Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #8
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, according to the saints, only when dispassion (vairagya) arises does the journey toward the Divine become possible. And you say that spiritual practice is possible while living in the world. Kindly speak on this apparent contradiction.
Osho, according to the saints, only when dispassion (vairagya) arises does the journey toward the Divine become possible. And you say that spiritual practice is possible while living in the world. Kindly speak on this apparent contradiction.
Anand Maitreya! There is not the slightest contradiction. There is no opposition at all, not even the appearance of it. It may seem so because centuries of conditioning do not allow you to see clearly; they put sand in the eyes.
The saints are right: without the arising of dispassion one cannot journey toward the Divine. And when I say, “Only by living in the world is spiritual practice possible,” I am not saying anything contrary to the saints. Without being in the world, how will dispassion even arise? The world itself is the opportunity for dispassion. In the world dispassion becomes dense. One who runs away from the world will have an unripe dispassion. And if dispassion is unripe, attachment will sprout again—new shoots and fresh leaves will appear.
Understand this seemingly upside-down point well. The worldly person often thinks of renunciation! There is so much sorrow, pain, and anxiety in the world that anyone with a little intelligence, sometime or other, thinks, “Let me drop it! Enough! How long must I grind like this? How long be the bull at the oil-press? The same circle, the same morning and evening, the same running about, the same scramble! Is life only to run and die like this, or is there anything to attain?”
It is hard to find someone living in the world in whom the urge for sannyas, for renunciation, never arises. Even the most indulgent begins to feel an inner yearning. And those who have fled the world have their own suffering of sannyas. They are bored with renunciation: “How long to sit in this cave? How long to keep turning the rosary? This daily begging—being pushed from door to door. The worry of bread. In illness, who will care? In old age, who will support me?” They too have a thousand worries and pains.
Do not imagine that the one living in a cave has no troubles. He has his own—different from yours. Your trouble is that you cannot find peace because of the crowd; his trouble is that loneliness bites. You want to be alone because the crowd tires you; every day it is crowds everywhere. You want to run somewhere, to get a moment’s rest. But the one sitting in his cave waits for some lost hunter to wander in so that he can talk a bit, hear some news of what is happening in the world. He too awaits the Kumbha Mela, to come down from the hills and go into the throng. Solitude begins to frighten him; isolation begins to gnaw.
You too go to a forest and see. One day, two, three—it will feel good, delightful. It will seem a great fortune, a sense of freedom. But three days, and the honeymoon is over! Then the memory of home begins to arise. The comforts of home… hot water for your bath in the morning, a wife waking you with tea in hand. Now there is no hot water, no one to wake you with tea, no one to ask how you are, no one to press your feet. You begin to remember all the comforts possible at home: the safety, the ease, the warmth, all the flowers of affection. The children’s laughter, their climbing into your lap and taking you for a moment into the world of childhood—all that begins to be missed.
Such is the mind of man: it forgets what it has and longs for what it has not. Those who live in palaces think people in huts must be living in great bliss—no worries of state, no anxiety of guarding wealth, no fear of enemies; they sell their horses and sleep! The palace-dwellers envy the hut-dwellers. And the one living in a hut imagines, “Ah, the joys of a palace!” He burns with envy just imagining them.
The same conflict exists between the world and renunciation. The one in the city thinks the village must be delightful—natural beauty, pure air, sun, moon, stars. In Bombay you can hardly see the moon and stars; you don’t even know when the full moon comes and goes. There is so much light on the ground, who will look for the stars? Who has the leisure? Eyes are fixed on the earth. The air is so dirty!
Scientists are amazed. They analyzed New York’s air and found such poison in it that a human being should not be able to live; he should die. But man is astonishing—his capacity to adapt is marvelous. He adjusts to everything. Drink even poison little by little, and you will become accustomed to poison; then it will do nothing to you.
You have heard stories. In olden days emperors kept poison-maidens in their palaces. A beautiful girl was given poison mixed with milk from childhood—a homeopathic dose, small at first, then gradually increased. By the time she came of age, her blood was saturated with poison. It became so toxic that if she kissed someone, the man would die. Such poison-maidens were used as spies. Because they were so beautiful, they could be sent to other kingdoms; even kings would fall in love with them. And a kiss would be fatal. The girl herself would not die—but whoever kissed her would.
Man’s capacity for adjustment is immense; he adapts to every condition. New York’s air contains three times the poison a human can tolerate. Scientists say it is three times the limit. In Bombay it must be twice.
The one living in Bombay thinks of the beauty of the village—the natural breezes, moon and stars. But ask the villager: his eyes are fixed on Bombay. He wants to get there somehow—even if the wife is left behind, even if the children are left—somehow to reach Bombay! And what will he get? A slum to live in. He will live near some filthy drain where there is nothing but dirt on all sides. Yet Bombay appears like Indra’s heaven!
Such is the mind of man: it longs for what is not near; it becomes disenchanted with what is at hand.
Therefore I say: do not flee the world, because I know sannyasins who have fled it. I have had contact with renunciates from almost all traditions of this country. And in all of them I have seen a deep craving for the world. A seventy-year-old Jain muni once told me, “I have been a monk for fifty years, but my mind does not let go of the thought that perhaps I made a mistake. Maybe those in the world are the ones really enjoying. Perhaps I missed by getting trapped in this. Now it is too late; there is no point in returning. But who knows? I was very young, only twenty, when I left home—under the influence of someone’s words. Slowly I discovered that the very person who influenced me had not experienced any joy himself. But I learned that too late—by then I was honored. People touched my feet. Those very people who, two days earlier, before I took vows, would have refused me even a peon’s job—those very people touched my feet! How could I return then? They took out processions in my honor—those who could not have spared two coins if I begged at their door! Now they were ready to offer everything at my feet. How could I leave that? The prestige and the ego gratification that I did not get in the world, I got by becoming a monk. So I could not leave. But the thought keeps slithering in my mind—even now, at seventy—that perhaps I missed. Perhaps I wasted my life in a futile net. An entire life wasted!”
Therefore I say: don’t run from the world. There is no place more convenient than the world for the birth of dispassion. Live in the world and become dispassionate. Why run? To run means you still fear the world. Fear means there is still some attachment. We fear precisely that which attracts us. We fear because we do not trust ourselves. We know that if solitude and opportunity present themselves, we will not be able to restrain ourselves; we will not be able to keep our excitations and desires in check. We know well the immaturity of our self-control. So we think it best to turn our back on such situations; to avoid places where temptation might be. If there is a heap of wealth, we will not be able to resist—we will fill our bag. One who knows this about himself thinks, “Don’t even set foot where wealth is piled up.” If a beautiful woman appears, we will not be able to restrain ourselves; or a handsome man—our control will break, the flimsy thread of restraint will snap, suppressed desires will arise and manifest. Better to run to places where there is no such opportunity. But the absence of opportunity does not prove that desire has ended.
Do you think a blind man’s longing to see is finished? Does a blind man not wish to see colors, the morning, the night sky strewn with stars, a beautiful face, lake-like blue eyes? Do you think a deaf man’s longing to hear music is finished? Or that a lame man’s longing to walk, to get up and run, is gone?
If only it were that easy, the monk who fled to the forest would have attained dispassion! But by fleeing to the forest they are deprived only of opportunity; inside, desires burn even more intensely, more brightly, more purely.
You experience this daily. You are troubled by your wife and wish she would go to her parents’ for a while so you could have some relief. When she goes, how long does relief last? A day, two, four—and then you begin to miss her, and all the joys that were there because of her—joys you had never noticed—begin to be felt. Everything starts to seem troublesome in her absence. Now you think, let her come back. You start writing love letters: “Without you my mind does not rest.” And think for a moment—licking back your own spit! Four days ago you were wishing to be rid of her, and now, “Without you my mind does not rest!”
Understand this state of mind and you will understand me. Then you will see: I am not saying anything against the saints; I am saying exactly what they are saying. I want you to live in the dense marketplace so that dispassion becomes denser and denser, until one day the opportunities remain outside, but inside desire dies.
These are two different things—opportunity and desire. The absence of opportunity does not mean the absence of desire. But the dissolution of desire is indeed a revolution, a transformation.
So I say: live amidst wealth so that you become free of wealth. Indulge, so that indulgence becomes futile. There is no other way. If you run away, indulgence will never become futile; it will remain meaningful; the urge to indulge will keep rising within.
You know, your Puranas are full of stories that whenever some rishi or muni is about to attain knowledge—just about to—Indra sends the heavenly nymphs. Why does Indra send Urvashi? Because these rishis have fled from women. The arithmetic is clear; the psychology explicit. Whether you believe in Indra and Urvashis or not, the science is simple. This muni who has left women sits in the forest. One thing is certain: what he has left behind will be most intense within him. If you want to shake him, to topple him, send an apsara. He will waver, he will fall. Indra knows psychology well.
Indra will not be able to shake my sannyasin! Indra is worried. His old tricks are useless. My sannyasin will not waver even if Urvashi herself comes. Why should he? He has seen many Urvashis; everywhere Urvashis dance! Do you see how I cut through Indra’s arrangements? He is in a fix. The old devices will not work. They worked on the old rishis because they were escapees. And no apsara was really needed—an ordinary woman would have sufficed. Unnecessarily, where a needle would do, Indra wielded a sword! An ordinary woman was enough.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin has a house on a mountain where he sometimes goes to rest. He says he will stay three weeks, but returns on the eighth day. I asked, “What is the matter? You set out to stay three weeks and come back on the seventh or eighth day!”
He said, “What is there to hide from you! I have kept a maid there. She is so ugly I have never seen an uglier woman. One look at her and dispassion arises—instantly—even in the most lustful mind. Consider her the exact opposite of Urvashi. Just looking at her the mind turns away; disgust, revulsion arises. So I have made a rule: I go to the mountain intending to stay three weeks, but the day that woman begins to look beautiful to me, that very day I run back. Seven days, eight days, ten at most—that’s my yardstick. The day she starts seeming beautiful, I say, ‘Nasruddin, that’s it—go back home now.’”
Even the ugliest woman can begin to look beautiful if desire has been too suppressed. To a hungry man even dry bread seems delicious.
Why send an apsara? I don’t believe Indra sent an apsara. Any maidservant would have done. The muni thought an apsara had come. That is my understanding. What need to send Urvashi? Send the very woman Nasruddin kept on the mountain; the muni would think Urvashi had been sent. There is no need. Those who have suppressed can be provoked very easily; the smallest thing is enough.
Therefore I am against repression, because one who represses will never be free. I am in favor of the world. That is precisely God’s purpose in creating the world: an opportunity to rise into dispassion. What more beautiful arrangement could there be than the world to give man vairagya? All the uproar is here. And whatever God may have left out, man has completed. It is all turmoil—nothing but turmoil! What a golden opportunity for dispassion!
