a wife and children, looked cheerful. In the morning he would go to the office, in the evening return home. One evening the king had this happy man seized from the road and brought. He said, We will lock you up for a month. No crime of yours, just for an experiment. He had a message sent home—told his wife—We have confining your husband; do not be alarmed, all expenses will be paid by the state and he will be released after a month. That man was locked up for a month.
For a day or two he shouted, Why are you locking me up? What do you mean by this? What offense have I committed? No answers were given. Food was given; he threw it away. Water was given; he would not drink. He kept shouting for two, two and a half days; then he got tired and drank water. More tired, and he ate. More tired, and he even stopped shouting. He sat in that room and the king observed him through a window. Day by day passed. Then he began to talk to himself aloud! He began talking to his wife, playing with his children there! There were no wife, no children in that room. After a month, when he was examined, the man had gone mad.
He was given good food, clothes, water—every facility, no difficulty—but he was given no way to run away from himself. Bare walls, no book, no newspaper; no radio, no cinema, no friend; no avenues to keep himself forgetful of himself. For twenty-four hours he had to look at himself. There was no one there but an animal. Nothing there but wrong, futile thoughts. He went insane.
If you look at your mind, nothing will remain but madness—there is a madman dwelling there.
So Mahavira says, There is the Paramatma. Then where? Not in the body. This mind is not the Paramatma. Mahavira says, The Paramatma certainly is. But to reach it one has to go beyond body; and to reach it one has to go beyond mind. Withdraw behind the layer of body—there is mind; withdraw behind the layer of mind—then there is that which he calls Paramatma.
We live in a house with three chambers—my soul, my mind, my body—but we pass our life in only two, and remain unfamiliar with the third! We circle only in the foyer and remain unacquainted with that inner chamber where our real being abides! And one who is unfamiliar with that is bound to remain in sorrow, bound to remain in suffering; his whole life he will try to erase sorrow, but cannot. His whole life he will strive to attain happiness, but cannot. For sorrow is due to only one thing: he is uprooted from his center. Not being at his center—that is his sorrow. He thinks the sorrow is due to not having objects. That is not the sorrow; because even when many objects are gotten, happiness does not come.
On this earth there have been people who had everything. Mahavira himself had everything, but that everything did not give him happiness. Not one person in human history has ever said, I got everything—and I became happy. Even after getting everything, the sorrow remains just as it was when one had nothing. There is no change in sorrow. What you have does not change sorrow. Therefore something basic must be different. Sorrow is not related to getting something. Sorrow is related to losing the inner center, the center.
We are not at our own center—this is our pain. If we come to our center, this will be our bliss. Mahavira’s entire sadhana is how to return the centerless man to his center.
Our sin and sorrow are nothing but this—one sorrow, one sin, one suffering: we are not at our center. The real being that is ours, our authentic being, our genuine existence, we are not related to it. We are roaming outside ourselves. We are circling somewhere outside our own being. We have become strangers to ourselves. In a human life there is one agony—that he can become a stranger to himself. This estrangement, this not-knowing oneself, this unfamiliarity with oneself—religion is nothing but the path that leads toward this acquaintance. Reflect on this sometimes, experience it sometimes, observe this truth sometimes—Do I know myself?
The same agony seized Mahavira. He had everything—comfort, arrangement, prosperity. One agony alone—he did not have himself. He had everything; he was not with himself. Everything was available to him; his own being was unavailable. All was conquered; the self remained unconquered. All was known; one center was unknown and unfamiliar. When even after knowing all happiness did not come, even after gaining all happiness did not come, even after conquering all peace did not come—then naturally the idea arose that that unconquered point, perhaps that is the very center of bliss and peace.
If I search every nook and corner of this house and find no light, perhaps I will think—the corner that remains unknown, let us search there too. Having gotten everything, it was realized that happiness did not come by getting it all. Perhaps what I have left ungotten—my own self—getting that may bring bliss! And those who tried to know that self, they experienced—bliss was there. Bliss did not have to be brought; bliss was present there, only unveiling was needed. Bliss was not to be searched for; bliss was the very nature. Only garments, coverings had to be removed.
