Mahaveer Ya Mahavinash #6

We are all thirsty for bliss, for peace. And the truth is that our lifelong running after wealth, position, prestige carries the same feeling within it—that perhaps peace, perhaps fulfillment will be found. Even when we run after passions, behind that race too the hope remains that perhaps there we will find life’s fulfillment, perhaps life will attain to bliss, perhaps within there will be an unveiling of a realm of beauty, peace, and joy.
But even after running in one single continuous desire, the destination remains distant; even after ceaselessly following desires, that supreme fulfillment does not become available!
There are people—those called religious—who will say desires are bad; who will say desires are to be renounced; who will say all desires must be dropped; who will say desires are irreligious. Let me say to you: no desire is irreligious, if we can see it, if we can understand it. Hidden within every desire, ultimately, is the desire to attain the Divine. Give a person wealth upon wealth and ask him, at how much will you be content? Give him any amount—his longing will not be fulfilled. Give him all the wealth of the world…
Alexander was coming toward India. Someone asked him, if you conquer all the land, what will you do then? He said, I will search for another land. And if we ask, if you conquer the second land, then? He will say, I will search for a third. And if we say, if you conquer all lands, then what will you do?
In fact, desire is for the attainment of the infinite; therefore it will not be satisfied by any land. Give as much wealth as you like—desire will not be satisfied, because desire is to attain infinite wealth. Give as high an office as you like—aspiration will not be satisfied, because aspiration is to attain the ultimate position. Whatever may be available in life, life will not become fulfilled, will not be content, because without attaining the Supreme Life, the Supreme Lordliness, satiety is impossible within a human being.
Without attaining the Divine, satiety is impossible. In truth, all desires, like rivers, are running into the final desire for the Divine—toward the ocean. Every desire, if understood, will point toward the Divine, will point toward the Supreme Reality.
Therefore desires are not bad. The ignorance lies in trying to satisfy desires with the petty. Desire must be given the vast. The desires running toward the trivial must be centered on the Vast; they must be turned toward the Vast.
People say the mind is fickle; people say the mind’s unsteadiness does not cease; people say we try to make the mind still, to stop it, to become quiet—yet the mind goes on running away!
In fact, had the mind not been restless, man could never have become religious.
Let me say it again: if the mind had not been restless, man could never have become religious—because we would have handed it some trifling thing and the mind would have settled there. We would have handed it something worthless and the mind would have become steady there.
Whatever we hand it, the mind does not stop there—it becomes filled with longing for the beyond. In truth, until the Divine is found, it will not stop. The mind’s restlessness and agitation are because the mind is eager to attain the Divine. Before that, no treasure, no wealth can satisfy it.
It is a blessing that the mind is restless. It is a blessing that the mind is restless—restless, therefore perhaps someday reaching the Supreme Reality becomes possible. It is a blessing that the mind is desire-ridden, therefore perhaps one day the Supreme Desire may be attained.
I have heard, in Egypt there was once a fakir. The fakir had gone to work in his field behind his hut. The fakir’s woman disciple met the emperor outside the hut. She said to the emperor, please sit for a while on the ridge of the field; I will call the fakir. The emperor said, call him, I will stroll a bit. She thought perhaps the emperor was hesitant to sit outside. She took him inside the hut and said, here is a mat, please sit upon it, I will call the fakir. The emperor said, call him, I will walk a little. She was very surprised. She went and told the fakir, this emperor seems a strange man; I asked him repeatedly to sit, but he says, I will stroll, you go call him. The fakir said, in truth, where do we have a place worthy of his sitting! The fakir said, where do we have a place worthy of his sitting—that is why he walks.
I used to read this story, and an amazing point became visible to me: the mind is restless because you have not yet given it the place where it can sit. The mind is restless, agitated, because we have not yet given it that place where it may become still, where it may be absorbed, where it may dissolve, where it may be immersed. We have told it the ridges of fields; we have shown it ordinary thin mats. We have tempted it with the petty—while it is thirsty for the Vast. Therefore it is restless. Until we take it into the presence of the Vast, of the Infinite, of the Whole, of the Supreme, until then the mind will be restless, the mind will be agitated; the mind will run and race. The mind will be unhappy, filled with anguish. A constant anguish, a pain will go on holding it.
