On the celebration of Mahavira’s birth, it will delight me to share a few words with you. It will delight me because, today, to save man from the hands of man himself, there is no path except Mahavira. To save man from the hands of man himself, there is no path other than Mahavira.
It was never even imaginable that man would become so eager for his own destruction. That such an intense craving, such a thirst, would arise in him to annihilate himself—we had never imagined it. Yet for the last fifty years man has been arranging, in every way, to finish himself! His whole effort seems to be: how may we eradicate one another, how may we destroy one another! In the last fifty years we have fought two world wars and murdered a hundred million people. And those wars were small wars. The third world war, for which we are in preparation, may well be the final one—for after it, perhaps no human being will remain alive. Not only man will be gone; one could say no life-breath at all will remain.
Let me give you a small, a very small calculation—if water is heated to a hundred degrees and we throw you into that boiling water, what will happen? Your survival will be difficult. If we heat iron to fifteen hundred degrees, it melts like water. If we throw you into that molten iron, what will happen? Your survival will be impossible. If we heat iron to twenty-five hundred degrees, it begins to vaporize. In that heat of twenty-five hundred degrees no creature has any possibility of survival.
But even that is no great heat. The heat released by a hydrogen bomb is on the order of one hundred million degrees. At one hundred million degrees, the survival of any kind of life is impossible. And such hydrogen bombs—today—have been manufactured on the earth to the tune of fifty thousand. These fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are capable of obliterating this planet seven times over. In the West they call this the overkill capacity. They say: even if we have to kill a man seven times over, we are capable of destroying the earth. Astonishing, is it not? A man dies in one stroke—there is no need to kill him seven times.
But a century that is producing such power merely to destroy—about such a century we must reflect, we must ask: has someone gone mad? Has man gone mad? And today I would like to tell you: the man who is not joined to religion—if not today, then tomorrow—goes mad. One man going mad is not such a great danger; but if an entire nation goes mad, an entire century goes mad, the whole of human society goes mad—what then?
Let me tell you a little story. It has been dear to me, and I have told it here and there among unknown crowds.
Seeing what had happened to man, God called to himself the representatives of the three great nations of the world. There is no such God anywhere—no God who calls anyone. I am telling you a fanciful and false story.
God summoned the representatives of the three great nations—America, Russia, and Britain. He said to them: You have indeed created immense power, but with that power you create nothing. You have created such power, yet it does not become a companion to life. That all your power should become your death is astonishing. If I could be of any help to you, if any boon from me could serve you—ask for it.
America’s representative said: We ask only one boon—grant a small boon and our every thirst will be quenched. God, delighted, said: Ask! America’s representative said: We have but one desire—that the earth remain, but upon the earth no trace of Russia remain. God must have given countless boons—there are thousands of tales of his generosity—but never had anyone asked for such a boon! With great sadness and grief he looked toward Russia’s representative.
That representative said: Sir! First, we have no belief in your existence. We do not accept that God is. For twenty-five years we have driven you out from our temples, our mosques, and our churches. But we will restore your prestige, and again light incense and lamps before your idols—if one small matter is fulfilled, as proof that God is. God asked: What is that? Russia’s representative said: One small matter—that on the map of the world there remain neither color nor line for America. God, bewildered and shaken, turned to Britain’s representative. What he said is worth keeping in the heart.
He said: My Lord! We have no desire of our own. If both of their desires are fulfilled together, our desire is fulfilled.
We feel like laughing at this. This is not for laughing; this is for weeping. There can be no greater cause for tears than this. And if you laugh at it, you err. I tried much to laugh at it myself—I could not. I have told this story to myself many times and wanted to laugh, but I could not; my heart filled with tears. And I said, this story is absolutely false. But the story is not false—it is absolutely true.
It is true because these are our desires today. Today we want others to be destroyed, erased. We suppose that the secret of our life lies in the death of the other. We are foolish and mad. The secret of life lies in others receiving a greater life. If we want life for ourselves, we shall have to share life. He who distributes death will himself fall into death.
This is why I said this story is for weeping: it is the condition of the world today. And do not think that this is not your condition. Your joy too is in your neighbor dying! Your happiness too is in someone being finished! You labor twenty-four hours a day, by thought, by mind, by speech, at destroying someone!
He is irreligious who even thinks to destroy the other. Religion begins with the one who thinks of his own creation. Religion begins with the one whose attention is: I should become available to life. Irreligion begins with the one whose concern is that the other should be delivered to death; the other should be erased, the other should fall. Religion begins with: I should become available to life. And religion is fulfilled when all become available to life.
Such is the state, such the meditation on destruction...
When Truman was President of America—and on his order the first atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where a hundred thousand sleeping people were finished—when he rose the next morning, journalists asked him: Did you sleep last night? It is a question one must ask. If a hundred thousand people were ended by my order as they slept, I could not sleep in this world for eternity. And if I did sleep, it would be difficult to call me human; I would have to be called stone. In the morning the journalists asked him: Did you sleep last night? Truman said: For the first time in many years I slept! He said, for the first time in many years I slept—the matter is finished! We have won!
If the pain of a hundred thousand people perishing in their sleep does not touch you—will you not give me leave to call such a society and such a time deranged? Will you not give me leave to call such an age mad? And remember, I am not saying this for someone else; I am saying it to you. I am saying it to each. Because it is we who make this—we who make time and the century. Time and century do not descend from the sky; we manufacture them—we are their creators.
Every man present upon this earth is a collaborator in what is happening upon it. If a hundred million people have been killed in the world, remember, the responsibility for that murder rests upon you. Let no one mistakenly imagine that he bears no responsibility for it. He who thinks, I pass by saving the ants; I filter my water before I drink it—what burden of violence can be upon me?—he is foolish. He knows not: violence is very deep and very collective. If even a little anger arises in my mind, if even a little hatred arises in my mind, if even a small thought arises in my mind to destroy another—then in the atom bomb dropped on Nagasaki my hand is present. And in the future too, if misfortune befalls some nation and atom bombs fall, my hand will be present. That tiny spark of my anger—when the sparks of anger of millions gather, they culminate in war. Great wars are not fought in the sky; they are fought in people’s hearts.
If anger arises in your heart, you will be responsible for all wars. If hatred arises in your heart, you will have to experience the burden and accountability of all wars. Until this is experienced, until I feel myself a collaborator in whatever is happening upon the earth, I cannot be religious.
This state of the times, this drift of things, this current of time—must be changed if man is to be saved. If man is to be saved, man must change—inevitably. And if we delay a little, if we fail to transform man, saving humanity will become impossible. Even fifty years hence it is difficult that man survive. It is difficult that we see the year two thousand. To see the twentieth century completed seems impossible. As man is now, if he remains thus, it is difficult to suppose any possibility of man’s survival. Man’s destiny, man’s life, man’s future—all finished. There is but one ray of hope—that man can be transformed. And that ray of transformation can be found through Mahavira.
When I say it can be found through Mahavira, I do not mean it cannot be found through Christ; I do not mean it cannot be found through Krishna; I do not mean it cannot be found through Buddha. When I say, it can be found through Mahavira, I mean: in Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ are included. I do not see that the light in one lamp is different from the light in another. And when I say: from this lamp light can be received—I am saying only this: that light can be received only from a lamp. Wherever those lamps have burned—whether in the name of Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna—it makes no difference. Recognize the light and leave the bodies. Leave the clay lamps and recognize the flame of illumination.
In Mahavira there is that flame. And those who love that flame, who invite that flame within—their flame too can be lit. Those whose lamps are extinguished should go near those lamps where light is burning. Those whose inner vitalities have fallen asleep should relate themselves to those sources of life where the infinite has become available. The event can happen within them too.
From this thought I am delighted that I shall say a little to you about Mahavira. Not delighted because remembering Mahavira has some value; delighted because perhaps that remembrance may give birth to a thirst in you. Perhaps that remembrance may arouse in you a sense of insult. Perhaps you may feel that until what was possible within Mahavira becomes possible within me, my humanity stands insulted. Until then I am fallen in my own eyes. And in this world there is no greater calamity than falling in one’s own eyes. If we think about ourselves, we will see. If we contemplate, we will see—what we are, and what we can be.
What we can be—there are proofs: Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. They are the symbols of what every human being can become. It seems to me—this very morning I said it—when I look at you, it feels as if there were a heap of seeds, and every seed could become a tree. It seems as if the whole earth were filled with Mahaviras—but in the form of seeds. And if they so wish, and the energy of resolve awakens in them, and the fire of sadhana is kindled, perhaps their seeds will germinate and trees will be born of them.
If Mahavira is a tree, you are seeds of the very same tree. If this remembrance, the day of his memory, awakens this feeling in you, awakens this thought, this dream—that what was possible for him can be possible for me—then this event becomes one of joy. Therefore I said I am delighted. Before I say anything about Mahavira, let me say a few other things.
