Main Kahta Akhan Dekhi #2

There is the ocean, and waves arise and subside. The ocean remains. The waves are not in the least separate from the ocean—and yet the waves are not the ocean. Waves are merely forms, shapes that arise in the ocean; they appear and they disappear. A wave that remained forever would no longer be a wave. Wave means: hardly arisen, already gone. The very word wave suggests that it has not fully risen before it has already passed. That in which it rises is eternal; that which rises is not. So upon the breast of the eternal, the dance of the changing plays. The ocean is unborn; the wave is born. The ocean knows no death; the wave dies. But if the wave comes to know, “I am the ocean,” then it goes beyond birth and death. As long as the wave believes, “I am a wave,” it remains within birth and death.

Whatever truly is, is unborn—there is no death for it. Where would birth come from? Nothing is born out of the void. Where would death go? Nothing is lost into the void. So whatever is—existence—is eternal. Time cannot make any difference; time leaves no mark upon it. But this existence does not fall within our grasp, because our senses can grasp only form and shape. Beyond name-and-form, our senses catch nothing.

It is a curious fact: you have stood at the seashore a hundred times and said, “I have seen the ocean.” But you have seen only the waves; you have never seen the ocean. The ocean as such can never be seen. Whatever you see is the wave.

The senses grasp only what lies on the surface; what is within escapes. Even on the surface they grasp only shape; what is formless within the form slips by. The world of name-and-form is born because of the way our senses see; it is not “out there” as such. Whatever is in name-and-form is born and will die. What lies beyond is eternal—it is neither born nor will it die.

So when Buddha says, “I arose like a bubble,” he is saying two things. Look closely: what is a bubble? Enter a bubble and you find a small volume of air inside, the same air that expands infinitely outside. Between the vast air and the air inside the bubble there is a thin wall of water, a film—so thin that calling it a “wall” is not quite right, just a delicate watery film. That tiny film of water imprisons a small portion of air. The thin film and the trapped air together become a bubble.

By their nature things tend to grow larger; the bubble too expands—and in expanding it breaks and bursts. Then the air inside merges with the air outside; water returns to water. What was formed in between was an iridescent, rainbow existence. Nothing whatsoever changed in the eternal elements; all remained as it was. Only a form was made, and that form was born and died.

If we look at ourselves as a bubble, we see the arising and dissolving of a form. What is within has always been. But our identity, our identification, is with the bubble. So when I look at your body I say you are mortal, dying. The very day you are born, you begin dying. Other than dying, you have done nothing. A bubble may take seven moments to burst; you may take seventy years. But on the endless river of time, what difference is there between seven moments and seventy years?

All differences are only the differences of our little eyes. If time is infinite, with neither beginning nor end, what difference can there be between seventy years and seven moments? If time were limited—say a hundred years—then yes, seven moments would be very small and seventy years very large. But if there is no boundary on either side—no beginning here, no end there—what is the difference? We may still be deluded that seven moments and seventy years are different; but if we see the whole current of time, what difference remains? Against the infinite, seven moments and seventy years amount to the same. How long a bubble takes to burst is not the real question. From the moment it is formed, it has begun to burst.

That is why I said: speaking of the body, I speak thus. By body I mean what is visible as name-and-form. By soul I mean that which will be even when name-and-form fall, that which was even when name-and-form were not. By soul I mean the ocean; by body I mean the wave. Both must be understood together. If confusion arises between the two, all the difficulties of the world come up.

Within us is that which can never die. Hence, deep down we always feel: “I will never die.” We may see millions die, yet the feeling does not arise within that “I will die.” No echo of that truth is born deep inside. People may die before our eyes and yet some vigilant sense within keeps saying, “I cannot die.” Somewhere deep, the statement “I will not die” seems self-evident. Granted, external facts deny it, and events insist, “How can it be that I won’t die?” Reason says, “When everyone dies, you too will die.” And yet, despite all arguments, an inner voice continues: “I will not die.”

Thus no one truly believes he will die. Only thus can we live amidst so much death; otherwise we would die instantly from mere fear. In a world where all is dying, where everything is perishing moment to moment, on what trust do we live? What is the ground of our faith? It is not belief in some God. The faith stands within: however much death declares itself, some inner voice keeps saying, “How can I die?” No one can truly conceive his own death. Try as he may, he will find he remains. Even if he imagines himself dead and looks, he finds, “I am seeing it; I stand outside it.” In imagination too we cannot place ourselves within death; we always stand outside. To hold oneself within death, even in imagination, is impossible. In reality it is more difficult still. Even our imagination of “I am dead” keeps the imaginer outside, watching. He cannot die.

That inner voice is the ocean’s voice saying: “Death? What death? Death has never been known.” And yet we fear death—this is the body’s voice. Between these two, confusion reigns. The day we mistake the inner voice for the body’s voice, trembling begins, panic sets in—for the body will die. Deny it as much as we like, pile up sciences, write medical scriptures, surround ourselves with medicines and physicians—still the body never says, even for a moment, that it will be saved. The body has no voice of immortality; it knows it will die.