My words look upside down only to those who lack understanding; otherwise, behind what I say there is a deep science, straightforward arithmetic, pure logic. Immerse yourself wholly in that from which you want to be free, and your freedom is certain—because the deeper you go, the more you will see its futility. The day you are utterly soaked in it and its futility is seen in totality, that very day you will come out of it. And that coming out will be unique, beautiful, effortless, natural. There will be no running away in it, no escapism, no repression, no unnecessary suffering. As suddenly and naturally as a flower blossoms, so will a flower bloom within you. Ami jharat, bigasat kanval!
The saints are right: without the arising of dispassion one cannot journey toward the Divine. And when I say, “Only by living in the world is spiritual practice possible,” I am not saying anything contrary to the saints. Without being in the world, how will dispassion even arise? The world itself is the opportunity for dispassion. In the world dispassion becomes dense. One who runs away from the world will have an unripe dispassion. And if dispassion is unripe, attachment will sprout again—new shoots and fresh leaves will appear.
Understand this seemingly upside-down point well. The worldly person often thinks of renunciation! There is so much sorrow, pain, and anxiety in the world that anyone with a little intelligence, sometime or other, thinks, “Let me drop it! Enough! How long must I grind like this? How long be the bull at the oil-press? The same circle, the same morning and evening, the same running about, the same scramble! Is life only to run and die like this, or is there anything to attain?”
It is hard to find someone living in the world in whom the urge for sannyas, for renunciation, never arises. Even the most indulgent begins to feel an inner yearning. And those who have fled the world have their own suffering of sannyas. They are bored with renunciation: “How long to sit in this cave? How long to keep turning the rosary? This daily begging—being pushed from door to door. The worry of bread. In illness, who will care? In old age, who will support me?” They too have a thousand worries and pains.
Do not imagine that the one living in a cave has no troubles. He has his own—different from yours. Your trouble is that you cannot find peace because of the crowd; his trouble is that loneliness bites. You want to be alone because the crowd tires you; every day it is crowds everywhere. You want to run somewhere, to get a moment’s rest. But the one sitting in his cave waits for some lost hunter to wander in so that he can talk a bit, hear some news of what is happening in the world. He too awaits the Kumbha Mela, to come down from the hills and go into the throng. Solitude begins to frighten him; isolation begins to gnaw.
You too go to a forest and see. One day, two, three—it will feel good, delightful. It will seem a great fortune, a sense of freedom. But three days, and the honeymoon is over! Then the memory of home begins to arise. The comforts of home… hot water for your bath in the morning, a wife waking you with tea in hand. Now there is no hot water, no one to wake you with tea, no one to ask how you are, no one to press your feet. You begin to remember all the comforts possible at home: the safety, the ease, the warmth, all the flowers of affection. The children’s laughter, their climbing into your lap and taking you for a moment into the world of childhood—all that begins to be missed.
Such is the mind of man: it forgets what it has and longs for what it has not. Those who live in palaces think people in huts must be living in great bliss—no worries of state, no anxiety of guarding wealth, no fear of enemies; they sell their horses and sleep! The palace-dwellers envy the hut-dwellers. And the one living in a hut imagines, “Ah, the joys of a palace!” He burns with envy just imagining them.
The same conflict exists between the world and renunciation. The one in the city thinks the village must be delightful—natural beauty, pure air, sun, moon, stars. In Bombay you can hardly see the moon and stars; you don’t even know when the full moon comes and goes. There is so much light on the ground, who will look for the stars? Who has the leisure? Eyes are fixed on the earth. The air is so dirty!
Scientists are amazed. They analyzed New York’s air and found such poison in it that a human being should not be able to live; he should die. But man is astonishing—his capacity to adapt is marvelous. He adjusts to everything. Drink even poison little by little, and you will become accustomed to poison; then it will do nothing to you.
You have heard stories. In olden days emperors kept poison-maidens in their palaces. A beautiful girl was given poison mixed with milk from childhood—a homeopathic dose, small at first, then gradually increased. By the time she came of age, her blood was saturated with poison. It became so toxic that if she kissed someone, the man would die. Such poison-maidens were used as spies. Because they were so beautiful, they could be sent to other kingdoms; even kings would fall in love with them. And a kiss would be fatal. The girl herself would not die—but whoever kissed her would.
Man’s capacity for adjustment is immense; he adapts to every condition. New York’s air contains three times the poison a human can tolerate. Scientists say it is three times the limit. In Bombay it must be twice.
The one living in Bombay thinks of the beauty of the village—the natural breezes, moon and stars. But ask the villager: his eyes are fixed on Bombay. He wants to get there somehow—even if the wife is left behind, even if the children are left—somehow to reach Bombay! And what will he get? A slum to live in. He will live near some filthy drain where there is nothing but dirt on all sides. Yet Bombay appears like Indra’s heaven!
Such is the mind of man: it longs for what is not near; it becomes disenchanted with what is at hand.
Therefore I say: do not flee the world, because I know sannyasins who have fled it. I have had contact with renunciates from almost all traditions of this country. And in all of them I have seen a deep craving for the world. A seventy-year-old Jain muni once told me, “I have been a monk for fifty years, but my mind does not let go of the thought that perhaps I made a mistake. Maybe those in the world are the ones really enjoying. Perhaps I missed by getting trapped in this. Now it is too late; there is no point in returning. But who knows? I was very young, only twenty, when I left home—under the influence of someone’s words. Slowly I discovered that the very person who influenced me had not experienced any joy himself. But I learned that too late—by then I was honored. People touched my feet. Those very people who, two days earlier, before I took vows, would have refused me even a peon’s job—those very people touched my feet! How could I return then? They took out processions in my honor—those who could not have spared two coins if I begged at their door! Now they were ready to offer everything at my feet. How could I leave that? The prestige and the ego gratification that I did not get in the world, I got by becoming a monk. So I could not leave. But the thought keeps slithering in my mind—even now, at seventy—that perhaps I missed. Perhaps I wasted my life in a futile net. An entire life wasted!”
Therefore I say: don’t run from the world. There is no place more convenient than the world for the birth of dispassion. Live in the world and become dispassionate. Why run? To run means you still fear the world. Fear means there is still some attachment. We fear precisely that which attracts us. We fear because we do not trust ourselves. We know that if solitude and opportunity present themselves, we will not be able to restrain ourselves; we will not be able to keep our excitations and desires in check. We know well the immaturity of our self-control. So we think it best to turn our back on such situations; to avoid places where temptation might be. If there is a heap of wealth, we will not be able to resist—we will fill our bag. One who knows this about himself thinks, “Don’t even set foot where wealth is piled up.” If a beautiful woman appears, we will not be able to restrain ourselves; or a handsome man—our control will break, the flimsy thread of restraint will snap, suppressed desires will arise and manifest. Better to run to places where there is no such opportunity. But the absence of opportunity does not prove that desire has ended.
Do you think a blind man’s longing to see is finished? Does a blind man not wish to see colors, the morning, the night sky strewn with stars, a beautiful face, lake-like blue eyes? Do you think a deaf man’s longing to hear music is finished? Or that a lame man’s longing to walk, to get up and run, is gone?
If only it were that easy, the monk who fled to the forest would have attained dispassion! But by fleeing to the forest they are deprived only of opportunity; inside, desires burn even more intensely, more brightly, more purely.
You experience this daily. You are troubled by your wife and wish she would go to her parents’ for a while so you could have some relief. When she goes, how long does relief last? A day, two, four—and then you begin to miss her, and all the joys that were there because of her—joys you had never noticed—begin to be felt. Everything starts to seem troublesome in her absence. Now you think, let her come back. You start writing love letters: “Without you my mind does not rest.” And think for a moment—licking back your own spit! Four days ago you were wishing to be rid of her, and now, “Without you my mind does not rest!”
Understand this state of mind and you will understand me. Then you will see: I am not saying anything against the saints; I am saying exactly what they are saying. I want you to live in the dense marketplace so that dispassion becomes denser and denser, until one day the opportunities remain outside, but inside desire dies.
These are two different things—opportunity and desire. The absence of opportunity does not mean the absence of desire. But the dissolution of desire is indeed a revolution, a transformation.
So I say: live amidst wealth so that you become free of wealth. Indulge, so that indulgence becomes futile. There is no other way. If you run away, indulgence will never become futile; it will remain meaningful; the urge to indulge will keep rising within.
You know, your Puranas are full of stories that whenever some rishi or muni is about to attain knowledge—just about to—Indra sends the heavenly nymphs. Why does Indra send Urvashi? Because these rishis have fled from women. The arithmetic is clear; the psychology explicit. Whether you believe in Indra and Urvashis or not, the science is simple. This muni who has left women sits in the forest. One thing is certain: what he has left behind will be most intense within him. If you want to shake him, to topple him, send an apsara. He will waver, he will fall. Indra knows psychology well.
Indra will not be able to shake my sannyasin! Indra is worried. His old tricks are useless. My sannyasin will not waver even if Urvashi herself comes. Why should he? He has seen many Urvashis; everywhere Urvashis dance! Do you see how I cut through Indra’s arrangements? He is in a fix. The old devices will not work. They worked on the old rishis because they were escapees. And no apsara was really needed—an ordinary woman would have sufficed. Unnecessarily, where a needle would do, Indra wielded a sword! An ordinary woman was enough.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin has a house on a mountain where he sometimes goes to rest. He says he will stay three weeks, but returns on the eighth day. I asked, “What is the matter? You set out to stay three weeks and come back on the seventh or eighth day!”
He said, “What is there to hide from you! I have kept a maid there. She is so ugly I have never seen an uglier woman. One look at her and dispassion arises—instantly—even in the most lustful mind. Consider her the exact opposite of Urvashi. Just looking at her the mind turns away; disgust, revulsion arises. So I have made a rule: I go to the mountain intending to stay three weeks, but the day that woman begins to look beautiful to me, that very day I run back. Seven days, eight days, ten at most—that’s my yardstick. The day she starts seeming beautiful, I say, ‘Nasruddin, that’s it—go back home now.’”
Even the ugliest woman can begin to look beautiful if desire has been too suppressed. To a hungry man even dry bread seems delicious.
Why send an apsara? I don’t believe Indra sent an apsara. Any maidservant would have done. The muni thought an apsara had come. That is my understanding. What need to send Urvashi? Send the very woman Nasruddin kept on the mountain; the muni would think Urvashi had been sent. There is no need. Those who have suppressed can be provoked very easily; the smallest thing is enough.
Therefore I am against repression, because one who represses will never be free. I am in favor of the world. That is precisely God’s purpose in creating the world: an opportunity to rise into dispassion. What more beautiful arrangement could there be than the world to give man vairagya? All the uproar is here. And whatever God may have left out, man has completed. It is all turmoil—nothing but turmoil! What a golden opportunity for dispassion!
