Mahaveer Ya Mahavinash #7

My beloved Atman!
I would like to begin today’s talk with a small incident.
A fakir, a sannyasin, was circling the earth in search of the Lord. He was looking for a guide — someone who could become his inspiration, someone who could show him the direction of the path of life. At last he found an aged sannyasin by the roadside and became his fellow traveler.
But that old sannyasin said that he had one condition if the young man was to travel with him. And the condition was this: whatever I do, you will keep patience about it and you will not raise questions. Whatever I do, until I myself tell you about it, you may not ask. If you can keep that much patience and restraint, you can travel with me.
The youth accepted the condition and the two sannyasins set out. The very first night they slept by a river, and early in the morning they took a boat tied at the bank and crossed over. The boatman, seeing they were sannyasins, ferried them across for free. As they were nearing the far bank, the young sannyasin saw that the old sannyasin, stealthily, was boring a hole into the boat! The boatman was taking them across, and the old sannyasin was making a hole in his boat! The young sannyasin was aghast. Is this the return for kindness? We are being ferried across for free in the morning, and you pierce a hole in that poor boatman’s boat?
He forgot the condition — it had been made only the night before. They had hardly taken two steps from the riverbank when the young sannyasin blurted out, Listen! This is astonishing. You, a sannyasin — the boatman who lovingly ferried us across, offered free service at daybreak, and you go and make a hole in his boat! What kind of return is this — evil for good, badness for kindness?
The old sannyasin said, You have broken the condition. Only last evening we agreed you would not ask. Take leave of me. If you take leave, I will tell you the reason. And if you wish to continue, then be mindful: if you ask again, our companionship will end.
The young sannyasin became aware. He asked forgiveness. He was surprised that he could not keep even this much restraint! He could not hold even this much patience!
But the very next day, again his restraint broke. They were passing through a forest. The emperor of that land had come there to hunt. Seeing the sannyasins he showed great respect, had them mounted on his horses, and all of them began returning toward the capital. The emperor seated his only son, the young prince, on the horse with the old sannyasin. The horses galloped toward the capital. The emperor’s horses went ahead; the two sannyasins’ horses lagged behind. With the old sannyasin sat the emperor’s child — his only son. When they were left alone, the old sannyasin dismounted the young prince, twisted his arm and broke it, shoved him into a thicket, and said to his sannyasin companion, Run, quickly.
This was beyond endurance. Again the condition was forgotten. He said, This is shocking! The king who welcomed us, gave us a ride on his horses, invited us to stay in his palaces, who trusted so much as to seat you with his son — and you twist the only son’s arm and leave him in the forest! What is this? It is beyond my understanding! I demand an answer!
The old man said, You have again broken the condition. And I had said if you break it a second time, we will part. Now we part, and I will give you the answers to both matters. Go back and find out — you will learn that the boat the boatman left on this bank at night would have been used by dacoits to cross and plunder that village at night. I made a hole in it. That village will be saved from a raid. And the king’s son — I twisted his arm and left him in the jungle. Find out: this king is extremely wicked, cruel and tyrannical; his son is to grow up still more cruel and tyrannical. But there is a law in that kingdom: only one whose limbs are intact may sit on the throne. I have crippled his arm; now he is no longer eligible to rule. For centuries the people of that land have been oppressed; they will be freed from that tradition of suffering.
Now take leave. I ask your forgiveness. What appears to you is all that appears; the unmanifest, the invisible, does not appear. And the man who stops at the obvious, at what is right before the eyes, can never search for truth. I ask your forgiveness; our paths separate here.
I do not know how far the story is true; I do not even know whether the dacoits would indeed have attacked using that boat, or whether that prince, grown up, would have become a tyrant or not. I tell this story for a different meaning: that in life there is a manifest meaning and an unmanifest meaning. Behind all facts of life there is one meaning which is visible from above; and there is another meaning which is invisible. Those who see only the surface meaning are not religious; those who can see the inner, invisible meaning are religious.
I begin thus because Mahavira has one life — the one written in books, in the shastras, the one believed by his worshippers; and another life of Mahavira that is not manifest, is invisible, and which requires eyes of great patience and restraint to see. What is unmanifest cannot be written in books; what is unseen cannot be bound in words. At most there can be hints, gestures.
But people catch hold of the hint, the gesture, and leave what is behind — the unmanifest! With all the great ones of the world this injustice has happened; it has happened with Mahavira too.
Just now a brother requested that I say something on his life.
What do you understand by Mahavira’s life? In which house he was born — this? Then you are crazy. Whose son he was — this? Then you are crazy. That he was born in a royal house — this? Whether he married or not? Whether a daughter was born or not? Whether he wore clothes or not? How long he lived, in which year he was born and in which year he died — do you call this Mahavira’s life?
Then you have neither restraint nor patience. You cannot know Mahavira. None of these have anything to do with Mahavira’s life. These are non-essential, utterly valueless. Yet such things are taken as life — not only for Mahavira but for Christ, for Rama, for Krishna, for anyone! It is utterly useless, of no worth at all, where a man is born, in which house; whether born in a palace or in poverty; whether in a Kshatriya family or a Brahmin family; whether in a Shudra’s house or a high lineage — where he is born has no value; that is the story of the body, and has nothing to do with Mahavira. Everyone is born somewhere. How many days he lived, in which year born and in which year ended — this too has no value.