The body knows it is a bubble; and we know we are not the bubble. The day we take ourselves to be the bubble, our entire turmoil begins. That which is eternal within us, the moment it identifies with the wave, it falls into trouble. This identification is called ignorance. The breaking of this identification is called knowing. Nothing outward changes; everything remains as it was. The body remains where it is; the soul where it is. A single illusion breaks. Then we know the body will die; we are not frightened. There is no room for fear—die it will. Fear belongs where there is the possibility of escape. We are never afraid in situations where escape is impossible. Fear is born of the possibility of escape.

A soldier goes to the battlefield. Till he leaves home he is afraid; even on the field he trembles. But when all means of defense are exhausted and bombs fall upon him, he becomes fearless. The man who would startle at a single shot now sits playing cards while bombs explode and bullets fly. He is no special man; the situation is special. It is a situation in which fear of death has become meaningless—death is so blatant that there is no question of escape.

Even then, on the battlefield, there is still some chance—some die, some survive—so a little fear remains. But in the field of death there is no chance, none survive. Therefore if the illusion “I am the body” breaks, the fear of death dissolves with it. For that the body will die becomes a certainty. It is destiny—there is no remedy, no deviation.

Let it be equally clear on one side that the body will die; death is the body’s nature. It is not even correct to say “it will die”—it is already dying. And let it be just as clear on the other side that which is beyond the body was never born; so the question of dying does not arise. From that side too fear vanishes. For what will not die—why fear? And what must die—why fear? Fear is born of the mingling of these two. Within, something says “I will be saved,” and without, something says “How?” These two voices mix. We cannot tell they arise from two different instruments. They blend into each other and we take them for a single music.

In ignorance there is a constant fear of death, and yet one lives as if death were not. The ignorant man lives as though death does not exist, even while he trembles at every moment that it does. The wise man lives as though death does not exist, yet moment to moment, fully aware that death may come at any instant—and still, there is no death. The two planes have been separated—circumference and center parted. The wave is distinct, the ocean distinct. Form is distinct, the formless distinct. Yet he does not escape from form. Paradoxically, the illusions of life do not vanish by our knowing; it is only our misery that dissolves.

Shankara again and again gives the example: a rope lies on the path and in the dark it appears to be a snake. But that example is not altogether apt, because if you come close you see it is a rope, and once you know, you will never again see a snake there. But life’s illusion is not like that. Life’s illusion is like placing a straight stick in water—it appears bent. Take it out and see it is straight; put it back in and it appears bent again. Put your hand into the water and feel—it is straight; and yet it still appears bent. Your knowledge does not change the appearance of bentness. Yes, but the delusion that it truly is bent disappears.

Our illusion of life is not rope-and-snake; it is straight-stick-in-water-appearing-bent. You know perfectly well the stick is not bent, and still it appears bent. The greatest scientist, who has tested in every way that water does not bend the stick, still sees it bent. That appearance is sensory; it is not corrected by knowledge.

Now you will not behave on the assumption that it is bent. You will conduct yourself knowing it is straight, while still seeing it as bent. Two planes open up—on the plane of knowing the stick is straight; on the plane of seeing it appears bent. No confusion remains between the two.

On the plane of living, the body is; on the outer plane, the body is; on the plane of being, the soul is. Nothing is lost. It is not that the world disappears for the knower. The world remains just as it is for you—perhaps even more vivid, more clarified, each hair of existence sharp in his vision. The world is not lost. But he no longer falls into illusion. He knows forms are produced by his senses, just as the stick in water appears bent because the light rays are refracted.

In water the path of light changes, the rays bend a little; because of that bending the stick looks bent. In air the rays travel differently; they do not bend, so the stick does not appear bent. The stick is not bent; the medium through which the stick is seen—the ray—is bent. But the ray itself is not seen. Because the ray bends, the stick appears bent.

Existence is as it is; but the beam of knowing, passing through the senses, is bent a little. The mode of knowing shifts because of the medium. Put on blue glasses and things appear blue; take them off and you see they are white. Put them back on and again they are blue. Now you know the things are white, yet through the glasses they appear blue. And you also know it is the glasses that make them look blue. The matter is finished. The things are white. You will not be deluded again. You may keep the blue glasses on; the things will keep appearing blue, and you will know full well they are white.

Exactly so: even while you know the soul is immortal, the mortality of the body continues. Even while you know existence is eternal, the play of waves goes on. But now you know it is seen through the “glasses”—the senses see it so.

Therefore the statements of Buddhas, Mahaviras, Christs are on two planes. Our difficulty is that we mix those two planes within ourselves, so naturally we also mix their statements. Sometimes Buddha speaks as if he were the body. He says: “Ananda, I am thirsty; bring me water.”

The soul never gets thirsty. Thirst belongs to the body. Buddha says, “I am thirsty, Ananda; bring water.” Ananda could think: “But he says the body is nothing but name-and-form, a bubble. Then how is he thirsty? If he knows the body is not, how can there be thirst?” Then the next day Buddha says, “I was never born; I will never die!” Here the listener’s difficulties begin. He thinks that with knowing, existence itself will change.

Existence does not change with knowing; only the vision changes. And when Buddha says, “Ananda, I am thirsty,” he is saying, “Ananda, this body is thirsty. This bubble of name-and-form is thirsty; if you do not pour in water, it will burst quickly.” That is all he is saying. But the listener, just as he lives his own life mixing these two, cannot tell which voice comes from where, and he starts extracting meanings in the same mixed way.

