A sannyasin was passing through a foreign land. That land was a land of fire-worshippers. When the sannyasin entered, the first villages he met stunned him — in those villages night was sheer darkness. No hearths burned in the homes. The people of those villages did not even know how to kindle fire. He was amazed. He had heard it was a land of fire-worshippers. They certainly worshipped fire, but they did not know how to light it.
He spoke with the people. They said, Fire no longer burns — that was in SatYuga; once it burned. Those days are gone. This is KaliYuga — now there is no way to light fire. And then, not everyone can kindle fire! Some great soul, some Tirthankar, some son of God, some avatar — only such a one is capable of lighting fire. How can we ordinary people kindle it! We can only worship fire.
The sannyasin was bewildered: fire can be lit by anyone. And when he said so — that anyone can light fire — the villagers grew angry. You insult our great ones! This is possible only for superhuman beings that they can light fire. We can only worship it. And they could not even light a fire for the act of worship. They had scriptures written about fire. They kept them in the temple — and worshipped those.
The sannyasin went deeper into that land. He came to other villages. There too was darkness; there too no one knew how to light fire. But they had pictures of fire — they worshipped the pictures.
He went further in, to villages in the inner parts of the country. There too no one knew how to kindle fire. But they had the implements for kindling — stones by whose friction fire would be born. Yet they never struck the stones together. Perhaps they had forgotten. Perhaps they did not even know. But they kept those stones in their temple and worshipped them.
Then the sannyasin went still further in and reached the capital at the country’s center. There at least one man knew how to light fire. He was the high priest of that land, the religious head. And people worshipped this man — for it was a miracle that he could light fire. Once a year he would light it. Millions of people from the whole country gathered — and worshipped. When the sannyasin reached the capital, the festival of fire was under way. Millions had gathered. They worshipped the priest because he could light fire. This was the work of great power. He was God’s special man, graced with this privilege. No one else knew how to kindle fire.
From the crowd the sannyasin shouted, What madness is this! Anyone can light fire. I can show you how to kindle it. What insanity has spread here!
The priests seized the sannyasin and the people cried, He is an enemy of our religion! He is our foe! He dishonors our faith. He spreads irreverence. And they hung the sannyasin on a cross. And they rejoiced, for they had slain an irreligious atheist and freed the earth of him.
Why do I begin with this story? On this earth, religion has come to the same fate that fire met in that country. Everywhere are religious people — as in that land there were fire-worshippers. There are temples, mosques, Shiva-shrines, scriptures, idols, pictures, worship, prayer, ritual. But just as in that land there was no fire and people lived in darkness, so on this earth there is no religion — and people live in darkness. Yes, sometimes we worship. And sometimes we remember those whose lives were aflame with religion’s light.
Just as today we have gathered to remember such a one — to remember Mahavira — so at times we gather to remember Krishna, or Rama, or Christ, or Muhammad. And we sing the praises of those who knew how to light the fire — the fire of life, the fire of love, the fire of the divine. We worship them. We remember them. But we have forgotten that this fire can be lit by all. It is every person’s birthright to be attained by the flame of the Lord.
Yet if anyone says this to us, we will reply, Do not insult our great ones; do not oppose our religion; we are worshippers of religion. Do not spread such irreverent words. What happened to that sannyasin has always happened to sannyasins. Hence we crucify Jesus — because he opposes those who only worship. Worshippers are enemies of religion. Religion must be lived — not worshipped. But when Jesus says to people, You worshippers are mad — live religion! Light the fire and disperse the darkness at home. Do not worship pictures of fire and scriptures about it. Fire is for use. So too religion is for use. Then the priests crucified Jesus.
And Socrates — in Greece he said the same thing: religion is to be lived. Truth is to be lived. Live it! The court of Athens condemned him to drink hemlock: He is corrupting the people. He is undermining their faith. And when Mansoor said it — the same befell Mansoor. And we have not long since finished with assassinating Gandhi — his shadow still lingers upon us.
It is a strange thing: while the great ones live, we throw stones, we insult, we fire bullets, we give poison. And when they die — when thousands of years pass — we worship them. Perhaps this worship is a device for repentance. Perhaps we want to atone for the abuse we hurled at them while alive. Then the penance goes on for thousands of years. We will worship Gandhi; we will make statues. We worship Mahavira; statues are made, temples built, remembrance performed. I do not recall that we treated Mahavira very well.
Stones were hurled at Mahavira. He was driven out of villages. Wild dogs were set upon him. Iron nails were hammered into his ears. This was our treatment while he lived. And when he died, we made his statues — we lay our heads at his feet.
Man seems mad. Worship is repentance. Perhaps when one dies, when one has gone, we suddenly realize, What have we done! And there may be another reason: a living Tirthankar, a living prophet, a living thinker, a living Socrates, a living Mahavira, a living Buddha — they are unbearable to us. The truth they show makes our entire falsity tremble to its roots. But when a great one is dead, we close him within our fist. Then we interpret him according to our own mind. We sand off his sharp edges. We erase his biting words. We remove the arrows from his life. We make him smooth, clean, useful to us. Then we worship him.
Hence dead prophets are worshipped; living prophets are stoned. And so long as this continues on earth, the descent of religion is impossible. The day respect arises for the living, not for the dead, that day perhaps religion may descend upon earth. How can dead, past great ones bring religion?
Yet we keep worshipping them. And our trick in worshipping is first to rub off their sharp corners — wherever they might hurt us we erase. We fashion interpretations to suit ourselves. And when the interpretation fits our convenience, we relax.
A man was voyaging on the sea. A storm came, winds rose, and his boat began to pitch. He was returning with wealth worth crores. There were diamonds and jewels, pearls and rubies. The treasure would sink. He panicked. He folded his hands, prayed, and said to God, O Lord! If my life is saved and my boat is saved, I will sell my palace in the capital and distribute the money to the poor.
Even so he was cheating — and making a cheap bargain. The palace was worth hardly five lakhs, and in the boat were riches worth crores. He thought to trick God. And not such a cheap trick either — you go and say, O God, I will offer a coconut worth five annas; get my son married, win my case, remove my illness. A court peon would not accept a bribe of five annas; God — for so cheap! But even then his deal was not that cheap: his palace was worth five to ten lakhs.
By chance the boat was saved. We cannot think some God was tempted by five lakhs — it must have been mere coincidence. He reached the shore. The moment he landed, his soul fell into anguish: What to do now? Shall I give the five-lakh mansion to the poor?
His sleep fled. He thought, Better if the boat had sunk — neither I would be, nor flute nor bamboo. Neither this worry, nor this trouble. All night he could not sleep. The mansion! If I do not give it to the poor, perhaps God will be annoyed. For the God who is pleased by praise can also be feared — he might be angered by a lapse. He saw no way out; sleep was gone; health was failing.
So he went to the religious guru of the town. For such matters, only religious gurus can give the exact interpretation of what should be done. None more cunning exists on earth than they — for no one else does such an unknowable business. All other trades are worldly; they trade in God. It is a business of a very dark unknown. The shop is such that it cannot be seen. There a very shrewd, clever man is needed. They sell such wares as cannot be held in hand, cannot be seen with the eyes — and in exchange they take such goods as can be seen and held. He said, Let me go to the religious guru. He went.
The guru said, What is there to worry! Such cases appear daily in the scriptures; we keep interpreting. Interpretation is our trade. He whispered the interpretation in the man’s ear.
The next day the millionaire’s men beat the drum through the capital: I want to sell my palace — whoever wishes to buy, come in the morning. Many buyers arrived, eager. In front of the palace stood a commemorative pillar; he tied a cat to it. And he said, Five lakhs — the price of the cat; and the price of the palace — one rupee.
People said, Are you mad? Five lakhs for a cat! And who wants to buy a cat! We did not come to buy a cat. He said, No, I will sell the cat and the palace together. One rupee for the palace, five lakhs for the cat — whoever wants! I will sell only together, to a single buyer.
People could not make sense of it. But they said, What does it matter! The palace was worth five lakhs — more. A man bought the cat for five lakhs and the palace for one rupee. The five lakhs he locked up in his safe; the one rupee he distributed to the poor. He interpreted to suit himself, his work, his purpose. He grew carefree. Sleep returned deep. His health was restored.
So too we cleverly interpret the lives of the great after they are gone — and refashion them to fit ourselves. We do not refashion our lives; we remold theirs to suit our minds. Hence dead Tirthankars, dead avatars, gone great ones — they are accepted, worshipped, honored. But should they appear again before you, the opposition would begin anew. Refusal would start at once.
I have heard that once such a thought occurred to Jesus the Christ. Eighteen hundred years had passed. He thought, Now at least one-third of the earth’s people are Christians. They worship in my church. They sing my hymns. They fold their hands to me. I erred in coming too early — eighteen hundred years ago. If I go now I might be properly welcomed. The ground is ready; people are eager for my coming; millions of prayers rise daily.
So Jesus, after eighteen hundred years of being crucified, descended one Sunday morning into the bazaar of Jerusalem. For on Sunday Christians are easy to recognize. On other days you cannot tell who is Christian and who is not — as on Mahavira Jayanti Jains are easy to recognize; on other days you cannot tell who is Jain and who is not. He thought, Sunday is the right day, for Christians go to church. He came down beneath a tree just in front of the church. People were returning from church — religious people. The sins done in six days — they do not forget to do religion one day. They think: if one day’s religiosity wipes out six days’ sin, what is the harm! Then once again we are free to sin for six days. Settlements get made, and no hassle arises.
Jesus had descended. People were coming out of the church; a crowd gathered. They began to laugh: Some impersonator, it seems — standing here made exactly in the image of Jesus Christ! Jesus said, No, I am no impersonator. I am Jesus Christ himself. Have you forgotten me? You pray to me. You are coming from my church.
They laughed. They said, Fool, run away quickly from here. The priest will be coming out in a moment — if he sees you, you will be in trouble. Run — do not stand here.
Jesus said, But that priest is mine. Jewish priests crucified me. This one is ours — he says, Servant of Jesus Christ — he is my servant. They said, You seem a confused man — your head is not right. By then the priest arrived. Children were throwing stones, someone peels, people mocking: Which actor has come as Jesus Christ! And yet — he looked exactly like Jesus Christ!