When I arrived, immediately I was told—some said that if I speak, they will stone me. They will stone me because, they say, my words are opposed to Mahavira. I said to them: if they stone me, they will prove they are not lovers of Mahavira. Even if my words were opposed to Mahavira, there is no reason to stone me. And whoever stones me and thinks he is a lover of Mahavira—he is mad, he is foolish. The first condition of Mahavira’s love is: when someone throws a stone at you, you give him love. The first condition of Mahavira’s love is: when someone throws a stone at you, you give him love.
I asked: Why will they stone me? I was told a few things. Let me mention them—for through them it will be easier to understand Mahavira.
I was told that when I say Mahavira, I do not add the word 'Bhagwan'—'Lord'.
I said: my love does not consent to add such formal words. The more we love, the more all formalities about the beloved become pointless. If, while remembering Mahavira, so much love does not overflow that we can address him as 'thou,' then there is no love in us. Therefore I said: I will not call him Bhagwan. Not calling him Bhagwan means that I know him to be Bhagwan. Not calling him Bhagwan means I recognize that he is Bhagwan. This is not a matter for saying and repeating; it is a matter for understanding and recognizing within the heart. Those who merely say it—who repeat it like a mantra—nothing will happen by their repeating.
I was told that what I say is opposed to scripture.
I said: Mahavira’s trust is not in scripture. Mahavira’s trust is in the self. And if there is any priceless revolution of Mahavira’s, it is this: he attempted to free this land from scripture. In Mahavira’s time scripture was everything, the Vedas were everything. Mahavira said: not Vedas, not scriptures—your own truth, your own experience is meaningful. Mahavira said: we will not accept words; we will accept experiences.
But we are such madmen that the very Mahavira who said scriptures are not valuable—that the taste of your own experience is valuable—we make his own words into scripture and worship them! This has happened all over the earth—not only among Mahavira’s followers; among Krishna’s followers, Christ’s followers, Mohammed’s followers too.
Mohammed said: peace—and the very word Islam means the religion of peace. But what did his devotees do? No one spread as much unrest in the world as they did!
Christ said: if someone slaps you on one cheek, offer him the other. But the slaps delivered by Christ’s followers upon others’ cheeks—there is no counting! And the number of bayonets thrust into chests by Christ’s followers, the number of chests trampled underfoot—there is no comparison! Astonishing, is it not?
Mahavira said: love! And if some devotee of Mahavira says that they will stone someone—it becomes a matter to ponder. Mahavira said: aparigraha, non-possessiveness! And if Mahavira’s devotees collect nothing but possessions—then it becomes a matter to ponder. Mahavira said: one’s own experience! And if someone makes Mahavira’s words themselves into Veda—it will be an error; it becomes a matter to ponder.
Let me tell you: among the so-called followers of religion in the world, scarcely any are true disciples. Those whom you worship—you are their enemies; you are their adversaries! Nietzsche said a sentence: the first and the last Christian was hanged upon the cross—the first and the last Christian! He said: Christ was the first and the last Christian. After him, no Christian ever came to be. Let me remind you: after Mahavira, no Jain ever came to be.
So it has been with Krishna and with Buddha—this has happened with all. Those who appear to be behind them are not behind them. Those who seem to be behind them are not behind them. To be behind Mahavira is not easy. Do not fall into the illusion that being born in a Jain household makes you a follower of Mahavira. Madman—were matters so cheap, were issues so easy—everything would have been solved by now.
To be religious is the greatest audacity in this world.
Being religious is not related to birth. To be religious one must take a second birth by oneself. There is a birth that comes from father and mother—is that any birth? It is only the birth of the body. The second birth is to be generated by one’s own resolve and sadhana and labor—that is the real birth. Only after that does one become religious. So let no one remain in the illusion that being born in the household of Mahavira’s followers makes one a Jain.
No one becomes a Jain by being born in Mahavira’s house.
In the Upanishads there was a rishi, Uddalaka. His son returned home after completing his study of the scriptures—having studied all the scriptures—and he came back brimming with pride and ego. Whose ego is more stubborn than a pundit’s? He came home full of conceit. The father saw—the ego knew no bounds! The father asked: Have you studied everything? He said: I have studied everything—whatever there was to study, I have studied it. Whatever was worth learning—I have read it all. I have returned having studied all the scriptures, all the Vedas.
His father lowered his eyes and said: To the extent that I can see you, I see that what should have been studied—you have left aside—and read everything else. He asked: What is that? The father said: That which is not written in scriptures, not written in the Vedas and Puranas; that which has never been written, that which can never be written—he who reads that, he alone truly reads. And he who reads that—knowing it, knows all. If you have returned having read only books, then your reading has not even begun.
He asked: How shall I know that? And is it necessary to know it?
His father said: In our family until now there have been Brahmins—not Brahmin-bandhus. The son asked: What is the difference? He said: He who is called a Brahmin by being born in a Brahmin’s house—he is a Brahmin-bandhu, a kin of Brahmins. And he who is called a Brahmin by knowing Brahman—he is a Brahmin.
The point seems right. He who is called a Christian by being born in a Christian’s house is a Christian-bandhu. He who is called a Jain by being born in a Jain house is a Jain-bandhu. To be Jain, to be Christian—these are altogether different matters.
So I said to them: It seems to me that Mahavira’s revolution is against the word and in favor of the wordless; against scripture and in favor of the self. From all scriptures and the nets of all doctrines Mahavira wants to free you, so that your inward journey may be possible. Scriptures are outside, truth is inside. He who seeks in scriptures will go on seeking, but will not find. He who dives within will find.
And let me add: he who finds within—only he can understand scripture. Because he who experiences within, that very experience clarifies the meanings of those words. He who knows himself—he can understand scripture. He who only goes on understanding scripture—he never knows himself.
Mahavira’s basic revolution is against the word, against the symbol. And if they say that my talk seems to be against scripture, I said: It is possible my talk is in favor of Mahavira—therefore it falls against scripture. Until now, all scriptures stand opposite to those who have known the truth. This is greatly surprising! And there is a reason behind it.
I had read a song of a Baul fakir. In his song he says: When someone attains the light of religion, a torch of knowing comes into his hand. Influenced by his torch, countless blind and eye-less people gather behind him. In his grace, in his love, in the possibility of his light, many begin to walk behind him. Then one day that man passes away. And when he falls, his torch falls too. Then some blind man among those who had gone behind him picks up that torch. But a misfortune occurs: the flame that was in that torch was not in the stick. The flame that was in that torch was in the breath of the man who held it. He had lit that flame with his very life. With his fall the flame is extinguished; the stick remains in the hand! And the blind carry that stick! That stick of religion they carry, from which the flame has gone out! That is why these sticks collide with each other.
There are many blind on the earth. Many blind carry those sticks. And they all, carrying their sticks, walk in darkness! Therefore they clash with each other. Can religions clash? Can two religions somewhere fight?
Yet religions appear to be fighting! This means there will be no religion there—only sticks remain in the hands of blind men. And the blind lead the blind! This is misfortune—and it has always happened—and there is a reason behind it.
The reason is: whoever thinks he can walk by another’s light is in error. One can walk only by one’s own flame.
One evening a monk was bidding farewell to a friend monk. Night was full of darkness. His friend said: How shall I go in this dark? The host monk said: I will light a lamp. He lit a lamp and placed it in his friend’s hand. But as his friend began descending the steps with the lamp, the monk blew it out! Impenetrable darkness grew deeper! The friend said: What have you done? You gave a lamp and snuffed it out as well? The monk said: Another’s lamp does not serve. Only if your own flame is there can you be saved from darkness. Without your own flame, others’ lamps do not help.
Let me tell you: Mahavira’s lamp cannot serve you either—until your own lamp is lit within you.
Mahavira stated this in a wondrous way—very deep and well established. He said: not even by God’s grace can one attain truth. By no guru’s grace can one attain truth. By no one’s blessing, by no one’s charity, by no one’s gift, by no one’s theft can truth be attained. If truth is to be attained, one must labor oneself. Hence Mahavira’s tradition came to be called the Shramana tradition. It means: one’s own effort—and there is no other path but one’s own effort. Whoever imagines another path—his mind is in theft, his mind is in begging. Everything may be obtained by stealing—truth cannot. That which cannot be stolen, which cannot be begged, which cannot be snatched—which must be generated only by one’s own labor—the tradition of attaining such truth is the Shramana tradition. And I hold that whenever anyone anywhere has attained truth, he has been a shramana; he has had to labor. Truth has never been available to anyone for free.