My words look upside down only to those who lack understanding; otherwise, behind what I say there is a deep science, straightforward arithmetic, pure logic. Immerse yourself wholly in that from which you want to be free, and your freedom is certain—because the deeper you go, the more you will see its futility. The day you are utterly soaked in it and its futility is seen in totality, that very day you will come out of it. And that coming out will be unique, beautiful, effortless, natural. There will be no running away in it, no escapism, no repression, no unnecessary suffering. As suddenly and naturally as a flower blossoms, so will a flower bloom within you. Ami jharat, bigasat kanval!
Second question:
Osho, sometimes on seeing a lotus blooming in a lake I am stirred. Sometimes, on suddenly hearing the cuckoo’s call, my heart overflows. Sometimes, on seeing a child’s smile, I am spellbound. Then it feels as if everything has stopped—no thought, nothing. It seems these moments bring some message. What would that be?
Osho, sometimes on seeing a lotus blooming in a lake I am stirred. Sometimes, on suddenly hearing the cuckoo’s call, my heart overflows. Sometimes, on seeing a child’s smile, I am spellbound. Then it feels as if everything has stopped—no thought, nothing. It seems these moments bring some message. What would that be?
Pradeep Chaitanya! The moment you asked, you started to miss. In those moments where thought ceases, will you still go looking for a message? Then you are back in search of thought. Where thought stops, don’t manufacture a question; otherwise you will fall out of meditation and miss. Now take a questionless plunge.
These are all pretexts for meditation. The rising sun of morning, the eastern sky blushing red, birds bursting into song, closed buds beginning to open—everything is beautiful! Everything is unprecedented! Everything is ever-new! If at such a moment your heart is stirred, don’t ask why it is happening. The moment you ask “why,” the mind arrives. And once the mind arrives, the movement of the heart ends.
In the heart there are no questions, only experiences. And in the mind there are only questions, no experiences. This is the obstruction from the side of the mind. You saw the night, studded with stars, the vast sky; something within you fell still, became enraptured, dissolved in wonder. Dive in! Take the plunge! Drop all questions! Don’t ask now what its message is. All that is idle talk.
This very emptiness is the message. This very silence is the message. This very wonder-struck, enraptured mood is the message. What other message? Do you want some Quranic verse to descend, a Vedic richa to be composed, words to be heard, God to speak to you: “Pradeep Chaitanya! Listen, here is the message”?
All that would only be your mind speaking again. You have missed. You had come near the very doors of the temple—and missed. The moment a question arises, the door shuts. Remain without questions and the door stays open.
Understand it this way: the intellect has only questions, the heart has only answers, and the two never meet. If you want answers, don’t ask questions. If it’s questions you want, keep asking; questions will beget more questions.
This is beautiful; something auspicious is happening. You are fortunate.
You say: “Then it feels as if everything has stopped.” That is precisely what I call meditation—when everything stops. For a moment no wave remains—of thought, desire, memory, imagination. For a moment there is neither time nor space. For a moment you enter another realm, another dimension. You are elsewhere. For a moment you are not; something else is! This is meditation. And meditation is not a means; it is the end. Meditation is not a path to something else; meditation is the destination.
Therefore don’t now ask that there should be some message in these moments—what would that message be?
You will spoil these moments. You will pulp these pure, innocent instants with idle chatter. Existence has no message. If existence has any message, it is emptiness, it is silence; not words.
Meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
The night’s closed sapphire door swung,
lo, at the horizon’s rim the temple of the gods opened,
every town sparkled, every path bloomed,
every wayfarer lit a lamp and flowed on like a flood of light;
the curse was cut, the term of separation ended,
the ocean stood upon the steps of the tide,
filling its cupped hands again and again with tears like some yaksha,
it began to offer them to the god of love.
Aarti tray in hand each wave danced,
every breeze began to play its reed,
every bud began to adorn its limbs,
every bee began to blush in the mirror,
stretching out its arms to every direction,
sending messages with every cloud,
every window of the world, lamp alight,
began to call its beloved close.
Beneath the shawl of light, see—darkness’ youth
today again turned to practice;
drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
on the road of time embracing the earth,
the sky began to step forward.
This is not the journey’s end and rest, dear one,
far, far away still lies our village,
how many dreams lie yet unfinished,
and in life there is still so much to do;
walk on smiling, walk on humming,
amidst calamities keep your head held high,
meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
Every moment you are silent, the divine and nature are uniting. Every moment you are in stillness, the earth is dissolving into the sky. Every moment a flower of silence blooms within you, duality is over; the non-dual hour has arrived; the distinction between matter and consciousness has dissolved; there is no longer any separation between creation and the Creator. What more message now? Be fulfilled in this moment! Close your eyes, drink this moment to your heart’s content! Ask, and you will miss. The instant a question arises, the moment slips from your hand. You must know that now no question is to be raised. Now you will have to be alert to the question. That old habit you must abandon. Only one who is ready to drop the old habit of thinking can learn meditation.
And you are fortunate, Pradeep Chaitanya, that these small glimmers of meditation have begun to come, the little windows are opening, lightning is flashing. Now do not raise questions. Become rapturous. If dance arises, then dance—do not raise a question. If song arises, then sing—do not raise a question. If sound arises within, then hum—do not raise a question. If you simply cannot contain yourself—if you know how to play the flute, play the flute; if you know how to play the sitar, play the sitar; and if nothing else, you can at least dance! And for dancing you need no technique, because you are not dancing for some audience. In your own ecstasy, your own abandon! But do not raise a question. A question does not become a door; it becomes a wall.
And the question arises—an old conditioning—about everything a question arises! People come to me. They say: “A great bliss is coming in meditation—why?”
Can you not take bliss too without questioning? Can you not take it with your bag full? Even with bliss you are timid! First you will ask, you will inquire, you will collect information—where does it come from, what is it, what is it not—and only then will you take it? By then bliss will not wait for you. Bliss comes like a wave. And if you get busy with this interrogation—who comes, from where, why, what is it—you are done for! By the time you finish your inquiry, bliss is gone; your bag will remain empty. And what will you gain by inquiry? Definitions will not give satisfaction. Even if someone tells you what the meaning of bliss is, the meaning will not fall into your hand.
No, drop this old habit.
The night’s closed sapphire door swung,
lo, at the horizon’s rim the temple of the gods opened,
every town sparkled, every path bloomed,
every wayfarer lit a lamp and flowed on like a flood of light;
the curse was cut, the term of separation ended,
the ocean stood upon the steps of the tide,
filling its cupped hands again and again with tears like some yaksha,
it began to offer them to the god of love.
Weep, if you can do nothing else! But do not raise a question. Let the tears flow in a stream, let them cascade—like leaves fall in autumn, like at dusk the flower that bloomed all day begins to return its petals to the earth.
Aarti tray in hand each wave danced,
every breeze began to play its reed,
every bud began to adorn its limbs,
every bee began to blush in the mirror,
stretching out its arms to every direction,
sending messages with every cloud,
every window of the world, lamp alight,
began to call its beloved close.
And you ask: What is the message? The divine has called you, the beloved has called you; the one you were seeking, you suddenly came near—now you ask: What is the message? Even if you were to meet God, you would first ask: identity card? Passport? Where do you come from? Where are you going? What proof is there that you are God?
And what will poor God do? From where will he bring a passport? Who will issue him one? And who will make his identity card? He will be in great difficulty. He will say: Brother, then let it be. Forgive me, it was a mistake. I was blessed just to have your darshan! I will not make such a mistake again.
When such auspicious hours come, don’t raise petty things like questions. Then drink a little of the nectar of questionless trust.
Beneath the shawl of light, see—darkness’ youth
today again turned to practice;
drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
on the road of time embracing the earth,
the sky began to step forward.
These are the moments when the sky begins to come toward the earth. These are the moments when the unknown stretches its hands toward the known. These are the moments when the embrace of the Vast becomes available to you! Fall into it! His lap is near—fall into it! Now do not ask futile questions.
Drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
And you are tangled in questions! You ask: the message! Will you understand only if something is in words? Can you build no bridge without words? The moon and stars do not speak. The sun knows no language. Flowers are silent—or silence itself is their language! Learn their language. Be silent with silence. Where there are two silences, two do not remain, because two silences merge and become one. Where there are two zeros, two do not remain, because two zeros merge and become one.
And remember, these little windows that are opening—this is only the beginning. This is but the first note of the flute. There is still so much to be played, so much to happen!
This is not the journey’s end and rest, dear one,
far, far away still lies our village,
how many dreams lie yet unfinished,
and in life there is still so much to do;
walk on smiling, walk on humming,
amidst adversities keep your head held high,
meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
These are all pretexts for meditation. The rising sun of morning, the eastern sky blushing red, birds bursting into song, closed buds beginning to open—everything is beautiful! Everything is unprecedented! Everything is ever-new! If at such a moment your heart is stirred, don’t ask why it is happening. The moment you ask “why,” the mind arrives. And once the mind arrives, the movement of the heart ends.
In the heart there are no questions, only experiences. And in the mind there are only questions, no experiences. This is the obstruction from the side of the mind. You saw the night, studded with stars, the vast sky; something within you fell still, became enraptured, dissolved in wonder. Dive in! Take the plunge! Drop all questions! Don’t ask now what its message is. All that is idle talk.
This very emptiness is the message. This very silence is the message. This very wonder-struck, enraptured mood is the message. What other message? Do you want some Quranic verse to descend, a Vedic richa to be composed, words to be heard, God to speak to you: “Pradeep Chaitanya! Listen, here is the message”?
All that would only be your mind speaking again. You have missed. You had come near the very doors of the temple—and missed. The moment a question arises, the door shuts. Remain without questions and the door stays open.
Understand it this way: the intellect has only questions, the heart has only answers, and the two never meet. If you want answers, don’t ask questions. If it’s questions you want, keep asking; questions will beget more questions.
This is beautiful; something auspicious is happening. You are fortunate.
You say: “Then it feels as if everything has stopped.” That is precisely what I call meditation—when everything stops. For a moment no wave remains—of thought, desire, memory, imagination. For a moment there is neither time nor space. For a moment you enter another realm, another dimension. You are elsewhere. For a moment you are not; something else is! This is meditation. And meditation is not a means; it is the end. Meditation is not a path to something else; meditation is the destination.
Therefore don’t now ask that there should be some message in these moments—what would that message be?
You will spoil these moments. You will pulp these pure, innocent instants with idle chatter. Existence has no message. If existence has any message, it is emptiness, it is silence; not words.
Meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
The night’s closed sapphire door swung,
lo, at the horizon’s rim the temple of the gods opened,
every town sparkled, every path bloomed,
every wayfarer lit a lamp and flowed on like a flood of light;
the curse was cut, the term of separation ended,
the ocean stood upon the steps of the tide,
filling its cupped hands again and again with tears like some yaksha,
it began to offer them to the god of love.