The priest came. For him the crowd opened a respectful way. People bowed at his feet. Jesus Christ stood there — and not one man bowed at his feet. This priest, agent of Jesus Christ in his name — self-appointed, for Jesus Christ appointed no one — for him people made way, bending to touch his hands and feet. He looked Jesus over from head to toe and said, Scoundrel — get down from there! What fakery is this!
Jesus said, You too do not recognize me? If the crowd does not, well and good — but you? Sweat broke out on him: This is trouble. Where have I come! I thought — my own people. He is today the priest, the highest priest of Jerusalem. You too do not recognize me? You too have not recognized me? The man said, I recognized you very well. Come down! And he told four men: Seize him. Jesus Christ has already come once — now there is neither need nor question for his coming again.
Let someone appear today and say, I am Mahavira. The Jains will say, Seize him — at once! For Mahavira has happened — now no Tirthankar can be. The son of God has come once — why a second time! Muslims say: After Muhammad no prophet can come. Christians say: After Jesus no son of God. Jains say: After Mahavira no Tirthankar.
Four men seized him and locked him in a dark cell of the church. Jesus was amazed: Will there be a crucifixion again? Will my own people crucify me this time? The first crucifixion could still be understood, forgiven — but this one, how shall it be explained? Will my own crucify me?
Midnight passed. Then the priest opened the cell door. He entered with a lantern. Tears were flowing from Christ’s eyes. The priest set down the lantern, fell at Christ’s feet, and said, Forgive me!
Jesus said, So — you recognized me? At last you recognized, didn’t you!
The priest said, I recognized you even there. But it is not proper to acknowledge it before the crowd. I recognized you even then. But the marketplace is not the place to recognize. In private it is all right. There is no need for your coming. We are managing quite well on your behalf. Very well indeed. In eighteen hundred years we have barely managed to put the system together. If you come now, everything will be upset. You have old habits — whenever you come, you disturb the entire tradition of priests, monks, sannyasins, pundits. Old disturber! You are an old demolisher. So we cannot recognize you before the crowd. If you create a stir there, we too would have to crucify you. Forgive us — there is no other way. But yes, do not come; stay in the heavens. We will go on praying to you, offering worship at your feet. Forever and ever we are your devotees, your servants.
I do not know whether Jesus understood or not — but such is the condition. Up to the point of worship — all is fine. But a living event creates a fierce challenge to change our lives — and we do not want to change. We do not want to live religion — we only want to worship. Hence when a great one dies…
Mahavira left his body twenty-five hundred years ago. For twenty-five hundred years his jayanti goes on. Each year those who remember, remember. And we have arranged things so that the Mahavira whose form we have fashioned — a totally false image we have created — has no relation at all to the real Mahavira. A wholly false image, dead, useful to us, a puppet in our hands. That image does not change us. That statue of Mahavira — that vision of life of Mahavira — has not transformed us. We have tailored Mahavira’s vision to suit ourselves.
Oscar Wilde was a guest in a home. The beautiful mistress of the house said to Wilde, I have a picture of you — exactly like you! So much like you that sometimes I am so overwhelmed I kiss the picture. Wilde shook his head and said, Does the picture return the kiss in reply? The woman said, No, it does not. Then Wilde said, Then it is not like me. I would return the reply. That picture is not like me. It is a picture — dead. From the living there comes a response; from the dead none.
We do not even want a response. We perform worship and return home. We do not want any response from that side — for if any comes, our very life will be in danger; we will have to change ourselves.
So how will we remember Mahavira? The one we remember is our made-up Mahavira — not the one who was. The Muhammad we remember is the one we have made. The Rama we remember is of our making. The real Rama, the real Muhammad, the real Mahavira — we cannot remember them, because to remember them would mean the total transformation of our lives.
We are fire-worshippers. We neither want to kindle fire, nor do we know how. And the few priests who do know how — they do not want anyone else to learn, because so long as the knowledge is secret, esoteric, their value and honor remain. I would like to speak of the way we have fashioned Mahavira’s picture to suit ourselves.
If we could come to feel that between Mahavira as he is and Mahavira as we have made him there is a basic difference, then perhaps a moment for reflection and transformation could arise in our lives. What a picture we have made! And over thousands of years layer upon layer has been added. After a journey of twenty-five hundred years there remains no connection, no harmony at all between the real Mahavira and our Mahavira. In twenty-five hundred years so many echoes have resounded, so much Ganga water has flowed, banks have been worn and fallen, sands have come and gone — and so many interpretations have been added and added, that now we have nothing but a false interpretation. But that false interpretation pleases us, because it is utterly dead. It can do nothing to us. We can extract any meaning we please from it.
There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Strange indeed. What Krishna said to Arjuna could have but one meaning — not a thousand. Can there be a thousand? If there can be, then only if Krishna’s mind was unsound. A madman’s words have no single meaning — there can be a thousand, fifty thousand. Even he does not know what it means. But Krishna is not mad. Then how did a thousand commentaries arise? Who are these thousand meaning-makers? Why are meanings being made? Every year or two we must refashion Krishna’s picture to fit ourselves — and then a fresh interpretation is needed.
Shankara interprets — his interpretation is not Krishna’s meaning; it is Shankara’s imposition. What he wants to prove, he imposes upon Krishna. Ramanuja interprets — it is not Krishna’s meaning; he thrusts upon Krishna what he wants to say. Tilak interprets — it is not Krishna’s meaning; he wants to force Karma-Yoga upon Krishna. Gandhi interprets — and it is astonishing: Gandhi wants to impose Ahimsa. Krishna is summoning Arjuna to war — and Gandhi imposes Ahimsa even there. Now Vinoba wants to impose Bhoodan — and Bhoodan can also be extracted from it. Whoever wishes can pull out whatever he likes. None of them has anything to do with Krishna. They keep fabricating a new image of Krishna. Every poet wants a man of his own liking — so he refashions him. Worship then proceeds smoothly.
In a thousand or two thousand years a thing grows so distant — mere rumor remains — that it has no relation to truth. The difference between a live coal and ash — that is the difference between the real Mahavira and our Mahavira. A live coal will burn; ash can be held happily in the fist. Though ash comes from the coal, one is satisfied: This too is from the coal. But ash can be grasped; a live coal cannot be held in the fist. So ash is pleasing — it can be worshipped. The coal cannot be worshipped — it can only be used. We cannot be the masters of the coal; of ash we can. We can possess ash. The coal is alive. A living great one is a coal of fire. The ones we worship have turned to ash. And through centuries, echoes and interpretations go on — and all is transformed.
In a village there were two parallel roads. The entire settlement was built along both roads. And as often happens, there was no rapport between two neighbors, no accord between two localities, two villages, two nations — wherever there are two, conflict starts at once. Husband and wife have no perfect accord. As soon as two are there, quarrel begins. Those two parallel neighborhoods had no harmony. Their religions were different, their politics different, their devotions different, their doctrines different, their scriptures different, their prophets different, their Tirthankars different.
Yet they kept seeing one another — passing by each other — never meeting, just passing close by. As Hindus and Muslims pass by. As Christians and Jains pass by. As Shvetambar and Digambar pass by. Madnesses one after another. Two people pass by each other, an unseen wall stands in between and does not let them meet. So it was between those two.
One day a fakir came. And fakirs do not bother about which settlement you belong to, which temple you worship in. He moved among both. One afternoon he was going from one settlement to the other. Tears were pouring from his eyes. The people of the other neighborhood thought: Someone must have died in the first settlement. No one even asked what had happened.
People are so wise — without asking they understand. No one asks Krishna, What do you mean? People are so wise that they keep a Gita at home and extract meanings, scholars print commentaries, and even distribute them by paying for it. No one asks Krishna — we extract our own meanings.
They saw the fakir with tears streaming, coming from the other lane. The people of the neighborhood concluded: A calamity has occurred there, someone has died. That was the first step in understanding. Now the echoes of understanding began. By evening the news had spread through the settlement: There is a plague in the other neighborhood — who knows how many have died. Naturally, by evening the story had advanced twenty-five steps, reached twenty-five mouths. And what sort of man is he who hears a report and adds nothing to it? Otherwise news would cease to be born in the world, newspapers would have to shut down.
Man is very creative, very constructive. A tiny thing comes to hand — he constructs, builds, traces it. Then the next adds a little more. And on it goes.
By evening the morning’s news could not be recognized. By evening the entire other village had the news: The other side is stricken by plague — we should abandon the town. Some public servant must have been found who added: Vacate the village, or the plague will spread here. That night volunteers set to work to empty the town. Volunteers are always found. Whatever stupidity you want done — they are available. Volunteers! They say, We will do anything voluntarily. They emptied the town.
When one town began to empty, the parallel settlement next to it heard the news. There too were journalists, correspondents, messengers. They said, Are you sleeping! We will die — the other side is emptying — there is plague there. By morning that side too had emptied. Both carried their goods across the river.
Thousands of years have passed. Those villages are still built on the river’s far bank. The original settlement lies desolate — deserted, broken — in ruins. If someone asks them, Why was that settlement ruined? Why did you leave it and come here? They say, It is written in our scriptures — our priests tell us, and our fathers and grandfathers said — that once an unknown disease spread, and for that reason we left the original settlement. In some unknown time that event happened.
And the entire event was only this — if someone had asked the fakir, all this trouble need not have been — he had been peeling an onion, and his eyes were watering. But no one asked what had happened.
All traditions are born this way. Someone peels an onion and tears come — plagues spread, towns are abandoned, settlements shifted, people become something else. The same happened in the life of Mahavira. The same happens with all great ones. A great one is great to the extent that he can be misunderstood greatly. The more we can be foolish about a man, the greater he is. A small man is one about whom there is no possibility of misunderstanding — he is just as he appears.
In truth we do not interpret small men. If we were to interpret even a small man, the same would happen. It is the great ones we interpret.
I want to speak on three or four sutras of Mahavira whose interpretations have placed before us a false image. And so it has been with all great ones. What I say of Mahavira is a hundred percent true of them all.
