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Part 1: Ahiṃsā: The Supreme Dharma and Foundation of Yoga Good evening, everyone. Let us observe a moment of silence. Sat Prabhudevīna Sāya Dīpa Chutīra Namastute. Oṁ Śāntiḥ Śāntiḥ Śāntiḥ. Welcome, everybody. It was a bit strange: a week ago, or just this Sunday, it was said there would be no seminar. Then a few registrations came, and now suddenly I heard that today it will even be webcast. This is a good illustration of Nāhaṁ Karatā, going from zero to a hundred. However, I am actually happy if it’s on the webcast, because I think this is really a very basic topic in yoga. And I must say I became a little bit specialized in this topic when I was in Vancouver some years ago. I received an invitation for a radio interview. There is a weekly one-hour yoga talk show, and Sarita, who leads the show, invited me not for an interview about the yamas and niyamas in general, but for ten, one-hour or at least half-hour sessions about just one yama. That was quite a challenge, but I accepted it. You see, everyone knows about the yamas and niyamas as the first two steps or limbs of Aṣṭāṅga Yoga, or Rāja Yoga. And no one likes to be a beginner. From this perspective, āsana is actually the position of prasāda, not just the movements. So when I delved deeper into the yamas and niyamas, I found that they give us, in fact, a complete guidance for the whole spiritual path. And when one practices very seriously, it could even be like a shortcut. So, you got the paper? Everyone got the paper? Either the Czech version or the English version. For those who don’t have one, please take a paper. I have extracted for you from the Yoga Sūtras the parts that directly concern the yamas and niyamas. At first, they are just enumerated, and you don’t have an explanation. But later, and that is very helpful and sometimes confusing, comes a sūtra explaining when you have mastered the full effect of a given practice—when you practice it perfectly—what will actually be the result. So the yamas are like level one of yoga, or Rāja Yoga, and the niyamas like level two. But here we must clarify something right away. Because this numbering—Yama 1, Niyama 2, then Āsana, Prāṇāyāma, Pratyāhāra, Dhāraṇā, Dhyāna and Samādhi—makes it sound like a sequence, as if you first practice number one, master it, then start number two, and so on. That is a wrong notion. It is called Aṣṭāṅga; aṣṭa means eight, and aṅga means limb. For example, our body has four limbs: the arms and the legs. Which is number one and which is number two? Every moment we need them all together. In the same way, these eight aṅgas of yoga need to be practiced simultaneously. And when we properly understand these first two aṅgas—the yamas and niyamas—we will see that they guide us through the entire yoga path. Let us first have a short overview: what are these yamas and niyamas? Yama consists of five principles. The first is Ahiṃsā, non-violence; Satya, truthfulness; Asteya, non-stealing; Brahmacarya, the chaste and pure way of life; Aparigraha, non-possessiveness. And Niyama has five principles: Śauca, purity; Santoṣa, contentment; Tapas, self-discipline; Svādhyāya, self-study; and Īśvara Praṇidhāna, devotion to God. Now, when we look at these two groups, what actually is different between the yamas and the niyamas? Notice, for example, Ahiṃsā, Asteya, Aparigraha. They start with “A,” which means “not.” So these are moral, ethical rules that tell us what we should not do: we should not hurt or kill anyone, we should not steal, and so on. In other words, these are rules that give us a guideline for our behavior in society. When we follow them, they protect us from creating bad karma. Here we find a clear parallel with other spiritual paths or religions. For example, when we look at the Bible, the Ten Commandments say, “You shall not kill,” “You shall not steal,” “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house,” “You shall not commit adultery.” This is of the same character. So basically, every spiritual path tries to protect us, at least from the greatest negative karmas, or sins as they are called. The niyamas go one step further. They tell us what we should do. They provide a certain guideline for our daily sādhanā, or we could say they indicate which qualities should slowly awaken in us if we truly walk the yoga path. For example, someone who lives completely remote from society in a cave in the Himalayas and practices yoga—for such a person, the yamas actually don’t have much meaning because there is not much interaction. The instruction says “you should not do,” but if there is no one to hurt, then there is no problem. From whom would he steal if there is no one? But even such a person would have to practice the niyamas every day. So they give a spiritual guidance pointing in the direction we should go. In these ten principles, there is also a certain coherence and logic. I am sure it is not by chance that Ahiṃsā and Satya appear right at the beginning. They