Aarti tray in hand each wave danced,
every breeze began to play its reed,
every bud began to adorn its limbs,
every bee began to blush in the mirror,
stretching out its arms to every direction,
sending messages with every cloud,
every window of the world, lamp alight,
began to call its beloved close.
Beneath the shawl of light, see—darkness’ youth
today again turned to practice;
drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
on the road of time embracing the earth,
the sky began to step forward.
This is not the journey’s end and rest, dear one,
far, far away still lies our village,
how many dreams lie yet unfinished,
and in life there is still so much to do;
walk on smiling, walk on humming,
amidst calamities keep your head held high,
meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
Every moment you are silent, the divine and nature are uniting. Every moment you are in stillness, the earth is dissolving into the sky. Every moment a flower of silence blooms within you, duality is over; the non-dual hour has arrived; the distinction between matter and consciousness has dissolved; there is no longer any separation between creation and the Creator. What more message now? Be fulfilled in this moment! Close your eyes, drink this moment to your heart’s content! Ask, and you will miss. The instant a question arises, the moment slips from your hand. You must know that now no question is to be raised. Now you will have to be alert to the question. That old habit you must abandon. Only one who is ready to drop the old habit of thinking can learn meditation.
And you are fortunate, Pradeep Chaitanya, that these small glimmers of meditation have begun to come, the little windows are opening, lightning is flashing. Now do not raise questions. Become rapturous. If dance arises, then dance—do not raise a question. If song arises, then sing—do not raise a question. If sound arises within, then hum—do not raise a question. If you simply cannot contain yourself—if you know how to play the flute, play the flute; if you know how to play the sitar, play the sitar; and if nothing else, you can at least dance! And for dancing you need no technique, because you are not dancing for some audience. In your own ecstasy, your own abandon! But do not raise a question. A question does not become a door; it becomes a wall.
And the question arises—an old conditioning—about everything a question arises! People come to me. They say: “A great bliss is coming in meditation—why?”
Can you not take bliss too without questioning? Can you not take it with your bag full? Even with bliss you are timid! First you will ask, you will inquire, you will collect information—where does it come from, what is it, what is it not—and only then will you take it? By then bliss will not wait for you. Bliss comes like a wave. And if you get busy with this interrogation—who comes, from where, why, what is it—you are done for! By the time you finish your inquiry, bliss is gone; your bag will remain empty. And what will you gain by inquiry? Definitions will not give satisfaction. Even if someone tells you what the meaning of bliss is, the meaning will not fall into your hand.
No, drop this old habit.
The night’s closed sapphire door swung,
lo, at the horizon’s rim the temple of the gods opened,
every town sparkled, every path bloomed,
every wayfarer lit a lamp and flowed on like a flood of light;
the curse was cut, the term of separation ended,
the ocean stood upon the steps of the tide,
filling its cupped hands again and again with tears like some yaksha,
it began to offer them to the god of love.
Weep, if you can do nothing else! But do not raise a question. Let the tears flow in a stream, let them cascade—like leaves fall in autumn, like at dusk the flower that bloomed all day begins to return its petals to the earth.
Aarti tray in hand each wave danced,
every breeze began to play its reed,
every bud began to adorn its limbs,
every bee began to blush in the mirror,
stretching out its arms to every direction,
sending messages with every cloud,
every window of the world, lamp alight,
began to call its beloved close.
And you ask: What is the message? The divine has called you, the beloved has called you; the one you were seeking, you suddenly came near—now you ask: What is the message? Even if you were to meet God, you would first ask: identity card? Passport? Where do you come from? Where are you going? What proof is there that you are God?
And what will poor God do? From where will he bring a passport? Who will issue him one? And who will make his identity card? He will be in great difficulty. He will say: Brother, then let it be. Forgive me, it was a mistake. I was blessed just to have your darshan! I will not make such a mistake again.
When such auspicious hours come, don’t raise petty things like questions. Then drink a little of the nectar of questionless trust.
Beneath the shawl of light, see—darkness’ youth
today again turned to practice;
drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
on the road of time embracing the earth,
the sky began to step forward.
These are the moments when the sky begins to come toward the earth. These are the moments when the unknown stretches its hands toward the known. These are the moments when the embrace of the Vast becomes available to you! Fall into it! His lap is near—fall into it! Now do not ask futile questions.
Drowned in a drop of affection, life’s
desire today became worship;
ah, this sweet ache of creation,
this new consciousness being born,
And you are tangled in questions! You ask: the message! Will you understand only if something is in words? Can you build no bridge without words? The moon and stars do not speak. The sun knows no language. Flowers are silent—or silence itself is their language! Learn their language. Be silent with silence. Where there are two silences, two do not remain, because two silences merge and become one. Where there are two zeros, two do not remain, because two zeros merge and become one.
And remember, these little windows that are opening—this is only the beginning. This is but the first note of the flute. There is still so much to be played, so much to happen!
This is not the journey’s end and rest, dear one,
far, far away still lies our village,
how many dreams lie yet unfinished,
and in life there is still so much to do;
walk on smiling, walk on humming,
amidst adversities keep your head held high,
meditation—yours—my beloved,
has begun to behold the union of the moon and its moonlight;
life’s weary caravan
has begun to sing love’s songs with hundreds of throats.
Third question:
Osho, don’t take this as a complaint; it is the love-call of a lively devotee. Only you can truly understand what the heart goes through when away from you. Bringing the heart’s secrets to the lips, we have suffered till now. We had heard that in this settlement there also live people of heart. To call us vagabond is no great accusation; the world says far worse of people of heart. The month of monsoon has passed, the season has changed its gaze, yet from these thirsty eyes the tears still flow. For whose sake we even left the city, for whom we became infamous, those very ones today remain like strangers to us.
Osho, don’t take this as a complaint; it is the love-call of a lively devotee. Only you can truly understand what the heart goes through when away from you. Bringing the heart’s secrets to the lips, we have suffered till now. We had heard that in this settlement there also live people of heart. To call us vagabond is no great accusation; the world says far worse of people of heart. The month of monsoon has passed, the season has changed its gaze, yet from these thirsty eyes the tears still flow. For whose sake we even left the city, for whom we became infamous, those very ones today remain like strangers to us.
Radha Mohammad! It is a complaint—otherwise you wouldn’t have begun by saying, “Don’t take this as a complaint.” You yourself suspect it will be taken as one. When you have understood that much, how could I not? What was said to you has been said to me as well!
Haven’t you heard the old story? An old village woman was walking with a bundle on her head. A horseman passed by. The old woman said, “Son, the load on my head is heavy—take it on your horse. There’s a crossroads ahead; leave it there. I’ll lift it again; my village is close.”
The rider said, “What do you take me for—some servant? You’ve mistaken me. This horse is not for carrying loads. Carry your own burden!” He tugged the reins and rode on.
A mile later, a thought struck him: I should have taken it. Who knows what’s in that bundle? If there were something valuable, she wouldn’t ask to leave it at the crossroads—she would go her way with me. If nothing valuable, I could have dropped it there. I was a fool! If she’s carrying such a load, there must be something—gold, silver, jewelry, who knows!
He turned back. “Mother, forgive me,” he said. “I was at fault; I behaved rudely. Give me your bundle—I’ll leave it at the crossroads.”
The old woman laughed and said, “Son, what he told you, he told me too! Now—no.”
Radha Mohammad! When you begin by saying, “Don’t take it as a complaint,” then even in your unconscious it’s clear that it is a complaint, and that it will be taken as such. If it is, it will be. And the complaint is not only in your question—it’s written on your face, in your eyes. Nor is complaint unnatural; it is natural.
You lived in the ashram for a year. I know—after living here once, to live outside is hard. I understand your pain. You left everything to come. Your husband, Krishna Mohammad, had a high post—Air India, in Italy, a big officer. You left it all and became part of the ashram. It was a great renunciation, a courageous step. In that sense too: giving up position, a good job, all comforts—big bungalows—moving into one small room with two children, husband and wife. Not only that—you come from a Muslim family. To muster such courage as a Muslim is harder, because if a Muslim steps out of the circle, the rest become sworn enemies. You bore slander of every kind, all sorts of troubles, even threats from Muslims. Letters kept coming to Krishna Mohammad and you: “We’ll kill you; you have betrayed Islam.” It was all the more difficult.
Then after a year with me, to go out and live outside is indeed hard. Complaint is natural.
But Radha, you had to go out because of your own reasons. Don’t complain to anyone else; if you must complain, complain to your own responsibility within. Money is easy to drop, society is easy to drop; ego is the hardest of all. The whole year here we tried in every way that the ego of you both might drop, but it did not. Whatever work you were given, ego became the obstacle.
This is a commune: if egotists gather, it will fall apart. Here we need the surrendered—people who drop the ego completely, who become one with this family, who attune.
And it is not that your or Krishna Mohammad’s surrender toward me is lacking. Toward me, your surrender is complete; in your heart there’s no ego feeling toward me. But in this commune, this ashram, this family, surrender only to me is not sufficient. There are about four hundred people here; if your surrender is only to me and not to the other four hundred, obstacles will arise. What practical work do you have with me? You listen in the morning; sometimes you sit with me in the evening—that’s easy. But twenty‑four hours you have to relate to those four hundred. If ego is there, there will be friction everywhere—clashes, obstructions, hassles with everyone.
When over the year it became clear from every side that for now it is hard for you to drop self-importance, you were sent out—knowingly. Not because I want you to stay out, but so you can bear a little difficulty, suffer the pain of love, and come to see that living inside the ashram, in this energy-field, is such a great thing that there is no need to hesitate about dropping a small ego for it. The day this is seen, the doors are open for you, always open. But now only when this realization ripens can you re-enter. Until then you will have to bear the pain of being outside.
Your complaint is valid. I know your sorrow. It is precisely because I know that I sent you out—so things become clear, so you can choose: Do you want to bear so much suffering, be deprived of me? Or do you want to drop the ego? Now the alternatives are direct. And remember, don’t imagine that the ego is to be dropped only toward me—that’s too easy. It must be dropped toward initiation, toward Sheela, toward Laxmi, toward all who work here. Only then can this new family be created.
And this is only the beginning—the family is going to become large. I am preparing people now—people who will become the nucleus. Then when new people come they will be swept into this atmosphere, into this flood. As soon as five hundred people are ready—surrendered in the total sense, with no trace of ego—then you will be amazed. Thousands are waiting to come; I am holding them back. Applications are pouring in; still I hold them back. Until a family of at least five hundred is created in which a newcomer will inevitably be absorbed. But if within you there is conflict, factionalism, then the newcomer will only learn your quarrels and factions. I will not let him come until then. Because only if I can transform a life is it right to invite it. I am creating a Buddha-field.
You were given a year. You were moved from one task to another, then to a third. But everywhere the same obstacle arose—not in the work, but in you. And don’t think that when you clash with someone you can’t find reasons—reasons can always be found. They may even be perfectly valid. I’m not denying that. But then you have not understood the meaning of surrender.