I was speaking in a large city. A man stood and asked me, I want to ask you a question. Mahavira and Buddha were contemporaries. Which of the two was older? Who was elder in age? He said, I have been researching this for three years but I have not yet been able to decide who was born first.
I said to him, Whichever one was born first, whether one lived a little longer or less — these are secondary matters. But one thing is certain: in this search you have wasted three years of your life. One thing is sure — you have squandered three years. Whether Mahavira lived longer than Buddha, what difference does it make? Whether one was born earlier or later, what difference does it make? How does this reveal any fundamental key to understanding life, to discovering its meaning? Even if they had never been born, nothing would have been diminished. Birth or no birth is not so important — what is Mahavira’s inner state, his inner life, what is Mahavira’s soul?
Yet I see, everywhere hymns are sung, pundits narrate stories — when he was born, how he was born, how many elephants and horses were in his house, how much wealth there was, how he renounced it, how many crores of wealth he distributed! A great renunciate, because he left so much wealth. Had he not had so much wealth, these pundits would not even have come to ask, for what would he have renounced? Had Mahavira taken birth in a poor house, it would have been difficult for him to become a Tirthankara in the eyes of these people who now take him to be a Tirthankara.
Do you know, the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras are all sons of kings — not a single one a poor man’s son! The Hindus’ avatars of God are all kings’ sons — not one a poor man’s son! The Buddhists’ Buddha-avatars are all princes — not one a poor man’s son! In India till today, a poor man’s son has not been allowed the right to be divine! Why? Does God take birth only in the rich man’s house? Has God taken a contract to be born only in the houses of the wealthy?
No, that is not the case. God is born in a thousand homes, but our blind eyes can recognize only that God who renounces wealth. We measure God by wealth! A poor God cannot appear to us. Our measure is wealth. We talk a religious talk, we think we are praising renunciation; but it is false. When, in praising Mahavira, someone counts how many golden chariots, how big a kingdom, how much wealth, how many gems were his, which he rejected and renounced — remember, in his eyes renunciation has no value; what he values is the amount he is counting. And since that valued wealth was discarded, Mahavira too appears valuable.
I was in Jaipur. A friend came and said, There is a very great muni here — will you not go to have his darshan? I asked, How do you know he is a great muni? What are the weights and scales for this? Where is the balance to say who is a great muni and who is lesser? Who is a muni and who is not — how did you know?
He said, Is that even a question? The Maharaja of Jaipur himself bows at his feet!
You understand the measure, don’t you? If the Jaipur ruler does not touch a muni’s feet, the muni is diminished. I said, In this, who is proved great — the Maharaja or the muni? Who is proved great? The Maharaja is proved great; the muni is not proved great.
When someone tells numbers — so much wealth was renounced, therefore a great renunciate — in this, renunciation is not proved great, wealth is proved great; because wealth is the criterion. All this story that Mahavira left so much wealth is worth two cowries. When for Mahavira wealth had no value, then in understanding Mahavira’s life that wealth has no value. When to Mahavira wealth is valueless, why do we keep tallying it in his life? Who is doing this tally? Those who do not understand Mahavira.
Mahavira says the Atman is neither born nor dies — then in the tale of Mahavira’s life, to talk of birth and death is nonsense. Because Mahavira says birth is secondary, death is secondary, the soul is immortal; there is no need to keep accounts of birth and death. If Mahavira says this, then those who talk of his life and discuss his birth and death are enemies of Mahavira, not followers. They have not understood what Mahavira is saying, what his life is!
So what life is it you want to ask about? The way the request is put, to speak on his life — as if I might speak on something else!
What is life? Life is not such a thing that you can seat it into statistics of events. Life is not what is obvious, what appears. And Mahavira’s life is certainly not that. A person is great to the extent to which there is such a life within him as is hard to be seen from the outside.
But our eyes only see the outside. And because of this outer seeing, the injustice we have done to every great one — in the name of worship, in the name of prayer, in the name of being followers — the distortion we have produced of the great ones, someday if accounts are asked, in the court of the Divine how we will be proved guilty is hard to even reckon. What judgment we will receive, difficult to say.
Our ways of seeing, our eyes of recognition, are so meaningless that what we assess and recognize loses all value. We are so successful at seeking the futile — if we understand a little, we will see what outer life is and what inner life is. And if we can find a little glimpse into Mahavira’s inner life, then some path can be set and cleared for a glimpse into our own inner life too.
I have no interest in uttering words of praise for Mahavira — whether praise is spoken or not spoken makes not the slightest difference to Mahavira. When he was alive, he had no concern; now there is even less reason for concern. But those who call themselves his followers like it very much that someone should say a few praising words for Lord Mahavira! Why do they enjoy it?
Mahavira himself gains no enjoyment. He has no hunger for praise, no hunger for respect. He has no desire for fame. He hardly even knows who thinks what of him, and he gives it no value. But why does the follower’s mind tickle with delight when praise of Mahavira is sung? What is the matter?