The sorrow of human life has one center. That by which man’s thirst would be quenched, that we do not give him; we give something else. We give something else which will not grant satiety! And we deprive him of that which could become satiety! And if this satiety does not happen, we may resort to a thousand contrivances, accumulate abundant arrangements and affluence—we cannot attain peace, we cannot attain bliss.
Religion does not happen by renouncing. Religion is not obtained by dropping. Religion does not come to the one who escapes from life. Religion comes by attaining—by attaining the Perfect. Religion calls us to make the Perfect available.
Those are mistaken who think religion is altruism. There is nothing more self-interested in this world than religion. Those are deluded who think religion is altruism. There is nothing more self-interested in this world than religion. None are more self-interested than Mahavira and Buddha in this world.
Self-interest means: where the Self is fulfilled, where meaning becomes complete.
Self-interest means: where my being attains its whole purpose and significance—where I become available to myself.
In one sense, we are not self-interested at all. We have no concern for the Self; we have no purpose with the Self! We run after those things which death will snatch away and finish. We are supremely unselfish people. We expend life on things that can never become part of our being, that can never unveil our true nature. Mahavira and Buddha and Jesus and Krishna are engaged in attaining that which even death cannot burn. They are perhaps attaining that wealth. What we call wealth is no wealth at all.
Nanak halted in a village near Lahore. A man said to him, I wish to serve you. I have great wealth. If it can come to your use, it would be a grace. Nanak evaded him many times. One night, when he repeated his request again, Nanak handed the man a needle for sewing clothes and said, keep this, and when both of us die, return it to me. The man must have been startled—has Nanak lost his wits! Startled that in front of so many people he speaks something incongruous and futile! How will this needle be returned after death! But speaking among all was not possible. And he himself had begged again and again for some service! And this service that was given, he could not outright refuse.
He went away, thinking and pondering all night. No way appeared as to how the needle could go beyond death. At five in the morning, even at four, he fell at Nanak’s feet and said, this needle—while I am still alive—please take it back; after dying, returning it is not within my capacity. I tried much, used many devices, thought much—even if I put all my wealth into it, the fist that holds this needle will remain on this shore. I do not know into which realm, into what unknown, I shall dissolve. I will be here no more. I cannot carry this needle across.
Nanak said, then let me ask you one thing: what do you have that you can carry across? The man said, I never considered it. But now that I look, it is not visible that I have anything I can carry across. Nanak said, that which cannot pass beyond death is not wealth.
What remains on this side of death can be a calamity—not wealth.
The awakened religious ones too earn wealth. We too earn wealth. We earn that wealth which remains on this side of death. They earn that wealth which even death’s flames cannot destroy, which will pass beyond death’s flames. Perhaps they alone are the truly self-interested; perhaps they alone accomplish the supreme self-interest. And who knows who it is that says they are renouncers; who knows who says they left everything; who knows who says they left affluence; who knows who speaks of their renunciation and austerity! I do not see anything of that sort. It is we who have left prosperity; we who have left wealth; we who have left joy! They have left only suffering; they have left only ignorance; they have left only pain. And if leaving pain and suffering and ignorance is renunciation, then that is a different matter. Then what will indulgence be?
In this world, only the sannyasin is an enjoyer. In this world, only the dispassionate, the vitaraga, remains available to bliss and peace. We all can be renouncers.
Mahavira left his affluence, his kingdom, his arrangements—kicked them away. We are filled with delight that he did a very great deed! In truth, we give great respect to wealth, therefore we also give great respect to Mahavira’s renunciation. In our vision, the value is not Mahavira; the value is in the fact that Mahavira kicked wealth! If a person to whom garbage is very dear sees someone throwing the household trash outside in the morning, perhaps he would bow with respect and say, wondrous renunciation he is doing—throwing away all the house’s garbage!
When we say Mahavira is a great renouncer, in fact we indicate our own reverence for wealth, not reverence for Mahavira. If we understand Mahavira, we will see that Mahavira left that which was futile. To even say “left” is perhaps wrong, because the futile is not renounced—once seen as futile, it falls away. I repeat again: to even say “left” is perhaps wrong. The futile is not renounced; when its futility is seen, it drops of itself.
In this world, the ignorant may have renounced; the wise have not renounced. From them, things have fallen away—as ripe leaves fall from a tree; as we throw the garbage outside and never remember it again.