When Gurdjieff created his ashram, how did he train people? Bennett—his close disciple—has written: “I had never dug a hole in my life. I was a writer, a mathematician, a thinker. The first task Gurdjieff gave me: dig a pit in the garden, six feet deep. Don’t stop till it’s done.” I began in the morning; by dusk, near nightfall, I barely managed six feet. I was shattered, every fiber exhausted. Hands wouldn’t lift, the spade wouldn’t rise—but the six feet had to be completed. It was my first task from the master. In the hope that he would be pleased, I ran to fetch him. Gurdjieff said, “Now fill it back in!”
You can imagine the pain! Naturally the question arises: What nonsense is this? Then why was it dug? He didn’t ask, but the question arose in his mind. Gurdjieff said, “Not even in your mind. Be without questions. Fill the pit. Don’t sleep till it is as it was in the morning—exactly as I had shown you.”
A thousand questions arise: What madness is this? If there was no need for a pit, why dig it?
The pit is not the purpose; the purpose is that you learn surrender.
So I’m not saying Radha or Krishna Mohammad would face no obstacles. They will. Obstacles are arranged on purpose—only then will your ego surface, and that surfaced ego can be dissolved. The day you are ready, the doors are open. I will wait. But enter only when ready—otherwise what is the point of repeating the same mistake?
I am overjoyed that a class of hundreds of sannyasins is forming on whom I can rely to transform thousands. Soon, this small settlement will be a town of ten thousand sannyasins—soon! It only depends on your being ready. As soon as you are, I will send invitations and people will begin to pour in. You will not believe where so many were hiding!
When sannyas began, only seven took it. Today, just seven years later, there are about a hundred thousand sannyasins around the world. If you are ready—and you are getting ready, and Radha will be ready, and Krishna Mohammad will be ready; you will have to be. In the hands of a man like me, once you’re caught, you cannot escape. I do not cast my net for small fry; I take only precious diamonds. But when diamonds are cut and shaped, there is pain. The more valuable the diamond, the more cutting and chiseling it requires.
You know, when the Kohinoor diamond was found, it weighed three times what it weighs today. Where did the other two-thirds go? Into the cutting. But the more it was cut, the more valuable it became. In its original threefold weight it had no such worth; today at one-third it is among the most precious stones on earth.
Those on whom my gaze rests, I will cut much, shape much. And Radha, my gaze is on you. Drop the small stuff—and nothing is smaller than ego. The doors are open. You have not been sent out forever; you have only been given an opportunity to see the distinction between outside and inside, so you can know clearly what to choose. If you prefer the ego, you will have to remain outside—then do not complain to me; complain to your ego. If you want to live inside, then show readiness to drop the ego—unconditionally, with no bargaining like “I will do only if I’m given such-and-such work.” No conditions.
Here Ph.D.s clean bathrooms. You would never guess a man washing toilets once held a high university post. D.Litts wash dishes. You would never imagine the head or dean of a department at some university is scrubbing pots. Your qualifications are not the point; otherwise the same outer world is recreated here—rank, merit, status. Here only one thing has value—your surrender, your unconditional surrender.
And I know, Radha, you can do it. Krishna Mohammad can do it. I have great trust. Sooner or later, it will happen. You will soon return to the family. But it depends on you how long you take. When you come in this time, come resolved—no more complaints. Even if a complaint would be right, still no complaint. Whatever work I have you do—even if it seems wrong—no questions. I will take care of the mistakes. It is even possible I have instructed someone to behave “wrongly” with you.
After all, how am I to work? I don’t step out of my room. I have never even walked around this ashram. If I had to find someone’s room, I couldn’t. I’m not even sure who lives where, or how many live here. My way of working is through people; only then can the work be vast. If I tried to do it all directly, I could change only the lives of a handful. My intent is to change the lives of millions. So from the very beginning the structure is such that I don’t work directly. I work through others. And I am finding vehicles who can carry the work—who are carrying it, and doing it well.
Radha, you too can become a vehicle. But your conditions are getting in the way. Your reasoning becomes difficulty. You are educated, you’ve held posts, you are respected, you know many languages—I know. You are of great use. And often you must have felt, “Why am I not being used?”
When you first came from Italy, I thought: give her a little time to ripen—then she can be of great use. Because no one here knows so many languages at once, and people are coming from all over the world. We need such people. But I had to wait: only when certain things broke inside you could you become my medium.
Everything else is fine—except the ego is not breaking. Drop it. Drop it today and come back today. If you need a little time, take it; the delay will be on your side, not mine. And being sent out is not punishment—I punish no one. I don’t believe in penalties. You have been sent out only for an experience: see that if you want to preserve the ego, this is the situation; and if you want to live in my love, in my breeze, in my presence, then be ready to pay the price of the ego.
Drop the stiffness! Drop the grip!
Ego is a very subtle thing—so subtle we don’t notice it. It works so hidden that it is not seen.
Whether my songs sway upon the lips
or go to sleep in the cremation ground,
do not grant them any boon:
I will sing alone.
Lamps of the heart have long been burning,
yet the night weeps dark.
The merciless note keens like a bird,
the hunter stands afar, smiling.
Though thorns of the path may pierce
my tired feet,
do not give me shelter:
I will weep my whole life.
Carnival of monsoon rests on the eyelids,
the pathways of the eyes are unknown.
From dry and restless lips,
the songs always have their own way.
Whether dream turns into an idol
or memory bites me,
do not give me your springtime:
I will seal my lips.
Ego struts even before the divine!
Whether my songs sway upon the lips
or go to sleep in the cremation ground,
do not grant them any boon:
I will sing alone.
Though thorns of the path may pierce
my tired feet,
do not give me shelter:
I will weep my whole life.
Whether dream turns into an idol
or memory bites me,
do not give me your springtime:
I will seal my lips.
The “I” stands even before God, trying to save itself.
But I trust this much: toward me, Radha and Krishna Mohammad have no ego. If not toward me, then it should not be there toward my Buddha-field either.
You have heard the Buddhist declaration: Buddham sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Buddha. That is the first formula. What is the second? Sangham sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Sangha, the community of Buddha’s bhikkhus. That is harder. To take refuge in a loving one like Buddha—what difficulty is there? The difficulty is in not surrendering. Who would not hold such feet, lay one’s head there? Buddham sharanam gacchami—anyone can say that. Radha Mohammad, Krishna Mohammad, you both have said so. But Sangham sharanam gacchami—to go to the refuge of the Sangha—that is more difficult. Because in the Sangha are people just like you; many behind you; some younger, some less learned, less skilled. All kinds.
If a seventy-year-old man takes initiation from Buddha, and a seventeen-year-old monk took sannyas earlier, then the seventy-year-old must bow before the seventeen-year-old, because age there is not measured by the body but by initiation. A great emperor may take sannyas and bow at Buddha’s feet—but in the Sangha there are the wretched, even the beggars of his capital who have become monks—how will he bow to them? Therefore the second formula is more difficult and more valuable: Sangham sharanam gacchami.
And the third is more important still: Dhammam sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Dhamma: of all who have ever walked the path, who are walking now, who will walk in the future. Only such surrender can create a Buddha-field.
This happens here every day. People come and say, “Our surrender to you is total, but we cannot listen to just anyone!”
Then what kind of total surrender is this? I say, “Listen to everyone.” Your surrender to me is total, I say, “Listen to everyone.” And you say, “We cannot.” How is that total?
A young woman took sannyas. “Now everything is surrendered at your feet,” she said. “Whatever you say, I will do.”
I said, “Fine. Meditate here ten days, learn—and then go home.”
She said, “Home? I will never go home. My surrender is to you; whatever you say, I will do.”
Still she repeats the same. I say, “Go home,” and she says, “Don’t even mention home. Whatever you say, I will do.” She cannot hear that I am saying, “Go home.” She says, “Don’t speak of it.” She didn’t go. It’s been three years—she hasn’t moved. And still she says her surrender is total. And still I keep telling her: go home. Her father writes, her mother writes, weeping: “We have only one daughter—send her back.” They write, “Let her come here, take sannyas, meditate—no obstacle from us.”
I tried another way: “Go, and your father will become a sannyasin, your mother will become a sannyasin. So much transformation has happened in you!”
But she says, “Your feet, your refuge—my surrender is absolute.” She doesn’t understand that absolute means: if I say go home, you go home. If I say go to hell, you go to hell. Surrender is unconditional.
Become unconditional, Radha. Drop cleverness. With cleverness you can’t relate to me. Even if you manage with me, you won’t manage with the Sangha. And if you can’t with the Sangha, you will begin to break from me too; the bond will strain.
A vast happening is on the way. Melt your little egos in it. When we join a great happening, we don’t carry little things along. Only then can this vast tree stand under whose shade countless beings may rest; the weary find coolness; the lost find light. Come to this lamp like a moth—and burn. Nothing less will do.
Haven’t you heard the old story? An old village woman was walking with a bundle on her head. A horseman passed by. The old woman said, “Son, the load on my head is heavy—take it on your horse. There’s a crossroads ahead; leave it there. I’ll lift it again; my village is close.”
The rider said, “What do you take me for—some servant? You’ve mistaken me. This horse is not for carrying loads. Carry your own burden!” He tugged the reins and rode on.
A mile later, a thought struck him: I should have taken it. Who knows what’s in that bundle? If there were something valuable, she wouldn’t ask to leave it at the crossroads—she would go her way with me. If nothing valuable, I could have dropped it there. I was a fool! If she’s carrying such a load, there must be something—gold, silver, jewelry, who knows!
He turned back. “Mother, forgive me,” he said. “I was at fault; I behaved rudely. Give me your bundle—I’ll leave it at the crossroads.”
The old woman laughed and said, “Son, what he told you, he told me too! Now—no.”
Radha Mohammad! When you begin by saying, “Don’t take it as a complaint,” then even in your unconscious it’s clear that it is a complaint, and that it will be taken as such. If it is, it will be. And the complaint is not only in your question—it’s written on your face, in your eyes. Nor is complaint unnatural; it is natural.
You lived in the ashram for a year. I know—after living here once, to live outside is hard. I understand your pain. You left everything to come. Your husband, Krishna Mohammad, had a high post—Air India, in Italy, a big officer. You left it all and became part of the ashram. It was a great renunciation, a courageous step. In that sense too: giving up position, a good job, all comforts—big bungalows—moving into one small room with two children, husband and wife. Not only that—you come from a Muslim family. To muster such courage as a Muslim is harder, because if a Muslim steps out of the circle, the rest become sworn enemies. You bore slander of every kind, all sorts of troubles, even threats from Muslims. Letters kept coming to Krishna Mohammad and you: “We’ll kill you; you have betrayed Islam.” It was all the more difficult.