I watched a well being dug. Layers of earth were removed and the springs of water sprang up from below. Water was present there; it was covered by earth. Water was not brought; only the coverings above were removed, and below the springs burst forth. They were eager to burst forth. No sooner was the earth removed than they began to flow; they were full of longing to flow. The earth was taken away and they began to stream. So it is with bliss within us. Only some of the covering earth has to be removed; the upper wraps have to be taken away.
And what I am saying—what Mahavira said, what Buddha said, what Christ said, what Krishna said—that within there is knowledge, infinite knowledge, infinite power, infinite bliss; Sat-Chit-Ananda is present—only the coverings have to be removed. This is not a doctrine, not merely a thought; this is an experience. Crores upon crores have known this. In this very way, removing the coverings, they have experienced that Satchidananda. Others may not have seen the experience itself, but the fragrance spreading from that experience has been felt by others.
Seeing Mahavira, millions felt: something has happened in this man which has not happened in us. Some bliss has showered in him, some peace has condensed in him. He has become a being of another plane, another dimension, another sky. His fragrance, his music, the rays spreading from his life have been felt by many. His truth cannot be experienced by another, but its fragrance has been experienced.
On this earth, whenever someone has found bliss, he has found it not outside but within. I read a small, sweet story.
There was a Sufi woman fakir. She was sewing clothes inside her home. Her needle fell. It was evening, darkness gathered; there was no light in the house—she was poor. Searching for the needle, she came outside into the veranda. A little light was falling there. The sun was setting. She searched there, but the sun set. So she came to the road. There was still a little light. The neighbors asked, What is lost? She said, My needle is lost. They asked, Do you know where it was lost, so that we can search for it?
The old woman said, Do not ask this, do not touch my sorrow, do not touch my wound. Do not ask where it was lost. Search; if it is found, good. They said, This is very difficult; the needle is small, and if it is not known where it was lost, where can we search? The woman said, The trouble is great. Where the needle was lost, there is no light; and where there is light, there the needle was not lost. My needle was lost inside, but there is no light there. Here there is light, so I search here, because in light one can search.
It is the same with man, the same accident. Our eyes open outward. Our hands extend outward. Our ears hear outward. The light of all our senses falls outward. Therefore we search outside. But have we asked where it was lost? What are we searching for? They will not be called ignorant if they search without asking where it was lost!
All of us are searching for bliss without asking where it was lost! All of us are searching for bliss. In this world no one searches for anything else. Whatever one searches, essentially it is bliss. But without asking where that bliss was lost. To search without asking where it is lost cannot be meaningful; there can be no finding until we ask where it was lost.
Ask where it was lost. And before you go to search in someone else’s house, it is better to search in your own house. Before you go to ask another, before you set out to search this vast earth, is it not reasonable and right to first search in your own house! If it is not found there, then go into the world.
We are strange people—we will search the world, and when we do not find it in the world we will search within! The world is very large and life is very short. Even infinite lifetimes will not suffice to exhaust the world by outward search. Our infinite lives will be wasted. Is it not simple arithmetic that before I go to search in this vast world, I should search in my small house! If not found there, then I will go out to search.
With this contemplation Mahavira went within. He did not search in the world. He thought, First let me know within; if it is there, fine, otherwise I will go elsewhere. And whoever has used this contemplation and searched within—none of them ever went to search outside again. It has never happened that someone searched within and then went to search outside. It has always happened that those who searched outside, one day had to turn within. But it has never happened that one who searched within later went to search outside. Without exception, those who glanced within have found.
There is something within. Something wondrous abides within. Within is our very nature. And let me tell you the truth: if you reflect on your own life, inner glimpses of truth will begin.
Let me ask you: Why do you not want suffering? Why do you want bliss? A simple question—why do you not want suffering? Why does no one on this earth want suffering? Mahavira said, no one wants suffering. But why not—have you ever asked? We too do not want suffering; I do not want suffering; but why not? It is strange—we spend our life not wanting suffering, but we do not ask why. If you ask, an astonishing answer will be known to you.