are truly the basic principles of the spiritual path. Let’s now slowly come to Ahiṃsā. As I said, “A” means “not,” and hiṁsā means something like cruelty. If you don’t respect the interests of others, it is a very rude form of selfishness of the ego. So Ahiṃsā says: don’t do that. It means don’t kill, don’t hurt. There is a word: be harmless. Sometimes this is looked upon with a little disrespect—“just a harmless child”—but actually there is something great in it. Such a person, such a being, doesn’t do any harm to anyone. So Ahiṃsā means, first of all, to tolerate every being. Because Ahiṃsā is just negative. Now we have to try to understand what it means positively—what we should do. Let’s say there is someone whom you don’t like; at least you should tolerate them. The next step is to recognize that there is some value in that person, and you would say, “I respect this person.” And in the end, when you go further and realize how deep this is in everyone—that everyone is God’s creation—in the end, love comes. So when we want to translate Ahiṃsā in a positive word, I would simply say love. And Ahiṃsā is given a very high status. It is said, “Ahiṃsā paramodharma”—Ahiṃsā is the highest dharma. This is like the essence of the whole spirituality, this one statement. When we just translate it as “non-violence,” it doesn’t make too much sense: why is it such a high principle? But when we understand it as love, then it makes a lot of sense. So the first step on the yoga path is to open the heart—to tolerate, to respect, to love each and every living being. Now, why is it so important? Our yoga path leads to samādhi. Samādhi means oneness. And Swamījī always puts it in such simple formulas. What does he say about love? Love unites, and hate divides. So when we want to move forward in the direction of oneness, we have to start right here. Ahiṃsā says: open your heart and try to be in harmony with every living being. It is not just a certain attitude, nor just a certain behavior in a certain situation, but a whole attitude of life. We have to understand what it really means practically. We must act in a way that we don’t hurt someone through physical acts, for example with a knife. But what is going on inside often passes very quickly through a word, or through a thought. For instance, you may control your outward actions, but the thought is already there. You can even hurt someone just by using your position in a company, or by using your money in a way that gets others into trouble. So it’s not just the physical act. Often I think Ahiṃsā has been misunderstood as, “Who doesn’t kill anyone is a good yogī.” Then we would have many good yogīs. But unfortunately, it is not so cheap we can get that. It is really some inner attitude which we have to cultivate every moment. Yet when we have achieved this inner attitude to love and respect everyone, then it will come quite naturally. Before I go deeper into this point, I would like that we sing a bhajan, because exactly on this point we have a beautiful bhajan from Swāmījī Mahārāj, Holī Gurujī: Ahiṃsā dharma se koī ūn̄cā dharma nahīṁ. This says basically exactly the same as Ahiṃsā Paramo Dharma. The statement “Ahiṃsā paramodharma” means, “Ahiṃsā is the highest duty, the highest rule, the highest dharma.” And the refrain of the bhajan says there is no higher dharma than Ahiṃsā. So it’s exactly the same. The merciful Mahāprabhujī is the one who explained this to us. But not only he. All religions, all holy scriptures, all the sages, and all the Vedas have explained it in a simple way. I will not give a full translation. Let’s maybe sing the bhajana. We will go anyway then at this point. In the bhajan, in the end, there is one interesting line. Śrī Gurujī says: Apane sama saba kī ātmā jāne, sabame prabhu samāyā. That means: you should understand that there is an ātmā in every living being, exactly as there is an ātmā in yourself. God is in everyone. So this is a completely different understanding than many people have of Ahiṃsā. For many people, for many yoga practitioners, Ahiṃsā is reduced to just one simple principle: to be a vegetarian. We don’t say that the one who doesn’t kill anyone is a good yogī, but we say that the one who is a vegetarian is a good yogī. This is a very limited understanding. Let’s maybe go for a moment on this point of vegetarianism. Here we are, of course, on the very clear point: you should not kill. Do not harm, do not hurt, do not kill any living being. There are many reasons for us, good reasons to be vegetarian. One is, of course, that it’s healthy. Again and again, studies reconfirm the fact that many diseases can be avoided; simply stop eating meat and fish, and you are already improving a lot. Another very, very serious point is the karma. You see, there is some karma which we can undo quite easily, but there is other karma which is really heavy and very serious. Let’s say you steal some money from someone. The next day you feel sorry. What will you do? You cannot return it; you cannot