Then after a year with me, to go out and live outside is indeed hard. Complaint is natural.
But Radha, you had to go out because of your own reasons. Don’t complain to anyone else; if you must complain, complain to your own responsibility within. Money is easy to drop, society is easy to drop; ego is the hardest of all. The whole year here we tried in every way that the ego of you both might drop, but it did not. Whatever work you were given, ego became the obstacle.
This is a commune: if egotists gather, it will fall apart. Here we need the surrendered—people who drop the ego completely, who become one with this family, who attune.
And it is not that your or Krishna Mohammad’s surrender toward me is lacking. Toward me, your surrender is complete; in your heart there’s no ego feeling toward me. But in this commune, this ashram, this family, surrender only to me is not sufficient. There are about four hundred people here; if your surrender is only to me and not to the other four hundred, obstacles will arise. What practical work do you have with me? You listen in the morning; sometimes you sit with me in the evening—that’s easy. But twenty‑four hours you have to relate to those four hundred. If ego is there, there will be friction everywhere—clashes, obstructions, hassles with everyone.
When over the year it became clear from every side that for now it is hard for you to drop self-importance, you were sent out—knowingly. Not because I want you to stay out, but so you can bear a little difficulty, suffer the pain of love, and come to see that living inside the ashram, in this energy-field, is such a great thing that there is no need to hesitate about dropping a small ego for it. The day this is seen, the doors are open for you, always open. But now only when this realization ripens can you re-enter. Until then you will have to bear the pain of being outside.
Your complaint is valid. I know your sorrow. It is precisely because I know that I sent you out—so things become clear, so you can choose: Do you want to bear so much suffering, be deprived of me? Or do you want to drop the ego? Now the alternatives are direct. And remember, don’t imagine that the ego is to be dropped only toward me—that’s too easy. It must be dropped toward initiation, toward Sheela, toward Laxmi, toward all who work here. Only then can this new family be created.
And this is only the beginning—the family is going to become large. I am preparing people now—people who will become the nucleus. Then when new people come they will be swept into this atmosphere, into this flood. As soon as five hundred people are ready—surrendered in the total sense, with no trace of ego—then you will be amazed. Thousands are waiting to come; I am holding them back. Applications are pouring in; still I hold them back. Until a family of at least five hundred is created in which a newcomer will inevitably be absorbed. But if within you there is conflict, factionalism, then the newcomer will only learn your quarrels and factions. I will not let him come until then. Because only if I can transform a life is it right to invite it. I am creating a Buddha-field.
You were given a year. You were moved from one task to another, then to a third. But everywhere the same obstacle arose—not in the work, but in you. And don’t think that when you clash with someone you can’t find reasons—reasons can always be found. They may even be perfectly valid. I’m not denying that. But then you have not understood the meaning of surrender.
When Gurdjieff created his ashram, how did he train people? Bennett—his close disciple—has written: “I had never dug a hole in my life. I was a writer, a mathematician, a thinker. The first task Gurdjieff gave me: dig a pit in the garden, six feet deep. Don’t stop till it’s done.” I began in the morning; by dusk, near nightfall, I barely managed six feet. I was shattered, every fiber exhausted. Hands wouldn’t lift, the spade wouldn’t rise—but the six feet had to be completed. It was my first task from the master. In the hope that he would be pleased, I ran to fetch him. Gurdjieff said, “Now fill it back in!”
You can imagine the pain! Naturally the question arises: What nonsense is this? Then why was it dug? He didn’t ask, but the question arose in his mind. Gurdjieff said, “Not even in your mind. Be without questions. Fill the pit. Don’t sleep till it is as it was in the morning—exactly as I had shown you.”
A thousand questions arise: What madness is this? If there was no need for a pit, why dig it?
The pit is not the purpose; the purpose is that you learn surrender.
So I’m not saying Radha or Krishna Mohammad would face no obstacles. They will. Obstacles are arranged on purpose—only then will your ego surface, and that surfaced ego can be dissolved. The day you are ready, the doors are open. I will wait. But enter only when ready—otherwise what is the point of repeating the same mistake?
I am overjoyed that a class of hundreds of sannyasins is forming on whom I can rely to transform thousands. Soon, this small settlement will be a town of ten thousand sannyasins—soon! It only depends on your being ready. As soon as you are, I will send invitations and people will begin to pour in. You will not believe where so many were hiding!
When sannyas began, only seven took it. Today, just seven years later, there are about a hundred thousand sannyasins around the world. If you are ready—and you are getting ready, and Radha will be ready, and Krishna Mohammad will be ready; you will have to be. In the hands of a man like me, once you’re caught, you cannot escape. I do not cast my net for small fry; I take only precious diamonds. But when diamonds are cut and shaped, there is pain. The more valuable the diamond, the more cutting and chiseling it requires.
You know, when the Kohinoor diamond was found, it weighed three times what it weighs today. Where did the other two-thirds go? Into the cutting. But the more it was cut, the more valuable it became. In its original threefold weight it had no such worth; today at one-third it is among the most precious stones on earth.
Those on whom my gaze rests, I will cut much, shape much. And Radha, my gaze is on you. Drop the small stuff—and nothing is smaller than ego. The doors are open. You have not been sent out forever; you have only been given an opportunity to see the distinction between outside and inside, so you can know clearly what to choose. If you prefer the ego, you will have to remain outside—then do not complain to me; complain to your ego. If you want to live inside, then show readiness to drop the ego—unconditionally, with no bargaining like “I will do only if I’m given such-and-such work.” No conditions.
Here Ph.D.s clean bathrooms. You would never guess a man washing toilets once held a high university post. D.Litts wash dishes. You would never imagine the head or dean of a department at some university is scrubbing pots. Your qualifications are not the point; otherwise the same outer world is recreated here—rank, merit, status. Here only one thing has value—your surrender, your unconditional surrender.
And I know, Radha, you can do it. Krishna Mohammad can do it. I have great trust. Sooner or later, it will happen. You will soon return to the family. But it depends on you how long you take. When you come in this time, come resolved—no more complaints. Even if a complaint would be right, still no complaint. Whatever work I have you do—even if it seems wrong—no questions. I will take care of the mistakes. It is even possible I have instructed someone to behave “wrongly” with you.
After all, how am I to work? I don’t step out of my room. I have never even walked around this ashram. If I had to find someone’s room, I couldn’t. I’m not even sure who lives where, or how many live here. My way of working is through people; only then can the work be vast. If I tried to do it all directly, I could change only the lives of a handful. My intent is to change the lives of millions. So from the very beginning the structure is such that I don’t work directly. I work through others. And I am finding vehicles who can carry the work—who are carrying it, and doing it well.
Radha, you too can become a vehicle. But your conditions are getting in the way. Your reasoning becomes difficulty. You are educated, you’ve held posts, you are respected, you know many languages—I know. You are of great use. And often you must have felt, “Why am I not being used?”
When you first came from Italy, I thought: give her a little time to ripen—then she can be of great use. Because no one here knows so many languages at once, and people are coming from all over the world. We need such people. But I had to wait: only when certain things broke inside you could you become my medium.
Everything else is fine—except the ego is not breaking. Drop it. Drop it today and come back today. If you need a little time, take it; the delay will be on your side, not mine. And being sent out is not punishment—I punish no one. I don’t believe in penalties. You have been sent out only for an experience: see that if you want to preserve the ego, this is the situation; and if you want to live in my love, in my breeze, in my presence, then be ready to pay the price of the ego.
Drop the stiffness! Drop the grip!
Ego is a very subtle thing—so subtle we don’t notice it. It works so hidden that it is not seen.
Whether my songs sway upon the lips
or go to sleep in the cremation ground,
do not grant them any boon:
I will sing alone.
Lamps of the heart have long been burning,
yet the night weeps dark.
The merciless note keens like a bird,
the hunter stands afar, smiling.
Though thorns of the path may pierce
my tired feet,
do not give me shelter:
I will weep my whole life.
Carnival of monsoon rests on the eyelids,
the pathways of the eyes are unknown.
From dry and restless lips,
the songs always have their own way.
Whether dream turns into an idol
or memory bites me,
do not give me your springtime:
I will seal my lips.
Ego struts even before the divine!
Whether my songs sway upon the lips
or go to sleep in the cremation ground,
do not grant them any boon:
I will sing alone.
Though thorns of the path may pierce
my tired feet,
do not give me shelter:
I will weep my whole life.
Whether dream turns into an idol
or memory bites me,
do not give me your springtime:
I will seal my lips.
The “I” stands even before God, trying to save itself.
But I trust this much: toward me, Radha and Krishna Mohammad have no ego. If not toward me, then it should not be there toward my Buddha-field either.
You have heard the Buddhist declaration: Buddham sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Buddha. That is the first formula. What is the second? Sangham sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Sangha, the community of Buddha’s bhikkhus. That is harder. To take refuge in a loving one like Buddha—what difficulty is there? The difficulty is in not surrendering. Who would not hold such feet, lay one’s head there? Buddham sharanam gacchami—anyone can say that. Radha Mohammad, Krishna Mohammad, you both have said so. But Sangham sharanam gacchami—to go to the refuge of the Sangha—that is more difficult. Because in the Sangha are people just like you; many behind you; some younger, some less learned, less skilled. All kinds.
If a seventy-year-old man takes initiation from Buddha, and a seventeen-year-old monk took sannyas earlier, then the seventy-year-old must bow before the seventeen-year-old, because age there is not measured by the body but by initiation. A great emperor may take sannyas and bow at Buddha’s feet—but in the Sangha there are the wretched, even the beggars of his capital who have become monks—how will he bow to them? Therefore the second formula is more difficult and more valuable: Sangham sharanam gacchami.
And the third is more important still: Dhammam sharanam gacchami—I go to the refuge of the Dhamma: of all who have ever walked the path, who are walking now, who will walk in the future. Only such surrender can create a Buddha-field.
This happens here every day. People come and say, “Our surrender to you is total, but we cannot listen to just anyone!”
Then what kind of total surrender is this? I say, “Listen to everyone.” Your surrender to me is total, I say, “Listen to everyone.” And you say, “We cannot.” How is that total?
A young woman took sannyas. “Now everything is surrendered at your feet,” she said. “Whatever you say, I will do.”
I said, “Fine. Meditate here ten days, learn—and then go home.”
She said, “Home? I will never go home. My surrender is to you; whatever you say, I will do.”
Still she repeats the same. I say, “Go home,” and she says, “Don’t even mention home. Whatever you say, I will do.” She cannot hear that I am saying, “Go home.” She says, “Don’t speak of it.” She didn’t go. It’s been three years—she hasn’t moved. And still she says her surrender is total. And still I keep telling her: go home. Her father writes, her mother writes, weeping: “We have only one daughter—send her back.” They write, “Let her come here, take sannyas, meditate—no obstacle from us.”
