For most of my very early years I lived with my mother's parents. Those
years are unforgettable. Even if I reach to Dante's paradise I will still
remember those years. A small village, poor people, but my grandfather-1
mean my mother's father-was a generous man. He was poor, but rich in
his generosity. He gave to each and everyone whatsoever he had. I learned
the art of giving from him; I have to accept it. I never saw him say no to any
beggar or anybody.
I called my mother's father "Nana"; that's the way the mother's father is
called in India. My mother's mother is called "Nani." I used to ask my
grandfather, "Nana, where did you get such a beautiful wife?"
My grandmother looked more Greek than Indian..
Perhaps there was some Greek blood in her. No race can claim purity. The
Indians particularly should not claim any purity of blood-the Hunas, the
Moguls, the Greeks and many others have attacked, conquered and ruled
India. They have mixed themselves in the Indian blood, and it was so
apparent with my grandmother. Her features were not Indian, she looked
Greek, and she was a strong woman, very strong. My Nana died when he
was not more than fifty. My grandmother lived till eighty and she was fully
healthy. Even then nobody thought she was going to die. I promised her
one thing, that when she died I would come, and that would be my last visit
to the family. She died in 1970.1 had to fulfill my promise.
For my first years I knew my Nani as my mother; those are the years when
one grows. This circle* is for my Nani. My own mother came after that; I
was already grown up, already made in a certain style. And my
grandmother helped me immensely. My grandfather loved me, but could
not help me much. He was so loving, but to be of help more is needed--a
certain kind of strength. He was always afraid of my grandmother. He was,
in a sense, a henpecked husband. When it comes to the truth, I am always
true. He loved me, he helped me., what can I do if he was a henpecked
husband? Ninety-nine point nine percent of husbands are, so it is okay.
glimps02
*Note: circle: reminiscences of a series of events, which are now seen to be
interconnected, forming a circle
This too is worth noting: that ninety years ago, in India, Nani had had the
courage to fall in love. She remained unmarried up till the age of twenty-
four. That was very rare. I asked her once why she had remained
unmarried for so long. She was such a beautiful woman. .1 just jokingly told
her that even the king of Chhatarpur, the state where Khajuraho is, might
have fallen in love with her.
She said, "It is strange that you should mention it, because he did. I refused
him, and not only him but many others too." In those days in India, girls
were married when they were seven, or at the most nine years of age. Just
the fear of love., if they are older they may fall in love. But my grandmother's
father was a poet; his songs are still sung in Khajuraho and nearby villages.
He insisted that unless she agreed, he
was not going to marry her to anybody. As chance would have it, she fell in
love with my grandfather.
I asked her, "That is even stranger: you refused the king of Chhatarpur, and
yet you fell in love with this poor man. For what? He was certainly not a very
handsome man, nor extraordinary in any other way; why did you fall in love
with him?"
She said, "You are asking the wrong question. Falling has no 'why' to it. I
just saw him, and that was it. I saw his eyes, and a trust arose in me that
has never wavered."
I had also asked my grandfather, "Nani says she fell in love with you. That's
okay on her part, but why did you allow the marriage to happen?"
He said, "I am not a poet or a thinker, but I can recognize beauty when I
see it."
I never saw a more beautiful woman than my Nani. I myself was in love with
her, and loved her throughout her whole life...
I am fortunate in many ways, but I was most fortunate in having my
maternal grandparents., and those early golden years. glimps06
I was born in a family which belongs to a very small section of Jainism., it
follows a madman who must have been just a little bit less mad than me. I
cannot say more mad than me.
I am going to talk about his two books, which are not translated in English,
not even into Hindi, because they are untranslatable. I don't think that he is
ever going to have any international audience. Impossible. He believes in
no language, no grammar, nothing whatsoever. He speaks exactly like a
madman. His book is Shunya Svabhava -"The Nature of Emptiness."
It is just a few pages, but of tremendous significance. Each sentence
contains scriptures, but very difficult to understand. You will naturally ask
how could I understand him. In the first place just as Martin Buber was born
into a Hassid family, I was born into this madman's tradition. His name is
Taran Taran. It is not his real name, but nobody knows his real name.
Taran Taran simply means "The Savior." That has become his name.
I have breathed him from my very childhood, listened to his songs,
wondered what he meant. But a child never cares about the meaning, .the
song was beautiful, the rhythm was beautiful, the dance was beautiful, and
it is enough.
One needs to understand such people only if one is grown up, otherwise, if
from their very childhood they are surrounded by the milieu they will not
need to understand and yet deep down in their guts they will understand.