The sickness must be in the follower; no trace of sickness is found in Mahavira. The sickness is this: when the follower shouts loudly, Victory to Lord Mahavira!, he is not proclaiming Mahavira’s victory — he is proclaiming his own. My God is the greatest God! In his shadow, I too become great. Otherwise what have I to do with him? What have I to do with God? What is the use to me of his praise?
And by shouting victory, does someone’s victory come about? It should be shouted by my life — that my life become manifest; that within me that appears which I am honoring in him. The fragrance I speak of in that flower — let that fragrance be in my life too; then victory happens. Otherwise, with hollow slogans the earth has been filled with a great clamor — no result comes of it.
Christians keep shouting, Glory be to Jesus Christ. Those who believe in Rama keep shouting his praise. Those who believe in Mahavira keep shouting his praise. And they try to outshout one another, that our uproar of praise should be louder than the rest.
If Mahavira and Krishna and Christ are anywhere, they will be covering their ears — These mad people make such a racket, they do not let one sit in peace. For what are they shouting? For whom are they shouting? Why this eagerness, this anxiety that someone should praise? Why do we seek the satisfaction of our ego in praise?
When someone says, Rama is very great, the believer in Rama too becomes great in the shadow — I am not a follower of some small one, I am a follower of the greatest. When someone says, Jesus Christ is the son of God, the believer in Jesus becomes great — Rama, Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha — all are outshone; Jesus is the son of God and I am his follower. When praise of Mahavira is sung, the follower of Mahavira begins nodding his head — Very good things are being said!
Nothing good is being said; your ego is being tickled, you are enjoying it, you are feeling big. But remember, religion is the enemy of the ego. And the whole of Mahavira’s sadhana is the sadhana of dissolving the ego. So these are not the things to be done on Mahavira’s jayanti. This must be thought about, pondered. What are our motives? What is our inner desire that we shout praise, or become eager that someone should praise? Why?
These wrong desires of ours have utterly distorted the wondrous lives of our great ones. Our ways of seeing and thinking are as closed as we are; as narrow as our minds are. Because of our narrow tendency and intelligence, when we go to look at a great one through our narrow window, if his picture becomes small, it is no wonder.
The Jains together make Mahavira small. The Christians together make Jesus small. The Hindus together make Rama small. The Muslims together make Mohammed small. These people were so great they could have belonged to the whole earth. But their followers have drawn boundaries and made them small. They have become the property of a few. Hardly three million Jains are there in India; Mahavira has become the property of three million Jains! They make so much noise that others begin to suspect — These are their God, their person; what have we to do with him? Humanity is deprived of Mahavira.
Likewise, humanity has been deprived of all the great ones. Those who should have been everyone’s wealth have become the property of some, and those few cry out with great arrogance. That arrogance is theirs; what has it to do with Mahavira? Therefore I will not say words of praise, for praise of yours has no need, no benefit. Rather I would like to say something by which, if you understand Mahavira’s inner consciousness, you become self-condemned, you sense your own smallness. Because when in the presence of a great one a person experiences self-condemnation, then a revolution begins in his life.
By praising the great one so that one secretly praises oneself, no revolution begins — one becomes more rigid. But in the remembrance of the great one, before his image, if our own picture begins to look utterly small, pitiable, poor — if it appears that I am nothing and yet man can be this vast! If such greatness can happen in one human being, what am I doing wasting life? This could happen within me as well. Mahavira can be born within each person.
If one seed can become a tree, then there is a challenge to every seed to become a tree. And if some seed cannot become a tree, then standing before the tree let it experience self-condemnation. Let it feel, I am being wasted in vain; I too could have been a tree, and beneath me thousands could have found shade; I too could have been a bower of shade laden with fruit and rest — but I could not become so.
When you come near Mahavira, do you feel that what has flowered in him is not flowering in you? Do you feel self-reproach? If you do, then from Mahavira’s life, Mahavira’s sadhana, Mahavira’s inner consciousness, some rays may reach you that become your guide. But no — where do we have the leisure? In the clamoring praise of Mahavira we hide our self-reproach, we forget that the issue was self-reflection! That before Mahavira we were to place ourselves and think relatively: where am I and where is this person!
But no — we are very clever! The human species is very cunning. So clever that instead of placing the great one before oneself and comparing, one forgets oneself in his praise and then projects onto him qualities that are not his but arise from reasons within us.
For example, the man who is overly greedy for food will always honor one who fasts. When someone honors a fasting man, know that his honoring has little to do with the faster; it has much to do with the man who is greedily attached to food. Because of his excessive craving for food, the fasting man appears worthy of reverence.
The man who is very lustful will find the life of a brahmachari deeply admirable. The man who is violent, cruel, harsh — the life of the nonviolent will deeply impress him. It is very strange. The man who is madly greedy for wealth — he will be deeply affected by the life of the renunciate. But this is psychological. There are reasons behind it. What we cannot do — when we see another do it, we are astonished. It is natural to be astonished by what I cannot do when another does it.
Those who are astonished by Mahavira are the very opposite of Mahavira. The one who is impressed by Buddha is the very opposite of Buddha. The one affected by Christ is the very opposite of Christ. Hence the great one on one side, the followers exactly opposite on the other.