First: all over the world it is said that Mahavira is the father of Ahimsa. This is utterly untrue. Mahavira is a worshipper of love; Ahimsa has nothing to do with Mahavira. And love and Ahimsa are not the same thing. Love is a living phenomenon; Ahimsa is an interpretation. It is necessary to understand this a little. Between love and Ahimsa there is a difference like earth and sky.
Love is positive — a creative relationship. Ahimsa is negative. Love means: I desire the welfare of the other, the blessing of the other; I become a joy in the other’s life; I lay flowers on the other’s path. Ahimsa means: I do not cause sorrow to the other, I do not give pain. If I do not hurt another, Ahimsa is fulfilled — but love is not. Love cannot rest until it gives joy to the other. Love lays flowers on the other’s way. Ahimsa only says: Do not scatter thorns. But if thorns are already strewn on the other’s path, Ahimsa has nothing to say whether you should pick them up or not. If the other’s path is empty and your hands full of flowers, Ahimsa says nothing about whether you should place them or not. Ahimsa is negative — enough that I do not harm. Beyond that it has no inspiration. But love’s inspiration is infinite: not to strew thorns — yes; to remove the thorns already there — yes; yet even a thornless path is not enough — flowers must be laid.
In love, Ahimsa is included; love’s first step is Ahimsa — not to strew thorns, not to hurt. So within the vastness of love, Ahimsa is present. But the scope of Ahimsa is very narrow — within it love is not present.
In Mahavira’s life there is love; his followers have clutched at Ahimsa. Then Ahimsa takes such forms as: strain the water before drinking, do not eat at night, do not eat meat — such shapes it takes. Being negative, it chooses such. If Mahavira were merely non-violent, nothing of value remains. Mahavira is not an Ahimsak — he is a great lover. But if we understand Mahavira’s love, a revolution in our lives cannot be avoided — we will have to change ourselves.
Love is the supreme alchemy of life; love is life’s greatest gamble; love is life’s greatest challenge. Ahimsa is no gamble, no challenge. Your life need not change much — just adopt a negative posture, and it suffices. If a man has fallen on the road and you are passing by: if you are a lover, you will have to lift him up; if you are an Ahimsak, you have no concern — you did not knock him down; it is no affair of yours. Love makes an extraordinary demand — therefore its action is never complete; it remains forever unfinished; much remains yet to be done. The lover always feels: What I ought to have done I could not — what I did is nothing; what remains undone is immense.
Ahimsa need not worry thus. Mahavira is a lover; his followers are Ahimsaks. And the trick has been so clever that it has come to seem that Ahimsa means love. Ahimsa is not love — it is a fundamental mistake. Hence the result: Mahavira’s follower talks endlessly of Ahimsa — but no love flowers in his life. Ahimsa is there — love is utterly absent. And Ahimsa is hollow.
Note too: love has one kind of fruit, Ahimsa another. When I love, when my life is a stream of love, I drop the concern of what happens to me in loving. The only concern remains: What happens to the one I love? Where love flowers fully, the ego becomes zero; one forgets that one is. Only the beloved remains. And if love is for the whole — as Mahavira’s is, the feeling of universal love, universal benevolence, universal compassion — then when love is for the infinite, one finds oneself utterly nothing — I am not. For in love there is no leisure to remember oneself — no opportunity. Only those who are not in love can remember themselves.
Do you know — whenever you are in love, even a small love, for one person — for the duration that love stirs your being, for that while you do not exist. Then you are not — the lover remains. You become a no — you disappear. Only the one toward whom love flows remains. And one whose love flows toward the All — he is gone. He is a void. His ego dissolves.
Love is the death of ego. Ahimsa is not the death of ego — rather Ahimsa is a new kind of worship of ego. How?
The Ahimsak’s core thought is not that the other should not suffer; his core thought is: If I cause suffering, I will incur sin; I will reap bad fruits; I will go to hell — I! The other has nothing to do with it. If I do not hurt another, remain non-violent, I will gain heaven — I! If I renounce all violence completely, become entirely non-violent, then I will attain moksha — I! The inspiration behind Ahimsa is none other than ego and self-interest. Hence the astonishing sight of a man being both Ahimsak and selfish. A lover cannot be selfish. In love there is no question of self. The lover leaves self, loses it, dissolves; he is dissolved in love — no need even to leave or lose.
A man used to come to Ramakrishna. In his house there were Kali festivals; two or three times a year hundreds of goats were slaughtered, meat cooked, and hundreds invited to feast. Then he grew old. The Kali worship ceased. Ramakrishna asked, I hear you have stopped Kali worship — what happened? Has your mind changed? Did your heart turn away from Kali? The man said, No — my teeth fell out. Ramakrishna said, Teeth fell out! What has that to do with Kali worship? The man laughed: The worship of Kali was just a pretext. The real point was the feast, the pleasures of meat. Now without teeth what Kali, what festival, what celebration! It all stopped.
But if during the worship of Kali someone had said, He does this because of his teeth, the man would have seized him: What a lie! What has this to do with teeth! Man’s motives, man’s inspirations are very strange. It can be that a man worships Kali because his teeth are strong. It can be that a man talks Ahimsa out of sheer self-interest — my happiness, my liberation, my merit; let me be saved — the rest of the world can go to hell, let anything happen to them; let me be saved, let me be saved. This self — this ego — where is there room for it in love!
There is no Ahimsa in Mahavira’s life; there is love — the feeling of universal benevolence. Ahimsa is the desire for self-benefit; love is the wish for all. These two are opposing. Love does not mean Ahimsa; Ahimsa does not mean love. Yes, in love, Ahimsa is included — within its vaster circumference it becomes a small corner. But within Ahimsa’s small corner love cannot be contained.
Yet interpreters played their cleverness. By renaming Mahavira’s love ‘Ahimsa’, the basic value was altered. And for twenty-five hundred years the proclamation goes on: Ahimsa paramo dharma — Ahimsa is the supreme religion! Sadhus, saints, priests keep shouting, Ahimsa paramo dharma — and on and on. And strangest of all — this slogan has destroyed everything. That fundamental note in Mahavira’s life — that particular blow of music by which he wanted to touch the human soul — that love — has been lost.
But who will say this? Pundits are skilled at defining words. They will say, Ahimsa means love; the meaning of Ahimsa is love. If so, what harm in saying love! But a small difference of word brings such revolutionary difference we cannot even reckon it.
A Jewish novice went to a monastery for study. A friend went with him. Both were young, both had gone for practice — but both had the habit of smoking. They were worried: What in the monastery! One cannot smoke there. The monastery is closed on all sides; twenty-four hours one has to remain within. There is no permission to go out — but in the evening, for one hour, permission is given to walk by the river — for God-contemplation: go for an hour and contemplate God. They thought, We will smoke there. Then they felt: We have come to be monks; if we lie and steal a smoke, that is not right — let us ask the master’s permission. Both went to their master.
One went in; the master at once said, No, no — permission to smoke cannot be given. He returned sad — now even stealing a smoke had no way. He reached the riverbank and saw his friend sitting on the grass — smoking. He asked, Did you start smoking without asking? He said, No, I asked — and the master said I could. Sparks flew from the eyes of the one refused. He said, What is this — what injustice! I asked and he scolded me, No, no — you cannot. How were you permitted! Come — get up, come back with me. The other laughed: May I ask — what exactly did you ask? The first said, What else — straightforward — I asked, May I smoke while contemplating God? He said, Absolutely not. What did you ask? The other said, I asked, May I contemplate God while smoking? He said, Yes.
Such a tiny difference — and yet the fundamental difference! Who on earth will say: Smoke while contemplating God! But who will forbid one who asks: While I smoke, may I also contemplate God? Who would forbid! What is there to forbid! It is even good — if you smoke anyway, at least contemplate God.
Between Ahimsa and love there is just such a difference. In the dictionary there is none; in grammar there is none. Word-knowers will say: they are one and the same. But they are not the same.
In response to love, life will become Life. In response to Ahimsa, life will wither. In response to Ahimsa, self-interest is born; in response to love, other-interest, altruism. In response to Ahimsa the person becomes egoistic — my search, my attainment, me. In the quest of love, the person goes on dissolving — becomes a void, a no-one.
Therefore, by the path of love one can reach the divine — not by the path of Ahimsa. This is the first point to note: in the image of Mahavira a fundamental substitution has been made. Word-scholars can shift meanings with great skill — we may not discover for thousands of years what has been done to us.
Mahavira’s second fundamental principle is what the scholars and pundits call Brahmacharya. They take it to mean non-sexuality, amaithun — no sexual union. Their meaning is: Mahavira does not enter into bodily, lustful relations — renunciation of woman, of home, of all bodily relations, of all sexuality — this is their meaning of amaithun.
Again the same mistake — grasping by the negative. Mahavira does not abandon anyone — not woman, not the body, not sexuality. Mahavira attains something: the unity of the Self, the Brahman-feeling — he begins to experience himself in all. When the whole becomes oneself, union is impossible. When I am the whole, when the same Atman that flows in me flows in the other — I alone am — then the possibility of ‘enjoying’ the other ends. Lust can be only toward the other — not toward the Self. For lust, there must be otherness — the other, the second; man and woman.
But when Mahavira attains the unity of the Self, no woman remains, no man remains. Two do not remain — duality dissolves.
Buddha was sitting in a forest. From the nearby capital some youths dragged a courtesan into the jungle. They had drunk wine, danced and sung; they were harassing the woman. Seeing them sunk in intoxication, the woman ran away. When they sobered a little, they sought her — they went searching. Buddha sat beneath a tree. It was a moonlit night. Perhaps he was absorbed in some Brahman-feeling, perhaps immersed in some unknown compassion; perhaps some peace was descending within. They shook him and said, Hey — did a woman pass this way? She was naked — we had stripped her clothes. Did you see? We are looking for her.