If you do not want suffering, it means suffering is alien, foreign; it is contrary to your nature, hence you do not want it. That is, somewhere your nature must be bliss, therefore you do not want suffering. Otherwise a ‘non-wanting’ for suffering would not arise. Not wanting suffering means that somewhere within your nature is bliss; that is why you do not want suffering. In truth, if your nature were suffering, then you could never know suffering as suffering. If my nature were suffering, I would not even know it as suffering; rather, when suffering came I would welcome it with love—it would enrich my nature. But no one welcomes suffering. This informs us that suffering does not enrich our nature; suffering does not augment it; suffering is adverse to our nature, not congenial.
If suffering is adverse to our nature, then nature must be bliss. We desire bliss because our nature is bliss. None of us desires death because our nature is immortal. None of us desires darkness because our nature is light. None of us desires fear because our nature is fearlessness. None of us desires to be mean and low because our nature is the Lord. If this is understood, then whatever we do not desire points toward our nature, gestures toward it. Whatsoever we do not desire—our nature will be other than that. If this contemplation is born in someone, if his inner being is churned by this, seized by this pain and longing, seized by this thinking—if he begins contemplating each truth of life, Why do I not want suffering! If this contemplation arises— I am searching for bliss, but where did I lose it!
If this contemplation begins, from its result an astonishing thirst will begin to arise in one’s life. That tendency which blindly sought outside will, because of the questioning, fall away; obstacles will arise in outward seeking, and a leaning will begin toward the inner. Contemplation—on this truth, that life that has been given to us—what is it? Why are the experiences we have as they are? Why am I searching for bliss? What am I searching for? Where am I searching?
If these questions become alive, if they stand aflame before you, then for the first time a true inquiry for Dharma will begin in you.
The inquiry into Dharma has no relation with whether God exists or not. The inquiry into Dharma has no relation with who made the world or did not. The fundamental inquiry of Dharma relates to this truth: Why is there suffering—and why do I not agree to it? Why is my thirst for bliss? The rest are questions of scriptures and books; they have no relation with life. The inquiry of Dharma begins from the analysis and observation of life.
In Mahavira’s vision of life and sadhana, the most important thing to me is that Mahavira’s contemplation does not start from scriptures; it starts from life. Our contemplation starts from scriptures, not from life.
This truth needs much reflection.
People come to me. A Christian asks me, Was Mary, who gave birth to Jesus, a virgin? I ask him, What difference will it make to know this? Though besides a Christian no one asks me this question. No Jain asks it. Jains ask me, What is nigod? No Christian will ask that, because he does not even know of nigod. A Muslim asks me, When the Quran descended upon Muhammad, did the book descend as a book or how did it descend? No Hindu or Buddhist asks that! Why?
Because these are not questions of life—they are questions of books. The question of life will be the same for Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—because life raises only one question; books raise different questions. And those who ask questions from books may become pandits, but they will not attain prajna. They may gather much information, write books, give speeches, develop in themselves the vanity of being able to explain to others—but no solution will come from it. Questions that arise from books are dead. Questions that arise from life are alive. And the questions that arise from life alone have the power to change life; questions from scriptures do not change life.
For Mahavira, questions arose from life. This is the first thing. And the second—he accepted no one’s answers; he began to seek the answers himself. First, questions arose from life; second, he began searching within his own life—he did not arrange to go and take instruction from someone. Questions that arise from books will find their answers in books. Questions that arise from life will find their answers in sadhana. This must be understood.
Questions arose from life for Mahavira. Sorrow, non-liberation, bondage—the sole question in Mahavira’s consciousness. The one question—Why is there sorrow? Why is there bondage? And when this is the question, there is only one sadhana: Can one go beyond sorrow? Can one rise above the bondage of sorrow? No book can answer this. No ready-made answers of anyone can be of use. It must be known through experience.
From life the questions arose; Mahavira entered sadhana. What sadhana did he undertake?
People see that he renounced home and wealth and kingdom. They think this was the sadhana. This is not sadhana. What is seen outside has no essential relation with sadhana. To leave the house outwardly is easy. The question is not to get out of the house; the question is that the house gets out of my head.