Think a little. Mahavira says aparigraha — he leaves all ownership, does not accept that any wealth is his. But among Mahavira’s followers, who in India accumulated as much wealth? Strange! Yet not strange — very psychological. There are reasons. There is no fault of Mahavira in this. Because of Mahavira’s total renunciation of wealth, those who were exceedingly greedy for wealth were drawn to him. What they could not do, Mahavira was doing.
Jesus Christ says, Love — love everyone, love even the enemy. If someone slaps your one cheek, turn the other as well. If someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too, lest he be in need of a shirt. If someone compels you to carry his burden one mile, carry it two. Jesus teaches this. But how many slaps have Christians given to the cheeks of the people, how many murders and violences have they done to humanity, how many wars have been fought in the name of religion, how many unarmed people killed, how many burned in fires — in the hundreds of thousands! Astonishing.
Jesus says, If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn the other; love even your enemy. And the followers? Apart from killing, they do little else! What is this? Around the messenger of love gather those whose lives have no love. They are attracted; what they cannot do, they are astonished by. This is very contradictory — yet it has happened everywhere.
If you look at a great one’s life and then at those around him, you will find his followers to be the exact opposite. And these opposite followers will praise in him precisely those qualities they themselves lack. They will magnify that praise, push it to extremes, so far that the great one begins to appear false! They drag the point to such a limit that the great one seems untrue. There is no fault of the great one; it is the followers… The follower is substituting, compensating for his own lacks by joining them to the great one. If you think a little, you will see it.
In India, Mahavira’s and Buddha’s teaching is of renunciation, of the immaterial — to drop fascination with matter, to rise above materialism. Yet the followers — how materialist they are, it is shocking to see. How tightly they clutch matter, it is shocking to see. Even when they built Mahavira’s temples, they made golden idols! Of that Mahavira who all his life said, Gold is dust. They amassed treasure chests of wealth around Mahavira — who said, Wealth is ash, drop it, it has no value. At Mahavira’s temple — Mahavira who would not keep even a staff in his hand, who said that to keep a staff is a sign of violence, preparation for a potential enemy; to hold a staff is proof of cowardice, because the fearful keep weapons — before his temple stand armed guards with guns! Wonders upon wonders, miracles! What is happening? And these very people sing Mahavira’s praise — and thus Mahavira’s life is set right! The life they will build is false, utterly false, because it is built by them.
With all the great ones of the world this has happened. Not with one alone. So let no one think what happened to Mahavira did not happen to others — it happened to all.
What life we construct is the life we have seen — not Mahavira’s life. We see what we lack within. I cannot leave woman, Mahavira leaves woman. I cannot leave wealth, Mahavira leaves wealth. I cannot leave my house, Mahavira leaves his house. I cannot remain hungry, Mahavira fasts. We are astonished and say, Blessed Lord! You are a great ascetic. You embrace suffering. You renounce pleasure. You choose pain. You are a tapasvin, you undertake austerities; we are indulgent, poor, sinful; you are a virtuous soul.
But by our way of seeing, the thing is altered. Mahavira is neither a renunciate nor a tapasvin; he is not leaving wealth or anything else. Something else is happening within Mahavira; we see that something else in this way. This is our attitude; it is not the event of Mahavira’s life. Mahavira is not a renunciate; Mahavira is a knower.
Understand this a little and entering his life becomes easy. I want to speak to you on three sutras which can lead you into his inner life.
Mahavira is not a renunciate; he is a knower. But we call him a renunciate. We keep chanting: Never has there been a renunciate like Mahavira! Perhaps you do not know — only the ignorant renounce; the knower never renounces. Why do I say this? You will feel disturbed. I say this because to the knower the world becomes obviously futile. What is futile need not be renounced — it falls away. The ignorant must renounce, he does not see the futility; he strives to leave.
Mahavira does not leave — it leaves.
In knowledge, renunciation comes of itself like a shadow; in ignorance, renunciation must be brought. In the life of ignorance, renunciation is like tearing green leaves off a branch — forcibly plucked. The leaf is hurt, the branch is hurt, a wound remains, the tree’s life is wounded. The renunciation of the knower — not leaving, but dropping — is like a dry leaf falling from the tree: neither the tree knows when it fell, nor the leaf knows when it broke away, nor does any news reach the world; silently, a breath of wind and the leaf quietly sits on the earth.
Mahavira is a knower, but we see a renunciate, because we are indulgent. Our indulgence makes us see renunciation; Mahavira’s knowledge is not seen. Mahavira is not leaving; things have become futile to him. And when something is seen as futile, does one have to leave it?
One night two sannyasins were passing through a jungle. One was old, the other young, walking behind. The old one was carrying a bag slung from his shoulder, held tight to his chest. Night was falling, darkness descending. He asked the young sannyasin, Is there any danger? The forest seems perilous, the path desolate. Any danger?
The young sannyasin was surprised — a sannyasin, and danger? Danger exists for those who are not sannyasins. What danger to a sannyasin! What does a sannyasin have that can be snatched? What does he have that can be destroyed? What could make him anxious, feel insecure? He was puzzled. Till now this old sannyasin had never asked, though they had passed through dense forests, halted on dark nights, taken deserted paths — he had never asked of danger. What had happened today?
After a while again the old one said, Night is deepening, who knows how far the village is; no lamps are visible — is there any danger?