I understand Taran Taran--not intellectually, but existentially. Moreover I
also know what he is talking about. Even if I had not been born into a family
of his followers I would have understood him. I have understood so many
different traditions and it is not that I have been born into all of them.. I have
understood so many madmen that anybody could go mad just by making
an effort to understand them! But just look at me, they have not affected me
at all... They have remained somewhere below me. I have remained
transcendental to them all.
Still, I would have understood Taran Taran. I may not have come into
contact with him, that is possible, because his followers are very few, just a
few thousand, and found only in the middle parts of India. And they are so
afraid because of their being in such a minority, that they don't call
themselves the followers of Taran Taran, they
call themselves Jainas. Secretly they believe, not in Mahavira as the rest of
the Jainas believe, but in Taran Taran, the founder of their sect.
Jainism itself is a very small religion; only three million people believe in it.
There are two main sects: the Digambaras, and the Svetambaras. The
Digambaras believe that Mahavira lived naked, and was naked. The word
digambara means "sky clad"; metaphorically it means "the naked." This is
the oldest sect.
The word svetambara means the "white clad," and the followers of this sect
believe that although Mahavira was naked he was covered by the gods in
an invisible white cloth., this is a compromise just to satisfy the Hindus.
The followers of Taran Taran belong to the Digambara sect, and they are
the most revolutionary of the Jainas. They don't even worship the statues of
Mahavira; their temples are empty, signifying the inner emptiness.
It would have been almost impossible to have come to know Taran if not for
the chance that I was born into a family who believed in him. But I thank
God, it was worth the trouble to be born into that family. All the troubles can
be forgiven just for this one thing, that they acquainted me with a
tremendous mystic.
His book Shunya Svabhava says only one thing again and again, just like a
madman.
You know me, you can understand. I have been saying the same thing
again and again for twenty-five years.. I've said again and again "Awake!"
That's what he does in Shunya Svabhava. books14
Nana used to go to the temple every morning, yet he never said, "Come
with me." He never indoctrinated me. That is what is great...not to
indoctrinate. It is so human to force a helpless child to follow your beliefs.
But he remained untempted-yes, I call it the greatest temptation. The
moment you see someone dependent on you in any way, you start
indoctrinating. He never even said to me, "You are a Jaina."
I remember perfectly—it was the time that the census was being taken. The
officer had come to our house. He made many inquiries about many things.
They asked about my grandfather's religion; he said, "Jainism." They then
asked about my grandmother's religion. My Nana said, "You can ask her
yourself. Religion is a private affair. I myself have never asked her." What a
man!
My grandmother answered, "I do not believe in any religion whatsoever. All
religions look childish to me." The officer was shocked. Even I was taken
aback. She does not believe in any religion at all! In India to find a woman
who does not believe in any religion at all is impossible. But she was born in
Khajuraho, perhaps into a family of Tantrikas, who have never believed in
any religion. They have practiced meditation but they have never believed
in any religion.
It sounds very illogical to a Western mind: meditation without religion? Yes.,
in fact, if you believe in any religion you cannot meditate. Religion is an
interference in your meditation. Meditation needs no God, no heaven, no
hell, no fear of punishment, and no allurement of pleasure. Meditation has
nothing to do with mind; meditation is beyond it, whereas religion is only
mind, it is within mind.
I know Nani never went to the temple, but she taught me one mantra which
I will reveal for the first time. It is a Jaina mantra, but it has nothing to do
with Jainas as such. It is purely accidental that it is related to Jainism...
The mantra is so beautiful. It is going to be difficult to translate it, but I will
do my best, .or my worst. First listen to the mantra in its original beauty:
Namo arihantanam namo namo
Namo siddhanam namo namo
Namo uvajjhayanam namo namo
Namo loye savva sahunam namo namo
Aeso panch nammukaro
Savva pavappanasano
Mangalam cha savvesam padhamam havai mangalam
Arihante saranam pavajjhami
Siddhe saranam pavajjhami
Sahu saranam pavajjhami
Namo arihantanam namo namo
Namo siddhanam namo namo
Namo uvajjhayanam namo namo
Om, shantih, shantih, shantih....
Now my effort at translation: "I go to the feet of, I bow down to, the
arihantas ...."
Arihanta is the name in Jainism, as arhat is in Buddhism, for one who has
achieved the ultimate but cares nothing about anybody else. He has come
home and turned his back on the world. He does not create a religion, he
does not even preach, he does not even declare. Of course he has to be
remembered first. The first remembrance is for all those who have known
and remained silent. The first respect is not for words, but for silence. Not
for serving others, but for the sheer achievement of one's self. It does not
matter whether one serves others or not; that is secondary, not primary.