I read of a sadhu. A king loved him so much that he kept the sadhu in his palace. He loved him so that later he built him a palace. Years passed. After twelve years the king thought, What difference is there now between this sadhu and me? He is called a sadhu in vain. We are kings and he too now lives like a king. We have some troubles; he does not even have those. He lives in comfort and ease.
One morning, walking in the garden, the king said to the sadhu, Friend, a question has arisen in my mind since last night. I want to ask, What difference is there now between me and you? The fakir laughed and said, Do you want to know truly? Walk a little with me outside the village; when we get a bit of solitude, I will answer. The king said, Good. They both went out of the village, crossed the river that was the boundary. The king said, Now give the answer. He said, Come a little farther. The sun grew hot. The king said, Answer now. We have solitary forest now; there is no one to listen. The fakir said, Listen! Now I have no wish to return; I am going. The king said, Where are you going? The fakir said, Now I am going. Will you come with me? The king said, What are you saying! My palace is behind; I must return. The fakir said, I have no palace behind me; I have no return. We were in the palace there, but the palace was not in us. If you see the difference, it can be seen.
Mahavira left the palace—this is not valuable. From within Mahavira, the palace dropped—that is the point. Mahavira left wealth—this is not valuable. From within Mahavira, wealth dropped—that is valuable. What he left outside is not valuable. What was dissolved within him—that is valuable.
The world is not outside. The world is not outside at all. The world is a great mental phenomenon—a mental thing. These walls and houses and roads you see—this is not the world, because the liberated Mahavira will still pass by these walls and roads. This is not the world, because when Mahavira attains knowledge, he still walks on roads, still is in the world—yet you do not call him worldly! He is in the world, yet why do you not call him worldly? Because these are not the world. The world is something else.
The world is mental; the world is not material. That world which has been made within us, that world of pictures and thoughts I have populated around my consciousness—those images, imaginations and dreams that have accumulated there—that is my world.
The world is of my dreams, not of objects.
Therefore one who is occupied in leaving objects is unintelligent. One who is occupied in leaving dreams is wise. Objects do not bind; the dreams projected upon objects bind. Objects do not bind; the desires entertained towards objects bind. Objects do not bind; the attachment aroused toward objects binds. All that is mental.
Revolution is not leaving the world; revolution is transforming the mind.
Otherwise you may run away leaving house and home, and you will find that house and home follow behind. A man leaves the woman and runs away; a woman leaves the man and runs away, and on return finds that those whom they left behind have come along. They have not been left behind. Surely what was physical—the man or woman—has been left. But the man and woman of imagination have come along. The pain—the body of a man or woman is not giving it; the pain is given by that imagination, that dream within. Its is the bondage, its is the hold, its is the grip. That which is abiding within—that grip is its. To dissolve that is to dissolve the world. To be free of that is to be sannyast.
I remember a story from Korea. That image will explain Mahavira. It will give an inner insight and help to free us from a very stale, rotten notion that has grown around Mahavira’s sadhana in tradition.
A young monk and an old monk were going along a riverbank, crossing a river. A young woman too had stopped to cross. It was a mountain stream, fast current; she did not have the courage to cross. The old monk thought, I should give her my hand and help her across.
But as soon as the thought arose—to give a hand—the dormant lust and longing toward woman stirred within. At the very imagination of the touch of the hand, many sleeping dreams awakened. Much that had been suppressed, in relation to women, arose again. He became very frightened. For years, no thought about woman had arisen. He scolded himself, What foolishness is this I thought! What is my purpose? People will cross the river, let them cross; what is it to me? Why should I spoil my life for the sake of taking her across?
He lowered his eyes and began to cross. He did not give her support. He did not because the very imagination of support had awakened the inner image of woman. He lowered his gaze.
But do forms end by lowering the eyes? By closing the eyes do they not become more lovely, more beautiful? By closing the eyes, do forms get destroyed? By closing the eyes they become more golden, more heavenly. He closed his eyes in panic, and remembering God he began crossing.