They stopped by a well. The old sannyasin handed the bag to the young one and said, Let me wash my hands and face — keep the bag carefully! Then the young man thought, The danger must be in the bag. While the old man drew water, he slipped his hand inside — there was a gold brick. He understood the danger. He took it out and threw it away, picked up a stone slab and put it in the bag. The old sannyasin quickly drank a little water — he could not even drink peacefully, poor fellow!
Who with gold bricks ever drinks even water peacefully? If someone can drink quietly, they say, Extraordinary man, a great saint! Eating peacefully, sleeping peacefully — ordinary things begin to look saintly only because we are utterly deranged and mad. Because of this madness even a little peace looks extraordinary.
He hurriedly took the bag, slung it over his shoulder, pressed it to his chest, and began to walk. The poor fellow did not know that what he now hugged to his chest was a stone slab. Who knows whether what you hold to your chest is gold or stone? Those who know say it is stone; those who do not, say it is gold.
He went on. Again he asked, Night has deepened, danger has grown — is there any danger? The youth said, Rest easy, I have thrown the danger behind. The old man panicked, thrust his hand in the bag, pulled out the brick — it was stone! For a moment there was a hush in the jungle. Then the old man laughed, flung the slab away, and said, Now let us sleep right here — why go to the village! They slept there. In the morning, when they rose, the youth said, You are a great renunciate — you took the brick out and threw it away! Great renunciation! The old man said, Renunciation? Fool! Once it is seen to be stone, what renunciation? It dropped; it became useless. Renunciation is of that which still appears as gold.
What Mahavira has dropped had begun to appear as dust. There was no renunciation — it fell away, as dust falls away. But the devotees shout, O great renunciate! O long austerity-bearer! O great one! You are blessed! How much you left! And Mahavira must be laughing — What madness! I have left nothing! For two and a half thousand years they are shouting, O great ascetic! O renunciate! O great soul! How much you left!
This is the attitude of indulgent minds; it is not Mahavira’s life. Mahavira’s inner life is of knowledge; from the outside we see renunciation. And between renunciation and knowledge there is the distance of earth and sky. What is the result?
If only we wrote Mahavira’s life wrongly — what harm? The danger is that people arise who imitate the wrong life. They start practicing renunciation and their life is destroyed.
The basis of life is knowledge; and the renunciation that comes from knowledge is the natural fruit. But reading the wrong story in the name of life, people begin renouncing! And the one who begins from renunciation never reaches knowledge, lives in sorrow and pain, because he leaves a brick of gold. Imagine it — a gold brick! To carry it is danger, sorrow, pain; to leave it is also sorrow and pain, because it still appears as gold. I left gold — perhaps I made a mistake? Perhaps I acted foolishly?
Sannyasins meet me. In public they talk of soul and God; in private they say, Great fear arises, great doubt — perhaps we made a mistake leaving everything. We are going into utter darkness. Maybe those who are enjoying are the ones who are right.
In solitude doubt haunts them — we have left! The whole world enjoys and we have left. Perhaps we erred. We are walking a path of darkness. Leaving bread in hand, we are imagining the bread of liberation — who knows whether it exists or not!
But in Mahavira’s being there is no such doubt. He is not leaving for any bread. He is not leaving something in order to get something. He is leaving because something has been found.
Understand the difference well.
One man throws away the stones in his hand in the hope that tomorrow he will get diamonds. You cannot imagine his pain. The diamonds are not yet obtained and what he had — colored stones perhaps, but to him they seemed diamonds; people said they were colored stones, the scriptures said they were colored stones, the guru-sannyasins explained they were colored stones, leave them — by hearing, thinking, he left them which to him had seemed diamonds, in the hope of diamonds. The diamonds are not yet in hand, his hands are empty and his being trembles. In empty hands the life trembles; even stones kept in hand give solace — at least there is something.
Mahavira did not leave to gain. Mahavira’s state is of the person before whom a mine of diamonds has appeared and now he throws stones away because there is no point in keeping them; time has come to keep diamonds. Diamonds have been found, therefore stones are being discarded. If a man finds diamonds and he empties his house of junk and fills it with diamonds, will you call him a renunciate?
My house is filled with junk — furniture, this and that. Tomorrow I find a diamond mine — I will throw everything out and fill the house with diamonds. Will you all come together and call me a great ascetic? That I am a great tapasvin, I threw out all the trash of the house! No one will call me a great ascetic.
Do not call Mahavira a great ascetic either — call him a great knower. From knowledge he is an ascetic.
From knowledge renunciation flowers. Renunciation is a natural fruit of knowledge, but through renunciation knowledge never comes. From knowledge renunciation comes; through renunciation knowledge never comes.
For twenty-five hundred years the one following Mahavira is tangled in this trouble — he is trying to get knowledge by renouncing! But the event in Mahavira’s life is of renunciation flowing from knowledge. The values have been reversed; then the whole vision is deluded. Only one thing remains — to sing praises. When we renounce and no joy comes, no knowledge comes, we think some karma of past lives is obstructing, or our renunciation is incomplete, or some desire remains in the mind. Then we comfort ourselves — This is not a matter of a day or two; it takes lifetimes. Not a small thing! We find such consolations. But these consolations are dangerous. The truth is the reverse. Seek knowledge; it can be found — because knowledge is the lamp hidden in your very life, for which there is nowhere to go to fetch it.