So when Mahavira has said: Standing upon your own effort, your own dignity, your own ground—un-sheltered, abandoning every shelter—whoever engages in his sadhana, he attains truth. If some adherent says my words fall against scripture, I said: Think again—perhaps my words do not fall against scripture, they fall against you. And the day you know within, you will find that what I am saying—whether or not I have seen scripture—makes no difference. If truth is anything at all, then even if you have not seen any scripture and you enter within yourself—you will have seen all scriptures. And your speech, your thought, your testimony of experience will become scripture. And he who has learned scriptures, memorized them, begun to explain by repeating their aphorisms—he has no value. Therefore I say: not scripture, but the self—this is Mahavira’s honor. Entry into oneself is his insistence.
And this insistence—across the entire history of man—is superhuman, extraordinary. No one has given man greater honor than Mahavira has given. No one has given man more dignity and glory than Mahavira. For Mahavira said: God is not somewhere above; God is the final stage of each being’s growth. God is within each.
He who called the most petty man 'God'; he who proclaimed that the lowliest, the one enmeshed in sin, is divine—what greater honor could there be? And to the one called God—above him there can be no scripture, no guru, no sect. These are all bonds. Abandoning them, if a person enters into himself, he becomes capable of knowing his Paramatman, his Atman.
Therefore I said: even if my talk falls against words—let it.
Then I reflected—another matter I was told: that I say Mahavira opposed idols, and the tradition worships idols. I said: What have I to do with idols? But this much I will say: Mahavira opposed the 'formed' and urged entry into the formless.
What is Mahavira’s insistence? Mahavira insists that what is visible is not valuable. What is not visible, what is hidden behind, the invisible—that is valuable. Mahavira says: that which has form has no value; that which is formless—has value. This body of mine is visible; it is my 'image'—but it is not me. If someone throws a stone at this body, he has pelted my image, not me. If someone cuts this body and shreds it to pieces, he has dismembered my image, not me.
What is visible is the image. What is not seen, what can never be seen—because it is ever the seer, ever the drashta, and cannot become the seen—Mahavira’s insistence is for that Atman. Mahavira’s whole insistence is for the formless. But we may be such madmen that we make even Mahavira’s image and worship it.
Mahavira’s image—if you have made one—will be an image of his body; how will it be Mahavira’s image? Who can make an image of Mahavira? It is impossible—and it has never been possible, nor will it ever be. That soul which cannot be seen—how will its idol be made? And Mahavira’s real body has crumbled to dust and merged with earth—how long will you preserve your idols?
And if, when the real image has been shattered and turned to dust, I say to you: leave your images—what is shattered into pieces is meaningless—then do not be angry with me. Do not think that my view toward Mahavira lacks reverence. I know—your irreverence is in seeking Mahavira in stone. My reverence is that I seek him in consciousness, in the deathless, in the formless.
Then I said: fair enough. If those who are idol-worshippers think they will stone me—then they think rightly. Their line of thought is not wrong; they cannot think above stone. Beyond stone their conception cannot rise. I told my friend in the morning: tell them to throw stones; by that their idolatry will be revealed, and I will be given an opportunity. If their stones strike me and yet my heart overflows with love toward them, I will understand that I have offered my homage to Mahavira. So tell them to throw stones. They will err if they do not stone me, for then their 'devotion' will be exposed—and I too will have the opportunity to reveal what my reverence is. May God give me that chance—that stones fall upon me. May God give me the chance to see whether, amidst those stones, love arises within me or not. If love does not arise, then I will cease speaking of love—then it has no meaning. Therefore I give the invitation: if in anyone’s mind the thought arises to throw stones, by all means, use it.
And I would say that in Mahavira’s teaching—in his fundamental teaching—I see two things, and of these, love is the first. What Mahavira has called ahimsa is love. What Mahavira has called ahimsa—what else is it but love?
When I contemplate Mahavira’s life-sadhana, I see two things: First, Mahavira is eager to attain truth. He is researching truth. Second, I see that he is expanding love. He is digging for truth within, and spreading love without. Truth is found within; love is diffused without. When a person enters the last unit of his being, he becomes available to truth. And when he carries his love to the last creature in this vast existence, he becomes available to truth.
The growth of truth is two-sided: enter within yourself and in the inner depth knowledge will be available; enter into the All, and in that depth love—or ahimsa—will be available. As a tree grows, its roots go deep below, and its plant grows higher above. The deeper a person’s being in truth, the more the plant of his life outside will grow in love.
Love is the test and the touchstone.
Therefore Mahavira said: ahimsa is the supreme dharma.
Mahavira said: ahimsa is the touchstone and trial of knowledge.
If ahimsa does not come after knowledge, that knowledge is false—it is illusory.
We cannot know knowledge; we can know love. Did you see Mahavira’s knowledge? How would you see Mahavira’s knowledge? The truth that became available to Christ—has anyone seen it? We infer that truth became available to them. We have seen their love—we have recognized their love. And that infinite love gives us the testimony that the truth must have become available within. Without inner truth, how could there be such infinite love?
Love is the test and the proof. Mahavira has called it ahimsa.
Ahimsa does not merely mean: do not give pain to another. If one forcibly refrains from giving pain to another, one begins to give pain to oneself. The urge to inflict pain is so intense that if you forcibly stop yourself from hurting others, you will begin to hurt yourself. Such fakirs and sadhus there have been who torture their bodies—because the pleasure they could have taken in tormenting others, they have closed that route. They torture themselves. There have been such ascetics who wore belts of thorns at the waist so that the thorns would pierce and make wounds. There have been such ascetics who fixed inverted nails in their shoes so that wounds would remain on their feet and blood would always flow. There have been such ascetics who cut off their genitals, gouged out their eyes.
Shall anyone call these madmen sadhus? These are the people who have forcibly stopped the current of violence outward. But energies do not stop; if you block their outward movement, they turn upon oneself. Whoever forcibly stops outer violence begins self-violence. He begins to torture himself.
Mahavira is not calling for self-violence. Therefore Mahavira is not merely calling for the abandonment of violence. Someone asked Mahavira: What is ahimsa? Mahavira said: The Self is ahimsa.
He gave a most wondrous answer. No deeper answer has ever been given on this earth. Strange, it may even seem discordant. We ask: What is ahimsa? Mahavira says: The Self is ahimsa! What does it mean?
It means: the person established in his Atman—that person attains ahimsa. And the person who is not established in his Atman can only restrain violence; he cannot attain ahimsa. To drop violence is one thing; to attain ahimsa is entirely another. Ahimsa is deeply positive, deeply creative. And because it is creative, I said—it is love.
So Mahavira’s sadhana is divided into two words: truth and ahimsa.
If truth is to be attained, Mahavira says: Abandon all and enter within. Mahavira says: Whatever is formed, leave it. What is seen by the eye—enter so deep into the eye that nothing is seen there. What is heard by the ear—enter so deep into the ear that nothing is heard there. Whatever happens through the five senses—enter so deep into it that no effect of any sense reaches there. In that state, where no sensory influence reaches, the super-sensory consciousness begins. Where all formed impressions become feeble, where no report of the world arrives—there a person becomes related to himself and established in himself. There he knows himself. If one would know oneself, be released from all else, stand apart from all else, and enter within. In that solitary aloneness, one can be known.
I read of a monk. He stood upon the edge of a mountain. Some friends went to meet him. On the way they wondered: What can this monk be doing standing on that mountain? One said: Sometimes his friends come along with him; perhaps they have fallen behind; he must be waiting, looking for them. Others said: We do not believe he is waiting for anyone. Looking at him, one gets no sense of waiting. Someone said: Sometimes his cow is lost; perhaps standing upon the hill he is searching for his cow. A third said: It does not seem so. A third said: It seems he is meditating upon the Lord, praying. They could not decide. They said: Let us go and ask.
They went and asked the monk: Has a friend come who has fallen behind, and you are waiting? The monk said: No. They asked: Has your cow been lost? Are you searching from the heights? The monk said: No. They asked: Are you contemplating God? Are you praying? The monk said: No. They were astonished. They asked: Then what are you doing? The monk said: I am doing nothing at all. I stand here having left all doing.
Mahavira called this state samayika—this is dhyana. When I am doing nothing at all, and having left everything I remain silent—when in that state of silence all the commerce of my senses has become zero, when all the hustle of my senses has ceased, when all the running of my mind has been restrained—then, in that moment, in that instant, I behold myself. If truth is to be known, through the restraint of the mind one must enter into oneself. And whoever enters into himself has a wondrous experience.
He experiences first: He sees that what is within me is within all. And the moment he sees that what is within me is within all, his life becomes overflowing with love—ahimsa comes into his life. As soon as he sees what is within, he also sees: That which is within has no death. All his fear vanishes. With fear, possession vanishes. For possession is done by those who are afraid. Possession is not the root disease; fear is the root disease. The more afraid one is, the more he possesses. Have pity on the miser—he is afraid, hence he hoards. The more fearless one becomes, the more he leaves off thoughts of security. The more fearless, the more possession drops away.