Behind him his young companion monk was coming. After crossing, the old monk thought, That foolish lad, may he not fall into the very mistake of service and help. He turned and saw: the lad was carrying the girl on his shoulders across the river! Fire ran through his whole body. He could not imagine it—he was old, and this one is young, and he is carrying a young woman on his shoulders! He did not know what to do. In anger he kept silent. When they reached the ashram and were climbing the steps, he said to the youth, Listen, I will go and tell the guru, and you will have to do penance and bear punishment. The youth said, What mistake have I made? The old monk said, Why did you lift that girl onto your shoulders? The youth said, I put her down at the riverbank itself—you are still carrying her!
This man who is still carrying her—on what shoulders is he carrying? And are we not carrying our world on our shoulders? Is the world somewhere outside? Is the world in those houses and children and occupations outside? Or is it that we are carrying the world on some imaginary shoulder?
One need not run away from the world; one must set the world down from the shoulder.
So what Mahavira left outside is not valuable. What he left within—what he set down from the shoulder—that is valuable. How he set it down—that is his sadhana. For twelve years of tapascharya this is what he was doing. I hear discourses about his tapascharya, I see scriptures, and I am surprised. People describe how much heat and cold he bore, how many days he remained hungry, how he remained naked without clothes, what pains and troubles he faced! How people tormented him and he said nothing—people describe all this! This has no relation with sadhana. This is not the real thing.
The real thing is not what outer drama is happening around Mahavira; the real thing is what is happening within Mahavira. In those twelve years—whether Mahavira stands in the sun or in the cold—that is only the body standing. That is not the question. The question is, Where is Mahavira’s chitta! Whether Mahavira stands in the sun or hungry, fasting—that is not the question—Where is Mahavira’s chitta! If Mahavira is fasting and the chitta is in food, all fasting is futile. If Mahavira is standing in the sun and the chitta is in some shade, standing in the sun is futile. Where Mahavira stands is not the question—Where is Mahavira’s chitta! What Mahavira is doing is not the question—What is Mahavira’s chitta doing!
Our chitta is always doing something or other. Mahavira’s sadhana is that the chitta reach such a state where it is not doing anything. Because whatever the chitta does will be the raising of the world. Because whatever the chitta does, it can do only one thing—make pictures. As I understand, the chitta is a painter. Its only function is to make pictures. It can do nothing else. And it can entangle us in those pictures and dreams—and nothing else. To erect images and dreams is the chitta’s work. So as long as the chitta is working, it will raise dreams and pictures and get tangled in them. It will create the world.
The world is not created by God; the world is created by chitta.
Remember, the world is not created by God; the world is created by chitta.
So as long as the chitta is active, the world is. When chitta becomes inactive, you are outside the world. If chitta is active, there is bondage; if chitta becomes inactive, there is moksha.
So Mahavira is taking the chitta to such a state where its activity, attenuated more and more, dissolves; where activity, weakening, weakening, becomes zero.
Sadhana is to slacken the chitta; siddhi is the chitta becoming zero. Dhyana is to slacken and inactivate the chitta. Samadhi is the chitta becoming inactive and zero. Mahavira’s sadhana is to slacken the chitta; his attainment is to nullify the chitta.
If chitta is active, then—as I said—the world is made. And in that world, in those reflections, we get lost and forget that which we are. That which is within is forgotten.
Truly, when you watch a picture, a film, a play, an amazing thing is experienced: while watching a film you become so absorbed that you do not even remember that you also are! When the screen goes blank, suddenly you are startled—two hours have passed; we were there, but we did not remember! In one picture, one story, we too became a character! Has it not happened many times that with those characters you have wept, and with those characters you have laughed? When the screen became blank and people began to get up, have you not often hidden your tears so the neighbor might not see that you cried watching a film? But you cried from seeing a picture—astonishing! Are pictures so effective that they make you cry and laugh? And you know well there is nothing there except a screen! You know well—you yourself paid money—that there is nothing but a white screen. And behind, only rays of light are thrown to create an illusion of images—even images are not there. And still you laugh and cry! The picture is very impactful.
The impact of pictures is ignorance. To be free of the impact of pictures is knowledge.