This is Mahavira’s experience, his central experience — that knowledge is man’s nature, the dharma of the Atman; knowledge is the very soul of man. Therefore to seek knowledge one need not go anywhere — knowledge is within. The moment you turn inward, become silent, empty, still — the rays of that knowledge begin to be felt.
But two kinds of people cannot turn within. First, those who go on collecting outside — wealth, houses, fame. How will they turn within? Their minds are outward. Second — and hear this well, the first you have heard, but the second is worth pondering — second, those who busy themselves in outer renunciation. Leave money, leave house, leave wife — leave this, leave that. Their gaze too is outward. The collector’s gaze is outward; the renouncer’s gaze is outward, for the object of both is outside.
So neither the indulgent reaches within nor the renunciate reaches within. The indulgent wanders outside; the renunciate wanders outside. The indulgent seeks pleasure; the renunciate seeks pain. The renunciate tries to seek as much pain…
The indulgent brings home a cot, then says, The cot is problematic, it pokes; cannot sleep — brings a good mattress, then another mattress, then another — piles mattress upon mattress. This is the indulgent’s way.
The renunciate removes a mattress. He thinks, By removing one mattress, liberation will come! Then a second, then a third. Then he thinks, A bare cot is best — certainly liberation will come! Then he throws away the cot too. Then he thinks, The floor is best — now liberation is guaranteed!
Both are mad. Neither by piling mattresses does liberation come, nor by throwing them away. What has liberation to do with mattresses? Irrelevant, no connection. And if, arriving at God’s door, he says, I left three mattresses, therefore open the gate of liberation — God too will say, You are mad! For leaving three mattresses not even a cinema door opens; to open the door of liberation will be very difficult. It is not so easy, not so cheap — you shaved your head, stopped ghee on your bread, stood naked. All you are doing has the object outside; the gaze is outside. He goes within who is free of both grasping and rejecting.
Therefore do not call Mahavira a renunciate. Mahavira is not attached, Mahavira is not a renunciate — Mahavira is vitaraga. Vitaraga means different from both — neither attachment nor renunciation. Neither raga nor viraga; neither the holding of the outer nor the insistence on dropping the outer. A third angle: vitaraga. I neither hold outside nor drop outside, because I am within. And what is within, I go to know; I turn my eyes away from the outer. Therefore Mahavira is vitaraga. Do not call him viragi, do not call him tyagi.
In vitaragata knowledge flowers.
The one who goes within attains the vision of knowledge.
This is the story of his inner life. The real life of Mahavira, the first sutra of the life of his soul: Mahavira is a seeker of knowledge, not of renunciation.
Second sutra.
What we see — as I said — is that the indulgent seeks pleasure, the renunciate seeks pain. And renunciates have invented such pains that if you count, you will find them more inventive than the indulgent. The indulgent have not invented so much. Renunciates invented such tortures that if their stories are told, your hair will stand on end — What was this! There were renunciates who gouged out their eyes — because they said desire is born of sight! They became mad, as if the blind do not feel desire! What does that have to do with eyes? They said forms are seen and the mind is attracted. As if forms cannot be seen in dreams, as if forms cannot be seen with eyes closed. They gouged out their eyes; cut off hands and feet; cut off the genitals; drove nails into their feet and waist; lay upon hot sand; slept upon thorns; whipped their bodies!
There was a whole sect of flagellants in Europe — their monks were called flagellants. The monk’s practice was to whip his naked body from morning, till he was drenched in blood. The monk who could whip himself the most became the master; the rest were disciples. As the newspapers here publish that some monk has fasted so many days, theirs published, such and such monk has reached the climax, the highest grade — he can whip himself so many times. They made themselves bleed from morning. People came for darshan and said, Great ascetic! Very inventive! They found wonderful devices for getting pain.
But Mahavira is not a pain-worshipper. Mahavira is not seeking pain. It is necessary to understand this secret rightly, because it appears to us that Mahavira is seeking pain — because we are seekers of pleasure, as I said earlier. We bring cushions into the house and see a man abandoning cushions — we think, Poor fellow is seeking suffering. But it may well be that a healthy body finds no pleasure in cushions. Cushions give pleasure to a sick body. For a healthy body, a cushion gives no reason for pleasure. For a healthy body, pleasure comes from deep sleep, not from thick bedding. Thick bedding is sought by one who has lost deep sleep. When deep sleep is missing, one has to find substitutes — thicker bedding, bigger mattresses.
A healthy man finds delight in hunger; a sick man in food. Understand the difference. A healthy man’s hunger itself is delightful; whatever he eats becomes juicy, flavorful. A sick man has no hunger; flavor cannot be in the food, so he seeks salt and chilies and spices to force flavor. So when a healthy man, eating dry bread, looks joyous, the chili-and-salt man thinks, How much suffering! He does not know — Fool, you are the one suffering. That man is taking delight, full delight. Our entire perspective…
Mahavira leaves out of knowledge. And in the life he lives he is not in pain. Mahavira is not so unintelligent as to live in suffering; he is living a life of supreme bliss. In being naked he must be feeling joy.