The night Mohammed was to die... His daily rule was, in the evening, whatever was brought as offerings—after supper, whatever remained—he distributed. Not even a single grain of rice remained in the house. On the night he was to die, he was ill, and physicians said he would die. His wife grew afraid. She hid away five dinars—five coins—that, perhaps in an untimely hour of the night, the illness might worsen and a physician might need to be called.
At midnight Mohammed said: It seems to me that some possession has been made in my house. His wife asked: How did you know this? I have hidden five coins—but how did you know? Mohammed said: You seem so fearful to me that I suspected. A person so afraid cannot be aparigrahi. Distribute those coins, so that I may die untroubled; and that this name may not remain behind me—that at Mohammed’s death there were five coins in the house.
The coins were given away, and Mohammed covered himself with a sheet, and people saw his breath dissolve. Mohammed had said: You are so afraid—therefore I know that you must surely have kept something back.
I told this to say: whoever has fear will be possessive. Therefore, what shall I tell you—leave possession? To leave possession is what madmen might tell you. I tell you: leave fear. Fear is the root, not possession. And fear will drop when you see that what is within me has no death. For death is the sole fear, the basis of all fear.
Whoever enters into himself sees: I am immortal, and swords cannot pierce me, and fire cannot burn me, and the wind cannot scatter me. There is no way to cut me into fragments. I am indivisible and immortal. From such a knowing, the outcome is aparigraha.
And when one enters within, he sees: this Atman is neither woman nor man. This Atman has neither lust nor attachment. Then un-chastity falls away from his life, and brahmacharya becomes available. I tell you: whoever knows truth—inevitably, after the experience of truth, the flowers of ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, and brahmacharya blossom in his life. He who sows the seed of truth reaps the harvest of ahimsa, aparigraha, and brahmacharya.
Therefore, if you would have ahimsa, would have love, would have aparigraha, do not busy yourself cultivating them. Such cultivated ahimsa is false; it is acting; it is not real. Hence, outwardly there will seem to be ahimsa, inwardly violence remains.
Yesterday someone told me: There is a sadhu who opposes me. A beloved sister with me said: Then he will not be a sadhu—how can a sadhu have opposition to anyone! Whoever can oppose another—how could he be a sadhu! So saintliness will be above, and opposition within. Non-saintliness will be within. We can wear the robes above—what difficulty is there in that? Upon this earth, people wear robes, and we do not come to know who the truly naked ones are.
So I tell you: do not impose ahimsa from above; do not paste paper flowers upon yourself. If you truly want the flowers of ahimsa to bloom, cultivate Samadhi, cultivate truth, enter into yourself.
Mahavira’s essential teaching is self-entry.
Mahavira’s essential teaching is Atma-bodha and Atma-jnana.
And whoever knows himself—he gains all. All virtues stream into him. All excellences, all moralities follow him like a shadow. Whoever knows himself—revolution happens in his life without effort. Knowing oneself is the only ground of transformation—of conduct, of character, of life.
Thus I experience truth as Mahavira’s basic ground, his basic sadhana.
And whoever would attain this truth by entering into himself must abandon a few things. First, he must abandon the notions he has formed about truth, the beliefs he has adopted, the convictions he has made. Whatever notion about truth is formed in ignorance—will be untrue. Whoever would know truth must drop all beliefs, all faiths, and courageously leap into the void. If we form notions beforehand about truth, we will never know truth.
We will know truth only when we approach it notionless—empty and vacant—with no idea in the mind; with no concept, no doctrine, no dogma, no sect, no religion. When, empty and silent, someone lifts his eyes toward truth—he beholds that which is. And as long as one thinks and cogitates, he does not behold that which is.
If you would know light—open your eyes; do not think about light. And if you would know truth—enter into yourself; do not make notions about truth. Those who make notions and ideas may become pundits; they do not become available to wisdom.
Mahavira says: drop everything and become without support.
The other day I was telling a story. Mahavira had a disciple, Gautama. Until the time of Mahavira’s nirvana, Gautama had not attained kevala-jnana. Mahavira said to him: You have left everything—leave me as well. Then you will attain kevala-jnana.
But to leave such a beloved man as Mahavira—is that easy? To leave the world is very easy. But how to leave the feet of such wondrous men! And wondrous, superhuman are those who have even told their disciples to leave their feet.
Mahavira said: Leave me. Only one hindrance remains: you are stuck in me. Drop this sticking—be free! Abandon all clinging; become without support.
Whoever becomes without support—he finds the support of himself. Whoever clutches any support outside—how will he find himself? As long as the gaze is outside—how will you reach within? Mahavira too is outside; the Tirthankaras are outside; God is outside. Become unsheltered from all.
Mahavira attained nirvana. When Mahavira left the body, when he attained moksha, Gautama was outside the village. On the way back, travelers told him: Mahavira has left the body. Gautama began to weep. He said: What will become of me now? While that Bhagwan lived I could not know the truth—what will become of me now? Now I am without support, now my lamp is extinguished, now my guide is lost. Who is mine now?
The travelers said: That supremely compassionate Lord left a final sutra-word for you in his last moment. Gautama asked: What did he say—tell me quickly! And that word was wondrous. Keep that word in your heart. Let followers of all religions keep that word in their hearts. It is precious. Mahavira said: Gautama, you have crossed the whole river—why do you cling to the bank now? Leave even the bank.
Mahavira said: Gautama, you have crossed the entire river—why do you clutch the shore? Leave the shore as well. And upon hearing this utterance, knowledge awakened in Gautama. In that very evening, Gautama attained kevala-jnana! He knew the truth.
Whoever would know truth does not leave only property; he must drop all the junk from his mind and become empty. Whoever becomes empty becomes worthy of the Full. Whoever leaves all becomes heir to All. This is sannyas.
Sannyas does not mean abandoning outer clothes. Sannyas means discarding the inner clothes and furniture piled up in the mind. Sannyas means dropping the junk and scrap accumulated within. And remember, in that junk some things are of gold, some of iron. Dropping iron is not so difficult; the real question is dropping the gold. Whoever drops both auspicious and inauspicious ideas from the mind attains the pure Self. Dropping inauspicious thoughts is easy; dropping auspicious thoughts is difficult. But whoever drops both auspicious and inauspicious—whoever drops reflections of virtue and vice, of dharma and adharma—and enters the void, he becomes available to truth. Then only That remains which is. Then only That remains whose being is. Then only That remains which is Truth. Knowing That, one experiences unparalleled joy, unparalleled liberation. Before that, we are corpses. Before knowing that truth, let none consider himself alive. Therefore I say: we are corpses. I remember myself. From the day I was born, I have known that day by day I am dying—I am dying daily. One day this process of dying will be complete. How shall I call this life? This is gradual death! This is a progressive dying! How shall I call it life? Can life ever die? What is life will be deathless. What dies is not life. As of now we are corpses. But the immortal sits within us. If we enter the shell of this corpse, we can experience the immortal and become available to true life.
These teachings of Mahavira are not for a single religion. Mahavira’s path is not for one person, one sect, one circle. Such vast beings, whose love reaches to the infinite, are not for someone—they are for all. God grant that those Jains who think Mahavira is 'ours'—let them release their grip and their pursuit, so that he may become everyone’s.
After ten years, Mahavira’s twenty-fifth centenary will arrive. Twenty-five hundred years will be completed for that divine life. And then I want the whole world to experience what his essential teaching is. And the whole world to experience, within Mahavira, that Christ is present in him, Krishna is present in him, Buddha is present in him. Let the whole world experience his flame. After ten years, let the whole world become aware that Mahavira is everyone’s treasure. This awareness will come only when those who stand behind him abandon the right of ownership over him. Let them say: Mahavira belongs to whoever thirsts for him. And this is true—water belongs to the thirsty. The well belongs to the one who drinks from it. The fools who sit outside the well and talk about it—the well is not theirs.
May Mahavira belong to all, may he become everyone’s; may his teaching serve everyone. And may this man who has become distorted, unhealthy, deranged—may this man find in him the foundation of health. In the end, I will offer my salutations to the Mahavira seated within each of you, and say one thing.
If your love says that Mahavira’s teaching—his teaching of love and knowing—spread far and wide; that the waves of the ocean carry it to distant shores; that these winds carry it to the infinite—then Mahavira has a small utterance. Let all of us raise our hands and say it, so that it may resound and its waves and ripples travel far. And that utterance is useful. From it, nectar can shower upon the whole world. Mahavira said—Mahavira said: 'Mitti me savva bhue su'—my friendship is with all beings. 'Vairam majjha na kevai'—and I have enmity with none.
This truth, this thought—the ground of his life, the basic experience of his sadhana. I would like that we lift our hands three times and repeat it with our full strength, so that this ocean, these winds, this sky resound with it, and that this thought affect and transform millions upon millions. Let us raise both hands. Let all raise them—let no one be so stingy that he cannot lift two hands for a short while—and I will repeat it thrice; we will, with our full power, repeat that utterance. I will say it first; then you will repeat it.