You may not go to a cinema daily, but on the inner screen films run twenty-four hours a day. You are seated daily in the cinema-house of your own making—twenty-four hours! The wonder is that there you yourself are the characters, you yourself the viewer, you yourself build the play, you yourself are the projector, you yourself the screen—there is no one there but you! Therefore Mahavira has said: the soul itself is bondage, the soul itself is liberation. All bondage is your own making; it is born of your imagination, a play of your own imagination. You yourself are making it all.
In that entire sadhana, Mahavira is wiping off the pictures to make the screen white—so that a moment comes when the screen becomes white. As soon as the screen is white, at once remembrance arises—Ah! I am. And I had forgotten myself in pictures. Once the chitta becomes zero, self-knowledge begins. There where chitta becomes zero, here the arising, the awakening of self-knowledge begins.
Mahavira’s sadhana is, by nullifying the chitta and becoming free of images, to know that whose name is consciousness. One who knows the images will not know consciousness. One who dissolves the images experiences consciousness. He becomes the knower of that knowledge. He becomes aware of that awareness. This awareness, this vision of the Self, is the central pivot of Mahavira’s entire sadhana.
People think Mahavira’s sadhana is of ahimsa. No! People think his sadhana is of brahmacharya. No! People think his sadhana is of truth. No! Mahavira’s sadhana is of the soul. And as a consequence of Self-experience, truth, brahmacharya, ahimsa are obtained. They are the flowers of self-experience. One who knows the Self becomes free of untruth that very instant. One who knows the Self becomes free of unchastity. One who knows the Self becomes free of violence. The consequence of self-knowledge—its consequences flower in ahimsa, truth and brahmacharya. People think ahimsa, brahmacharya and truth are disciplines by which the Self will be attained! I think the opposite. They are not disciplines; the discipline is the dissolution of chitta. The discipline is dhyana; the discipline is Samadhi; the discipline is yoga. They are not the means; they are the results of sadhana. When Self-experience happens, they are its flowers. By them it will be recognized whether knowledge has been attained or not. They do not lead to knowledge.
Mahavira has said, Ahimsa is the fruit of knowledge. No one reflects on this sentence! Mahavira says, Ahimsa is the fruit of knowledge. If it is the fruit of knowledge, then will knowledge come first or ahimsa first? The Agam says, Padhamam nanam, tato daya—first knowledge, then compassion, then ahimsa. Mahavira says, One who attains knowledge attains conduct. One who does not attain knowledge—his conduct is false. These are clear aphorisms. If we reflect a little, it will be seen that Mahavira’s sadhana is not a moral sadhana but a spiritual sadhana. To make ahimsa, truth and brahmacharya into sadhana is ethics.
Today the confusion in the world is precisely this: cultivate ethics and religion will be obtained. I do not agree. I say: cultivate religion and ethics will be obtained. One who cultivates ethics will not find religion; he will, at best, obtain an ego— I am truthful, I am celibate, I am renunciate, I am a sadhu, I am a muni. He may obtain such a conceit—but not that supreme peace where not a trace of conceit remains.
Moral sadhana nourishes the ego; spiritual sadhana dissolves the ego. Hence in moral people you will constantly feel a hidden ego. In such sadhus you will constantly feel a latent pride. In such rishis—who curse people in anger—we have known them. From where does this anger arise in them? For one who can curse must have a fiercely burning anger. That anger is there because their sadhana is not spiritual—only moral. From moral sadhana religion does not come, though from religious sadhana morality certainly does.
Moral sadhana is the cultivation of merit. The sadhana of religion is not the cultivation of merit; it is the sadhana of purity. Purity is separate from merit and sin. Where neither merit holds, nor sin holds; where both are aside, and I experience that I am free of both and pure—in that experience religion is born.
The sadhana of religion is the sadhana of purity. The sadhana of ethics is the cultivation of merit. Ethics can take you only to morality. The sadhana of religion takes you to liberation. The moral cannot become religious, but the religious—unknowingly, effortlessly—becomes moral.
Mahavira is not a merely moral man. The greatest among scholars write that Mahavira is a great moralist! Mahavira is not a moralist—Mahavira is a knower of the Self. Mahavira is one who has attained the soul. Morality is his natural outcome; it comes by itself, it need not be brought.