That is why I spoke as I did. And if these two planes are made clear…

Simone Weil wrote a book: Grades of Significance. Such are the planes of meaning. The greater the person, the more planes of meaning he lives on simultaneously. He must. Because when a person of some plane comes to him, he must speak on that same plane; otherwise the talk is meaningless. If Buddha speaks to you as Buddha, it will be useless; you will think he is mad.

And often such people have been taken for mad. There was reason: what they said seemed sheer madness. So either they must appear mad if they speak on their plane, or else they must lower the grade and come to your plane. They must come where you can understand, where they will not seem mad. And as many planes of people come to them, on that many planes they must speak.

It is as if, for a person like Buddha, as many mirrors stood before him as there were people he addressed. Each mirror took its own picture. If some mirror was slanted, a slanted picture appeared; otherwise the mirror gets offended. The picture must match the mirror. One mirror lengthened the image; another shortened it. Otherwise, one would have to break and correct the mirror.

Hence there are statements on many planes. Sometimes even within a single statement there are many planes. A person like that often begins speaking from where he is—and by the time he finishes, he is often where you are. At times, even a single sentence has traveled a long journey. He begins with great expectations of you, and slowly, he must lower his expectations. By the end he stands where you are.

A last caution about these two deep divides: it does not mean the two are separate, distinct, apart. As I said, they are like ocean and wave. Another curious thing: the ocean can be without waves, but a wave can never be without the ocean. The formless can be without form, but form can never be without the formless. In our language, it is the reverse amusement: the word formless contains the word form, but the word form does not contain formless. We invented language. In existence the situation is the opposite: the formless can be without form; form can never be without the formless.

So many of our words are like this—ahimsa (nonviolence) and himsa (violence). The word nonviolence contains violence; the word violence does not contain nonviolence. Yet it is a great curiosity that violence cannot exist without nonviolence; it is absolutely essential to it. Otherwise violence has no being. Though nonviolence can be without violence; it does not require violence at all. We make language to suit ourselves. For us the world can be without God; but how can God be without the world?

These two are not separate—and yet I say they are distinct. I say it to prevent the wave’s delusion that it might take itself to be the immortal, the formless, the eternal. Distinct—so the possibility of confusion exists; if there were only one, there would be no confusion. And if the oneness is truly experienced, then it says: “I am not; only the ocean is.”

As Jesus says again and again: “I? Where am I? Only the Father who is above is.” “I am not; he is.”

This troubles us. Either we want to search for that Father above—who and where?—or we think the man is mad: “What is he saying? You are here—who else?” But Jesus is saying, “I am not the wave; only the ocean is.” We have never had a vision of anything but waves; for us the ocean is only a word. What truly is becomes for us mere words; what only appears becomes truth.

Therefore I said: the body is mortal, destined to die. Consciousness, the conscious essence, is not death-bound; it is immortal. And upon that immortality, the whole play of death unfolds.

We do not find ocean-and-wave difficult to grasp, because we have not assumed enmity between them. But we struggle with death and immortality because we have assumed a great enmity. That enmity is our invention. When I say ocean and wave, you have no difficulty; you say they are closely related—true. But death and immortality—so opposed! Matter and God—so opposed! Birth and death—opposites. They cannot be one.

They too are one. The deeper you know death, you find it is nothing but change. A wave too is nothing but change. The deeper you seek immortality, you find it is eternity, nothing else.

Whatever appears opposite in this world depends upon its opposite for its very appearance. Our seeing is obstructed by the notion of opposites. We place death and immortality entirely apart. But death cannot subsist without immortality; even to occur for a while it must borrow a little support from immortality. For those few steps it must rest its hand upon eternity. Even falsehood, to walk a little, must lean on truth. Falsehood must proclaim, “I am truth,” or it cannot move an inch. It must shout, “Stand aside, I am coming; I am truth,” carrying proofs of why it is true. Truth carries no proofs; it needs no support from falsehood. If it leans on falsehood it is in trouble; if falsehood does not lean on truth it is in trouble.

Immortality needs no support from death, but the event of death happens only with immortality’s support. The eternal needs no change, but the event of change cannot occur without the eternal. Our situation, however, is that we know only the changing. So whenever we think about the eternal, we draw inferences from the changing. There is no other way.

We are like a man standing in darkness inferring light from darkness. Though darkness itself is but a diminished form of light—there is no darkness where light is absolutely absent—still, any inference about light made from darkness will be wrong. There is no place so dark that no light is present; it is only faint—faint for our senses. If we could perceive it, we would see we are bathed in immense whirlpools of light; were we to see it, we would be blinded. Our senses do not catch it; hence, darkness appears.

Before X-rays, we could not even conceive that rays pass through the human body, or that the picture of bones within the body could one day appear outside. Tomorrow, or the day after, deeper rays will be found and someday we might pass a ray through the first cell of a child in the mother’s womb and see his whole life unfold. It is entirely possible.

So many kinds of light pass through us; our eyes do not catch them. Not catching them means: for us, darkness. What we call darkness only means: light of a kind our senses do not register, nothing more. Yet even so, standing in darkness, any inference we make about light will be wrong. Likewise, even though death is a mode of immortality, any inference about immortality drawn from death will be wrong. We must know immortality; otherwise nothing happens.