You know, if children’s habits are not spoiled, they will hardly agree to wear clothes. Clothing is a forced habit — pressed upon a person from outside. There is a joy in being naked. Little children refuse to wear clothes, run away, and parents with great love force them, Quickly, put on clothes! If the world becomes good, nakedness will be accepted as natural. If needed, people will wear clothes. If there is cold, he will put on clothes. If there is rain, he will wear them. Otherwise, he will remain naked. Man is born to be naked; his body is made for nakedness.
In some experience of bliss, Mahavira became naked. Devotees say, Great renunciation, great suffering!
We are mad. Mahavira is not suffering, standing naked. No knower ever suffers; suffering is a sign of ignorance. A knower becomes established in joy upon joy. Mahavira’s conduct is a conduct of bliss, not of pain.
Yet for thousands of years the tale is told that Mahavira endures suffering! Why? Because we are seekers of pleasure, we see pain. We do not know the bliss in which Mahavira is established, where he is going, what he has found.
Mahavira’s conduct is effortless. There is no renunciation in it, no suffering — only bliss. This is his inner sutra. What appears as pain outside is his bliss within.
A sannyasin was walking up a mountain. The sun was fierce. He was drenched in sweat. On his shoulder he had a bundle — his books, his clothes, his bedding. He wiped his brow. The road was far, he was tired. At that moment, a hill girl too was climbing. Fourteen or fifteen years old, she carried a chubby little boy on her shoulder. She was drenched in sweat, panting. The sannyasin felt pity.
Though pity comes to sannyasins with difficulty; those who are not compassionate to themselves, how will they be compassionate to others? Those who try to hurt themselves, how will they be moved by another’s pain? But perhaps this sannyasin was a bit odd. Sometimes odd sannyasins are born — like Mahavira. He is not a bona fide sannyasin — not registered. He is not the kind of sannyasin we know; he is a stranger in the world of sannyas. That sannyasin too must have been a stranger. He felt pity. He placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder and said, Child, you must be carrying a heavy burden? The girl looked him over from feet to head, in astonishment, and said, What are you saying? Swamiji, you are carrying a burden — this is my little brother.
She said, You are carrying a burden; this is my little brother. What are you saying! The sannyasin thought, I am suffering carrying a load, she too must be suffering. He did not know she is carrying her little brother. Where there is love, where is suffering? There is joy. Carrying her little brother is her delight; it is not a load. It is an act of love.
What Mahavira is doing is not suffering — these are acts of joy. This whole life is his own. The pains of this life, the sorrows of this life — to remove them he is eager. There is a thirst in his being, a compassion. He is not enduring pain. This is his joy. This is his happiness. This is the song of his life. This is his music.
But we cannot understand. It does not appear to us. We come with our categories, our measuring frames, our scales — with these we go to weigh Mahavira! We do not consider that the shop’s weighing scale will not do for weighing Mahavira. We have measured thus and written a life. That life is false. Its value is none. What has value is the inner event of Mahavira — his bliss, not his suffering. It is bliss that has happened in Mahavira’s life.
But look. Think a little. The pictures we have made of our great ones — their eyes, their faces — nowhere is there a sense of joy! Have you noticed? Christians say, Jesus Christ never laughed! Can you even imagine? If Jesus did not laugh, who in the world would laugh? Who would be left to laugh if Jesus did not? Why do Christians say this? They think that one who laughs ceases to be a great one, becomes ordinary. Ordinary people laugh. They cannot discern that the laughter of the ordinary and of the great are different. Indeed the ordinary man’s laughter is false — inside he weeps, outside he laughs.
Have you ever truly laughed? If in life you have once truly laughed, you will know the secret of religion. Strange as it may sound — if once you have truly laughed, you will know samayik, you will know meditation. But we have never laughed — inside we weep, outside we laugh. Why do we laugh outside? To hide the inner crying, so that none may know.
The more unhappy a man, the more he seems to laugh.
Laughter is a device to hide sorrow. Who goes for entertainment? Who goes to the amusement house, to the cinema? The unhappy. The more the world becomes unhappy, the more means of entertainment must be invented — because the unhappy need to forget. A man is unhappy. People say, Come, let us play cards; let us gossip, listen to the radio, make some fun, some chatter, some laughter — so that in laughter he may forget his sorrow.
Our laughter is escape, forgetfulness.
But fearing that through laughter the great one might seem small, we wipe away laughter from him. The great one never laughs. We make his image grave and serious. He does not appear childlike and simple; he appears artificial, posed. Mahavira must have been as simple as a child, for one who knows the truth of life becomes childlike. But in the picture we have made, does he appear childlike and simple? No. In our image he looks complex, composed. In our idol — our made idol — he appears perfectly posed, perfectly arranged. Simplicity does not show, that childlike feel does not appear, that childlike laughter is not visible. He must have laughed, and deeply — because if Mahavira cannot laugh like a child, who can? If that innocence, that guilelessness cannot happen in him — and I hold that it must have, because Mahavira became naked like a child, stood simple, spontaneous. He must have laughed, laughed much. But our fear…
I was staying in a house. They were strangers to me. In the evening we sat. There were a couple of children, the wife, the husband — we chatted; I laughed heartily. Just then an elder of the house came from outside and said, Do not laugh — a few visitors are coming.