All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' Together, louder. 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!' 'Mitti me savva bhue su!' 'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
Osho's Commentary
It was never even imaginable that man would become so eager for his own destruction. That such an intense craving, such a thirst, would arise in him to annihilate himself—we had never imagined it. Yet for the last fifty years man has been arranging, in every way, to finish himself! His whole effort seems to be: how may we eradicate one another, how may we destroy one another! In the last fifty years we have fought two world wars and murdered a hundred million people. And those wars were small wars. The third world war, for which we are in preparation, may well be the final one—for after it, perhaps no human being will remain alive. Not only man will be gone; one could say no life-breath at all will remain.
Let me give you a small, a very small calculation—if water is heated to a hundred degrees and we throw you into that boiling water, what will happen? Your survival will be difficult. If we heat iron to fifteen hundred degrees, it melts like water. If we throw you into that molten iron, what will happen? Your survival will be impossible. If we heat iron to twenty-five hundred degrees, it begins to vaporize. In that heat of twenty-five hundred degrees no creature has any possibility of survival.
But even that is no great heat. The heat released by a hydrogen bomb is on the order of one hundred million degrees. At one hundred million degrees, the survival of any kind of life is impossible. And such hydrogen bombs—today—have been manufactured on the earth to the tune of fifty thousand. These fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are capable of obliterating this planet seven times over. In the West they call this the overkill capacity. They say: even if we have to kill a man seven times over, we are capable of destroying the earth. Astonishing, is it not? A man dies in one stroke—there is no need to kill him seven times.
But a century that is producing such power merely to destroy—about such a century we must reflect, we must ask: has someone gone mad? Has man gone mad? And today I would like to tell you: the man who is not joined to religion—if not today, then tomorrow—goes mad. One man going mad is not such a great danger; but if an entire nation goes mad, an entire century goes mad, the whole of human society goes mad—what then?
Let me tell you a little story. It has been dear to me, and I have told it here and there among unknown crowds.
Seeing what had happened to man, God called to himself the representatives of the three great nations of the world. There is no such God anywhere—no God who calls anyone. I am telling you a fanciful and false story.
God summoned the representatives of the three great nations—America, Russia, and Britain. He said to them: You have indeed created immense power, but with that power you create nothing. You have created such power, yet it does not become a companion to life. That all your power should become your death is astonishing. If I could be of any help to you, if any boon from me could serve you—ask for it.
America’s representative said: We ask only one boon—grant a small boon and our every thirst will be quenched. God, delighted, said: Ask! America’s representative said: We have but one desire—that the earth remain, but upon the earth no trace of Russia remain. God must have given countless boons—there are thousands of tales of his generosity—but never had anyone asked for such a boon! With great sadness and grief he looked toward Russia’s representative.
That representative said: Sir! First, we have no belief in your existence. We do not accept that God is. For twenty-five years we have driven you out from our temples, our mosques, and our churches. But we will restore your prestige, and again light incense and lamps before your idols—if one small matter is fulfilled, as proof that God is. God asked: What is that? Russia’s representative said: One small matter—that on the map of the world there remain neither color nor line for America. God, bewildered and shaken, turned to Britain’s representative. What he said is worth keeping in the heart.
He said: My Lord! We have no desire of our own. If both of their desires are fulfilled together, our desire is fulfilled.
We feel like laughing at this. This is not for laughing; this is for weeping. There can be no greater cause for tears than this. And if you laugh at it, you err. I tried much to laugh at it myself—I could not. I have told this story to myself many times and wanted to laugh, but I could not; my heart filled with tears. And I said, this story is absolutely false. But the story is not false—it is absolutely true.
It is true because these are our desires today. Today we want others to be destroyed, erased. We suppose that the secret of our life lies in the death of the other. We are foolish and mad. The secret of life lies in others receiving a greater life. If we want life for ourselves, we shall have to share life. He who distributes death will himself fall into death.
This is why I said this story is for weeping: it is the condition of the world today. And do not think that this is not your condition. Your joy too is in your neighbor dying! Your happiness too is in someone being finished! You labor twenty-four hours a day, by thought, by mind, by speech, at destroying someone!
He is irreligious who even thinks to destroy the other. Religion begins with the one who thinks of his own creation. Religion begins with the one whose attention is: I should become available to life. Irreligion begins with the one whose concern is that the other should be delivered to death; the other should be erased, the other should fall. Religion begins with: I should become available to life. And religion is fulfilled when all become available to life.
Such is the state, such the meditation on destruction...
When Truman was President of America—and on his order the first atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, where a hundred thousand sleeping people were finished—when he rose the next morning, journalists asked him: Did you sleep last night? It is a question one must ask. If a hundred thousand people were ended by my order as they slept, I could not sleep in this world for eternity. And if I did sleep, it would be difficult to call me human; I would have to be called stone. In the morning the journalists asked him: Did you sleep last night? Truman said: For the first time in many years I slept! He said, for the first time in many years I slept—the matter is finished! We have won!
If the pain of a hundred thousand people perishing in their sleep does not touch you—will you not give me leave to call such a society and such a time deranged? Will you not give me leave to call such an age mad? And remember, I am not saying this for someone else; I am saying it to you. I am saying it to each. Because it is we who make this—we who make time and the century. Time and century do not descend from the sky; we manufacture them—we are their creators.
Every man present upon this earth is a collaborator in what is happening upon it. If a hundred million people have been killed in the world, remember, the responsibility for that murder rests upon you. Let no one mistakenly imagine that he bears no responsibility for it. He who thinks, I pass by saving the ants; I filter my water before I drink it—what burden of violence can be upon me?—he is foolish. He knows not: violence is very deep and very collective. If even a little anger arises in my mind, if even a little hatred arises in my mind, if even a small thought arises in my mind to destroy another—then in the atom bomb dropped on Nagasaki my hand is present. And in the future too, if misfortune befalls some nation and atom bombs fall, my hand will be present. That tiny spark of my anger—when the sparks of anger of millions gather, they culminate in war. Great wars are not fought in the sky; they are fought in people’s hearts.
If anger arises in your heart, you will be responsible for all wars. If hatred arises in your heart, you will have to experience the burden and accountability of all wars. Until this is experienced, until I feel myself a collaborator in whatever is happening upon the earth, I cannot be religious.
This state of the times, this drift of things, this current of time—must be changed if man is to be saved. If man is to be saved, man must change—inevitably. And if we delay a little, if we fail to transform man, saving humanity will become impossible. Even fifty years hence it is difficult that man survive. It is difficult that we see the year two thousand. To see the twentieth century completed seems impossible. As man is now, if he remains thus, it is difficult to suppose any possibility of man’s survival. Man’s destiny, man’s life, man’s future—all finished. There is but one ray of hope—that man can be transformed. And that ray of transformation can be found through Mahavira.
When I say it can be found through Mahavira, I do not mean it cannot be found through Christ; I do not mean it cannot be found through Krishna; I do not mean it cannot be found through Buddha. When I say, it can be found through Mahavira, I mean: in Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ are included. I do not see that the light in one lamp is different from the light in another. And when I say: from this lamp light can be received—I am saying only this: that light can be received only from a lamp. Wherever those lamps have burned—whether in the name of Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna—it makes no difference. Recognize the light and leave the bodies. Leave the clay lamps and recognize the flame of illumination.
In Mahavira there is that flame. And those who love that flame, who invite that flame within—their flame too can be lit. Those whose lamps are extinguished should go near those lamps where light is burning. Those whose inner vitalities have fallen asleep should relate themselves to those sources of life where the infinite has become available. The event can happen within them too.
From this thought I am delighted that I shall say a little to you about Mahavira. Not delighted because remembering Mahavira has some value; delighted because perhaps that remembrance may give birth to a thirst in you. Perhaps that remembrance may arouse in you a sense of insult. Perhaps you may feel that until what was possible within Mahavira becomes possible within me, my humanity stands insulted. Until then I am fallen in my own eyes. And in this world there is no greater calamity than falling in one’s own eyes. If we think about ourselves, we will see. If we contemplate, we will see—what we are, and what we can be.
What we can be—there are proofs: Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna. They are the symbols of what every human being can become. It seems to me—this very morning I said it—when I look at you, it feels as if there were a heap of seeds, and every seed could become a tree. It seems as if the whole earth were filled with Mahaviras—but in the form of seeds. And if they so wish, and the energy of resolve awakens in them, and the fire of sadhana is kindled, perhaps their seeds will germinate and trees will be born of them.
If Mahavira is a tree, you are seeds of the very same tree. If this remembrance, the day of his memory, awakens this feeling in you, awakens this thought, this dream—that what was possible for him can be possible for me—then this event becomes one of joy. Therefore I said I am delighted. Before I say anything about Mahavira, let me say a few other things.