I tried another way: “Go, and your father will become a sannyasin, your mother will become a sannyasin. So much transformation has happened in you!”
But she says, “Your feet, your refuge—my surrender is absolute.” She doesn’t understand that absolute means: if I say go home, you go home. If I say go to hell, you go to hell. Surrender is unconditional.
Become unconditional, Radha. Drop cleverness. With cleverness you can’t relate to me. Even if you manage with me, you won’t manage with the Sangha. And if you can’t with the Sangha, you will begin to break from me too; the bond will strain.
A vast happening is on the way. Melt your little egos in it. When we join a great happening, we don’t carry little things along. Only then can this vast tree stand under whose shade countless beings may rest; the weary find coolness; the lost find light. Come to this lamp like a moth—and burn. Nothing less will do.
Fourth question:
Osho, my life is a blank page—blank it has remained. Lord, you have said again and again that prayer is only to express gratitude—never to ask for anything. But the mind cannot keep from asking. I ask, Lord—for a thirst that will set body and soul ablaze. Will the Lord grant my request?
Osho, my life is a blank page—blank it has remained. Lord, you have said again and again that prayer is only to express gratitude—never to ask for anything. But the mind cannot keep from asking. I ask, Lord—for a thirst that will set body and soul ablaze. Will the Lord grant my request?
Achyut Bharati! The fire has already begun to burn. For now it is a spark; the whole forest will catch. Once the spark has come, the forest will burn. Once the first flower opens, it announces the coming of spring; other flowers will blossom too. Do not be in a hurry.
And I know, the mind hurries; the mind does not hold patience. Give the spark a little time—to flare, to spread. It will blaze forth. But the more impatient you are, the longer it will take. That is the obstacle. Keep patience and it will happen quickly; be impatient and it will be delayed. If you rush too much, it will take a very long time. And if you do not rush at all—it has already happened; now, now.
I understand your prayer. Wherever even a spark falls into the heart, this feeling naturally arises within.
I do not want the monsoon clouds,
I do not want the creepers of spring groves,
I want only a single stream of water,
I want only the heart’s pure love.
Disciplines stunted, afraid of renunciation;
doctrines decked out in sarcastic jest.
Emotions, ornamented, wrapped in the robe of deceit—
gentle yet tainted, poised to plunder.
Flames of lamps cowed by public opinion,
rocks of shame that crush affection.
Mountain chains, stiff and towering,
that cannot bow before humility.
I do not want the Veda’s hymns,
I do not want agreeable expressions,
I want only truth’s tender entreaty,
I want only guileless conduct.
Most solitary, incandescent, deep darknesses;
the most soothing vermilion blush of dusk.
Immeasurable agonies, tormented by the world,
that smear soot upon the fair brow of the moon.
Rolling thunders of apocalyptic clouds;
shallow, sandy rivers of wealth’s worship.
When, along the way, there are beds of thorns,
black horizons that bewilder the feet.
I do not want the nights of dreams,
I do not want the glories of youth,
I want only the dream made real,
I want only a fearless tryst.
The spread of the ego’s beauty,
the arms of power deceiving meekness—
finding the harried helpless, they play their games,
the sixteen graces of power-stained opulence.
Demon-like adorations that abandon humanity;
stone worshiped as God—
blind-in-devotion, deceitful egotisms
building temples upon the breast of humankind.
I do not want the treasures of pleasure,
I do not want the biting cravings,
I want only honor for the human,
I want only the heart’s expansion.
A prayer arises, a longing arises—it is natural. Do not blame yourself for it. Only remember one thing—patience! Great patience!
Seasonal flowers come in two or four weeks, but in two or four weeks they also depart. Hurry, and happenings like seasonal flowers will occur—here today, gone tomorrow; they bring no fulfillment. If you want trees that touch the sky to grow within you, that can converse with the clouds, that can gain intimacy with the moon and the stars—then patience; then infinite patience.
What is the hurry? If there is prayer, just add waiting. Prayer + waiting. Deep prayer, deep waiting. Say to the Divine: Whenever it is Your will! Your will be done—whenever Your will! I will go on calling! I will let the tears flow! I will keep singing! I will go on dancing! Then, when I am ripe, when I have become a vessel, when You are ready to shower—shower.
Leave it to God. Drop the desire for the fruit; your practice can bear fruit even today. The very moment the desire for fruit is dropped, fruit begins to set.
And I know, the mind hurries; the mind does not hold patience. Give the spark a little time—to flare, to spread. It will blaze forth. But the more impatient you are, the longer it will take. That is the obstacle. Keep patience and it will happen quickly; be impatient and it will be delayed. If you rush too much, it will take a very long time. And if you do not rush at all—it has already happened; now, now.
I understand your prayer. Wherever even a spark falls into the heart, this feeling naturally arises within.
I do not want the monsoon clouds,
I do not want the creepers of spring groves,
I want only a single stream of water,
I want only the heart’s pure love.
Disciplines stunted, afraid of renunciation;
doctrines decked out in sarcastic jest.
Emotions, ornamented, wrapped in the robe of deceit—
gentle yet tainted, poised to plunder.
Flames of lamps cowed by public opinion,
rocks of shame that crush affection.
Mountain chains, stiff and towering,
that cannot bow before humility.
I do not want the Veda’s hymns,
I do not want agreeable expressions,
I want only truth’s tender entreaty,
I want only guileless conduct.
Most solitary, incandescent, deep darknesses;
the most soothing vermilion blush of dusk.
Immeasurable agonies, tormented by the world,
that smear soot upon the fair brow of the moon.
Rolling thunders of apocalyptic clouds;
shallow, sandy rivers of wealth’s worship.
When, along the way, there are beds of thorns,
black horizons that bewilder the feet.
I do not want the nights of dreams,
I do not want the glories of youth,
I want only the dream made real,
I want only a fearless tryst.
The spread of the ego’s beauty,
the arms of power deceiving meekness—
finding the harried helpless, they play their games,
the sixteen graces of power-stained opulence.
Demon-like adorations that abandon humanity;
stone worshiped as God—
blind-in-devotion, deceitful egotisms
building temples upon the breast of humankind.
I do not want the treasures of pleasure,
I do not want the biting cravings,
I want only honor for the human,
I want only the heart’s expansion.
A prayer arises, a longing arises—it is natural. Do not blame yourself for it. Only remember one thing—patience! Great patience!
Seasonal flowers come in two or four weeks, but in two or four weeks they also depart. Hurry, and happenings like seasonal flowers will occur—here today, gone tomorrow; they bring no fulfillment. If you want trees that touch the sky to grow within you, that can converse with the clouds, that can gain intimacy with the moon and the stars—then patience; then infinite patience.
What is the hurry? If there is prayer, just add waiting. Prayer + waiting. Deep prayer, deep waiting. Say to the Divine: Whenever it is Your will! Your will be done—whenever Your will! I will go on calling! I will let the tears flow! I will keep singing! I will go on dancing! Then, when I am ripe, when I have become a vessel, when You are ready to shower—shower.
Leave it to God. Drop the desire for the fruit; your practice can bear fruit even today. The very moment the desire for fruit is dropped, fruit begins to set.
The last question:
Osho, I want to ask something, but nothing seems worth asking. I am in a very wobbly state. At times an ecstasy surrounds me, and suddenly everything becomes desolate again! Please guide me.
Osho, I want to ask something, but nothing seems worth asking. I am in a very wobbly state. At times an ecstasy surrounds me, and suddenly everything becomes desolate again! Please guide me.
Mahendra Bharati! There really is nothing to ask, and yet the urge to ask arises! There are no questions inside—there is only a question mark, a bare question mark! And you can hang that question mark on the tail of any question; the question will be answered, but the question mark will remain standing just as it is. That question mark disappears only when self-awakening happens, when samadhi descends.
Pay attention to the word ‘samadhi.’ It comes from the same root as samadhan—resolution. In samadhi there is resolution. In samadhi you don’t receive an answer—remember this. In samadhi the question mark drops. That ceaseless, eternal question mark lodged in the very core of our being—there’s no need for it to be attached to any particular question. Often it fastens itself to questions because we feel awkward leaving it bare. To hold a naked question mark without tying it to some question feels embarrassing, feels like madness.
If you say to someone, as Mahendra is saying, “I want to ask something, but nothing seems to be there to ask,” it won’t sound right. If there is nothing to ask, then what do you want to ask? Say that to someone and they will think you’ve gone mad—or are drunk!
But this is the truth. And because this truth cannot be spoken outright, we manufacture questions to give some meaning to that question mark. We ask: What is God? You have no real interest in God; your interest is in the question mark. But if you let the question mark stand alone, people will say, “Are you crazy?”
A Zen monk was dying. Suddenly he opened his eyes and asked, “What is the answer?”
His disciples gathered around, looking at one another: What is the answer? No question has been asked—how on earth can there be an answer! But they knew their master; he had always been like this—inscrutable. All true masters are inscrutable. And now, this final jest: no question asked, and he asks, “What is the answer?”
One disciple gathered courage and said, “Master, at least at the time of departing, don’t put us in such a fix! You will go, and we’ll spend our whole lives wondering what this was—‘What is the answer!’ What is the question? First ask the question, then the answer!”
The dying master said, “All right—then let me ask this: What is the question?”
Understand well: in the innermost core of man there are no questions—there is a question mark. There is curiosity. About what? About nothing in particular. There is a yearning. In which direction? In no particular direction. There stands only a pure question mark in the soul. But we feel uneasy presenting the question mark directly, so we tack on questions before it—What is the soul? What is the Supreme? Who am I? Who created the universe? And you spin out a thousand questions. But look closely: the questions are futile. You don’t really want to ask them. Think a little and you yourself will say: What do I have to do with who created the world! Whether it was created or not, what has that to do with my life?
Mahendra, you have shown courage in saying, “I want to ask something, but there seems nothing to ask.” With exactly this courage one steps into the inquiry for truth.
There is a question mark. And it will fade only when all thoughts inside you bid farewell. As long as thoughts remain, the question mark hides behind them and keeps itself alive—taking shelter under their umbrellas. When there are no thoughts left, the question mark has to die, because its food supply stops. Thoughts feed it, nourish it. One question is solved; the question mark hops onto another and starts exploiting it, sucking its blood. Satiated there, it sits on a third. It keeps searching for new questions—new rides. But if no ride is found, if no thoughts are available, the question mark drops of its own accord. Without the support of thoughts, the question mark falls to the ground and dissolves.
The question mark dissolves in meditation, not in knowledge. In knowledge it grows bigger.
Dariya speaks truly: Practice meditation; don’t worry about knowledge. Worry about knowledge, and you will be led astray. Knowledge will lead you into more and more questions. What will meditation lead you into? A state beyond questions. Let the question mark be—don’t fuss with it. Dismiss thoughts, dismiss questions; leave the question mark standing alone. And you will be astonished: as when you remove all the pillars of a temple, the roof collapses—so, the day you remove all the pillars of thought, the roof of the question mark will collapse. No questions will remain, and the question mark will not remain. If there is no bamboo, there is no flute. And where there are no questions and no question mark, samadhi appears. In that samadhi is resolution. That is the search. That is the ache. That is the thirst.