Buddha said, It is hard to say who came and who went — I was so silent, so void, so still, that which ripple arose and passed I cannot say. And even if I had seen, it would be hard to say whether she was clothed or naked. For unless there is a desire to see someone naked, it is very difficult to see anyone naked — even if they are naked. And when the mind desires to see nakedness, to see someone naked is quite easy — even if they are clothed. Do clothes block the seeing of someone’s naked being? Can garments stop anyone’s nakedness? Truth is the opposite: a naked person is never so naked as when, by the clothing, the body’s nakedness is accentuated, made prominent and eloquent. Clothes were invented not to hide the body but to expose it, to display it.
If one wished to hide, garments would grow looser. If one wished to reveal, garments would become tighter and tighter. Naturally. The body’s nakedness is never so naked as when it becomes prominent and vocal through clothes. Clothes have made men and women more naked than anything else. A naked person is not so naked.
So Buddha said, I cannot say. Even if I had seen, it would be hard to tell if she was naked or clothed, because within me the discrimination, the noticing, has disappeared. From the day the desire to see nakedness vanished, that too has gone. And it could also be that even if I saw — if it were daylight and I were simply sitting — then too it would be hard to tell whether it was a woman or a man.
For a woman appears outside as a challenge to the man within. When the inner man is stirred by the outer woman, then the woman appears. When the outer man appears, it is because the inner woman has become desirous and yearning — then the outer man appears. It is polarity — two poles of one electricity. When one part is stirred within, the other appears without; movement starts there.
So Buddha said, It is very difficult. Ask someone else, friends — for the search you are on, I cannot be a companion. Forgive me. But one thing I can say: How long will you go on searching for the other? Have you no desire to search for yourself? Drop it — whom are you looking for! In the time you are spending in this frantic chase, in this dark jungle — for whom, a courtesan, a woman — in such a search, you could search your very self. And what will you gain by finding the courtesan? Only that she will be exhausted and you will have to find another. And what will you gain by finding her? She will be exhausted — and you will have to find yet another.
Every day we do this: we seek a house — it becomes useless; we seek another. We seek a safe — it becomes useless as soon as we have found it; then we seek another, bigger safe. We conquer a country — the moment we have won, it becomes useless; then we must conquer a bigger land.
Buddha said, I tell you: seek yourself. After that search, no search remains.
Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna do not attain amaithun — non-sexuality — by avoiding women or this body. Their effort is to expand the Self — to unfold it. As the Self expands into unity, desire, sex, the urge to ‘enjoy’ withers and disappears. When the other no longer exists — when I am vast and spread — what lust remains? What craving? Then only love remains — lust does not. It is a great wonder: lust needs polarity — two. Without two, lust is impossible. The greater the distance, the stronger the lust.
Keep a man and woman from meeting; place a wall between; set guards. Then their lust will be fierce — beyond your imagining. The sexuality seen in the world is because between man and woman are walls and guns. Guns create distance; distance creates pull; greater pull — greater sexuality. A man is not so drawn to his wife as to his beloved — between him and his wife there is no wall, no gap, no guard, no father or brother, no society or religious teacher standing in the way. Society has left them — licensed them: Now be one — we leave you. Then the fun is gone, the charm is gone. The wife seems insipid, the husband absurd, all is boredom. There is no juice in it. Another woman passes in the street — the eyes brighten, flare. Seeing one’s wife they grow dim, cool — no relish there. Polarity is broken; distance is gone.
Lust needs distance; love needs oneness. Love happens where distance melts. Lust happens where distance is intense and large. Their roots are different. Love leads to Brahmacharya; love leads to the unity of the Self. Mahavira’s Brahmacharya is not amaithun; his Brahmacharya is Brahman-feeling.
But the later interpretation says Mahavira’s Brahmacharya is amaithun. Then monks abandon women, sit with eyes closed lest a woman be seen or touched or her cloth brush against them. Nuns abandon men’s seeing and touching. The fun is: the more you cut off woman and man, the more distance grows; the more distance, the more sexuality increases. Hence in monks and nuns sexuality is more than in any ordinary person — it cannot be otherwise; the cause of its dissolution has been broken.
I was meeting a nun. Sea winds were blowing; we sat on the shore. A gust lifted my shawl and it touched the nun. How would the sea-winds know that a woman sits, a man sits? Innocent winds, ignorant — they know nothing of religion, nothing of scripture — that a nun must not be touched by a man’s garment. Perhaps the winds have not read that book. The wind carried the shawl — before I could notice, the shawl had touched her. I thought: It has touched — let it be; shawls too do not know scriptures. But the nun was shaken. We had been speaking of the soul, of the divine. The talk ended; her face changed. I asked, You seem disturbed suddenly? She said, Yes — a man’s garment should not touch me; your cloth touched me. I said, Just now you were saying only the soul is true, the body is maya. But it seems the shawl is truer than the soul. The body is illusion — the shawl is truth! The body is maya — the man is truth! And has my shawl turned into a man because I wore it? If a woman wears it does it become a woman? What a joke.
There is Hindu water and Muslim water — I learned this for the first time. That there are men’s shawls and women’s shawls! A shawl is only a shawl. She said, No — being touched by a man’s cloth, there is fear of sexuality arising. I said, That fear does not come from a man’s shawl — it comes from the distance you have created from men. The more distance you create, the more a slight contact breaks it and reveals the hidden lust. The more distance you create from life, the more sexuality arises toward life.
Brahmacharya does not cultivate distance from things; it realizes the One within them. It experiences the One spread through all — remembers it, is immersed in it, realizes it. And the day the One within all begins to be experienced, the happening that follows is Brahmacharya. Brahmacharya has nothing to do with amaithun. When Brahmacharya happens, amaithun comes — but amaithun is not Brahmacharya. Just as I said: when love happens, Ahimsa comes; when Brahmacharya happens, non-sex arises. But the reverse is not true — that by practicing non-sex you become a Brahmachari.
The third and last point — similar for the same reason, for our image-making has the same secrets. Mahavira’s third sutra is Aparigraha — non-possession. Leave all — home, wealth, even clothes — leave everything. This feeling of leaving all has been loudly proclaimed: Mahavira is non-possessive. The same mistake goes on. To say Mahavira leaves — there the basic error has already happened. Only one who knows something as ‘mine’ can ‘leave’ it. To say, I leave this shawl — two things are settled: I believed it was mine; only then can I leave it. How can I leave what is not mine?
Mahavira does not leave — he realizes: Nothing is mine. Behind leaving and renunciation the ego remains. I say, I renounced that house; I donated that wealth. I am present. Where ‘I’ is present, what renunciation can be! For the ‘I’ declares: I possess; I am the owner. The donor too does not drop ownership; he says, I donate — the owner is I. But Mahavira says, I am not the owner — I see this now. What can I donate! What can I give! If something were mine, I would. If something were mine, I would leave it. I have come to the experience that nothing is mine. In truth, I am nothing — then what of mine? How can there be donating, renouncing, non-possession!
But for twenty-five hundred years the teaching has been: Aparigraha — leave. We do not know that behind the leaving lurks the feeling of ‘mine’.
A sannyasin used to speak to me. He said, I kicked away lakhs of rupees. I was amazed. When did you kick them? He said, Some thirty years ago. I said, Thirty years ago! Then the kick did not land properly. He asked, Why? I said, Because if it had, how could the memory remain for thirty years! The memory is ownership. The remembrance testifies that I was the owner thirty years ago — and by virtue of my ownership I renounced. That ownership remained even after renunciation. I am still a renouncer — I left those things. Ownership did not end.
Mahavira sees no ownership in life. No owner is there — none. Then what possession, what non-possession! What accumulation, what renunciation! Aparigraha is the shadow of Parigraha. Renunciation is the shadow of accumulation. Mahavira says: There is neither accumulation nor renunciation; nothing is mine. When this feeling, this awareness, this depth becomes available in life…
Ahimsa, amaithun, Aparigraha — these three wrong words create a wrong image. Love, Brahman-feeling, egolessness — I am not, nothing is mine — these present the true image of Mahavira. And if the true image is seen, through it a new movement, a new vision, a new philosophy may begin in our hearts and lives. We can set out upon a new pilgrimage.
Therefore I ask: do not remain fire-worshippers. Worship has nothing to do with religion. Become consumers of fire! Light it; illumine your home; cook your bread; warm your house; light the lamp; throw light on dark paths — become the consumers of fire. Do not be worshippers of religion either — be consumers of religion; dissolve it, drink it; knead your bread with it and eat; live it, breathe it — let it spread throughout your life. The world needs religious people, not religion-worshippers. It needs a religious life, not religious temples. It needs religious consciousness, not religious scriptures. It needs religiousness — religiousness — but not religion. Not Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian.
Mahavira is not a Jain; Muhammad is not a Muslim; Jesus Christ is not a Christian; Rama is not a Hindu. But because of our stupidity, our dullness, we have drawn circles. Can Mahavira fit into a circle? Can Rama fit? Can Christ? Yet we, lovers of circles, not only draw circles for ourselves — we draw circles around them too. Because of this, humanity has not benefited from the experiential wealth of the whole of human life as it could have. The fragrant flowers of that wealth — we could not be enriched by them.
Break our circles! A religious person has no circle, no temple, no worship. A religious person has a way of living — a philosophy of life. In this philosophy of living, remember three sutras — and forget three wrong ones.
Forget Ahimsa — remember love. Love is creative; Ahimsa is negative. Love — universal feeling, universal benevolence. Ahimsa — negation, ego.
Forget amaithun — remember Brahman-feeling, Brahmacharya. The very meaning of Brahmacharya is: a God-like conduct, a God-like life. A God-like life means: the non-dual vision. The realization and experience of the One within all.
Drop the obsession with amaithun — the teaching of non-sex has made India sexually obsessed. Today, on this earth, there is no people more sex-obsessed than ours. None think so much in the language of sex as we do. Our poems, our books, our novels, our films, our ways of sitting and rising, our speech, thought, manners — all are drenched in sexuality. And we taught non-sex. We taught Ahimsa — and who are more violence-minded and more cowardly than us! Who fear death more than us! In whose life there is love — he will not be a coward. In whose life there is love — he will not be afraid of death. In whose life there is love — his life will be a continuous process of total surrender.