I went to a village. I heard a sadhu’s discourse. I heard him for two days; for two days he went on saying. When I went to meet him, he also told me, I kicked away millions of rupees. I asked him, when did you kick them? He told me, about twenty years ago. Then I said to him, they were not kicked away—otherwise there was no need to remember them for twenty years. They were not kicked away. The idea that twenty years ago I had millions—that satisfied the ego. For twenty years the ego has been nourished: I kicked away millions! The matter stands where it stood.
Wealth is not “left”; one day it is seen—there is no wealth there at all. One day it is seen—there is no wealth there, there is the absence of wealth. The fist opens—nothing needs to be left. If someone were to force you on that day to keep the fist clenched, that would be great austerity. There can be austerity in carrying the burden of the futile. What austerity can there be in leaving the burden of the futile!
Not renunciation—only knowing is sufficient. Nothing is to be left; only to be known. Knowing is revolution. Know rightly what is meaningful and what is futile—revolution happens. The outcome of knowing becomes virtue, becomes conduct.
But how will those know what is meaningful and what is futile who do not even know themselves? Those who do not know the Self—how will they know the meaningful? Meaningful will be that which is consonant with the swaroop. Meaningful will be that which is in harmony with the swaroop. Futile will be that which is contrary to the swaroop. Futile will be that which is filled with opposition to the swaroop. Futile will be that which leads the swaroop astray.
In truth, suffering has no other meaning. That which is contrary to the swaroop is suffering. That which is in tune with the swaroop is bliss. The moment I find myself in tune with the swaroop, I become blissful. The moment I find myself contrary to the swaroop, I become unhappy. Suffering means that something is adverse—something I do not want is happening, and yet it is happening. Bliss means something is happening which I want to happen, which is in harmony with me.
Adverseness is suffering; harmony is happiness.
If I do not know the swaroop, then what is meaningful and what is futile cannot become visible. Swaroop-bodha clarifies the indication of meaningfulness and futility in life. This knowing is religion’s basic, central matter: Who am I?
Science knows matter—what matter is. Science digs into the secret of matter—what its laws are, what its mysteries, what its keys. Religion searches consciousness, searches the Self—what is its mystery. In the final analysis of matter, the atom has been obtained. And the atom’s attainment has become lethal, explosive. It may drown all humanity. The analysis of consciousness has attained the Atman. From the analysis of matter the atom has been obtained; from the analysis of consciousness the Atman has been obtained.
The atom can become deadly. The attainment of the Atman may become the way to save the world. In this world, which is surrounded by extreme pain and trouble, there is again a need for the proclamation of self-awakening.
But though we may know many things about the Atman, we do not know the Atman. Many doctrines may be adorned regarding the Atman, but there is no acquaintance with the Atman. There are many wonders in this world, but the greatest is only one—that leaving aside the one that I am, I can know everything else! I remain unacquainted with myself! The whole world can be known, and only that which knows—only that remains unknown! Running all over the world, there may be an appearance of a collection of knowledge, but this collection is ignorance, because it does not unveil the Self.
Mahavira has said, know everything, but if you do not know yourself, that knowing is not knowing. Win everything, but if you have not won yourself, that victory is no victory. Attain everything, but if you have not attained yourself, that attaining is not attainment.
We miss the swaroop—and we attain everything else!
It comes to my memory: Swami Ram Tirth, an Indian sadhu, was in Japan. He was passing by a building; the building had caught fire. People were taking out the goods. The master of the house was standing outside. He had lost his senses. He saw nothing, and yet he saw. Flames were seizing the house. People were bringing goods out. And in a little while everything would be leveled to the ground—everything would be ashes. Ram Tirth passed that way too and stood aside to watch. People asked for the last time, is there anything more left in the house? The master said, I remember nothing. I cannot recall anything! I stand stupefied. You yourselves please go once more and see. Whatever remains, save that too.
The house was close to being seized by the final flames. People went inside. They came out weeping. Somewhere in a secluded corner lay the owner’s only son—they returned carrying his ashes. People had been busy saving the household goods, and the sole owner of the house burnt within and was finished! Ram Tirth has written in his diary, that day it struck me that this event happens in each person’s life. We become busy saving the goods; the owner of the house slowly dies.
We become engaged in saving what is outside, and what is inward—what I myself am—we altogether forget! This over-busyness is self-destructive, suicidal. To be so occupied with matter, with objects, that the swaroop is forgotten—to become so occupied, so filled with the ordinary that the remembrance of the Self is lost—is self-destructive.