When I arrived, immediately I was told—some said that if I speak, they will stone me. They will stone me because, they say, my words are opposed to Mahavira. I said to them: if they stone me, they will prove they are not lovers of Mahavira. Even if my words were opposed to Mahavira, there is no reason to stone me. And whoever stones me and thinks he is a lover of Mahavira—he is mad, he is foolish. The first condition of Mahavira’s love is: when someone throws a stone at you, you give him love. The first condition of Mahavira’s love is: when someone throws a stone at you, you give him love.
I asked: Why will they stone me? I was told a few things. Let me mention them—for through them it will be easier to understand Mahavira.
I was told that when I say Mahavira, I do not add the word 'Bhagwan'—'Lord'.
I said: my love does not consent to add such formal words. The more we love, the more all formalities about the beloved become pointless. If, while remembering Mahavira, so much love does not overflow that we can address him as 'thou,' then there is no love in us. Therefore I said: I will not call him Bhagwan. Not calling him Bhagwan means that I know him to be Bhagwan. Not calling him Bhagwan means I recognize that he is Bhagwan. This is not a matter for saying and repeating; it is a matter for understanding and recognizing within the heart. Those who merely say it—who repeat it like a mantra—nothing will happen by their repeating.
I was told that what I say is opposed to scripture.
I said: Mahavira’s trust is not in scripture. Mahavira’s trust is in the self. And if there is any priceless revolution of Mahavira’s, it is this: he attempted to free this land from scripture. In Mahavira’s time scripture was everything, the Vedas were everything. Mahavira said: not Vedas, not scriptures—your own truth, your own experience is meaningful. Mahavira said: we will not accept words; we will accept experiences.
But we are such madmen that the very Mahavira who said scriptures are not valuable—that the taste of your own experience is valuable—we make his own words into scripture and worship them! This has happened all over the earth—not only among Mahavira’s followers; among Krishna’s followers, Christ’s followers, Mohammed’s followers too.
Mohammed said: peace—and the very word Islam means the religion of peace. But what did his devotees do? No one spread as much unrest in the world as they did!
Christ said: if someone slaps you on one cheek, offer him the other. But the slaps delivered by Christ’s followers upon others’ cheeks—there is no counting! And the number of bayonets thrust into chests by Christ’s followers, the number of chests trampled underfoot—there is no comparison! Astonishing, is it not?
Mahavira said: love! And if some devotee of Mahavira says that they will stone someone—it becomes a matter to ponder. Mahavira said: aparigraha, non-possessiveness! And if Mahavira’s devotees collect nothing but possessions—then it becomes a matter to ponder. Mahavira said: one’s own experience! And if someone makes Mahavira’s words themselves into Veda—it will be an error; it becomes a matter to ponder.
Let me tell you: among the so-called followers of religion in the world, scarcely any are true disciples. Those whom you worship—you are their enemies; you are their adversaries! Nietzsche said a sentence: the first and the last Christian was hanged upon the cross—the first and the last Christian! He said: Christ was the first and the last Christian. After him, no Christian ever came to be. Let me remind you: after Mahavira, no Jain ever came to be.
So it has been with Krishna and with Buddha—this has happened with all. Those who appear to be behind them are not behind them. Those who seem to be behind them are not behind them. To be behind Mahavira is not easy. Do not fall into the illusion that being born in a Jain household makes you a follower of Mahavira. Madman—were matters so cheap, were issues so easy—everything would have been solved by now.
To be religious is the greatest audacity in this world.
Being religious is not related to birth. To be religious one must take a second birth by oneself. There is a birth that comes from father and mother—is that any birth? It is only the birth of the body. The second birth is to be generated by one’s own resolve and sadhana and labor—that is the real birth. Only after that does one become religious. So let no one remain in the illusion that being born in the household of Mahavira’s followers makes one a Jain.
No one becomes a Jain by being born in Mahavira’s house.
In the Upanishads there was a rishi, Uddalaka. His son returned home after completing his study of the scriptures—having studied all the scriptures—and he came back brimming with pride and ego. Whose ego is more stubborn than a pundit’s? He came home full of conceit. The father saw—the ego knew no bounds! The father asked: Have you studied everything? He said: I have studied everything—whatever there was to study, I have studied it. Whatever was worth learning—I have read it all. I have returned having studied all the scriptures, all the Vedas.
His father lowered his eyes and said: To the extent that I can see you, I see that what should have been studied—you have left aside—and read everything else. He asked: What is that? The father said: That which is not written in scriptures, not written in the Vedas and Puranas; that which has never been written, that which can never be written—he who reads that, he alone truly reads. And he who reads that—knowing it, knows all. If you have returned having read only books, then your reading has not even begun.
He asked: How shall I know that? And is it necessary to know it?
His father said: In our family until now there have been Brahmins—not Brahmin-bandhus. The son asked: What is the difference? He said: He who is called a Brahmin by being born in a Brahmin’s house—he is a Brahmin-bandhu, a kin of Brahmins. And he who is called a Brahmin by knowing Brahman—he is a Brahmin.
The point seems right. He who is called a Christian by being born in a Christian’s house is a Christian-bandhu. He who is called a Jain by being born in a Jain house is a Jain-bandhu. To be Jain, to be Christian—these are altogether different matters.
So I said to them: It seems to me that Mahavira’s revolution is against the word and in favor of the wordless; against scripture and in favor of the self. From all scriptures and the nets of all doctrines Mahavira wants to free you, so that your inward journey may be possible. Scriptures are outside, truth is inside. He who seeks in scriptures will go on seeking, but will not find. He who dives within will find.
And let me add: he who finds within—only he can understand scripture. Because he who experiences within, that very experience clarifies the meanings of those words. He who knows himself—he can understand scripture. He who only goes on understanding scripture—he never knows himself.
Mahavira’s basic revolution is against the word, against the symbol. And if they say that my talk seems to be against scripture, I said: It is possible my talk is in favor of Mahavira—therefore it falls against scripture. Until now, all scriptures stand opposite to those who have known the truth. This is greatly surprising! And there is a reason behind it.
I had read a song of a Baul fakir. In his song he says: When someone attains the light of religion, a torch of knowing comes into his hand. Influenced by his torch, countless blind and eye-less people gather behind him. In his grace, in his love, in the possibility of his light, many begin to walk behind him. Then one day that man passes away. And when he falls, his torch falls too. Then some blind man among those who had gone behind him picks up that torch. But a misfortune occurs: the flame that was in that torch was not in the stick. The flame that was in that torch was in the breath of the man who held it. He had lit that flame with his very life. With his fall the flame is extinguished; the stick remains in the hand! And the blind carry that stick! That stick of religion they carry, from which the flame has gone out! That is why these sticks collide with each other.
There are many blind on the earth. Many blind carry those sticks. And they all, carrying their sticks, walk in darkness! Therefore they clash with each other. Can religions clash? Can two religions somewhere fight?
Yet religions appear to be fighting! This means there will be no religion there—only sticks remain in the hands of blind men. And the blind lead the blind! This is misfortune—and it has always happened—and there is a reason behind it.
The reason is: whoever thinks he can walk by another’s light is in error. One can walk only by one’s own flame.
One evening a monk was bidding farewell to a friend monk. Night was full of darkness. His friend said: How shall I go in this dark? The host monk said: I will light a lamp. He lit a lamp and placed it in his friend’s hand. But as his friend began descending the steps with the lamp, the monk blew it out! Impenetrable darkness grew deeper! The friend said: What have you done? You gave a lamp and snuffed it out as well? The monk said: Another’s lamp does not serve. Only if your own flame is there can you be saved from darkness. Without your own flame, others’ lamps do not help.
Let me tell you: Mahavira’s lamp cannot serve you either—until your own lamp is lit within you.
Mahavira stated this in a wondrous way—very deep and well established. He said: not even by God’s grace can one attain truth. By no guru’s grace can one attain truth. By no one’s blessing, by no one’s charity, by no one’s gift, by no one’s theft can truth be attained. If truth is to be attained, one must labor oneself. Hence Mahavira’s tradition came to be called the Shramana tradition. It means: one’s own effort—and there is no other path but one’s own effort. Whoever imagines another path—his mind is in theft, his mind is in begging. Everything may be obtained by stealing—truth cannot. That which cannot be stolen, which cannot be begged, which cannot be snatched—which must be generated only by one’s own labor—the tradition of attaining such truth is the Shramana tradition. And I hold that whenever anyone anywhere has attained truth, he has been a shramana; he has had to labor. Truth has never been available to anyone for free.
So when Mahavira has said: Standing upon your own effort, your own dignity, your own ground—un-sheltered, abandoning every shelter—whoever engages in his sadhana, he attains truth. If some adherent says my words fall against scripture, I said: Think again—perhaps my words do not fall against scripture, they fall against you. And the day you know within, you will find that what I am saying—whether or not I have seen scripture—makes no difference. If truth is anything at all, then even if you have not seen any scripture and you enter within yourself—you will have seen all scriptures. And your speech, your thought, your testimony of experience will become scripture. And he who has learned scriptures, memorized them, begun to explain by repeating their aphorisms—he has no value. Therefore I say: not scripture, but the self—this is Mahavira’s honor. Entry into oneself is his insistence.