The primary is that one has achieved one's self, and it is so difficult in this
world to know one's self...
The Jainas call the person arihanta who has attained to himself and is so
drowned, so drunk in the beautitude of his realization that he has forgotten
the whole world.
The word 'arihanta' literally means "one who has killed the enemy"--and the
enemy is the ego. The first part of the mantra means, "I touch the feet of the
one who has attained himself."
The second part is: Namo siddhanam namo namo. This mantra is in
Prakrit, not Sanskrit. Prakrit is the language of the Jainas; it is more ancient
than Sanskrit. The very word 'Sanskrit' means refined. You can understand
by the word 'refined' there must have been something before it, otherwise
what are you going to refine?
'Prakrit' means unrefined, natural, raw, and the Jainas are correct when
they say their language is the most ancient in the world. Their religion too is
the most ancient.
The Hindu scripture Rigveda mentions the first master of the Jainas,
Adinatha. That certainly means it is far more ancient than Rigveda.
Rigveda is the oldest book in the world, and it talks about the Jaina
tirthankara, Adinatha, with such respect that one thing is certain, that he
could not have been a contemporary of the people writing Rigveda ....
The mantra is in Prakrit, raw and unrefined. The second line is: Namo
siddhanam namo namo-"\ touch the feet of the one who has become his
being." So, what is the difference between the first and the second?
The arihanta never looks back, never bothers about any kind of service,
Christian or otherwise. The siddha, once in a while holds out his hand to
drowning humanity, but
only once in a while, not always. It is not a necessity, it is not compulsory, it
is his choice; he may or he may not.
Hence the third: Namo uvajjhayanam namo namo... "I touch the feet of the
masters, the uvajjhaya." They have achieved the same, but they face the
world, they serve the world. They are in the world and not of it., but still in it.
The fourth: Namo loye savva sahunam namo namo... "I touch the feet of
the teachers."
You know the subtle difference between a master and a teacher. The
master has known, and imparts what he has known. The teacher has
received from one who has known, and delivers it intact to the world, but he
himself has not known.
The composers of this mantra are really beautiful; they even touch the feet
of those who have not known themselves, but at least are carrying the
message of the masters to the masses.
Number five is one of the most significant sentences I have ever come
across in my whole life. It is strange that it was given to me by my
grandmother when I was a small child. When I explain it to you, you too will
see the beauty of it. Only she was capable of giving it to me. I don't know
anybody else who had the guts to really proclaim it, although all Jainas
repeat it in their temples. But to repeat is one thing; to impart it to one you
love is totally another.
"I touch the feet of all those who have known themselves", .without any
distinction, whether they are Hindus, Jainas, Buddhists, Christians,
Mohammedans. The mantra says, "I touch the feet of all those who have
known themselves." This is the only mantra, as far as I know, which is
absolutely nonsectarian.
The other four parts are not different from the fifth, they are all contained in
it, but it has a vastness which those others do not have. The fifth line must
be written on all the temples, all the churches, irrespective of to whom they
belong, because it says, "I touch the feet of all those who have known it." It
does not say "who have known God." Even the "it" can be dropped: I am
only putting "it" in the translation. The original simply means "touching the
feet of those who have known"--no "it." I am putting "it" in just to fulfill the
demands of your language; otherwise someone is bound to ask, "Known?
Known what? What is the object of knowledge?" There is no object of
knowledge; there is nothing to know, only the knower.
This mantra was the only religious thing, if you can call it religious, given to
me by my grandmother, and that too, not by my grandfather but by my
grandmother...because one night I asked her. One night she said, "You
look awake.
Can't you sleep? Are you planning tomorrow's mischief?"
I said, "No, but somehow a question is arising in me. Everybody has a
religion, and when people ask me, 'To what religion do you belong?' I shrug
my shoulders. Now, certainly shrugging your shoulders is not a religion, so I
want to ask you, what should I say?"
She said, "I myself don't belong to any religion, but I love this mantra, and
this is all I can give you--not because it is traditionally Jaina, but only
because I have known its beauty. I have repeated it millions of times and
always I have found tremendous peace., just the feeling of touching the feet
of all those who have known. I can give you this mantra; more than that is
not possible for me."
Now I can say that woman was really great, because as far as religion is
concerned, everybody is lying: Christians, Jews, Jainas, Mohammedans--
everybody is lying.
They all talk of God, heaven and hell, angels and all kinds of nonsense,
without knowing anything at all. She was great, not because she knew but
because she was unable to lie to a child. Nobody should lie—to a child at
least it is unforgivable.