Perhaps what we call suicide is only body-killing. Suicide should be called this—suicide should be called this: to whom the remembrance of the Self is lost and whose entire life becomes centered on material things. That for which we are searching becomes secondary; and those things for which we had gone searching become primary. Forgetting the one for whose peace we had set out, and expending life in the arrangement of things—this should be called suicide. The killing of the body should not be called suicide.
This suicide happens within each one. There is only one way to be saved from it, to rise above it—that our mind, our consciousness which is overly busy with the other, be turned a little toward knowing oneself. The same power of knowing with which we set out to know the whole world—let that stream of knowing flow inward. Let us also know the one who is knowing all.
And those who have known give their assurance: the bliss which cannot be found by searching outside, birth after birth, is attained in a moment the instant one turns within. If this assurance were of one or two persons, it could be dismissed as the chatter of a madman. But of all those who have attained bliss upon this earth, in the history of the earth—not one has attained it outside. Of those who have attained, their collective testimony and witness is for the inner. Therefore this truth becomes scientific; it does not remain blind belief. It is no exception—for without exception, those who have experienced bliss have unveiled it from the utterly inner.
That inner is present in everyone, present every moment—whether we know it or not. Because it is our being; it is our being-ness; it is our very existence. By any number of means we cannot lose it. No man can lose his own Self—however much sin he may commit, however many devices of sin he may employ. One thing is impossible in this world—to lose oneself is impossible.
We cannot lose ourselves; yet people say, realize the Atman! What meaning can there be to realizing that which cannot be lost? The Atman is not lost; only forgetfulness happens. And understand me rightly—even forgetfulness does not truly happen; rather we become so full of the memory of the other that the remembrance of the Self is pressed underneath.
If we could drop the remembrance of the other for a little while, if our mind could become empty of the other for a little while, if the reflections of the other, the thoughts of the other, the images of the other could dissolve for a little while—then the Self-remembrance that lies pressed below would be unveiled. Nothing is lost—only something is veiled. Nothing is forgotten—only something has become hidden under coverings, under garments. It is only a matter of lifting a few garments, of becoming a little naked in the inner world—and the Self can be realized face to face.
Only after the Self’s realization is the meaningful experienced. Only after the Self’s realization does the futile drop away, and life’s movement aligns toward the meaningful. Before that—prior to Self-realization—whoever seeks the meaningful can only repress, can only struggle with himself, can only get involved in leaving. From that it will not drop, because he does not know that there is no question of leaving at all.
There was a sadhu. He was a householder. His rule was: cut wood, sell it; eat whatever food is gained; and whatever remains in the evening, distribute it. He had a wife. Once there was rain for seven days continuously. It was necessary to go to cut wood. Even after spending seven days fasting, it was not his rule to beg. After seven days, hungry—husband and wife—went to the forest to cut wood. They cut wood. Shaken by the hunger of seven days, carrying the burden of the wood, the couple was returning. The husband was ahead; the wife was a little behind. An amazing event occurred—worth remembering. If it settles in the mind, if it is established in some illuminated corner of the mind, a transformation of direction may happen in life.
He was walking ahead, bearing the bundle of wood. By the side of the path he saw that some traveler’s pouch had fallen—gold coins were in it. Thinking that after the hunger and trouble of seven days his wife’s mind might become filled with attachment, might fill with greed, that perhaps the idea might arise to pick up the coins—that unnecessarily some defilement not arise in her consciousness—he slid the pouch into a pit and covered it with soil. He thought to himself, I am the victor over gold; I have conquered—I can renounce the fascination of gold—but my wife might become attached. He was just rising after covering it with soil when his wife arrived.
She asked, what are you doing? The sadhu’s rule was not to speak untruth, so he had to speak truth. He said, thinking that I am free of possession, that I have renounced everything—but that no attachment arise in you—there was a pouch of gold coins lying here, I covered it with soil.
The wife said, were you not ashamed to throw soil upon soil? Does gold still appear as gold to you?
If gold appears as gold, there is no renunciation of gold. If gold appears as gold, there is no freedom from gold. If gold seems valuable, then attachment to gold remains. There can be two kinds of relationship with gold—of attachment and of aversion. But both are relationships. Two kinds of relationship are possible with gold—that I become eager to possess it, or I become eager to leave it. But both are relationships.