One surrounded by death understands immortality only as: “I shall not die”—which is utterly wrong. To him, immortal means “I will never die.” But the one who knows immortality means: “I never was.” The one who does not know says: “I will always be; there will never be a ‘not’ for me.” See the difference: it is fundamental, deep. The one who knows death says, “Good—settled then: the soul is immortal; I will never die.” He is always future-oriented. His meaning is in the future: “Then I will never die.” The one who knows immortality says, “I never was, I never happened.” He is past-oriented.

Because our entire science is surrounded by death, it speaks of the future; and all religion, surrounded by immortality, speaks of the past—of origin, not of end. What is the source, the root? Religion asks: From where has the world arisen? From where have we come? Because religion says: if we truly know our source, we will be free of anxiety about where we are going—for we cannot go anywhere other than where we came from. Our source is our destiny, our end. Our beginning is our end.

Thus religious inquiry seeks the origin: What is the origin? From where did the world come? How did existence arise? From where did the soul come? How did creation happen? Religion’s whole contemplation is toward the beginning; science’s is toward the end: Where are we going? What will we become? What will happen tomorrow? What is the end? The reason is that science is pursued by those bound by death; religion by those for whom death is finished.

Curiously, death is always in the future; it has nothing to do with the past. Whenever you think about death, the past is not at issue. Death is always about tomorrow. And life’s source is always yesterday. The Ganges flows from Gangotri; where it will merge is the ocean. Where it dissolves is tomorrow; where it was formed is yesterday.

One surrounded by death will interpret immortality only through death’s lens. Therefore the second plane’s talk is not an inference from the first plane; it is an experience of the second plane. And this too is interesting: one who knows the second plane knows the first; but one who knows the first does not thereby know the second.

So when we call Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ wise, our reason is this: they know two planes; we know one. Their words carry more significance than ours, because they know all that we know, and something more that we do not. Therefore in the East, wisdom means a shift of plane.

In the West, knowledge is accumulation on the same plane. Whatever Einstein may know, the difference between him and us is quantitative. We measure a table; he measures the universe. The difference is of magnitude, not of kind—nothing fundamentally different is known to him. He knows more of what we know. We have a rupee; he has a million rupees. But what he has is not different in kind—only more of the same.

When we call Buddha or Mahavira “knowers,” we do not mean that. It could even be that on our plane we know more than they do; their accumulation may not be as great. They might say, “I can measure this table; you measure the stars. I cannot do that, not even this room perhaps.” Yet he still says, “You are not more knowing than I am,” because what you know is conceivable; no revolution has occurred in you. No mutation has happened; you are the same man, only more adept where we are less adept, faster where we are slow, deeper where we were superficial. But no entry into any other domain.

Buddha, Mahavira, and those we have called wise are of concern to us because they have gone beyond the plane of knowing that is death-bound, to where immortality is. Their words have value. A man who has never drunk wine—his words carry little weight about wine. A man who has drunk—his words carry little weight either. But a man who has drunk and gone beyond—his words carry great value. One who has never drunk is childish; his statement is childish. Hence the non-drinker can never persuade the drinker, because he sounds childish; the drinker knows, “I know more than you—what you know, I know; and I know something further. If you drink and see, then you can speak.” But the one who has drunk and renounced—his words the drinker values.

In Europe and America there is an organization of drinkers—Alcoholics Anonymous—a vast movement. Only those who have gone deep into drinking can join. And it is a movement to give up alcohol—but only drinkers can join.

Curiously, these circles of drinkers can immediately help a new drinker to give it up, because they are mature; the drinker understands them, because they speak from experience: “I too have drunk, I too have fallen, I too have passed through these difficulties—and I have gone beyond.” Their words have weight.

I use this only as an example—for whether you drink or do not, or drink and leave, the difference is not a change of plane; it is a matter of steps within one plane. But once immortality is experienced, the entire plane shifts. If the words of Buddha, Mahavira, Christ have had such profound impact, that is the reason. They know what we know, and also what we do not; and with that new knowing they tell us that in our knowing there are fundamental mistakes.

There are many things to be kept in mind here. First, about the birth of such beings, keep two or three points clear. If the journey of knowing is completed in one life, it then depends on the person whether he chooses to take one more birth—or not. It is a state of absolute freedom. In truth, only that one birth is ever taken in freedom; otherwise, no birth is free. In the other births there is no choice at all. Those births are compelled by the bondage of desires. We are pushed and pulled into them: pushed by past karmas, pulled by future longings—often both together. Ordinarily our birth is a totally dependent event; there is no room for choice in it.

We do not consciously choose to be born. Consciously, there is only one occasion when choice arises: when one has completely known oneself, when the happening has occurred beyond which there is nothing left to gain. A moment comes when a person can say, “For me there is no future, because there is no desire within me. There is nothing whose absence brings me any pain.” This is a peak moment—the summit. Only at this summit does freedom arrive for the first time.