Children have been exploited for centuries just because they are willing to
trust. You can lie to them very easily and they will trust you. If you are a
father, a mother, they will think you are bound to be true. That's how the
whole of humanity lives in corruption, in a thick mud, very slippery, a thick
mud of lies told to children for centuries.
If we can do just one thing, a simple thing: not lie to children, and to confess
to them our ignorance, then we will be religious, and we will put them on the
path of religion. Children are only innocence; leave them not your so-called
knowledge. But you yourself must first be innocent, unlying, true, even if it
shatters your ego-and it will shatter. It is bound to shatter.
My grandfather never told me to go to the temple, to follow him. I used to
follow him many times, but he would say, "Go away. If you want to go to the
temple, go alone.
Don't follow me."
He was not a hard man, but on this point he was absolutely hard. I asked
him again and again, "Can you give me something of your experience?"
And he would always avoid it..
"Namo arihantanam namo namo
Namo siddhanam namo namo
Namo uvajjhayanam namo namo
Namo loye savva sahunam namo namo
Om, shantih, shantih, shantih...."
What does it mean? It means "Om"-the ultimate sound of soundlessness.
And he disappeared like a dewdrop in the first rays of the sun.
There is only peace, peace, peace.. I am entering into it now..
Namo arihantanam namo namo....
I go to the feet of those who have known.
I go to the feet of those who have achieved.
I go to the feet of all who are masters.
I go to the feet of all the teachers.
I go to the feet of all who have ever known,
Unconditionally.
Om, shantih, shantih, shantih.
My grandfather wanted the greatest astrologers in India to make my birth
chart.
Although he was not very rich—in fact not even rich, what to say of very rich,
but in that village he was the richest person--he was ready to pay any price
for the birth chart. He made the long journey to Varanasi and saw the
famous men. Looking at the notes and dates my grandfather had brought,
the greatest astrologer of them all said, "I am sorry, I can only make this
birth chart after seven years. If the child survives then I will make his chart
without any charge, but I don't think he will survive. If he does it will be a
miracle, because then there is a possibility for him to become a buddha."
My grandfather came home weeping. I had never seen tears in his eyes. I
asked,
"What is the matter?"
He said, "I have to wait until you are seven. Who knows whether I will
survive those years or not? Who knows whether the astrologer himself will
survive, because he is so old. And I am a little concerned about you."
I said, "What's the concern?"
He said, "The concern is not that you may die, my concern is that you may
become a buddha."
I laughed, and amongst his tears he also started laughing. Then he himself
said, "It is strange that I was worried. Yes, what is wrong in being a
buddha?"..
When I was seven an astrologer came to my grandfather's village
searching for me.
When a beautiful horse stopped in front of our house, we all rushed out.
The horse looked so royal, and the rider was none other than one of the
famous astrologers...
He said to me, "So you are still alive? I have made your birth chart. I was
worried, because people like you don't survive long."
My grandfather sold all the ornaments in the house just to give a feast for all
the neighboring villages, to celebrate that I was going to become a buddha,
and yet I don't think he even understood the meaning of the word 'buddha'.
He was a Jaina and may not have even heard it before. But he was happy,
immensely happy, .dancing, because I was to become a buddha. At that
moment I could not believe that he could be so happy just because of this
word 'buddha'. When everyone had departed I asked him, "What is the
meaning of 'buddha'?"
He said, "I don't know, it just sounds good. Moreover I am a Jaina. We will
find out from some Buddhist."
In that small village there were no Buddhists, but he said, "Someday, when
a passing Buddhist bhikkhu comes by, we will know the meaning."
But he was so happy just because the astrologer had said that I was to
become a buddha. He then said to me, "I guess 'buddha' must mean
someone who is very intelligent." In Hindi buddhi means intelligence, so he
thought 'buddha' meant the intelligent one.
He came very close, he almost guessed right. Alas that he is not alive,
otherwise he would have seen what being a buddha means--not the
dictionary meaning, but an encounter with a living, awakened one. And I
can see him dancing, seeing that his grandson has become a buddha. That
would have been enough to make him enlightened! But he died. His death
was one of my most significant experiences. Of that, later on. glimps02
And to me he was not just a maternal grandfather.
It is very difficult for me to define what he was to me. He used to call me
Rajah--
rajah means the king--and for those seven years he managed to have me
live like a king. On my birthday he used to bring an elephant from a nearby
town... Elephants in India, in those days, were kept either by kings--
because it is very costly, the maintenance, the food and the service that the
elephant requires--or by saints.