In truth, the one who knows himself neither leaves gold nor holds gold. He suddenly knows—there is no meaning there at all. There is no meaning in gold. Not even so much meaning that one should be eager to leave it, or eager to hold it. This state we have called vitaragata—beyond both attachment and aversion.
One state is raga—attachment toward gold.
One state is vairagya—aversion toward gold.
But both are relationships. In both, gold has meaning. There is a third thing: vitaragata—separate from both raga and viraga. There, there is no relationship with gold. There, there is no relationship with the world, with samsara.
The unveiling of this truth—that my being is unattached, utterly distinct and separate—bears fruit as renunciation in life. Renunciation is the fruit of knowledge. No one reaches knowledge by renouncing; by the arising of knowledge, renunciation bears fruit.
Samyak darshan is primary; samyak conduct is its result.
One does not have to cultivate conduct; one has to attain knowledge. Those who begin with conduct have begun from the wrong end. They have begun from one extremity. In ignorance, conduct will be imposed, cultivated. In knowledge, conduct is spontaneous. In ignorance, one will have to suppress anger and then practice forgiveness; in knowledge, anger does not arise at all.
Those who have said of Mahavira that he was very forgiving—those people have spoken untruth regarding Mahavira. To call Mahavira forgiving means that anger arose in him. Mahavira was not forgiving—in truth, in Mahavira anger did not arise. Where there is an absence of anger, there the question of forgiveness or unforgiveness does not arise. The forgiving can be angry; for the non-angry, the question of being forgiving does not arise. The knowledge that arises from the Self’s own realization fills the inner being with wondrous, golden light.
In life, the path of liberation does not begin with conduct; it begins with the awakening of prajna.
How will this awakening of prajna—this realization of the Self—happen? By what method can I go within? By what method can I come face to face with myself? By what method can I become one with that which is seeing all?
If the method is to be understood, we must understand by what method I went out of myself. By what method did I go out of myself? If I understand by what method I went out, then by returning along that very route in reverse I will reach myself. The path by which I came out is also the path that will take me in—only I must walk opposite. The path that brought me into bondage will also be the path of my freedom—only I must walk opposite. The path that connects me with the world will be the same path that connects me with the Divine—only I must walk opposite.
This mind of ours—this consciousness, this thought—connects us with the world. Imagine for a moment that in the mind there is no thought, no wave—the mind has become wave-less, thought-free—will you be related to the world in that moment? Will any relationship remain then? In that moment, with that which lives outside, will any connection, any relationship remain—will any thread remain tied?
Even to imagine will show—if the mind is utterly wave-less and empty, if there is no activity of thought, passion, imagination, memory—if all is empty—then in that emptiness you will be severed from the world, separate. If the mind is filled with thought, we are connected with the world, with the body, with the other. Our bondage—if we understand very rightly—is not the world; our bondage is thought.
It is not from the world we must be free, but from thought.
After becoming free, Mahavira still lived in the world; he lived forty years. After becoming free, Buddha lived in the world for thirty years. They were in the world—then what had happened to them?
They were in the world, but the world was not in them.
They were in the world, but the world was not in them. The place where the world comes to be within us is thought. The reflection of the world is formed within us in thought. Within us, thought is the house of the world. Therefore, demolishing the house of thought is sannyas. To remain shut in the house of thought is to be a householder. Inside, the wall of thought encloses us. For twenty-four hours—rising, sitting, sleeping, waking—the continuous stream of thought surrounds us. That very thought is our unquietness; that very thought is our excitation; that very thought is our disturbed state; that very thought is our feverish state. By the dissolution of thought—by the quieting of thought, by the fading of its turmoil and waves—within, a mirror of peace, a state of tranquil consciousness arises. In that very peace, in that unagitated state, the Self is realized.
I said, we are so busy with the other that we have forgotten the remembrance of the Self. If we become unoccupied with the other, if for a little while the other becomes absent from within us, the Self will be unveiled.
In this hall we are all sitting. We have filled the empty space in the hall. That empty space has gone nowhere; it has not gone outside. When you came inside, the empty space of the hall did not go out. If you want to make that empty space available again, you do not have to bring it from outside. If we go out, the hall will become empty again. If we go out, the empty space is present. It has been pressed down by us, filled by us; the moment we leave, the emptiness will be available again.
The remembrance of the Self is pressed down by the thinking of the other, filled by it.