And this insistence—across the entire history of man—is superhuman, extraordinary. No one has given man greater honor than Mahavira has given. No one has given man more dignity and glory than Mahavira. For Mahavira said: God is not somewhere above; God is the final stage of each being’s growth. God is within each.
He who called the most petty man 'God'; he who proclaimed that the lowliest, the one enmeshed in sin, is divine—what greater honor could there be? And to the one called God—above him there can be no scripture, no guru, no sect. These are all bonds. Abandoning them, if a person enters into himself, he becomes capable of knowing his Paramatman, his Atman.
Therefore I said: even if my talk falls against words—let it.
Then I reflected—another matter I was told: that I say Mahavira opposed idols, and the tradition worships idols. I said: What have I to do with idols? But this much I will say: Mahavira opposed the 'formed' and urged entry into the formless.
What is Mahavira’s insistence? Mahavira insists that what is visible is not valuable. What is not visible, what is hidden behind, the invisible—that is valuable. Mahavira says: that which has form has no value; that which is formless—has value. This body of mine is visible; it is my 'image'—but it is not me. If someone throws a stone at this body, he has pelted my image, not me. If someone cuts this body and shreds it to pieces, he has dismembered my image, not me.
What is visible is the image. What is not seen, what can never be seen—because it is ever the seer, ever the drashta, and cannot become the seen—Mahavira’s insistence is for that Atman. Mahavira’s whole insistence is for the formless. But we may be such madmen that we make even Mahavira’s image and worship it.
Mahavira’s image—if you have made one—will be an image of his body; how will it be Mahavira’s image? Who can make an image of Mahavira? It is impossible—and it has never been possible, nor will it ever be. That soul which cannot be seen—how will its idol be made? And Mahavira’s real body has crumbled to dust and merged with earth—how long will you preserve your idols?
And if, when the real image has been shattered and turned to dust, I say to you: leave your images—what is shattered into pieces is meaningless—then do not be angry with me. Do not think that my view toward Mahavira lacks reverence. I know—your irreverence is in seeking Mahavira in stone. My reverence is that I seek him in consciousness, in the deathless, in the formless.
Then I said: fair enough. If those who are idol-worshippers think they will stone me—then they think rightly. Their line of thought is not wrong; they cannot think above stone. Beyond stone their conception cannot rise. I told my friend in the morning: tell them to throw stones; by that their idolatry will be revealed, and I will be given an opportunity. If their stones strike me and yet my heart overflows with love toward them, I will understand that I have offered my homage to Mahavira. So tell them to throw stones. They will err if they do not stone me, for then their 'devotion' will be exposed—and I too will have the opportunity to reveal what my reverence is. May God give me that chance—that stones fall upon me. May God give me the chance to see whether, amidst those stones, love arises within me or not. If love does not arise, then I will cease speaking of love—then it has no meaning. Therefore I give the invitation: if in anyone’s mind the thought arises to throw stones, by all means, use it.
And I would say that in Mahavira’s teaching—in his fundamental teaching—I see two things, and of these, love is the first. What Mahavira has called ahimsa is love. What Mahavira has called ahimsa—what else is it but love?
When I contemplate Mahavira’s life-sadhana, I see two things: First, Mahavira is eager to attain truth. He is researching truth. Second, I see that he is expanding love. He is digging for truth within, and spreading love without. Truth is found within; love is diffused without. When a person enters the last unit of his being, he becomes available to truth. And when he carries his love to the last creature in this vast existence, he becomes available to truth.
The growth of truth is two-sided: enter within yourself and in the inner depth knowledge will be available; enter into the All, and in that depth love—or ahimsa—will be available. As a tree grows, its roots go deep below, and its plant grows higher above. The deeper a person’s being in truth, the more the plant of his life outside will grow in love.
Love is the test and the touchstone.
Therefore Mahavira said: ahimsa is the supreme dharma.
Mahavira said: ahimsa is the touchstone and trial of knowledge.
If ahimsa does not come after knowledge, that knowledge is false—it is illusory.
We cannot know knowledge; we can know love. Did you see Mahavira’s knowledge? How would you see Mahavira’s knowledge? The truth that became available to Christ—has anyone seen it? We infer that truth became available to them. We have seen their love—we have recognized their love. And that infinite love gives us the testimony that the truth must have become available within. Without inner truth, how could there be such infinite love?
Love is the test and the proof. Mahavira has called it ahimsa.
Ahimsa does not merely mean: do not give pain to another. If one forcibly refrains from giving pain to another, one begins to give pain to oneself. The urge to inflict pain is so intense that if you forcibly stop yourself from hurting others, you will begin to hurt yourself. Such fakirs and sadhus there have been who torture their bodies—because the pleasure they could have taken in tormenting others, they have closed that route. They torture themselves. There have been such ascetics who wore belts of thorns at the waist so that the thorns would pierce and make wounds. There have been such ascetics who fixed inverted nails in their shoes so that wounds would remain on their feet and blood would always flow. There have been such ascetics who cut off their genitals, gouged out their eyes.
Shall anyone call these madmen sadhus? These are the people who have forcibly stopped the current of violence outward. But energies do not stop; if you block their outward movement, they turn upon oneself. Whoever forcibly stops outer violence begins self-violence. He begins to torture himself.
Mahavira is not calling for self-violence. Therefore Mahavira is not merely calling for the abandonment of violence. Someone asked Mahavira: What is ahimsa? Mahavira said: The Self is ahimsa.
He gave a most wondrous answer. No deeper answer has ever been given on this earth. Strange, it may even seem discordant. We ask: What is ahimsa? Mahavira says: The Self is ahimsa! What does it mean?
It means: the person established in his Atman—that person attains ahimsa. And the person who is not established in his Atman can only restrain violence; he cannot attain ahimsa. To drop violence is one thing; to attain ahimsa is entirely another. Ahimsa is deeply positive, deeply creative. And because it is creative, I said—it is love.
So Mahavira’s sadhana is divided into two words: truth and ahimsa.
If truth is to be attained, Mahavira says: Abandon all and enter within. Mahavira says: Whatever is formed, leave it. What is seen by the eye—enter so deep into the eye that nothing is seen there. What is heard by the ear—enter so deep into the ear that nothing is heard there. Whatever happens through the five senses—enter so deep into it that no effect of any sense reaches there. In that state, where no sensory influence reaches, the super-sensory consciousness begins. Where all formed impressions become feeble, where no report of the world arrives—there a person becomes related to himself and established in himself. There he knows himself. If one would know oneself, be released from all else, stand apart from all else, and enter within. In that solitary aloneness, one can be known.
I read of a monk. He stood upon the edge of a mountain. Some friends went to meet him. On the way they wondered: What can this monk be doing standing on that mountain? One said: Sometimes his friends come along with him; perhaps they have fallen behind; he must be waiting, looking for them. Others said: We do not believe he is waiting for anyone. Looking at him, one gets no sense of waiting. Someone said: Sometimes his cow is lost; perhaps standing upon the hill he is searching for his cow. A third said: It does not seem so. A third said: It seems he is meditating upon the Lord, praying. They could not decide. They said: Let us go and ask.
They went and asked the monk: Has a friend come who has fallen behind, and you are waiting? The monk said: No. They asked: Has your cow been lost? Are you searching from the heights? The monk said: No. They asked: Are you contemplating God? Are you praying? The monk said: No. They were astonished. They asked: Then what are you doing? The monk said: I am doing nothing at all. I stand here having left all doing.
Mahavira called this state samayika—this is dhyana. When I am doing nothing at all, and having left everything I remain silent—when in that state of silence all the commerce of my senses has become zero, when all the hustle of my senses has ceased, when all the running of my mind has been restrained—then, in that moment, in that instant, I behold myself. If truth is to be known, through the restraint of the mind one must enter into oneself. And whoever enters into himself has a wondrous experience.
He experiences first: He sees that what is within me is within all. And the moment he sees that what is within me is within all, his life becomes overflowing with love—ahimsa comes into his life. As soon as he sees what is within, he also sees: That which is within has no death. All his fear vanishes. With fear, possession vanishes. For possession is done by those who are afraid. Possession is not the root disease; fear is the root disease. The more afraid one is, the more he possesses. Have pity on the miser—he is afraid, hence he hoards. The more fearless one becomes, the more he leaves off thoughts of security. The more fearless, the more possession drops away.
The night Mohammed was to die... His daily rule was, in the evening, whatever was brought as offerings—after supper, whatever remained—he distributed. Not even a single grain of rice remained in the house. On the night he was to die, he was ill, and physicians said he would die. His wife grew afraid. She hid away five dinars—five coins—that, perhaps in an untimely hour of the night, the illness might worsen and a physician might need to be called.