Two types of people used to have them. The saints could have elephants
because they had so many followers. Just as the followers looked after the
saint, they looked after the elephant. Nearby there was a saint who had an
elephant, so for my birthday my maternal grandfather used to bring the
elephant. He would put me on the elephant with two bags, one on either
side, full of silver coins...
In my childhood, in India, notes had not appeared; pure silver was still used
for the rupee. My grandfather would fill two bags, big bags, hanging on
either side, with silver coins, and I would go around the village throwing the
silver coins. That's how he used to celebrate my birthday. Once I started,
he would come in his bullock cart behind me with more rupees, and he
would go on telling me, "Don't be miserly--l am keeping enough. You
cannot throw more than I have. Go on throwing!"
Naturally, the whole village followed the elephant. It was not a big village
either, not more than two or three hundred people in the whole village, so I
would go around the village, the only street in the village. He managed in
every possible way to give me the idea that I belonged to some royal family.
person27
In my Nani's village I was continuously either in the lake or in the river. The
river was a little too far away, perhaps two miles, so I had to choose the
lake more often.
But once in a while I used to go to the river, because the quality of a river
and a lake are totally different. A lake, in a certain way, is dead, closed, not
flowing, not going anywhere at all, static. That's the meaning of death: it is
not dynamic.
The river is always on the go, rushing to some unknown goal, perhaps not
knowing at all what that goal is, but it reaches, knowing or unknowing--it
reaches the goal.
The lake never moves. It remains where it is, dormant, simply dying, every
day dying; there is no resurrection. But the river, howsoever small, is as big
as the ocean, because sooner or later it is going to become the ocean.
I have always loved the feel of the flow: just going, that flux, that continuous
movement., aliveness. So, even though the river was two miles away, I
used once in a while to go just to have the taste. glimps27
I used to swim in the lake. Naturally my grandfather was afraid. He put a
strange man to guard over me, in a boat. In that primitive village you cannot
conceive what a
"boat" meant. It is called a dongi. It is nothing but the hollowed-out trunk of
a tree. It is not an ordinary boat. It is round, and that is the danger: unless
you are an expert you cannot row it. It can roll at any moment. Just a little
imbalance and you are gone forever. It is very dangerous.
I learned balance through rowing a dongi. Nothing could be more helpful. I
learned the "middle way" because you have to be exactly in the middle: this
way, and you are gone; that way, and you are gone. You cannot even
breathe, and you have to remain absolutely silent; only then can you row
the dongi. glimps03
During those first years when I lived with my grandfather, I was absolutely
protected from punishment. He never said "Do this," or "Don't do that." On
the contrary he put his most obedient servant, Bhoora, at my service, to
protect me.
Bhoora used to carry a very primitive gun with him. He used to follow me at
a distance, but that was enough to frighten the villagers. That was enough
to allow me to do whatsoever I wanted.
Anything one could imagine., like riding on a buffalo backwards with
Bhoora following..
In my village particularly, and all over India, nobody rides on a buffalo. The
Chinese are strange people, and this person Lao Tzu was the strangest of
all. But God knows, and only God knows, how I discovered the idea-even I
don't know-to sit on a buffalo in the marketplace, backwards. I assume it
was because I always liked anything absurd..
Those early years-if they could be given to me again, I would be ready to
be born again. But you know, and I know, nothing can be repeated. That's
why I am saying that I would be ready to be born again; otherwise who
wants to, even though those days were full of beauty..
I was so mischievous. I cannot live without it; it is my nourishment. I can
understand the old man, my grandfather, and the trouble my mischief
caused him. The whole day he would sit on his gaddi- as the seat of a rich
man is called in India-listening less to his customers, and more to the
complainers. But he used to say to them, "I am ready to pay for any
damage he has done, but remember, I am not going to punish him."
Perhaps his very patience with me, a mischievous child, .even I could not
tolerate it.
If a child like that was given to me and for years., my God! Even for minutes
and I would throw the child out of the door forever. Perhaps those years
worked a miracle for my grandfather; that immense patience paid. He
became more and more silent. I saw it growing every day. Once in a while I
would say, "Nana, you can punish me. You need not be so tolerant." And,
can you believe it, he would cry! Tears would come to his eyes, and he
would say, "Punish you? I cannot do that. I can punish myself but not you."
Never, for a single moment, have I ever seen the shadow of anger towards
me in his eyes-and believe me, I did everything that one thousand children
could do. In the morning, even before breakfast I was into my mischief, until
late at night. Sometimes I would come home so late-three o'clock in the
morning. But what a man he was! He never said, "You are too late. This is
not the time for a child to come home." No, not even once. In fact, in front of
me he would avoid looking at the clock on the wall.
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