If the thinking of the other is dissolved, the Self will be unveiled.
The Self has gone nowhere; the Self is ever-present—only covered by the other. The way to break the coverings of the other is Samadhi; the way to sever the covering of the other is knowledge. Therefore, whatever the religion—Jain, Buddhist, Hindu, Christian—whatever the outer forms of religion—within religion the process is one and the same: to cut the covering; to dissolve that which has settled upon us; to break the cloud that has gathered over us—so that from within the sun of light may arise. In one small sutra, the essence of all religions is contained: become zero and the Whole will be revealed. Become zero and you have reached Samadhi.
How to become zero? Even a small thought is not left—how will the entire process of thought cease? It is natural for you to ask: a tiny granule of thought does not leave the mind—how will the whole process of thought be dispelled?
And if we push thoughts, on the contrary, thought becomes even more effective. If you try to throw out one thought, it returns bringing four companions with it.
If you have ever tried to expel thought—if you have ever sat in a temple, a mosque, a sanctuary and tried to remember the Divine—you will have found that thoughts which do not come in ordinary life begin to come inside the enclosure of the temple! Whenever you have tried to make the mind empty, quiet, silent—then you will have found that in the effort to become silent an unknown smoke of thoughts hidden within rises, unknown layers of thoughts, waves of thoughts from each particle begin to come! What seemed quiet otherwise becomes more disturbed, more excited, more tumultuous in the attempt to become quiet. If you ever perform even a small experiment, you will find each experiment, each effort makes the mind even more unquiet. Therefore ordinarily those who go to temples are more unquiet in life. Those who toil at efforts to quiet the mind are more agitated in life.
You may have heard of rishis who curse, who in anger say all sorts of things. Many people find that those who fight with the mind are angry persons. Those who repress the mind will seem extremely angry, extremely fevered. Beneath their peace, somewhere a volcano is hidden. In truth, repression and struggle with the mind are not the way to conquer the mind. Whoever fights the mind will not win the mind. The secret to winning the mind is something else. Therefore even a petty thought cannot be removed by this struggle.
There was a sadhu in Tibet. A young man went to him. For three or four years the youth served that sadhu. He wished to gain some siddhi. The sadhu kept putting him off. He said, I have no siddhi. But the youth did not agree, he persisted. At last one day the sadhu wrote a mantra on a paper and gave it to him and said, take this! At night, sit in solitude and remember it five times—and then whatever miracle or siddhi you desire will be available to you. Now be off.
The youth ran. For this he had stayed three years! In elation he descended the steps. He was about to step off the last step when the sadhu shouted, listen, my friend, I forgot to tell one thing. The condition is incomplete. When you recite the mantra five times, remember—do not let the remembrance of a monkey arise. The youth said, have you gone mad! In my whole life the remembrance of a monkey never arose—why will it arise in reciting five times! But he had not even descended all the steps when the monkey surrounded him. He walked on the path and the image of the monkey began to arise within. He began to remove the monkey—then not one but many began to peep. The whole mind seemed filled with a crowd of monkeys. He reached home and his whole mind was encircled by monkeys. He was very astonished—that sadhu is surely ignorant and foolish. If the remembrance of a monkey obstructs the mantra, then that ignorant, foolish man should not have said it at all. By saying it, he has created trouble.
He bathed, he remembered sacred names, he went and sat outside the village in solitude; he did all devices—but the monkeys were there! It was not possible to be separate from the monkey. Whatever he did—monkeys everywhere. If he opened his eyes—their reflections; if he closed his eyes—their reflections! By morning he had begun to turn insane—monkeys and monkeys all around! And no other thought in the mind; all thoughts that usually troubled were now absent; only one thought remained—because there was one wrong concept to do.
Early morning he went to the sadhu, begged forgiveness, and returned the mantra. The sadhu asked, what difficulty arose? He said, now do not touch that topic. The difficulty that arose—I cannot cross it. If this is the condition—that the monkey should not be remembered—then in this life it is not possible to break it from the mind.
What happened to him will happen to everyone. There is science behind it. It did not go wrong—it went right. This is the result of struggle; the result of repression. Those things cannot be repressed which have no positive existence.