Now, here is one of life’s mysteries: those who want to be free never become free; those in whom all wanting has ceased become free. Those who wish to be born here or there have no way to effect it. But one for whom the very question of taking birth anywhere no longer exists is, at that point, in a position to take birth if he wishes. However, this is possible only for a single additional birth. Not because freedom would be lost after that one birth—freedom remains forever—but because, after one such birth, even the inclination to use freedom is lost. For the moment, that inclination is still present.

With the attainment of the ultimate, in this very life freedom happens; yet, as always, with freedom the inner mood to use it does not vanish in a single stroke. It can still be used. Those who know deeply have said: this too is a bondage—the last bondage. The Jains, whose exploration in this direction is unsurpassed in the world, call it the Tirthankara-gotra bandha—the last fetter, the bondage of freedom itself: the lingering urge to make use of it once more. Because of this, many become siddhas, but not all become Tirthankaras. Many attain the ultimate knowledge, but not all become Tirthankaras. To be a Tirthankara—to use that freedom for one more birth—there must be, in the past, a specific karmic web: a long conditioning of teacherhood. If that is present, it gives the final push: what has been known will be said; what has been found will be communicated; what has been received will be shared.

So, not everyone, after this attainment, takes a further birth—perhaps one in millions. That is why the Jains have almost fixed an average: in one cosmic cycle (kalpa), only twenty-four. It is an average. As with accidents in Bombay: by taking the average of the last thirty years, we can predict roughly how many accidents will happen today, and it will be close to the mark. In the same way, the number twenty-four is an average drawn from the memory of many cycles of creation and dissolution—divide the total, and twenty-four emerges. Between one creation and its dissolution, twenty-four beings manage to bind themselves to one more birth to make use of that freedom.

A second point: when we say how many accidents today in Bombay, we are not speaking of London; if we say how many on Marine Drive, we are not counting other Bombay roads. The Jains’ accounting pertains to their own path; it does not include Jesus. Nor, for that matter, Krishna or Buddha. Yet, interestingly, when Hindus counted, they too arrived at twenty-four on their path; when Buddhists calculated, they also arrived at twenty-four on theirs. Hence, Hindus conceived twenty-four avatars; the Jains already had twenty-four Tirthankaras; and Buddhists spoke of twenty-four Buddhas.

Christianity and Islam did not calculate so deeply in this way. Islam does say Muhammad was not the first—there were others before. He pointed to four before him, but those indications remain incomplete and hazy for two reasons: Muhammad stands at the beginning of his path; his path begins with him. Mahavira could list his preceding twenty-four with clarity because with Mahavira that path was almost complete; thus the past could be spoken of distinctly. Muhammad’s future was open; to speak of it clearly was difficult. Jesus also had a list compiled, but it too is hazy because his path also begins anew. Buddha did not give a clear list of predecessors—he only alluded. So while there is the idea of twenty-four Buddhas, there are no names. In this matter the Jains’ research is deeper and painstakingly documented; they kept exact accounts, one by one.

On each path, roughly twenty-four take one further birth after enlightenment. This birth, as I said, happens out of compassion. In this world nothing happens without cause, and the causes are only two: either desire or compassion. There is no third. Either I come to your house to take something, or I come to give something. What other reason could there be? Coming to take is desire; coming to give is compassion.

All births driven by desire are dependent, for you can never be free in the posture of a beggar. How can a beggar be free? Freedom depends upon the giver, not the taker. But the giver can be free: even if you refuse, he can still give; but if you refuse to give, the beggar cannot take.

Everything that Mahavira and Buddha gave—it is not necessary that we accepted it; it is certain only that they gave. Receiving is not inevitable; giving was. The urge to share what has been found is natural—but it is also the final urge. Those who know have called even this a karmic bond—still a bondage. I must come to your door—whether to ask or to give, I must come. Either way, I am bound to your door. And there is another difficulty: since you have always been approached by askers, and you yourself have always gone somewhere to ask, it is naturally difficult for you to understand someone who comes only to give.

Let me tell you further: because you cannot understand giving, many times such a one has had to pretend to take from you—only because you could not understand otherwise. For you it is almost beyond comprehension that someone might come to your house only to give; so you take it that he has come asking for bread. This is why Mahavira’s discourses followed upon receiving alms—only words of thanks for your food. If Mahavira comes to beg, you understand; then, in his thanks, he says a few words and leaves; and you rejoice that you have given two chapatis—what a great deed! Compassion must also consider whether you can receive. And if you are given no way to feel you have given something, your ego is so troubled you cannot receive at all.

Hence it is not without reason that Mahavira and Buddha begged. Because you cannot tolerate someone who only gives: you become his enemy. It sounds paradoxical, but if someone only gives, you will turn against him—because he gives you no chance to give. So they would ask from you small things: a meal at your house, a robe, a place to stay. They took something from you; you felt at ease, you felt equal—you gave a house, or a shop, or a bag of coins. “We gave something; he only said two words.” So Buddha even named his renunciates bhikkhus—beggars—“Move as a mendicant; in the posture of asking you will be able to give what you have to give. Keep the form of asking, and arrange the giving.”

Compassion has its own difficulties. Such a person lives among people who cannot understand his language, who will always misunderstand him; this is inevitable. There is no surprise in being misunderstood; it is expected—you will interpret from your standpoint.

Those whose capacity to share had not been highly developed over previous lives—such a person, upon enlightenment, immediately dissolves. No second birth.