Osho's Commentary
A sannyasin was passing through a foreign land. That land was a land of fire-worshippers. When the sannyasin entered, the first villages he met stunned him — in those villages night was sheer darkness. No hearths burned in the homes. The people of those villages did not even know how to kindle fire. He was amazed. He had heard it was a land of fire-worshippers. They certainly worshipped fire, but they did not know how to light it.
He spoke with the people. They said, Fire no longer burns — that was in SatYuga; once it burned. Those days are gone. This is KaliYuga — now there is no way to light fire. And then, not everyone can kindle fire! Some great soul, some Tirthankar, some son of God, some avatar — only such a one is capable of lighting fire. How can we ordinary people kindle it! We can only worship fire.
The sannyasin was bewildered: fire can be lit by anyone. And when he said so — that anyone can light fire — the villagers grew angry. You insult our great ones! This is possible only for superhuman beings that they can light fire. We can only worship it. And they could not even light a fire for the act of worship. They had scriptures written about fire. They kept them in the temple — and worshipped those.
The sannyasin went deeper into that land. He came to other villages. There too was darkness; there too no one knew how to light fire. But they had pictures of fire — they worshipped the pictures.
He went further in, to villages in the inner parts of the country. There too no one knew how to kindle fire. But they had the implements for kindling — stones by whose friction fire would be born. Yet they never struck the stones together. Perhaps they had forgotten. Perhaps they did not even know. But they kept those stones in their temple and worshipped them.
Then the sannyasin went still further in and reached the capital at the country’s center. There at least one man knew how to light fire. He was the high priest of that land, the religious head. And people worshipped this man — for it was a miracle that he could light fire. Once a year he would light it. Millions of people from the whole country gathered — and worshipped. When the sannyasin reached the capital, the festival of fire was under way. Millions had gathered. They worshipped the priest because he could light fire. This was the work of great power. He was God’s special man, graced with this privilege. No one else knew how to kindle fire.
From the crowd the sannyasin shouted, What madness is this! Anyone can light fire. I can show you how to kindle it. What insanity has spread here!
The priests seized the sannyasin and the people cried, He is an enemy of our religion! He is our foe! He dishonors our faith. He spreads irreverence. And they hung the sannyasin on a cross. And they rejoiced, for they had slain an irreligious atheist and freed the earth of him.
Why do I begin with this story? On this earth, religion has come to the same fate that fire met in that country. Everywhere are religious people — as in that land there were fire-worshippers. There are temples, mosques, Shiva-shrines, scriptures, idols, pictures, worship, prayer, ritual. But just as in that land there was no fire and people lived in darkness, so on this earth there is no religion — and people live in darkness. Yes, sometimes we worship. And sometimes we remember those whose lives were aflame with religion’s light.
Just as today we have gathered to remember such a one — to remember Mahavira — so at times we gather to remember Krishna, or Rama, or Christ, or Muhammad. And we sing the praises of those who knew how to light the fire — the fire of life, the fire of love, the fire of the divine. We worship them. We remember them. But we have forgotten that this fire can be lit by all. It is every person’s birthright to be attained by the flame of the Lord.
Yet if anyone says this to us, we will reply, Do not insult our great ones; do not oppose our religion; we are worshippers of religion. Do not spread such irreverent words. What happened to that sannyasin has always happened to sannyasins. Hence we crucify Jesus — because he opposes those who only worship. Worshippers are enemies of religion. Religion must be lived — not worshipped. But when Jesus says to people, You worshippers are mad — live religion! Light the fire and disperse the darkness at home. Do not worship pictures of fire and scriptures about it. Fire is for use. So too religion is for use. Then the priests crucified Jesus.
And Socrates — in Greece he said the same thing: religion is to be lived. Truth is to be lived. Live it! The court of Athens condemned him to drink hemlock: He is corrupting the people. He is undermining their faith. And when Mansoor said it — the same befell Mansoor. And we have not long since finished with assassinating Gandhi — his shadow still lingers upon us.
It is a strange thing: while the great ones live, we throw stones, we insult, we fire bullets, we give poison. And when they die — when thousands of years pass — we worship them. Perhaps this worship is a device for repentance. Perhaps we want to atone for the abuse we hurled at them while alive. Then the penance goes on for thousands of years. We will worship Gandhi; we will make statues. We worship Mahavira; statues are made, temples built, remembrance performed. I do not recall that we treated Mahavira very well.
Stones were hurled at Mahavira. He was driven out of villages. Wild dogs were set upon him. Iron nails were hammered into his ears. This was our treatment while he lived. And when he died, we made his statues — we lay our heads at his feet.
Man seems mad. Worship is repentance. Perhaps when one dies, when one has gone, we suddenly realize, What have we done! And there may be another reason: a living Tirthankar, a living prophet, a living thinker, a living Socrates, a living Mahavira, a living Buddha — they are unbearable to us. The truth they show makes our entire falsity tremble to its roots. But when a great one is dead, we close him within our fist. Then we interpret him according to our own mind. We sand off his sharp edges. We erase his biting words. We remove the arrows from his life. We make him smooth, clean, useful to us. Then we worship him.
Hence dead prophets are worshipped; living prophets are stoned. And so long as this continues on earth, the descent of religion is impossible. The day respect arises for the living, not for the dead, that day perhaps religion may descend upon earth. How can dead, past great ones bring religion?
Yet we keep worshipping them. And our trick in worshipping is first to rub off their sharp corners — wherever they might hurt us we erase. We fashion interpretations to suit ourselves. And when the interpretation fits our convenience, we relax.
A man was voyaging on the sea. A storm came, winds rose, and his boat began to pitch. He was returning with wealth worth crores. There were diamonds and jewels, pearls and rubies. The treasure would sink. He panicked. He folded his hands, prayed, and said to God, O Lord! If my life is saved and my boat is saved, I will sell my palace in the capital and distribute the money to the poor.
Even so he was cheating — and making a cheap bargain. The palace was worth hardly five lakhs, and in the boat were riches worth crores. He thought to trick God. And not such a cheap trick either — you go and say, O God, I will offer a coconut worth five annas; get my son married, win my case, remove my illness. A court peon would not accept a bribe of five annas; God — for so cheap! But even then his deal was not that cheap: his palace was worth five to ten lakhs.
By chance the boat was saved. We cannot think some God was tempted by five lakhs — it must have been mere coincidence. He reached the shore. The moment he landed, his soul fell into anguish: What to do now? Shall I give the five-lakh mansion to the poor?
His sleep fled. He thought, Better if the boat had sunk — neither I would be, nor flute nor bamboo. Neither this worry, nor this trouble. All night he could not sleep. The mansion! If I do not give it to the poor, perhaps God will be annoyed. For the God who is pleased by praise can also be feared — he might be angered by a lapse. He saw no way out; sleep was gone; health was failing.
So he went to the religious guru of the town. For such matters, only religious gurus can give the exact interpretation of what should be done. None more cunning exists on earth than they — for no one else does such an unknowable business. All other trades are worldly; they trade in God. It is a business of a very dark unknown. The shop is such that it cannot be seen. There a very shrewd, clever man is needed. They sell such wares as cannot be held in hand, cannot be seen with the eyes — and in exchange they take such goods as can be seen and held. He said, Let me go to the religious guru. He went.
The guru said, What is there to worry! Such cases appear daily in the scriptures; we keep interpreting. Interpretation is our trade. He whispered the interpretation in the man’s ear.
The next day the millionaire’s men beat the drum through the capital: I want to sell my palace — whoever wishes to buy, come in the morning. Many buyers arrived, eager. In front of the palace stood a commemorative pillar; he tied a cat to it. And he said, Five lakhs — the price of the cat; and the price of the palace — one rupee.
People said, Are you mad? Five lakhs for a cat! And who wants to buy a cat! We did not come to buy a cat. He said, No, I will sell the cat and the palace together. One rupee for the palace, five lakhs for the cat — whoever wants! I will sell only together, to a single buyer.
People could not make sense of it. But they said, What does it matter! The palace was worth five lakhs — more. A man bought the cat for five lakhs and the palace for one rupee. The five lakhs he locked up in his safe; the one rupee he distributed to the poor. He interpreted to suit himself, his work, his purpose. He grew carefree. Sleep returned deep. His health was restored.
So too we cleverly interpret the lives of the great after they are gone — and refashion them to fit ourselves. We do not refashion our lives; we remold theirs to suit our minds. Hence dead Tirthankars, dead avatars, gone great ones — they are accepted, worshipped, honored. But should they appear again before you, the opposition would begin anew. Refusal would start at once.
I have heard that once such a thought occurred to Jesus the Christ. Eighteen hundred years had passed. He thought, Now at least one-third of the earth’s people are Christians. They worship in my church. They sing my hymns. They fold their hands to me. I erred in coming too early — eighteen hundred years ago. If I go now I might be properly welcomed. The ground is ready; people are eager for my coming; millions of prayers rise daily.
So Jesus, after eighteen hundred years of being crucified, descended one Sunday morning into the bazaar of Jerusalem. For on Sunday Christians are easy to recognize. On other days you cannot tell who is Christian and who is not — as on Mahavira Jayanti Jains are easy to recognize; on other days you cannot tell who is Jain and who is not. He thought, Sunday is the right day, for Christians go to church. He came down beneath a tree just in front of the church. People were returning from church — religious people. The sins done in six days — they do not forget to do religion one day. They think: if one day’s religiosity wipes out six days’ sin, what is the harm! Then once again we are free to sin for six days. Settlements get made, and no hassle arises.
Jesus had descended. People were coming out of the church; a crowd gathered. They began to laugh: Some impersonator, it seems — standing here made exactly in the image of Jesus Christ! Jesus said, No, I am no impersonator. I am Jesus Christ himself. Have you forgotten me? You pray to me. You are coming from my church.
They laughed. They said, Fool, run away quickly from here. The priest will be coming out in a moment — if he sees you, you will be in trouble. Run — do not stand here.
Jesus said, But that priest is mine. Jewish priests crucified me. This one is ours — he says, Servant of Jesus Christ — he is my servant. They said, You seem a confused man — your head is not right. By then the priest arrived. Children were throwing stones, someone peels, people mocking: Which actor has come as Jesus Christ! And yet — he looked exactly like Jesus Christ!