As, if darkness is in this chamber and we all begin to shove the darkness out—will it go out? It will not go. You would say, we used so much force, but still it did not go! In fact, the question of force is irrelevant. Darkness is not. If it were, by shoving it could go. Darkness is negative; it is the absence of something. It is not the presence of something. It is the absence of light. Therefore it cannot be expelled. Light must be kindled—and it is not found.
Remember, it does not go out. By lighting the light, darkness does not go out somewhere outside. By the coming of light, darkness is not found. It was only the absence of light. It had no existence of its own. Those things which have no existence of their own cannot be pushed away. Those which have their own existence can be separated.
The absence of light is darkness; the absence of dhyana is thought. Therefore thought is not to be thrown out—dhyana is to be awakened. By the awakening of dhyana, thought dissolves. In the measure that dhyana awakens, in that measure thoughts melt toward the zero. In the moment perfect dhyana comes into being, thoughts are negated, they are not.
No struggle with thought—effort for the advent of dhyana! Effort for the advent of dhyana!
Then what is the meaning of dhyana? Dhyana means: to fill the mind with wakefulness, with awareness, with vivek.
Mahavira told his monks: wake with vivek, sleep with vivek, walk with vivek, rise and sit with vivek.
What is the meaning of vivek?
Vivek means to be filled with complete wakefulness—with total awareness. To be filled with consciousness toward all the activities of the body, toward all the activities of the mind. Become aware of the mind—be a witness. Do not fight the mind; become the seer of the flow of thought. Become a detached witness; only keep seeing. Do not dissolve thought—only keep watching thought. Remain a mere witness; do nothing. Only, filled with awareness, watch the flow of thought—aloof, in the mood of non-attachment. As travelers pass on the road, and I stand by the side silently watching.
One has to practice silently standing and watching the procession of thought on the road of the mind; not to fight them, not to disturb them, not to stop them, not to push them; not to pass judgments of good and bad upon them, not to condemn—because the moment we do something with them, the flow will become more intense and accelerated—only seeing is required, only the experiment of witnessing is required. And gradually, in the measure that the inner stupor breaks and awareness comes toward the flow of thought, in that measure thoughts begin to dissolve.
C. M. Joad was a great Western thinker. He wrote: I was filled with thoughts all my life. Once I went to a psychoanalyst. He put me on a couch behind a curtain; he himself stood on the other side and told me, whatever thoughts are arising in the mind, watch them and speak them aloud. Joad wrote, I looked within to speak whatever thoughts come. I began to look within, to probe—but I was very surprised—no thoughts were coming there at all. No thoughts were coming at all! Joad wrote, I was astonished. In life, whose stream never broke waking or sleeping—today I went searching within and they were absent, they were missing! The inner eye arrived—and thoughts were not!
Just as light cannot see darkness, so when the inner eye arrives—when the effort to see within arrives, when awareness arrives within—thoughts become zero; their breath breaks; their life departs.
To break the drowsiness toward the ever-rising, ever-flowing thought—that is dhyana; to become aware of it—that is dhyana.
There is a mention in Buddha’s life—if I say it, my point can be understood.
A prince was ordained with Buddha. His name was Shron. On the second day after ordination, Buddha said, go to the house of my woman devotee and bring alms. He went to that devotee’s house. The memories of his entire life flashed in his eyes. Till yesterday he was a prince; today on that very road he walked with a begging bowl! Naturally his whole life returned to him. He remembered on the way that till yesterday at home there was a wife, there was a mother, and whatever delicious food he loved was available. Today no one will know—who knows what he will get! All the tasty foods he had always loved came to memory.
He went to the devotee’s house and ate. Seeing it he was astonished—the very foods he loved were served to him! He thought, strange coincidence! Then thinking perhaps that was what had been cooked, he silently began to eat. As he ate he remembered, every day after food he would rest for two moments at home; today after eating he would have to walk two miles in the afternoon. The devotee was fanning in front. She said, Bhante! If after eating you rest for two moments, it would be a great grace. He was a little startled—what is this! Then he remembered, it must be coincidence that the thought came to me at that time and the thought came to her too. A mat was spread; after eating he lay down to rest. The moment he lay, he remembered that today neither any shade is mine nor any bed is mine. The devotee was near. She said, Bhante! Neither any bed belongs to anyone, nor any shade belongs to anyone.