make it undone. So to kill is really one of the most serious karmas. Therefore, this rule you will find everywhere; you find it in all moral codes, as I said, also in the Ten Commandments. Then, of course, it is against our human feelings. When we love someone, how can we hurt or kill? I think often parents are not aware of how confusing their education is to their children. For example, the parents give a pet to the child—let’s say a bird in a cage. And the child really loves it and feeds it, and so on. And then, at lunchtime, a chicken is served. The child thinks, “But that’s also a bird.” Should I love it, or should I eat it? I think often we are just not aware of the contradictions in our daily life. And I’m not saying this to judge anyone, because for many years I was myself a meat-eater, and none of these animals which have been killed for me can I bring back to life. Swamiji gives again a very simple rule: “Who cannot bring back life has not the right to take life.” There are many more reasons, but because it’s a little bit of a side aspect, I will not go too deep. But definitely, very clearly included in the Ahiṃsā rule, which is the first yoga rule, is this: when you want to start with yoga seriously, please, first of all, become a vegetarian. For example, Swāmījī makes it a condition when someone wants a mantra. Why? Is he concerned about the health of his disciples? No. I think it is because when we cannot even make this small step—to feel the suffering of another being which is killed just so that I can enjoy the taste—then I am somehow not ready for the spiritual path. If we are not able to feel the suffering of an animal which is slaughtered only because of our consolation, then such a person is not prepared for the spiritual path. Ahiṃsā really gives a guideline for our whole spiritual life, for our whole attitude. And you also find it somehow indirectly in many others of the yamas and niyamas. It is like really the root. About the deeper motivations to be a vegetarian, Swamījī wrote something. Now I’m quoting from Swāmījī directly: Why are yogīs vegetarians? The main reason is that all living beings, including animals, are just children of God. That means they are our brothers and sisters. God is the creator of all of us. His divine light resides as the ātmā in human beings as well as in animals. Animals feel fear and pain exactly like we do. They long for happiness and are afraid to die, exactly like us. Whoever thinks about this will be able to open his heart. For the feelings of the other living beings, he will understand. The highest law for humanity can be summed up in just one sentence: Ahiṃsā paramodharma. That means ahiṃsā is the supreme duty. There is no greater sin than killing. If we are not able to feel the pain of an animal which is slaughtered, then no wonder that there are wars, that the earth is being destroyed, and that we have to suffer from so many diseases. So you see how it goes together with what Holy Gurujī said in the bhajana: the divine is living in every soul. There are two steps on the path to self-realization. The first is to realize the divine in every living being—that we are all one. And the second is then to realize the divine in our self, that means self-realization. Part 2: The Path of Ahiṃsā: Radiating Love and Overcoming False Identifications Ahiṃsā aims directly at this first step of self-realization. When we open our heart, we can eventually realize—truly realize—the oneness with all living beings. Let us now examine the sūtra that tells us what happens when a particular yama or niyama is genuinely practiced. Do you have it on your paper? The sūtra states: when someone becomes steadfast in ahiṃsā, no living creature will feel hostility in his presence. We are speaking here of something very general in our life—a certain attitude, a certain lifestyle—that actually builds our personality. And this personality, through the subtle bodies, radiates outward to others. On the subtle level, we are actually communicating with each other all the time, and this communication happens more spontaneously, less intellectually. Consider this everyday example: you are standing in a queue at a shop, waiting for your turn. Someone approaches you quite closely from one side, and you do not mind. Then someone else comes just as close from the other side, and you take a step back. That is a spontaneous reaction; you do not consciously know anything about the person. We naturally react to the radiance of other beings, and with some we instinctively keep a certain safety distance. Animals do exactly the same toward us. The sūtra here says that when you truly realize ahiṃsā, others feel attracted to you rather than needing that safety distance. Instead of moving away from you, they will come closer. It works like a magnet. What draws us to the Guru, simply? It is this love, this wisdom, this personality from which we feel we receive something when we are near. Even animals that are natural enemies, hunting each other, become