The priest came. For him the crowd opened a respectful way. People bowed at his feet. Jesus Christ stood there — and not one man bowed at his feet. This priest, agent of Jesus Christ in his name — self-appointed, for Jesus Christ appointed no one — for him people made way, bending to touch his hands and feet. He looked Jesus over from head to toe and said, Scoundrel — get down from there! What fakery is this!
Jesus said, You too do not recognize me? If the crowd does not, well and good — but you? Sweat broke out on him: This is trouble. Where have I come! I thought — my own people. He is today the priest, the highest priest of Jerusalem. You too do not recognize me? You too have not recognized me? The man said, I recognized you very well. Come down! And he told four men: Seize him. Jesus Christ has already come once — now there is neither need nor question for his coming again.
Let someone appear today and say, I am Mahavira. The Jains will say, Seize him — at once! For Mahavira has happened — now no Tirthankar can be. The son of God has come once — why a second time! Muslims say: After Muhammad no prophet can come. Christians say: After Jesus no son of God. Jains say: After Mahavira no Tirthankar.
Four men seized him and locked him in a dark cell of the church. Jesus was amazed: Will there be a crucifixion again? Will my own people crucify me this time? The first crucifixion could still be understood, forgiven — but this one, how shall it be explained? Will my own crucify me?
Midnight passed. Then the priest opened the cell door. He entered with a lantern. Tears were flowing from Christ’s eyes. The priest set down the lantern, fell at Christ’s feet, and said, Forgive me!
Jesus said, So — you recognized me? At last you recognized, didn’t you!
The priest said, I recognized you even there. But it is not proper to acknowledge it before the crowd. I recognized you even then. But the marketplace is not the place to recognize. In private it is all right. There is no need for your coming. We are managing quite well on your behalf. Very well indeed. In eighteen hundred years we have barely managed to put the system together. If you come now, everything will be upset. You have old habits — whenever you come, you disturb the entire tradition of priests, monks, sannyasins, pundits. Old disturber! You are an old demolisher. So we cannot recognize you before the crowd. If you create a stir there, we too would have to crucify you. Forgive us — there is no other way. But yes, do not come; stay in the heavens. We will go on praying to you, offering worship at your feet. Forever and ever we are your devotees, your servants.
I do not know whether Jesus understood or not — but such is the condition. Up to the point of worship — all is fine. But a living event creates a fierce challenge to change our lives — and we do not want to change. We do not want to live religion — we only want to worship. Hence when a great one dies…
Mahavira left his body twenty-five hundred years ago. For twenty-five hundred years his jayanti goes on. Each year those who remember, remember. And we have arranged things so that the Mahavira whose form we have fashioned — a totally false image we have created — has no relation at all to the real Mahavira. A wholly false image, dead, useful to us, a puppet in our hands. That image does not change us. That statue of Mahavira — that vision of life of Mahavira — has not transformed us. We have tailored Mahavira’s vision to suit ourselves.
Oscar Wilde was a guest in a home. The beautiful mistress of the house said to Wilde, I have a picture of you — exactly like you! So much like you that sometimes I am so overwhelmed I kiss the picture. Wilde shook his head and said, Does the picture return the kiss in reply? The woman said, No, it does not. Then Wilde said, Then it is not like me. I would return the reply. That picture is not like me. It is a picture — dead. From the living there comes a response; from the dead none.
We do not even want a response. We perform worship and return home. We do not want any response from that side — for if any comes, our very life will be in danger; we will have to change ourselves.
So how will we remember Mahavira? The one we remember is our made-up Mahavira — not the one who was. The Muhammad we remember is the one we have made. The Rama we remember is of our making. The real Rama, the real Muhammad, the real Mahavira — we cannot remember them, because to remember them would mean the total transformation of our lives.
We are fire-worshippers. We neither want to kindle fire, nor do we know how. And the few priests who do know how — they do not want anyone else to learn, because so long as the knowledge is secret, esoteric, their value and honor remain. I would like to speak of the way we have fashioned Mahavira’s picture to suit ourselves.
If we could come to feel that between Mahavira as he is and Mahavira as we have made him there is a basic difference, then perhaps a moment for reflection and transformation could arise in our lives. What a picture we have made! And over thousands of years layer upon layer has been added. After a journey of twenty-five hundred years there remains no connection, no harmony at all between the real Mahavira and our Mahavira. In twenty-five hundred years so many echoes have resounded, so much Ganga water has flowed, banks have been worn and fallen, sands have come and gone — and so many interpretations have been added and added, that now we have nothing but a false interpretation. But that false interpretation pleases us, because it is utterly dead. It can do nothing to us. We can extract any meaning we please from it.
There are a thousand commentaries on the Gita. Strange indeed. What Krishna said to Arjuna could have but one meaning — not a thousand. Can there be a thousand? If there can be, then only if Krishna’s mind was unsound. A madman’s words have no single meaning — there can be a thousand, fifty thousand. Even he does not know what it means. But Krishna is not mad. Then how did a thousand commentaries arise? Who are these thousand meaning-makers? Why are meanings being made? Every year or two we must refashion Krishna’s picture to fit ourselves — and then a fresh interpretation is needed.
Shankara interprets — his interpretation is not Krishna’s meaning; it is Shankara’s imposition. What he wants to prove, he imposes upon Krishna. Ramanuja interprets — it is not Krishna’s meaning; he thrusts upon Krishna what he wants to say. Tilak interprets — it is not Krishna’s meaning; he wants to force Karma-Yoga upon Krishna. Gandhi interprets — and it is astonishing: Gandhi wants to impose Ahimsa. Krishna is summoning Arjuna to war — and Gandhi imposes Ahimsa even there. Now Vinoba wants to impose Bhoodan — and Bhoodan can also be extracted from it. Whoever wishes can pull out whatever he likes. None of them has anything to do with Krishna. They keep fabricating a new image of Krishna. Every poet wants a man of his own liking — so he refashions him. Worship then proceeds smoothly.
In a thousand or two thousand years a thing grows so distant — mere rumor remains — that it has no relation to truth. The difference between a live coal and ash — that is the difference between the real Mahavira and our Mahavira. A live coal will burn; ash can be held happily in the fist. Though ash comes from the coal, one is satisfied: This too is from the coal. But ash can be grasped; a live coal cannot be held in the fist. So ash is pleasing — it can be worshipped. The coal cannot be worshipped — it can only be used. We cannot be the masters of the coal; of ash we can. We can possess ash. The coal is alive. A living great one is a coal of fire. The ones we worship have turned to ash. And through centuries, echoes and interpretations go on — and all is transformed.
In a village there were two parallel roads. The entire settlement was built along both roads. And as often happens, there was no rapport between two neighbors, no accord between two localities, two villages, two nations — wherever there are two, conflict starts at once. Husband and wife have no perfect accord. As soon as two are there, quarrel begins. Those two parallel neighborhoods had no harmony. Their religions were different, their politics different, their devotions different, their doctrines different, their scriptures different, their prophets different, their Tirthankars different.
Yet they kept seeing one another — passing by each other — never meeting, just passing close by. As Hindus and Muslims pass by. As Christians and Jains pass by. As Shvetambar and Digambar pass by. Madnesses one after another. Two people pass by each other, an unseen wall stands in between and does not let them meet. So it was between those two.
One day a fakir came. And fakirs do not bother about which settlement you belong to, which temple you worship in. He moved among both. One afternoon he was going from one settlement to the other. Tears were pouring from his eyes. The people of the other neighborhood thought: Someone must have died in the first settlement. No one even asked what had happened.
People are so wise — without asking they understand. No one asks Krishna, What do you mean? People are so wise that they keep a Gita at home and extract meanings, scholars print commentaries, and even distribute them by paying for it. No one asks Krishna — we extract our own meanings.
They saw the fakir with tears streaming, coming from the other lane. The people of the neighborhood concluded: A calamity has occurred there, someone has died. That was the first step in understanding. Now the echoes of understanding began. By evening the news had spread through the settlement: There is a plague in the other neighborhood — who knows how many have died. Naturally, by evening the story had advanced twenty-five steps, reached twenty-five mouths. And what sort of man is he who hears a report and adds nothing to it? Otherwise news would cease to be born in the world, newspapers would have to shut down.
Man is very creative, very constructive. A tiny thing comes to hand — he constructs, builds, traces it. Then the next adds a little more. And on it goes.
By evening the morning’s news could not be recognized. By evening the entire other village had the news: The other side is stricken by plague — we should abandon the town. Some public servant must have been found who added: Vacate the village, or the plague will spread here. That night volunteers set to work to empty the town. Volunteers are always found. Whatever stupidity you want done — they are available. Volunteers! They say, We will do anything voluntarily. They emptied the town.
When one town began to empty, the parallel settlement next to it heard the news. There too were journalists, correspondents, messengers. They said, Are you sleeping! We will die — the other side is emptying — there is plague there. By morning that side too had emptied. Both carried their goods across the river.
Thousands of years have passed. Those villages are still built on the river’s far bank. The original settlement lies desolate — deserted, broken — in ruins. If someone asks them, Why was that settlement ruined? Why did you leave it and come here? They say, It is written in our scriptures — our priests tell us, and our fathers and grandfathers said — that once an unknown disease spread, and for that reason we left the original settlement. In some unknown time that event happened.
And the entire event was only this — if someone had asked the fakir, all this trouble need not have been — he had been peeling an onion, and his eyes were watering. But no one asked what had happened.
All traditions are born this way. Someone peels an onion and tears come — plagues spread, towns are abandoned, settlements shifted, people become something else. The same happened in the life of Mahavira. The same happens with all great ones. A great one is great to the extent that he can be misunderstood greatly. The more we can be foolish about a man, the greater he is. A small man is one about whom there is no possibility of misunderstanding — he is just as he appears.
In truth we do not interpret small men. If we were to interpret even a small man, the same would happen. It is the great ones we interpret.