At midnight Mohammed said: It seems to me that some possession has been made in my house. His wife asked: How did you know this? I have hidden five coins—but how did you know? Mohammed said: You seem so fearful to me that I suspected. A person so afraid cannot be aparigrahi. Distribute those coins, so that I may die untroubled; and that this name may not remain behind me—that at Mohammed’s death there were five coins in the house.
The coins were given away, and Mohammed covered himself with a sheet, and people saw his breath dissolve. Mohammed had said: You are so afraid—therefore I know that you must surely have kept something back.
I told this to say: whoever has fear will be possessive. Therefore, what shall I tell you—leave possession? To leave possession is what madmen might tell you. I tell you: leave fear. Fear is the root, not possession. And fear will drop when you see that what is within me has no death. For death is the sole fear, the basis of all fear.
Whoever enters into himself sees: I am immortal, and swords cannot pierce me, and fire cannot burn me, and the wind cannot scatter me. There is no way to cut me into fragments. I am indivisible and immortal. From such a knowing, the outcome is aparigraha.
And when one enters within, he sees: this Atman is neither woman nor man. This Atman has neither lust nor attachment. Then un-chastity falls away from his life, and brahmacharya becomes available. I tell you: whoever knows truth—inevitably, after the experience of truth, the flowers of ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, and brahmacharya blossom in his life. He who sows the seed of truth reaps the harvest of ahimsa, aparigraha, and brahmacharya.
Therefore, if you would have ahimsa, would have love, would have aparigraha, do not busy yourself cultivating them. Such cultivated ahimsa is false; it is acting; it is not real. Hence, outwardly there will seem to be ahimsa, inwardly violence remains.
Yesterday someone told me: There is a sadhu who opposes me. A beloved sister with me said: Then he will not be a sadhu—how can a sadhu have opposition to anyone! Whoever can oppose another—how could he be a sadhu! So saintliness will be above, and opposition within. Non-saintliness will be within. We can wear the robes above—what difficulty is there in that? Upon this earth, people wear robes, and we do not come to know who the truly naked ones are.
So I tell you: do not impose ahimsa from above; do not paste paper flowers upon yourself. If you truly want the flowers of ahimsa to bloom, cultivate Samadhi, cultivate truth, enter into yourself.
Mahavira’s essential teaching is self-entry.
Mahavira’s essential teaching is Atma-bodha and Atma-jnana.
And whoever knows himself—he gains all. All virtues stream into him. All excellences, all moralities follow him like a shadow. Whoever knows himself—revolution happens in his life without effort. Knowing oneself is the only ground of transformation—of conduct, of character, of life.
Thus I experience truth as Mahavira’s basic ground, his basic sadhana.
And whoever would attain this truth by entering into himself must abandon a few things. First, he must abandon the notions he has formed about truth, the beliefs he has adopted, the convictions he has made. Whatever notion about truth is formed in ignorance—will be untrue. Whoever would know truth must drop all beliefs, all faiths, and courageously leap into the void. If we form notions beforehand about truth, we will never know truth.
We will know truth only when we approach it notionless—empty and vacant—with no idea in the mind; with no concept, no doctrine, no dogma, no sect, no religion. When, empty and silent, someone lifts his eyes toward truth—he beholds that which is. And as long as one thinks and cogitates, he does not behold that which is.
If you would know light—open your eyes; do not think about light. And if you would know truth—enter into yourself; do not make notions about truth. Those who make notions and ideas may become pundits; they do not become available to wisdom.
Mahavira says: drop everything and become without support.
The other day I was telling a story. Mahavira had a disciple, Gautama. Until the time of Mahavira’s nirvana, Gautama had not attained kevala-jnana. Mahavira said to him: You have left everything—leave me as well. Then you will attain kevala-jnana.
But to leave such a beloved man as Mahavira—is that easy? To leave the world is very easy. But how to leave the feet of such wondrous men! And wondrous, superhuman are those who have even told their disciples to leave their feet.
Mahavira said: Leave me. Only one hindrance remains: you are stuck in me. Drop this sticking—be free! Abandon all clinging; become without support.
Whoever becomes without support—he finds the support of himself. Whoever clutches any support outside—how will he find himself? As long as the gaze is outside—how will you reach within? Mahavira too is outside; the Tirthankaras are outside; God is outside. Become unsheltered from all.
Mahavira attained nirvana. When Mahavira left the body, when he attained moksha, Gautama was outside the village. On the way back, travelers told him: Mahavira has left the body. Gautama began to weep. He said: What will become of me now? While that Bhagwan lived I could not know the truth—what will become of me now? Now I am without support, now my lamp is extinguished, now my guide is lost. Who is mine now?
The travelers said: That supremely compassionate Lord left a final sutra-word for you in his last moment. Gautama asked: What did he say—tell me quickly! And that word was wondrous. Keep that word in your heart. Let followers of all religions keep that word in their hearts. It is precious. Mahavira said: Gautama, you have crossed the whole river—why do you cling to the bank now? Leave even the bank.
Mahavira said: Gautama, you have crossed the entire river—why do you clutch the shore? Leave the shore as well. And upon hearing this utterance, knowledge awakened in Gautama. In that very evening, Gautama attained kevala-jnana! He knew the truth.
Whoever would know truth does not leave only property; he must drop all the junk from his mind and become empty. Whoever becomes empty becomes worthy of the Full. Whoever leaves all becomes heir to All. This is sannyas.
Sannyas does not mean abandoning outer clothes. Sannyas means discarding the inner clothes and furniture piled up in the mind. Sannyas means dropping the junk and scrap accumulated within. And remember, in that junk some things are of gold, some of iron. Dropping iron is not so difficult; the real question is dropping the gold. Whoever drops both auspicious and inauspicious ideas from the mind attains the pure Self. Dropping inauspicious thoughts is easy; dropping auspicious thoughts is difficult. But whoever drops both auspicious and inauspicious—whoever drops reflections of virtue and vice, of dharma and adharma—and enters the void, he becomes available to truth. Then only That remains which is. Then only That remains whose being is. Then only That remains which is Truth. Knowing That, one experiences unparalleled joy, unparalleled liberation. Before that, we are corpses. Before knowing that truth, let none consider himself alive. Therefore I say: we are corpses. I remember myself. From the day I was born, I have known that day by day I am dying—I am dying daily. One day this process of dying will be complete. How shall I call this life? This is gradual death! This is a progressive dying! How shall I call it life? Can life ever die? What is life will be deathless. What dies is not life. As of now we are corpses. But the immortal sits within us. If we enter the shell of this corpse, we can experience the immortal and become available to true life.
These teachings of Mahavira are not for a single religion. Mahavira’s path is not for one person, one sect, one circle. Such vast beings, whose love reaches to the infinite, are not for someone—they are for all. God grant that those Jains who think Mahavira is 'ours'—let them release their grip and their pursuit, so that he may become everyone’s.
After ten years, Mahavira’s twenty-fifth centenary will arrive. Twenty-five hundred years will be completed for that divine life. And then I want the whole world to experience what his essential teaching is. And the whole world to experience, within Mahavira, that Christ is present in him, Krishna is present in him, Buddha is present in him. Let the whole world experience his flame. After ten years, let the whole world become aware that Mahavira is everyone’s treasure. This awareness will come only when those who stand behind him abandon the right of ownership over him. Let them say: Mahavira belongs to whoever thirsts for him. And this is true—water belongs to the thirsty. The well belongs to the one who drinks from it. The fools who sit outside the well and talk about it—the well is not theirs.
May Mahavira belong to all, may he become everyone’s; may his teaching serve everyone. And may this man who has become distorted, unhealthy, deranged—may this man find in him the foundation of health. In the end, I will offer my salutations to the Mahavira seated within each of you, and say one thing.
If your love says that Mahavira’s teaching—his teaching of love and knowing—spread far and wide; that the waves of the ocean carry it to distant shores; that these winds carry it to the infinite—then Mahavira has a small utterance. Let all of us raise our hands and say it, so that it may resound and its waves and ripples travel far. And that utterance is useful. From it, nectar can shower upon the whole world. Mahavira said—Mahavira said: 'Mitti me savva bhue su'—my friendship is with all beings. 'Vairam majjha na kevai'—and I have enmity with none.
This truth, this thought—the ground of his life, the basic experience of his sadhana. I would like that we lift our hands three times and repeat it with our full strength, so that this ocean, these winds, this sky resound with it, and that this thought affect and transform millions upon millions. Let us raise both hands. Let all raise them—let no one be so stingy that he cannot lift two hands for a short while—and I will repeat it thrice; we will, with our full power, repeat that utterance. I will say it first; then you will repeat it.
All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
Together, louder.
'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
All voices: 'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
All voices: 'Vairam majjha na kevai!'
'Mitti me savva bhue su!'
'Mitti me savva bhue su!'