You say, “I am in a very wobbly state.”
Everyone is in a wobbly state. Some admit it—gather courage and say it; some don’t. But all are wobbling, all are staggering—because the very nature of mind is to wobble. Mind means wobbling: now like this, now like that. One moment this, the next moment that. In one instant angry, in the next flooded with compassion. In one moment love flowing, in the next hatred rising. A flower is a flower just now, and now it’s a thorn. A thorn is a thorn just now, and now it is a flower. Mind goes on like this; it never remains still. If it becomes still, it dies. Its life is in restlessness.
To remain restless, mind divides everything into fragments, breaks everything into two. Only then can it keep wobbling. If there were only one, how could it wobble? So mind creates duality. Mind is dualistic. Night and day are one; they are not two—but mind makes them two. Heat and cold are one—that’s why one thermometer can measure both—but mind makes them two. Success and failure are one—two faces of the same coin—but mind makes them two. Birth and death are one—but mind makes them two. The very day you are born, dying begins. The process of birth is the process of death.
Look carefully: existence is one, but mind makes two everywhere. Mind is like a glass prism. Pass a sunbeam through a prism: a single beam, and as it passes through, it breaks into seven parts, seven colors. That’s how the rainbow is formed. The rainbow appears because of droplets of water hanging in the air. In the rainy season tiny drops are suspended in the air, and sunrays pass through them. Those droplets act like prisms and break the light into seven colors. And you see a beautiful rainbow spread across the sky.
Mind is just like that. Whatever you pass through the mind, it splits into two. Love and hate are names of the same energy—the mind makes them two. Friendship and enmity are two names of the same happening—the mind makes them two. The habit of mind is like this—
One night is bright; one night is dark.
One becomes mourning; the other is Diwali.
One, like a bedecked bride, pours out moonlight;
One keeps stroking buried wounds again and again.
One night is the scorching noonday of midsummer;
One is the resonant wave of a flute.
One is a speaking goblet; one a silent wine;
One turns to autumn’s fall; the other to lush green.
One, holding the beloved, sings songs of union;
One, like the memory of separation, torments the heart.
One night, like a lamp, makes radiance shimmer;
One drinks darkness and awakens feeling.
One night is of sighs; one night of tender feelings;
One a flame of poison; one a cup of nectar.
One night, weeping and weeping, scatters dew;
One, drowned in the autumn full moon, reels with intoxication.
One night sets the lullabies of dreams;
One, all aching, steals away sleep.
One night is lamentation; one night is a garden;
One is ecstasy; one is pain.
One night sings in lofty palaces;
One night cries upon dirty pavements.
The night is the same; every fact is the same;
Only by changing its color it washes over life.
One night is childhood; one night is youth;
One a slight squall, and one a deathly serpent.
It is one, but it appears as two. Here a groom’s procession is being adorned, and there someone’s bier is being lifted. These are not two events; they are one event. This decorated procession, that departing bier—two faces of the same coin. Honor and insult.
And once mind has made two, it wobbles again. When there are two—shall I do this or that? This way or that way? In everything, mind becomes fragmented.
Mahendra, it is not only your mind. Everyone’s mind is like this. This is the nature of mind.
You say, “I am in a very wobbly state.”
As long as you cling to the mind, the wobbling will remain. Become a witness! Do not choose—just watch. Just watch the plays of the mind. Recognize the mind’s complex games.
Slowly, as you settle into witnessing, the duality of mind will depart. Mind will depart. All wobbling will end. Restlessness will dissolve. Unsteadiness will vanish. You will become still. And in stillness there is bliss. Stillness is the taste of the divine.
That’s all for today.
Pay attention to the word ‘samadhi.’ It comes from the same root as samadhan—resolution. In samadhi there is resolution. In samadhi you don’t receive an answer—remember this. In samadhi the question mark drops. That ceaseless, eternal question mark lodged in the very core of our being—there’s no need for it to be attached to any particular question. Often it fastens itself to questions because we feel awkward leaving it bare. To hold a naked question mark without tying it to some question feels embarrassing, feels like madness.
If you say to someone, as Mahendra is saying, “I want to ask something, but nothing seems to be there to ask,” it won’t sound right. If there is nothing to ask, then what do you want to ask? Say that to someone and they will think you’ve gone mad—or are drunk!
But this is the truth. And because this truth cannot be spoken outright, we manufacture questions to give some meaning to that question mark. We ask: What is God? You have no real interest in God; your interest is in the question mark. But if you let the question mark stand alone, people will say, “Are you crazy?”
A Zen monk was dying. Suddenly he opened his eyes and asked, “What is the answer?”
His disciples gathered around, looking at one another: What is the answer? No question has been asked—how on earth can there be an answer! But they knew their master; he had always been like this—inscrutable. All true masters are inscrutable. And now, this final jest: no question asked, and he asks, “What is the answer?”
One disciple gathered courage and said, “Master, at least at the time of departing, don’t put us in such a fix! You will go, and we’ll spend our whole lives wondering what this was—‘What is the answer!’ What is the question? First ask the question, then the answer!”
The dying master said, “All right—then let me ask this: What is the question?”
Understand well: in the innermost core of man there are no questions—there is a question mark. There is curiosity. About what? About nothing in particular. There is a yearning. In which direction? In no particular direction. There stands only a pure question mark in the soul. But we feel uneasy presenting the question mark directly, so we tack on questions before it—What is the soul? What is the Supreme? Who am I? Who created the universe? And you spin out a thousand questions. But look closely: the questions are futile. You don’t really want to ask them. Think a little and you yourself will say: What do I have to do with who created the world! Whether it was created or not, what has that to do with my life?
Mahendra, you have shown courage in saying, “I want to ask something, but there seems nothing to ask.” With exactly this courage one steps into the inquiry for truth.
There is a question mark. And it will fade only when all thoughts inside you bid farewell. As long as thoughts remain, the question mark hides behind them and keeps itself alive—taking shelter under their umbrellas. When there are no thoughts left, the question mark has to die, because its food supply stops. Thoughts feed it, nourish it. One question is solved; the question mark hops onto another and starts exploiting it, sucking its blood. Satiated there, it sits on a third. It keeps searching for new questions—new rides. But if no ride is found, if no thoughts are available, the question mark drops of its own accord. Without the support of thoughts, the question mark falls to the ground and dissolves.
The question mark dissolves in meditation, not in knowledge. In knowledge it grows bigger.
Dariya speaks truly: Practice meditation; don’t worry about knowledge. Worry about knowledge, and you will be led astray. Knowledge will lead you into more and more questions. What will meditation lead you into? A state beyond questions. Let the question mark be—don’t fuss with it. Dismiss thoughts, dismiss questions; leave the question mark standing alone. And you will be astonished: as when you remove all the pillars of a temple, the roof collapses—so, the day you remove all the pillars of thought, the roof of the question mark will collapse. No questions will remain, and the question mark will not remain. If there is no bamboo, there is no flute. And where there are no questions and no question mark, samadhi appears. In that samadhi is resolution. That is the search. That is the ache. That is the thirst.
You say, “I am in a very wobbly state.”
Everyone is in a wobbly state. Some admit it—gather courage and say it; some don’t. But all are wobbling, all are staggering—because the very nature of mind is to wobble. Mind means wobbling: now like this, now like that. One moment this, the next moment that. In one instant angry, in the next flooded with compassion. In one moment love flowing, in the next hatred rising. A flower is a flower just now, and now it’s a thorn. A thorn is a thorn just now, and now it is a flower. Mind goes on like this; it never remains still. If it becomes still, it dies. Its life is in restlessness.
To remain restless, mind divides everything into fragments, breaks everything into two. Only then can it keep wobbling. If there were only one, how could it wobble? So mind creates duality. Mind is dualistic. Night and day are one; they are not two—but mind makes them two. Heat and cold are one—that’s why one thermometer can measure both—but mind makes them two. Success and failure are one—two faces of the same coin—but mind makes them two. Birth and death are one—but mind makes them two. The very day you are born, dying begins. The process of birth is the process of death.
Look carefully: existence is one, but mind makes two everywhere. Mind is like a glass prism. Pass a sunbeam through a prism: a single beam, and as it passes through, it breaks into seven parts, seven colors. That’s how the rainbow is formed. The rainbow appears because of droplets of water hanging in the air. In the rainy season tiny drops are suspended in the air, and sunrays pass through them. Those droplets act like prisms and break the light into seven colors. And you see a beautiful rainbow spread across the sky.
Mind is just like that. Whatever you pass through the mind, it splits into two. Love and hate are names of the same energy—the mind makes them two. Friendship and enmity are two names of the same happening—the mind makes them two. The habit of mind is like this—
One night is bright; one night is dark.
One becomes mourning; the other is Diwali.
One, like a bedecked bride, pours out moonlight;
One keeps stroking buried wounds again and again.
One night is the scorching noonday of midsummer;
One is the resonant wave of a flute.
One is a speaking goblet; one a silent wine;
One turns to autumn’s fall; the other to lush green.
One, holding the beloved, sings songs of union;
One, like the memory of separation, torments the heart.
One night, like a lamp, makes radiance shimmer;
One drinks darkness and awakens feeling.
One night is of sighs; one night of tender feelings;
One a flame of poison; one a cup of nectar.
One night, weeping and weeping, scatters dew;
One, drowned in the autumn full moon, reels with intoxication.
One night sets the lullabies of dreams;
One, all aching, steals away sleep.
One night is lamentation; one night is a garden;
One is ecstasy; one is pain.
One night sings in lofty palaces;
One night cries upon dirty pavements.
The night is the same; every fact is the same;
Only by changing its color it washes over life.
One night is childhood; one night is youth;
One a slight squall, and one a deathly serpent.
It is one, but it appears as two. Here a groom’s procession is being adorned, and there someone’s bier is being lifted. These are not two events; they are one event. This decorated procession, that departing bier—two faces of the same coin. Honor and insult.
And once mind has made two, it wobbles again. When there are two—shall I do this or that? This way or that way? In everything, mind becomes fragmented.
Mahendra, it is not only your mind. Everyone’s mind is like this. This is the nature of mind.
You say, “I am in a very wobbly state.”
As long as you cling to the mind, the wobbling will remain. Become a witness! Do not choose—just watch. Just watch the plays of the mind. Recognize the mind’s complex games.
Slowly, as you settle into witnessing, the duality of mind will depart. Mind will depart. All wobbling will end. Restlessness will dissolve. Unsteadiness will vanish. You will become still. And in stillness there is bliss. Stillness is the taste of the divine.
That’s all for today.