peaceful and friendly in the presence of certain saints. Creatures that would ordinarily be hostile behave as if they were friends. Where do we find such an example? Yes, Śrī Devpurījī—we know it from Līlā Amṛt. And there is another very famous example: Francis of Assisi. This illustrates how even animals respond naturally to that radiance. We have a beautiful story about this in our Līlā Amṛt. Remember? The story titled “The Devotion of a Tiger.” For me, it is one of the most touching passages in the whole text. Just a brief summary: Mahāprabhujī was with a group of disciples in the area of Mount Abu, walking together in the jungle. After some time, Mahāprabhujī said, “Let us sit down here and rest. I will rest under this tree, and you sit over there and relax.” Then he added, “If some wild animal should come, remain totally calm and do not be afraid. If by chance any animal appears, be at ease.” The disciples heard him, but it was not so easy to put into practice. Very shortly afterward, a tiger came. Of course, all the disciples ran away and climbed the trees. Only Mahāprabhujī remained calm, seated in meditation, simply looking at the tiger. The tiger came closer and closer. Then, it bowed its head before him and disappeared into the jungle. The disciples were amazed and only after some time dared to come close again. Mahāprabhujī then explained exactly what the point was: he wanted to demonstrate the inadequacy and weakness of fear as opposed to the power of love. What he was teaching was ahiṃsā: love. That is exactly the point. And when this radiance manifests, it is as the teachings say: “Let love and positive feelings flow freely in you, and fear and negative thoughts will disappear. Even the wild animals will not harm you when they sense your love.” This is a living demonstration of the ahiṃsā principle—how it works, how it radiates. There is also a small story from the Bible that illustrates the same principle. Two mothers were fighting over a baby, each claiming to be the true mother. It could not be determined who the real mother was. Then King Solomon gave his verdict: since it was impossible to find out, the only fair decision was to give each mother half of the child. He ordered a sharp knife to be brought. Now, just imagine the situation. What would be the feeling of a mother who truly loves her child? Could she watch the child being killed so that she might receive half? Of course, the real mother burst into tears and said, “Please, I don’t want that. Let the child live—give it to the other woman.” Thus it became clear who the true mother was and who the false one. King Solomon, naturally, gave the child to the real mother. This story reveals our inner attitude; we cannot pretend such love. So ahiṃsā is not merely something we can superficially practice. It is not simply, “Someone is harming me, and I control myself. I do not show my anger. Now I am practicing ahiṃsā.” Here we come to a subtle point. When we say ahiṃsā means not harming any living being, most people understand it as not harming others. But what about ourselves? Suppose someone harms me—says something that is difficult for me to digest. I become angry. Then I say, “I will practice ahiṃsā,” and I suppress my anger. Is this ahiṃsā? What do you think? It is not ahiṃsā. This is a delicate matter, relevant to everyday life. Someone says, “Your lecture is stupid,” and I get angry. What to do? There are basically two common ways. The first is to get angry, show anger, and throw it back. Obviously that is not ahiṃsā, and it causes the many conflicts we see in partnerships, society, and the world. The second way is to tell oneself, “It is not good to be angry; I will control myself, suppress it,” and the anger remains stuck inside. But then I am actually harming myself. It is like negative energy going into me, and if I make a principle of it, it can even cause disease. So what would be the third way? Mahāprabhujī says, “Don’t dive for the pearls when the waves are high.” When emotional waves are high, at least wait. That seems good. But there is a step even before that: first, I must simply observe. I realize there is anger in me. I do not act it out, and I do not suppress it—I observe it. Oh, there is anger. From where does this anger come? Who is actually angry? How did it happen that this one got angry? This leads in the direction of understanding the anger. Let us say I am giving a lecture, someone says my lecture is stupid or boring, and I get angry. Who gets angry? What actually causes the anger? It is my identification with being a good lecturer. If I worked in the garden and never gave lectures, such a remark would just pass by; it would not hurt me at all. Or if you are driving a car and someone says, “You are such a bad driver,” it attacks your identification with being a good driver. Or someone says, “You don’t care for your child; you are not a good mother.” If you are not actually the mother but merely looking after the child for a while, the remark would