Now it was difficult to call it coincidence. He sat up. He said, I am astonished! Are my thoughts read? Are my thoughts transmitted? The devotee said, by practicing dhyana, by practicing continuous awareness, first one’s own thoughts became visible; then one’s own thoughts dissolved. Now I am astonished—others’ thoughts are also visible! The monk was frightened. He was very troubled; his hands and feet trembled. The devotee said, what is there to fear? But beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The devotee said, what is there to be troubled about?
But the monk took leave and went back. He told Buddha, I will not go to that doorway for alms. Buddha asked, was there some disrespect? Shron said, not disrespect—full respect, a very loving hospitality. But now I will not go to that door again. That devotee reads others’ thoughts. And today seeing that beautiful young woman, lust also arose in my mind. That too would have been read. What would she have thought! Tomorrow how shall I carry this face to that door? How shall I stand before her?
Buddha said, you will have to go there. Knowing this, I sent you. It is part of your sadhana to go there. But go with awareness. Do not be afraid. Keep looking within as you go—what arises. Do not fear. Whatever passions arise—go on seeing them. Thoughts arise—go on seeing them. Only go on seeing—do nothing. Then come and tell me.
He had to go there—compulsion. Today he went in a very new way. Yesterday he had gone lost on the same path—drowsy, stupefied, without awareness—thoughts moved in stupor. And today he went with eyes set, awake, witnessing and seeing. He was filled with awareness toward each thought—he was separate. He was astonished. When he looked within, there was silence. When stupor grew within, he looked outside—then the stream of thought began to move. When he looked outside, within thought flowed. When he looked within, thought became zero. He climbed the steps and he could feel the breath! Even breath was visible—moving in and out within. He lifted his foot—he was aware of that too. He ate food, lifted a morsel—there was complete remembrance of that too! The pulsation of breath was also known!
He returned dancing. He fell at Buddha’s feet. He said, I have found the secret’s key. Buddha asked, what happened? He said, when I looked within awake, I found thoughts dissolved! When I was in awareness, thoughts were absent! When I was unconscious, thoughts were present!
Buddha said, stupor is mind; non-stupor takes one beyond mind.
Mahavira too has said, to be pramatta is bondage; to be apramatta is liberation.
Pramattata means: stupor, unconsciousness—toward the mind, toward the mind’s activities.
Apramattata means: awareness, wakefulness, consciousness.
Through hoś—through awareness—the mind dissolves; thinking dissolves; the waves of thought are lost. In their latent state, that which was covered by them is unveiled. Its unveiling is liberation; its unveiling is to reach outside bondage. Upon its unveiling, life is established in a new dimension, on a new horizon. Those who have experienced that moment of free life have become masters of infinite bliss. Those who have experienced that moment of freedom have become masters of infinite peace. And the assurance of all such people is: whoever at any time looks within can become the owner of this wondrous kingdom of the Divine.
This assurance is for everyone. No one is unfit. In other relationships of life, one’s capacity may be less, another’s greater. In the inner life everyone’s capacity is the same. No one can be unfit. In the inner life everyone’s capacity is equal—it is only a matter of calling forth awakening, of kindling hoś within, of creating thirst within. Whoever rightly experiments with a little awareness within will experience liberation in the very midst of the world.
Finally, what I have said is not said for a select few. It is said for each of us. The bones and flesh that made Mahavira’s body—those very bones and flesh make our body. The same consciousness that was established within that body is established within our body too. Not a particle’s difference. Not the difference of even one speck.
Then we ought to feel humiliated. We worship in temples. Truly, seeing Mahavira, Buddha, and Jesus, we ought to feel humiliated. We ought to be self-condemned. Do we, in their reverence and respect, hide our own humiliation? Seeing them, does not humiliation arise within us? Does it not occur to us that this body, this consciousness—where to the Supreme Divine they led it! And we? Where are we driving it in the circle of the animal! Does humiliation not creep within us?
If temples and the images enshrined in them do not humiliate us, then the temples are futile, those images are futile. In the clamoring of reverence and worship and remembrance of their names, we forget our self-humiliation!
I wish to remind you of that humiliation. And let some thirst slip into us and seize us with humiliation, and let some endeavor, some resolve be born—that what some have at some time attained, that too we shall, I shall attain. I too have to attain. I am not to waste this life without attaining. If this resolve takes hold, an astonishing—certainly astonishing—revolution can occur in life.
May the Divine grant that that revolution occur in each one’s life—that is my wish. And in the end, to the Supreme Luminous Lord seated within all, I bow down. Please accept my prostrations.