I want to speak on three or four sutras of Mahavira whose interpretations have placed before us a false image. And so it has been with all great ones. What I say of Mahavira is a hundred percent true of them all.
First: all over the world it is said that Mahavira is the father of Ahimsa. This is utterly untrue. Mahavira is a worshipper of love; Ahimsa has nothing to do with Mahavira. And love and Ahimsa are not the same thing. Love is a living phenomenon; Ahimsa is an interpretation. It is necessary to understand this a little. Between love and Ahimsa there is a difference like earth and sky.
Love is positive — a creative relationship. Ahimsa is negative. Love means: I desire the welfare of the other, the blessing of the other; I become a joy in the other’s life; I lay flowers on the other’s path. Ahimsa means: I do not cause sorrow to the other, I do not give pain. If I do not hurt another, Ahimsa is fulfilled — but love is not. Love cannot rest until it gives joy to the other. Love lays flowers on the other’s way. Ahimsa only says: Do not scatter thorns. But if thorns are already strewn on the other’s path, Ahimsa has nothing to say whether you should pick them up or not. If the other’s path is empty and your hands full of flowers, Ahimsa says nothing about whether you should place them or not. Ahimsa is negative — enough that I do not harm. Beyond that it has no inspiration. But love’s inspiration is infinite: not to strew thorns — yes; to remove the thorns already there — yes; yet even a thornless path is not enough — flowers must be laid.
In love, Ahimsa is included; love’s first step is Ahimsa — not to strew thorns, not to hurt. So within the vastness of love, Ahimsa is present. But the scope of Ahimsa is very narrow — within it love is not present.
In Mahavira’s life there is love; his followers have clutched at Ahimsa. Then Ahimsa takes such forms as: strain the water before drinking, do not eat at night, do not eat meat — such shapes it takes. Being negative, it chooses such. If Mahavira were merely non-violent, nothing of value remains. Mahavira is not an Ahimsak — he is a great lover. But if we understand Mahavira’s love, a revolution in our lives cannot be avoided — we will have to change ourselves.
Love is the supreme alchemy of life; love is life’s greatest gamble; love is life’s greatest challenge. Ahimsa is no gamble, no challenge. Your life need not change much — just adopt a negative posture, and it suffices. If a man has fallen on the road and you are passing by: if you are a lover, you will have to lift him up; if you are an Ahimsak, you have no concern — you did not knock him down; it is no affair of yours. Love makes an extraordinary demand — therefore its action is never complete; it remains forever unfinished; much remains yet to be done. The lover always feels: What I ought to have done I could not — what I did is nothing; what remains undone is immense.
Ahimsa need not worry thus. Mahavira is a lover; his followers are Ahimsaks. And the trick has been so clever that it has come to seem that Ahimsa means love. Ahimsa is not love — it is a fundamental mistake. Hence the result: Mahavira’s follower talks endlessly of Ahimsa — but no love flowers in his life. Ahimsa is there — love is utterly absent. And Ahimsa is hollow.
Note too: love has one kind of fruit, Ahimsa another. When I love, when my life is a stream of love, I drop the concern of what happens to me in loving. The only concern remains: What happens to the one I love? Where love flowers fully, the ego becomes zero; one forgets that one is. Only the beloved remains. And if love is for the whole — as Mahavira’s is, the feeling of universal love, universal benevolence, universal compassion — then when love is for the infinite, one finds oneself utterly nothing — I am not. For in love there is no leisure to remember oneself — no opportunity. Only those who are not in love can remember themselves.
Do you know — whenever you are in love, even a small love, for one person — for the duration that love stirs your being, for that while you do not exist. Then you are not — the lover remains. You become a no — you disappear. Only the one toward whom love flows remains. And one whose love flows toward the All — he is gone. He is a void. His ego dissolves.
Love is the death of ego. Ahimsa is not the death of ego — rather Ahimsa is a new kind of worship of ego. How?
The Ahimsak’s core thought is not that the other should not suffer; his core thought is: If I cause suffering, I will incur sin; I will reap bad fruits; I will go to hell — I! The other has nothing to do with it. If I do not hurt another, remain non-violent, I will gain heaven — I! If I renounce all violence completely, become entirely non-violent, then I will attain moksha — I! The inspiration behind Ahimsa is none other than ego and self-interest. Hence the astonishing sight of a man being both Ahimsak and selfish. A lover cannot be selfish. In love there is no question of self. The lover leaves self, loses it, dissolves; he is dissolved in love — no need even to leave or lose.
A man used to come to Ramakrishna. In his house there were Kali festivals; two or three times a year hundreds of goats were slaughtered, meat cooked, and hundreds invited to feast. Then he grew old. The Kali worship ceased. Ramakrishna asked, I hear you have stopped Kali worship — what happened? Has your mind changed? Did your heart turn away from Kali? The man said, No — my teeth fell out. Ramakrishna said, Teeth fell out! What has that to do with Kali worship? The man laughed: The worship of Kali was just a pretext. The real point was the feast, the pleasures of meat. Now without teeth what Kali, what festival, what celebration! It all stopped.
But if during the worship of Kali someone had said, He does this because of his teeth, the man would have seized him: What a lie! What has this to do with teeth! Man’s motives, man’s inspirations are very strange. It can be that a man worships Kali because his teeth are strong. It can be that a man talks Ahimsa out of sheer self-interest — my happiness, my liberation, my merit; let me be saved — the rest of the world can go to hell, let anything happen to them; let me be saved, let me be saved. This self — this ego — where is there room for it in love!
There is no Ahimsa in Mahavira’s life; there is love — the feeling of universal benevolence. Ahimsa is the desire for self-benefit; love is the wish for all. These two are opposing. Love does not mean Ahimsa; Ahimsa does not mean love. Yes, in love, Ahimsa is included — within its vaster circumference it becomes a small corner. But within Ahimsa’s small corner love cannot be contained.
Yet interpreters played their cleverness. By renaming Mahavira’s love ‘Ahimsa’, the basic value was altered. And for twenty-five hundred years the proclamation goes on: Ahimsa paramo dharma — Ahimsa is the supreme religion! Sadhus, saints, priests keep shouting, Ahimsa paramo dharma — and on and on. And strangest of all — this slogan has destroyed everything. That fundamental note in Mahavira’s life — that particular blow of music by which he wanted to touch the human soul — that love — has been lost.
But who will say this? Pundits are skilled at defining words. They will say, Ahimsa means love; the meaning of Ahimsa is love. If so, what harm in saying love! But a small difference of word brings such revolutionary difference we cannot even reckon it.
A Jewish novice went to a monastery for study. A friend went with him. Both were young, both had gone for practice — but both had the habit of smoking. They were worried: What in the monastery! One cannot smoke there. The monastery is closed on all sides; twenty-four hours one has to remain within. There is no permission to go out — but in the evening, for one hour, permission is given to walk by the river — for God-contemplation: go for an hour and contemplate God. They thought, We will smoke there. Then they felt: We have come to be monks; if we lie and steal a smoke, that is not right — let us ask the master’s permission. Both went to their master.
One went in; the master at once said, No, no — permission to smoke cannot be given. He returned sad — now even stealing a smoke had no way. He reached the riverbank and saw his friend sitting on the grass — smoking. He asked, Did you start smoking without asking? He said, No, I asked — and the master said I could. Sparks flew from the eyes of the one refused. He said, What is this — what injustice! I asked and he scolded me, No, no — you cannot. How were you permitted! Come — get up, come back with me. The other laughed: May I ask — what exactly did you ask? The first said, What else — straightforward — I asked, May I smoke while contemplating God? He said, Absolutely not. What did you ask? The other said, I asked, May I contemplate God while smoking? He said, Yes.
Such a tiny difference — and yet the fundamental difference! Who on earth will say: Smoke while contemplating God! But who will forbid one who asks: While I smoke, may I also contemplate God? Who would forbid! What is there to forbid! It is even good — if you smoke anyway, at least contemplate God.
Between Ahimsa and love there is just such a difference. In the dictionary there is none; in grammar there is none. Word-knowers will say: they are one and the same. But they are not the same.
In response to love, life will become Life. In response to Ahimsa, life will wither. In response to Ahimsa, self-interest is born; in response to love, other-interest, altruism. In response to Ahimsa the person becomes egoistic — my search, my attainment, me. In the quest of love, the person goes on dissolving — becomes a void, a no-one.
Therefore, by the path of love one can reach the divine — not by the path of Ahimsa. This is the first point to note: in the image of Mahavira a fundamental substitution has been made. Word-scholars can shift meanings with great skill — we may not discover for thousands of years what has been done to us.
Mahavira’s second fundamental principle is what the scholars and pundits call Brahmacharya. They take it to mean non-sexuality, amaithun — no sexual union. Their meaning is: Mahavira does not enter into bodily, lustful relations — renunciation of woman, of home, of all bodily relations, of all sexuality — this is their meaning of amaithun.
Again the same mistake — grasping by the negative. Mahavira does not abandon anyone — not woman, not the body, not sexuality. Mahavira attains something: the unity of the Self, the Brahman-feeling — he begins to experience himself in all. When the whole becomes oneself, union is impossible. When I am the whole, when the same Atman that flows in me flows in the other — I alone am — then the possibility of ‘enjoying’ the other ends. Lust can be only toward the other — not toward the Self. For lust, there must be otherness — the other, the second; man and woman.
But when Mahavira attains the unity of the Self, no woman remains, no man remains. Two do not remain — duality dissolves.
Buddha was sitting in a forest. From the nearby capital some youths dragged a courtesan into the jungle. They had drunk wine, danced and sung; they were harassing the woman. Seeing them sunk in intoxication, the woman ran away. When they sobered a little, they sought her — they went searching. Buddha sat beneath a tree. It was a moonlit night. Perhaps he was absorbed in some Brahman-feeling, perhaps immersed in some unknown compassion; perhaps some peace was descending within. They shook him and said, Hey — did a woman pass this way? She was naked — we had stripped her clothes. Did you see? We are looking for her.