not really hurt. But if you are the mother and you believe you are a good mother, then it hurts. Do you see the point? Anger arises when we identify ourselves with something. A real-life example: some months ago, someone told me, “You are a bad singer.” Honestly, for a day I was really hurt. When we identify with something, we have a weakness at that point, and someone can hurt us. How foolish we are to do this—to identify ourselves with something so small and limited, some role in society. I’m a doctor, I’m a lecturer, I’m a singer… it is so limited. From a spiritual point of view, these are all false identifications. This is exactly what we must overcome, because yoga means finding our true nature: who are you, really? The more we dis-identify from these small roles, the more we naturally embody ahiṃsā. In other words, I increasingly identify with what I truly am. The principle is there for everyone, though for those without a spiritual path it may manifest differently. But when we think deeply, we come to a point: true ahiṃsā can be practiced only when we are in meditation. And only through ahiṃsā can we really meditate. The more we progress in touching our own true, real self, the more we slowly disconnect from all these roles we play in society. Perhaps one more story to close, which shows how accepting and not being hurt reveals ahiṃsā in action. When we do not identify with our roles, life flows very smoothly. This is a story about Kabīr Dās. As you know, Kabīr Dās was a weaver, married with a wife and a daughter. He was poor. One of the highest duties of a householder is “Atithi Devo Bhava”—welcome every guest like God. For a spiritually-minded householder, it is both a duty and a joy to welcome sādhus. One morning, Kabīr Dās met a group of sādhus who had come to the city. He was delighted and asked, “Did you have your breakfast already?” They replied, “No, we haven’t had anything today.” He said, “I would feel very honored if you would come to my house, and we will serve you. I will be very grateful if you come, and I will be able to serve you.” They came home, and his wife was also very happy. But then a problem arose: there was no food. He whispered to his wife, “Go to the shops and try to get something.” She said, “It will be difficult, because at every shop I already have some debt.” She explained that in each shop she had an open account. But what to do? She went and tried. She went from one shop to the next, but the shopkeepers knew her well and said, “No, sorry. First you have to pay, then you can get more.” Finally, one shopkeeper reacted a bit differently. She was an attractive young woman, and he said, “Okay, I can give you something. Do you have time in the evening? Could you visit me, maybe?” It was a different kind of business. She was a chaste woman; no thought was further from her than to cheat her husband. But what to do in this situation? She saw no other way, so she said, “Yes, I will come.” She received a lot of food and took it home. Her husband Kabīr Dās was happy, and they served the food to the sādhus, who were pleased and left. After they had left, she had to confess to her husband how she had obtained the food. Now we return to the point we were discussing: how do we react? Imagine—you are a husband and your wife tells you, “Actually, I have to go to some man this evening, because otherwise I couldn’t get the food.” In that situation, Kabīr Dās understood it was truly beyond her control, so he accepted it. Out of respect for his wife, when evening came and it was raining heavily, making the streets muddy, he said, “I will carry you.” She sat on his shoulders, and he carried her through the mud to the house where she had to go. Then he said, “I will wait around the corner until you come back, and then I will carry you back.” That is ahiṃsā in action. She rang the doorbell, and the man came and was astonished. First, he had not really expected her to come. But then he was astonished that she had such clean feet, though it was so muddy outside. He asked her about it, and she simply told the truth: “My husband carried me here.” He could not believe it—a husband who was not jealous, but even carried his wife to a stranger? She said, “Just look around the corner; there he is.” He looked and saw Kabīr Dās. Can you imagine what happened in this man? He was utterly ashamed when he saw Kabīr’s qualities and their situation. All improper desire vanished; he felt completely ashamed. He had heard of Kabīr Dās as a saint, but now he realized his greatness in practice. He fell to the ground and apologized to both of them, and begged Kabīr Dās, “Please accept me as your disciple.” You see, when we are free of this ego, this identification with certain roles, we live ahiṃsā, and the radiance and the result are there. I think this should be enough, perhaps, on this first point, ahiṃsā, because we have ten in all. I don’t know if we will really manage all ten this weekend. So let’s now look realistically at the time. It is now 9 o’clock.