I asked, Why? He said, What will they say — that you laugh? They are coming to see a great sannyasin.
I said, Enough! When you can say to a living man, Do not laugh, who knows what you have done to the dead Tirthankaras and Mahaviras, who cannot object, We will laugh.
We have molded the picture; we have set simplicity into a complex frame.
Mahavira’s third sutra — and the last thing I will say to you. First I said, not renunciation, but knowledge; not suffering, but bliss. And third: not a cultivated, disciplined personality of practice, but a simple, natural one — fluid like water. Cultivated — another kind of man, who cultivates, who disciplines everything: speech, posture, sitting, eating, clothing — who arranges everything and sits. We call him a sadhak. Mahavira is not a sadhak; Mahavira is simple.
How can a sadhak be simple? Sadhak means forced — who has everything under control; stands with breath held, eyes fixed; who keeps all things controlled. Such a man is false, an actor. Mahavira is utterly simple. Whatever is in his life flows straight and simple. But when others imitate someone straight and simple, then trouble begins.
Suppose I am laughing simply; now an imitator is born. I have not committed such a sin as to say to anyone, You are my disciple. Yet many madmen come and say, Make me your disciple, I will not leave you otherwise. Such madmen must have pestered Mahavira and Buddha and caught hold of them to become disciples.
If a follower sees me laughing and thinks one should laugh, he too will laugh — but his laughter will be posed, the laughter of a sadhak. He will smile, but the smile will be false, plastered from above.
Mahavira is an utterly spontaneous personality — living as he finds blissful. We, trailing behind, try to catch rules — How does he live? What does he do?
Mahmud was in Ghazni — Emperor of Ghazni. One morning, riding through the road of Ghazni, he saw a laborer carrying an enormous stone slab. Mahmud saw him. Sweat was pouring; tears were in his eyes. He was an old man, the body worn out and trembling. In what poverty, in what suffering, he must be forced to carry such a stone! Mahmud was on his horse. He shouted, O laborer! Drop the stone at once. Drop it right now!
The emperor commanded; the laborer dropped the stone in the middle of the royal road. Mahmud rode home. Now who could remove that stone? The emperor had had it dropped! The emperor’s viziers, the officials, the followers all said, There must be a meaning. When the stone was dropped there must be some purpose, because Mahmud is not a fool. There must be a secret in this. Do not remove the stone. The stone lay where it had fallen.
Mahmud, having had it dropped, forgot. It was only that the laborer looked exhausted; so he said, Drop it! He rode home; the matter ended. The stone stayed there. A year passed. It obstructed traffic, made trouble for passage, but who would remove it? Mahmud had had it dropped. Who would speak to Mahmud? Who would doubt his wisdom? No one said anything to Mahmud; he knew nothing. For twenty years Mahmud lived, and the stone remained there.
Mahmud died. His son sat on the throne. The viziers asked, What shall be done about the stone? The capital is greatly troubled.
He said, What my father did, how can I deny? There must be some meaning, some secret. He was such a wise man! No, out of respect for him the stone cannot be removed. It will remain where it is.
The son too died. The third generation came, but the stone is still there. What happened later I do not know. Chances ninety-nine of a hundred are that the stone is still there, because Mahmud had had it dropped.
The effortless acts of a great one, which have value in the moment, are seized by the madmen who come after and remain bound to them, bound to them, and make them into sadhana.
Understand the life of a great one — never become a follower. Understand; enter his life; lift the veils; open the secrets; recognize his soul; go beneath the words, put aside the doctrines; enter his very person, his mind, his psychology. Do not become a follower — only enter.
And you will be amazed — an encounter with any great one’s soul appears as a unique inspiration to transform your own soul and bring revolution to your life.
There is no need to become a follower. No need to go behind anyone, because each person must go within himself, not behind anyone. But to go within, know the path of those who have gone within. And only he can recognize it who is not in a hurry to become a follower; because in hurry, thought is not possible.
With partiality and sectarian feeling one has no power to understand, to be a witness. Then there is haste to imitate — As they did, so shall I. Their effortless acts become our disciplines. Simply understand this much: Mahavira is guiltless, straight, simple and fluid like a child; that is his personality. By calling him sadhak, mahayogi, yogi, great tapasvin, practicing austerities for twelve years, performing immense feats — in all this we have tattered the simplicity of his personality, and erected a figure which is our familiar mold but not Mahavira’s soul.
These few things I have said. My words may all be wrong. Because I did not meet Mahavira, I had no conversation with him. It may be this is merely my way of seeing, my own vision. I am helpless. I can only see Mahavira as I can see. What I have said — there is no necessity for you to ask whether it is written in scripture. It may be only my way of thinking. I do not urge you to take my word as truth. No insistence. I have said these things; you have listened — that is enough.
If you think over them a little, it will be a little more than enough. Your kindness will be great if you reflect upon them. Let us not bind the great ones in our fixed molds — let us set them free. And with that free consciousness let us fly into the open sky.
Then perhaps our souls too may grow wings. And we too may reach where anyone has ever reached.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace — for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within each. Please accept my pranam.