In this context, note another point: the birth of Buddhas and Mahaviras in royal households has a deeper rationale. The Jains even held explicitly that a Tirthankara must be born in a royal house. Thus their story that Mahavira was first conceived in a Brahmin woman’s womb, but the gods transferred the fetus to a Kshatriya queen—the idea being: a Tirthankara should be born at a king’s door. Why? Because if one born at a king’s gate becomes a beggar, people are more likely to understand. They are accustomed to receiving from kings; perhaps by that habit they can receive this giver too. Their eyes have always looked up to a king; even if he stands begging on the street, they will not look down upon him—the old habit will help. It was a technical consideration. And since the choice lay in his hands, it was possible.

All the knowing of Mahavira or Buddha is from their previous lives; in this life it is only shared. One could ask: if the knowledge is from a previous life, why do they appear to do sadhana again? This creates confusion: why did Mahavira and Buddha practice? Krishna did not do such practices; Mahavira and Buddha did.

Their practice was not to attain truth; truth was already attained. The difficulty lies in sharing it—which is no less arduous, perhaps more so. And if the truths to be given are of a special kind… Krishna’s truth is not specialized; it is without specialty. Hence he could communicate it from within ordinary life. Mahavira’s and Buddha’s are highly specialized: the paths they teach are very specific. So if Mahavira tells someone to fast for thirty days, and it is known that he himself never fasted, who would agree to listen? Mahavira had to do twelve years of long fasting for the sake of those to whom he would prescribe fasting. Otherwise, he could not speak of it. He had to remain silent for twelve years for the sake of those for whom he would prescribe twelve days of silence; otherwise, they would not listen.

Buddha’s case is even more interesting. He was inaugurating an entirely new tradition of practice; Mahavira was not—he inherited a fully developed science and was its last, not its first. The lineage was long, splendid, and seamless. There was no break; the heritage had not been lost. For Mahavira there was no new truth to give; he had to present the ancient, well-tested truth. But he still had to forge a persona through which people could listen; otherwise, they would not. It is striking that the Jains remember Mahavira the most and mostly forget the other twenty-three—almost as mythic figures. If not for Mahavira, you would not even know their names. The reason is Mahavira’s twelve years of consciously shaping his persona—a carefully managed dramaturgy. The others did not shape a persona; they were simply moving through their practices. Mahavira’s undertaking was systematic—an enacted austerity, performed so skillfully that his image emerged with unmatched clarity.

Buddha, being first in bringing a new formula for practice, had to proceed differently. He went through all available practices and, having tried each, declared it futile: “No one arrives by this.” Then he proclaimed his own way: “By this I arrived; by this you can arrive.” This too was managed—systematic. Whoever inaugurates a new practice must show the old ones to be inadequate. If Buddha had dismissed them without passing through them—as Krishnamurti does—the result would be as it has been for Krishnamurti. If you say, “Kundalini is nonsense,” you must be asked: Are you speaking from experience, or without it? If without, your statement is worthless. If with experience, then two questions arise: Did you succeed or fail? If you succeeded, calling it nonsense is wrong. If you failed, it does not follow that all will fail.

Thus Buddha had to pass through everything and demonstrate: “This too is inadequate.” Then: “That by which I arrived—I tell you that.” Mahavira, moving through the same, announced: “These are right”—for the inherited tradition. Both, however, are attained from previous lives.

Krishna too is attained from a previous life, but he is not imparting a particular specialized path of practice. He is making life itself the path. Therefore he need not go into austerities—indeed, they would be a hindrance. If Mahavira were to say, “Liberation is possible even while sitting in a shop,” people would ask, “Then why did you renounce?” If Krishna went to the forest for austerity and later said, “It is possible in the battlefield,” Arjuna would protest, “Why deceive me? You go to the forest, and prevent me from going!”

So it depends on what the teacher has to give; he must shape his whole life accordingly. Often he must adopt arrangements that are quite artificial—but without them, what he has to give cannot be given.

Now you ask about me—which is a little more difficult. It is simpler to speak of Buddha, Krishna, or Mahavira. Still, two or three points can be noted.

First, the previous birth is at a distance of about seven hundred years—hence there is difficulty. Mahavira’s previous birth was only about two hundred and fifty years prior; Buddha’s only seventy-eight years. In Buddha’s life there were people who could testify from their own memory to his previous birth; in Mahavira’s too there were such people. Krishna’s was about two thousand years later, so the names he gives are very ancient and no corroboration can be gathered.

Seven hundred years is a long gap only from the standpoint of those who are in the body; for one outside the body there is no difference between a moment and seven hundred years. Our time-scale begins with the body. Outside the body, whether seven hundred or seven thousand years, it makes no difference. But once in the body, it does.

And how to know this seven-hundred-year interval? Not directly. I can infer it by looking at those who took many births in between. Suppose someone known to me seven hundred years ago was reborn ten times in that interval and retains collected memories of those ten lives; from that collection one can calculate how long I was dissolved. Otherwise, it is difficult—because our measuring rod is for this side of the body, not for the other side.

It is like dozing for a moment and dreaming of many years passing; when you wake a minute later and someone says, “You nodded off for a moment,” you protest: “How can that be? I dreamt of years.” The dream-time has a different scale. Unless there is an external clock and witness, you cannot tell how long you slept. So it is with these seven hundred years.