If we understand this central idea of Mahavira—Self-attainment—if we contemplate a little upon it, reflect a little upon it, and understand that our chitta is our world, and gradually dissolve the chitta, gradually merge the chitta, gradually lead the chitta toward zero—a moment will come, the chitta can become zero.
If you practice non-cooperation with it—as I said in the morning—non-cooperation—if you do not cooperate with the thoughts of the chitta, do not support them. If thoughts come, let them come; do not cooperate. Stand a little apart, as a neutral witness only. Let the thought move; you remain silently watching, offering no cooperation. Your cooperation is the very energy of thought.
Those pictures on the film screen that make you cry—the pictures are not making you cry. It is you who, by identifying with them, bring the tears. If you are filled with awareness and know that on the screen there are only images, and you do not identify with them, and you remain only a neutral witness—not a participant, not a consumer—do not become part of the play, remain only a sakshi, only a witness—then you will be amazed: the images pass on the screen, and you sit as you were sitting. No attachment, no aversion arises in you. No tears, no laughter seize you. You remain silent, neutral, just the seer. One who watches thought in this way, through non-cooperation, just as a witness, gradually attains freedom from thought. One who attains freedom from thought can have self-vision.
Mahavira is one word—his entire sadhana is in one word, and that word is: Atma-darshan, Self-vision. He who attains that one word will be able to experience what a significant, what a scientific truth he gave us. And we are doing only this—that we are worshipping his image! And carrying his scriptures on our heads! And writing his scriptural utterances on our walls! Astonishing—what injustice we do to our sages! We think we are honoring them! All our honor is an insult. Because fundamentally what they say—we do the very opposite.
Honor to Mahavira is in one thing only: become self-knowing. Not remembrance of Mahavira. Do not indulge in remembrance—it has no relevance. If you become self-knowing, whether you remember or not—you have become Mahavira’s. And you may remember Mahavira a million times, but if you do not become self-knowing, you are not Mahavira’s. He who wants to belong to Mahavira should drop the concern for Mahavira and take concern for the one who sits within. And he who drops that concern, even if he carries Mahavira all around, he cannot belong to Mahavira. Let us remember this one truth.
All those in the world who have awakened, who have known themselves—their teaching is one small thing, and it is this: Bliss is within; return within. The method of returning within: dissolve the chitta; become a neutral witness to the chitta; be the seer.
Chitta dissolves, merges—you will know yourself, you will realize your own being. And what a flame of bliss will be experienced there, how you will be filled with light, how you will descend into condensed peace—there is no way to tell it in words.
Mahavira has said, Before speaking of that experience, words retire. Mahavira has said, There are no words to say it. That which is found in the wordless—how can words say it? That which is attained by losing the chitta—how can the chitta find a way to say it? I will say nothing about that—in truth, no one has ever said anything about it. But there have been indications toward it, gestures toward it. And Mahavira is among the greatest gestures made on this earth in history. His finger is raised toward that truth. But we will be fools if we begin to worship the finger and do not look to where the finger points. People are worshipping Mahavira! Mahavira is only a gesture toward that Self-nature which abides in everyone.
In Japan there is a temple—let me end with that story.
There is a temple in Japan in which there is no statue of Buddha. In that temple there is only a finger of Buddha sculpted inside, and above—a moon. People go and are astonished; they ask, What is this? Below is carved a saying of Buddha. Buddha said, I have shown a finger toward the moon—but I know you are foolish; you will not look at the moon, you will worship my finger.
Mahavira, Buddha, Christ and Krishna are gestures. Do not worship them—look toward where they gesture. And there, there is no other—there is you. There is no other there—I am. That gesture is not to someone else, it is to our inner soul.
If on this sacred remembrance day of Mahavira Jayanti one thing arises in your reflection—that one has to look within—then the whole life can become meaningful. Before that there is neither meaning nor bliss nor peace nor life. After attaining that, the entire life becomes transformed into nectar, into Satchidananda.
You have listened to my words with such love; for that I am deeply grateful, and I bow to the Paramatma seated within all, and I hope that today or tomorrow, that which is dormant will awaken, and we will be able to attain the experience of bliss, of the supreme life. Again and again, my thanks to you.