Buddha said, It is hard to say who came and who went — I was so silent, so void, so still, that which ripple arose and passed I cannot say. And even if I had seen, it would be hard to say whether she was clothed or naked. For unless there is a desire to see someone naked, it is very difficult to see anyone naked — even if they are naked. And when the mind desires to see nakedness, to see someone naked is quite easy — even if they are clothed. Do clothes block the seeing of someone’s naked being? Can garments stop anyone’s nakedness? Truth is the opposite: a naked person is never so naked as when, by the clothing, the body’s nakedness is accentuated, made prominent and eloquent. Clothes were invented not to hide the body but to expose it, to display it.
If one wished to hide, garments would grow looser. If one wished to reveal, garments would become tighter and tighter. Naturally. The body’s nakedness is never so naked as when it becomes prominent and vocal through clothes. Clothes have made men and women more naked than anything else. A naked person is not so naked.
So Buddha said, I cannot say. Even if I had seen, it would be hard to tell if she was naked or clothed, because within me the discrimination, the noticing, has disappeared. From the day the desire to see nakedness vanished, that too has gone. And it could also be that even if I saw — if it were daylight and I were simply sitting — then too it would be hard to tell whether it was a woman or a man.
For a woman appears outside as a challenge to the man within. When the inner man is stirred by the outer woman, then the woman appears. When the outer man appears, it is because the inner woman has become desirous and yearning — then the outer man appears. It is polarity — two poles of one electricity. When one part is stirred within, the other appears without; movement starts there.
So Buddha said, It is very difficult. Ask someone else, friends — for the search you are on, I cannot be a companion. Forgive me. But one thing I can say: How long will you go on searching for the other? Have you no desire to search for yourself? Drop it — whom are you looking for! In the time you are spending in this frantic chase, in this dark jungle — for whom, a courtesan, a woman — in such a search, you could search your very self. And what will you gain by finding the courtesan? Only that she will be exhausted and you will have to find another. And what will you gain by finding her? She will be exhausted — and you will have to find yet another.
Every day we do this: we seek a house — it becomes useless; we seek another. We seek a safe — it becomes useless as soon as we have found it; then we seek another, bigger safe. We conquer a country — the moment we have won, it becomes useless; then we must conquer a bigger land.
Buddha said, I tell you: seek yourself. After that search, no search remains.
Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna do not attain amaithun — non-sexuality — by avoiding women or this body. Their effort is to expand the Self — to unfold it. As the Self expands into unity, desire, sex, the urge to ‘enjoy’ withers and disappears. When the other no longer exists — when I am vast and spread — what lust remains? What craving? Then only love remains — lust does not. It is a great wonder: lust needs polarity — two. Without two, lust is impossible. The greater the distance, the stronger the lust.
Keep a man and woman from meeting; place a wall between; set guards. Then their lust will be fierce — beyond your imagining. The sexuality seen in the world is because between man and woman are walls and guns. Guns create distance; distance creates pull; greater pull — greater sexuality. A man is not so drawn to his wife as to his beloved — between him and his wife there is no wall, no gap, no guard, no father or brother, no society or religious teacher standing in the way. Society has left them — licensed them: Now be one — we leave you. Then the fun is gone, the charm is gone. The wife seems insipid, the husband absurd, all is boredom. There is no juice in it. Another woman passes in the street — the eyes brighten, flare. Seeing one’s wife they grow dim, cool — no relish there. Polarity is broken; distance is gone.
Lust needs distance; love needs oneness. Love happens where distance melts. Lust happens where distance is intense and large. Their roots are different. Love leads to Brahmacharya; love leads to the unity of the Self. Mahavira’s Brahmacharya is not amaithun; his Brahmacharya is Brahman-feeling.
But the later interpretation says Mahavira’s Brahmacharya is amaithun. Then monks abandon women, sit with eyes closed lest a woman be seen or touched or her cloth brush against them. Nuns abandon men’s seeing and touching. The fun is: the more you cut off woman and man, the more distance grows; the more distance, the more sexuality increases. Hence in monks and nuns sexuality is more than in any ordinary person — it cannot be otherwise; the cause of its dissolution has been broken.
I was meeting a nun. Sea winds were blowing; we sat on the shore. A gust lifted my shawl and it touched the nun. How would the sea-winds know that a woman sits, a man sits? Innocent winds, ignorant — they know nothing of religion, nothing of scripture — that a nun must not be touched by a man’s garment. Perhaps the winds have not read that book. The wind carried the shawl — before I could notice, the shawl had touched her. I thought: It has touched — let it be; shawls too do not know scriptures. But the nun was shaken. We had been speaking of the soul, of the divine. The talk ended; her face changed. I asked, You seem disturbed suddenly? She said, Yes — a man’s garment should not touch me; your cloth touched me. I said, Just now you were saying only the soul is true, the body is maya. But it seems the shawl is truer than the soul. The body is illusion — the shawl is truth! The body is maya — the man is truth! And has my shawl turned into a man because I wore it? If a woman wears it does it become a woman? What a joke.
There is Hindu water and Muslim water — I learned this for the first time. That there are men’s shawls and women’s shawls! A shawl is only a shawl. She said, No — being touched by a man’s cloth, there is fear of sexuality arising. I said, That fear does not come from a man’s shawl — it comes from the distance you have created from men. The more distance you create, the more a slight contact breaks it and reveals the hidden lust. The more distance you create from life, the more sexuality arises toward life.
Brahmacharya does not cultivate distance from things; it realizes the One within them. It experiences the One spread through all — remembers it, is immersed in it, realizes it. And the day the One within all begins to be experienced, the happening that follows is Brahmacharya. Brahmacharya has nothing to do with amaithun. When Brahmacharya happens, amaithun comes — but amaithun is not Brahmacharya. Just as I said: when love happens, Ahimsa comes; when Brahmacharya happens, non-sex arises. But the reverse is not true — that by practicing non-sex you become a Brahmachari.
The third and last point — similar for the same reason, for our image-making has the same secrets. Mahavira’s third sutra is Aparigraha — non-possession. Leave all — home, wealth, even clothes — leave everything. This feeling of leaving all has been loudly proclaimed: Mahavira is non-possessive. The same mistake goes on. To say Mahavira leaves — there the basic error has already happened. Only one who knows something as ‘mine’ can ‘leave’ it. To say, I leave this shawl — two things are settled: I believed it was mine; only then can I leave it. How can I leave what is not mine?
Mahavira does not leave — he realizes: Nothing is mine. Behind leaving and renunciation the ego remains. I say, I renounced that house; I donated that wealth. I am present. Where ‘I’ is present, what renunciation can be! For the ‘I’ declares: I possess; I am the owner. The donor too does not drop ownership; he says, I donate — the owner is I. But Mahavira says, I am not the owner — I see this now. What can I donate! What can I give! If something were mine, I would. If something were mine, I would leave it. I have come to the experience that nothing is mine. In truth, I am nothing — then what of mine? How can there be donating, renouncing, non-possession!
But for twenty-five hundred years the teaching has been: Aparigraha — leave. We do not know that behind the leaving lurks the feeling of ‘mine’.
A sannyasin used to speak to me. He said, I kicked away lakhs of rupees. I was amazed. When did you kick them? He said, Some thirty years ago. I said, Thirty years ago! Then the kick did not land properly. He asked, Why? I said, Because if it had, how could the memory remain for thirty years! The memory is ownership. The remembrance testifies that I was the owner thirty years ago — and by virtue of my ownership I renounced. That ownership remained even after renunciation. I am still a renouncer — I left those things. Ownership did not end.
Mahavira sees no ownership in life. No owner is there — none. Then what possession, what non-possession! What accumulation, what renunciation! Aparigraha is the shadow of Parigraha. Renunciation is the shadow of accumulation. Mahavira says: There is neither accumulation nor renunciation; nothing is mine. When this feeling, this awareness, this depth becomes available in life…
Ahimsa, amaithun, Aparigraha — these three wrong words create a wrong image. Love, Brahman-feeling, egolessness — I am not, nothing is mine — these present the true image of Mahavira. And if the true image is seen, through it a new movement, a new vision, a new philosophy may begin in our hearts and lives. We can set out upon a new pilgrimage.
Therefore I ask: do not remain fire-worshippers. Worship has nothing to do with religion. Become consumers of fire! Light it; illumine your home; cook your bread; warm your house; light the lamp; throw light on dark paths — become the consumers of fire. Do not be worshippers of religion either — be consumers of religion; dissolve it, drink it; knead your bread with it and eat; live it, breathe it — let it spread throughout your life. The world needs religious people, not religion-worshippers. It needs a religious life, not religious temples. It needs religious consciousness, not religious scriptures. It needs religiousness — religiousness — but not religion. Not Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian.
Mahavira is not a Jain; Muhammad is not a Muslim; Jesus Christ is not a Christian; Rama is not a Hindu. But because of our stupidity, our dullness, we have drawn circles. Can Mahavira fit into a circle? Can Rama fit? Can Christ? Yet we, lovers of circles, not only draw circles for ourselves — we draw circles around them too. Because of this, humanity has not benefited from the experiential wealth of the whole of human life as it could have. The fragrant flowers of that wealth — we could not be enriched by them.
Break our circles! A religious person has no circle, no temple, no worship. A religious person has a way of living — a philosophy of life. In this philosophy of living, remember three sutras — and forget three wrong ones.
Forget Ahimsa — remember love. Love is creative; Ahimsa is negative. Love — universal feeling, universal benevolence. Ahimsa — negation, ego.
Forget amaithun — remember Brahman-feeling, Brahmacharya. The very meaning of Brahmacharya is: a God-like conduct, a God-like life. A God-like life means: the non-dual vision. The realization and experience of the One within all.
Drop the obsession with amaithun — the teaching of non-sex has made India sexually obsessed. Today, on this earth, there is no people more sex-obsessed than ours. None think so much in the language of sex as we do. Our poems, our books, our novels, our films, our ways of sitting and rising, our speech, thought, manners — all are drenched in sexuality. And we taught non-sex. We taught Ahimsa — and who are more violence-minded and more cowardly than us! Who fear death more than us! In whose life there is love — he will not be a coward. In whose life there is love — he will not be afraid of death. In whose life there is love — his life will be a continuous process of total surrender.