You also asked, “Did I take birth with complete knowledge?” Here two slightly different points must be understood. One can say: with almost complete knowledge. Almost—because some things were deliberately left unfinished. Deliberately, they can be left.

On this as well the Jains have a very scientific accounting. They divide knowing into fourteen parts; thirteen pertain to this world, the fourteenth goes inward. They call these thirteen gunasthanas—thirteen layers. Some of these stages can be leapt over, left aside; they are optional. A siddha can bypass them and go straight to liberation. But a teacher cannot. The optional must also be known by the teacher. What is compulsory is enough for a seeker; it is not enough for a teacher.

Further, after a certain limit—say, after the twelfth stage—the remaining two states can be prolonged. They can be completed in one birth, or spread over two or three. One can make use of prolonging them. As I said, after complete knowing, beyond the veil, one cannot use more than one additional birth. But if, at the twelfth, the last two are held back, then one can cooperate over many births. At the twelfth, things are almost complete—almost. All the walls have fallen and only a curtain remains—through which one can already see. Remove it, and there is no difficulty in stepping beyond. But what is to be seen there can also be seen from here—so there is no real difference. Hence I say almost. If you step across, you can take one more birth; if you remain on this side of the curtain, you can take many—no problem. But once you cross, there is no returning more than once.

Could Mahavira and Buddha have known this? All have known this clearly. They could also have used it. But there are basic differences of situation. Mahavira and Buddha had disciples with whom they had been working for many births; the paradox is that, after the ultimate, one’s knowledge can effectively be used only with very advanced seekers. Those with whom Mahavira and Buddha had been moving across lives—one birth was enough for them; sometimes even that was not necessary. If in this life someone attained at twenty and had to live to sixty, and the work was done by forty, that was the end—no return needed.

But now conditions are very different. Those we could call highly developed seekers are few to none. If one is to work with them, future teachers will have to prepare for many births; otherwise, the work cannot be done.

Another point: when Mahavira or Buddha left their last life, they always had people to whom the work could be entrusted. Today it is not so.

“That means you have taken two?”
No! Today man’s attention is wholly outward. For a teacher the difficulties are greater than ever: much more labor, with far less developed people; always the danger that the labor will be lost; and rarely anyone worthy to be entrusted with the work.

As with Nanak: up to Govind Singh, ten Gurus, there was always someone to pass the current to; but Govind Singh had to break the line. He tried as no one else has—he needed one person to carry the eleventh link—but none could be found. The line had to be closed. For what has to happen, continuity is necessary; even a small break and it cannot happen. A slight gap, and the giving becomes difficult.

Bodhidharma had to go from India to China because there, a man—Huineng—was available to whom it could be given. Historians think monks went to China to spread Buddhism; that is a superficial view. Huineng was available; ironically, he was unwilling to come—such is the strangeness of this world. He did not know his potential. Bodhidharma had to travel there. Later, even China had to be left and it was carried to Japan.

This seven-hundred-year gap is difficult in two respects. First, taking birth will become harder and harder for those who have attained. In Buddha’s and Mahavira’s times there was no difficulty; such wombs were readily available. In Mahavira’s day there were eight who had reached the ultimate in Bihar alone, working along different paths; and thousands near to it—people to whom the work could be handed, who would safeguard and carry it forward.

Today, for someone to take birth, he may have to wait another thousand years for a suitable womb. In that time, all the work he had done would be lost; those upon whom he had worked would take ten births and accumulate ten layers to be cut through again.

Therefore today any teacher will have to remain this side of the curtain for a considerable time. He must wait. And if someone has crossed, he will not choose even one more birth—it is pointless. Why take one? For whom? The work cannot be done in one.

There is another reason. Compassion has a double meaning. It not only wants to give; it knows that if it only takes away from you and cannot give, it puts you in greater danger. If I can show you something, good; but if I cannot, and at the same time blind you to what you could see, your trouble increases.

About these seven hundred years, two or three further things. One, I never thought this would come up, but in Poona it did. My mother must have been asked by Ramlal Pungaliya whether she had any earliest memory of me. I was surprised—because I did not know when it was said. She said publicly that I did not cry for three days and did not take milk for three days after birth. That is my first memory. Then nothing more was said, and the matter passed. But it is true.

Seven hundred years ago, in my previous life, there was a ritual arrangement of twenty-one days of complete fasting prior to leaving the body. There were reasons. But those twenty-one days were not completed—three days remained. This time they had to be completed. The continuity is from there; the intervening time has no meaning. Three days before completion, a murder was committed—the ritual could not be finished. Those three missed days were completed in this life. Had those twenty-one days been completed then, it would likely have become difficult to take more than one additional birth. Many points are implied here. Standing by the curtain and not stepping through is very difficult; seeing through the curtain and not removing it is almost impossible. It became possible because the murder happened three days early.

That is why I have often said, in many contexts, that Judas’s betrayal was not enmity towards Jesus; likewise, the one who murdered me then was not an enemy—though he was taken to be one. His act became valuable. The three missed days at the moment of death, after a whole life’s sadhana, were fulfilled in this life over twenty-one years. One had to pay seven years for each day.

So I did not come with the whole of it—almost. The curtain could have been lifted, but then there would have been only one more birth. As it is, one more is still possible. Whether it will be taken depends on whether I feel it will be of use. I will work fully through this life; if it seems some use can be made, fine; otherwise, it ends—no purpose.

That murder turned out to be useful. Just as time’s scale changes, so too it changes with states of consciousness. At birth, time moves very slowly; at death, very fast. We do not notice that time has velocity. Even the greatest scientists have not grasped that time itself has velocity; if we allow that, measuring other velocities becomes difficult. We have fixed time—“In one hour I walked three miles.” But what if the hour itself moved? So we make time static—a stake driven into the ground—otherwise all our measures fall apart. Ironically, time is the most non-static, fluid, moving thing—time is change—yet we fix it so we can measure.

Time’s velocity varies with states of mind. For a child, it is slow; for an old man, very fast, compacted. In little space, much time moves for the old; for a child, in much space, time moves slowly. It differs for animals too. What a human child accomplishes in fourteen years, a puppy does in a few months; some animals are born almost complete—put on the ground and there is almost no difference between newborn and adult. Hence animals have little sense of time; change is too fast to notice. A foal stands and walks at birth—no sense of the interval. A human child knows the interval; man is tormented by time—nervous, anxious: time is passing, running away.

So, in the last moments of that life, what could happen in three days—because time was compacted—took twenty-one years from the start of this life. Sometimes a missed opportunity costs seven years per day.

Thus, I did not come with everything—almost everything. Now I have had to make my own arrangements. As Mahavira had to arrange a dramaturgy of austerity; as Buddha had to arrange to invalidate other austerities before presenting his own—so I have had to do what neither Mahavira nor Buddha had to do: to read, utterly needlessly for myself, everything that exists in the world. For today’s world, no message can reach it through fasting or by someone sitting with closed eyes. If any message is to reach, it can only be after assimilating the vast mountain of intellectual knowledge that the modern world has piled up. There is no other way.

So I spent my life with books. And I tell you: Mahavira did not suffer as much by going hungry as I did in this. For I had to labor over what I had no need of. But only after that labor can the communication be meaningful today.

If this is understood, it will not be difficult for you to begin to recall your own previous life a little. I would like to bring that memory to you soon—because once it begins, there is a great saving of time and energy. Usually you start every time from where you did not leave off—from ABC again. If your past is remembered, you do not begin from ABC; you begin from where you left. Then there is progress; otherwise, there is none.

This is worth understanding. Animals do not progress. Scientists are perplexed: animals keep repeating. The monkey’s brain is almost as developed as man’s, yet the difference in development is vast. What is the difficulty? Why do monkeys not advance? They are where they were a million years ago. We thought everything evolves, but now this is doubtful; Darwin’s position is doubtful. For millions of years monkeys remain monkeys; squirrels remain squirrels; cows remain cows. Something else is at work.

Every monkey must begin where its father began; the father cannot communicate where he ended. He cannot make the son begin from where he left off. The son begins where the father began; how then will there be development? Every son starts again; a circle with no ascent.

It is almost the same with spiritual growth. If you begin this life where you began the last, you will not evolve spiritually. Next life you will begin again where you began this one. Every time you end and begin at the same point, there can be no ascent. Evolution means: your last endpoint becomes this life’s first step. Otherwise, there is no evolution. Man progressed because he discovered language—communication. What the father knew he handed to the son—education. The son need not start where the father started; he starts where the father ended. Then there is movement—no longer circular, but spiral—rising like a mountain path.

What is true of human progress is true of each person’s spiritual progress. Between you and your previous life there is no communication; you have had no conversation with your past life. You have never asked, “Where did I leave off, so I can begin there?” Otherwise, you may keep laying foundations in every life and die again—when will the spire rise?

I have spoken a little of my past not so that you may know something about me—that has no value—but so that it may stir in you the urge to search for your own past. The day you take your next step from where you left off, a true spiritual revolution will begin. Otherwise, many lives will pass with nothing attained—mere repetition. There must be dialogue between past life and this one. What you had attained must be educated into you now, and you must have the capacity to take the next step beyond it.

Mahavira and Buddha, who first spoke extensively of past lives—the teachers of the Vedas and Upanishads spoke of knowledge, of the ultimate, but did not much connect it with the science of past lives. By Mahavira’s time it became clear: it is not enough to say what you can become; one must also say what you were. Without the base of what you were, you cannot become what you can be. So Mahavira and Buddha spent decades helping people remember their past lives. Until a man remembered, they would say: “Do not worry about the future—first take full care of the past. See clearly the map of how far you have come; then we will step forward. Otherwise you may run again along the same old track.”

Today’s difficulty is this: past-life remembrance can be induced; it is not hard. But courage has been lost. Past-life memory can be opened only if you can remain calm even in the face of the hardest memories of this life; otherwise not. It is not difficult to bear today’s memories; you suffer today and forget tomorrow. But a past life’s memory breaks upon you whole—one single torrent, not in fragments. Can you bear it?

The test for bearing it is this: in your present life, nothing troubles you—whatever happens, no disturbance; no memory becomes a worry. Only then can the door to the great worry be opened; only then is there capacity and worthiness to endure it.